Sachary Mellasys was, as I was well aware, the great sugar-planter of Louisiana, and Saccharissa his only child.

I am an imaginative man.  I have never doubted, that, if I should ever give my fancies words, they would rank with the great creations of genius.  At the dulcet name of Mellasys a fairy scene grew before my eyes.  I seemed to see an army of merry negroes cultivating the sugar-cane to the inspiring music of a banjo band.  Ever and anon a company of the careless creatures would pause and dance for pure gayety of heart.  Then they would recline under the shade of the wild bandanna-tree,—­I know this vegetable only through the artless poetry of the negro minstrels,—­while sleek and sprightly negresses, decked with innocent finery, served them beakers of iced eau sucre.

As I was shaping this Arcadian vision, Mr. Mellasys passed me on his way to the bar-room.  I hastened to follow, without the appearance of intention.

My reader is no doubt aware that at the fashionable bar-room the cigars are all of the same quality, though the prices mount according to the ambition of the purchaser.  I found Mr. Mellasys gasping with efforts to light a dime cigar.  Between his gasps, profane expressions escaped him.

“Sir,” said I, “allow a stranger to offer you a better article.”

At the same time I presented my case filled with choice Cabanas,—­smuggled.  My limited means oblige me to employ these judicious economies.

Mr. Mellasys took a cigar, lighted, whiffed, looked at me, whiffed again,—­

“Sir,” says he, “dashed if that a’n’t the best cigar I’ve smoked sence I quit Bayou La Farouche!”

“Ah! a Southerner!” said I.  “Pray, allow the harmless weed to serve as a token of amity between our respective sections.”

Mr. Mellasys grasped my hand.

“Take a drink, Mr. ——?” said he.

“Bratley Chylde,” rejoined I, filling the hiatus,—­“and I shall be most happy.”

The name evidently struck him.  It was a combination of all aristocracy and all plutocracy.  As I gave my name, I produced and presented my card.  I was aware, that, with the uncultured, the possession of a card is a proof of gentility, as the wearing of a coat-of-arms proves a long line of distinguished ancestry.

Mr. Mellasys took my card, studied it, and believed in it with refreshing naivete.

“I’m proud to know you, Mr. Chylde,” said he.  “I haven’t a card; but Mellasys is my name, and I’ll show it to you written on the hotel-books.”

“We will waive that ceremony,” said I.  “And allow me to welcome you to Newport and the Millard.  Shall we enjoy the breeze upon the piazza?”

Before our second cigar was smoked, the great planter and I were on the friendliest terms.  My political sentiments he found precisely in accord with his own.  Indeed, our general views of life harmonized.

“I dare say you have heard,” said Mellasys, “from some of the bloated aristocrats of my section that I was a slave-dealer once.”