We were to be married in December, at Bayou La Farouche.  Then we were to sail at once for Europe.  Then, after a proud progress through the principal courts, we were to return and inhabit a stately mansion in New York.  How the heart of my Saccharissa throbbed at the thought of bearing the elevated name of Chylde and being admitted to the sacred circles of fashion, as peer of the most elevated in social position!

I found no difficulty in getting a liberal credit from my tailor.  Upon the mere mention of my engagement, that worthy artist not only provided me with an abundant supply of raiment, but, with a most charming delicacy, placed bank-notes for a considerable amount in the pockets of my new trousers.  I was greatly touched by this attention, and very gladly signed an acknowledgment of debt.

I regret, that, owing to circumstances hereafter to be mentioned, the diary kept jointly by Saccharissa and myself during our journey to the sunny South has passed out of my possession.  Its pages overflowed with tenderness.  How beautiful were our dreams of the balls and soirees we were to give!  How we discussed the style of our furniture, our carriage, and our coachman!  How I fed Saccharissa’s soul with adulation!  She was ugly, she was vulgar, she was jealous, she was base, she had had flirtations of an intimate character with scores; but she was rich, and I made great allowances.

At last we arrived at Bayou La Farouche.

I cannot state that the locality is an attractive one.  Its land scenery is composed of alligators and mud in nearly equal proportions.

I never beheld there my fancy realized of a band of gleeful negroes hoeing cane to the music of the banjo.  There are no wild bandanna-trees, and no tame ones, either.  The slaves of Mr. Mellasys never danced, except under the whip of a very noisome person who acted as overseer.  There were no sleek and sprightly negresses in gay turbans, and no iced eau sucre.  Canaan was cursed with religious rigor on the Mellasys plantation at Bayou La Farouche.

All this time Mellasys Plickaman had been my bete noir.

I know nothing of politics.  Were our country properly constituted, I should be in the House of Peers.  The Chylde family is of sublime antiquity, and I am its head in America.  But, alas! we have no hereditary legislators; and though I feel myself competent to wear the strawberry-leaves, or even to sit upon a throne, I have not been willing to submit to the unsavory contacts of American political life.  Mr. Mellasys Plickaman took advantage of my ignorance.

When several gentlemen of the neighborhood were calling upon me in the absence of Mr. Mellasys, my defeated rival introduced the subject of politics.

“I suppose you are a good Democrat, Mr. Chylde?” said one of the strangers.

“No, I thank you,” replied I, sportively,—­meaning, of course, that they should understand I was a good Aristocrat.