I had spoken quite freely in my journal of the barbarians of Bayou La Farouche.  Each of the gentlemen now acting upon my jury was alluded to.  Colonel Plickaman read each passage in a pointed way, interjecting,—­“Do you hear that, Billy Sangaree?” “How do you like yourself now, Major Licklickin?” “Here’s something about your white cravat, Parson Butterfut.”

The delicacy and wit of my touches of character chafed these gentlemen.  Their aspect became truly formidable.

Meantime I began to perceive an odor which forcibly recalled to me the asphaltum-kettles of the lively Boulevards of Paris.

“Wait awhile, Fire-Eaters,” said Plickaman, “the tar isn’t quite ready yet.”

The tar!  What had that viscous and unfragrant material to do with the present interview?

“I won’t read you what he says of me,” resumed the Colonel.

“Yes,—­out with it!” exclaimed all.

Suffice it to say that I had spoken of Mr. Mellasys Plickaman as a person so very ill-dressed, so very lavish in expectoration, so entirely destitute of the arts and graces of the higher civilization, merited.  His companions required that he should read his own character.  He did so.  I need not say that I was suffering extremities of apprehension all this time; but still I could not refrain from a slight sympathetic smile of triumph as the others roared with laughter at my accurate analysis of my rival.

“You’ll pay for this, Mr. A. Bratley Chylde!” says Plickaman.

So long as my Saccharissa was on my side, I felt no special fear of what my foes might do.  I knew the devoted nature of the female sex. “Elles meurent, ou elles s’attachent,”—­beautiful thought!  These riflers of journals would, I felt confident, be unable to produce anything reflecting my real sentiments about my betrothed.  I had spoken of her and her family freely—­one must have a vent somewhere—­to Mr. Derby Deblore, my other self, my Pylades, my Damon, my fidus Achades in New York; but, unless they found Derby and compelled him to testify, they could not alienate my Saccharissa.

I gave her a touching glance, as Mellasys Plickaman closed his reading of my private papers.

She gave me a touching glance,—­or rather, a glance which her amorphous features meant to make touching,—­and, waving musk from her handkerchief through the apartment, cried,—­

“Never mind, Arthur dear!  I don’t like you a bit the less for saying what barbarous creatures these men are.  They may do what they please,—­I’ll stand by you.  You have my heart, my warm Southern heart, my Arthur!”

“Arthur!” shouted that atrocious Plickaman,—­“the loafer’s name’s Aminadab, after that old Jew, his grandfather.”

Saccharissa looked at him and smiled contemptuously.

I tried to smile.  I could not.  Aminadab was my name.  That old dotard, my grandfather, had borne it before me.  I had suppressed it carefully.