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 sucré_. Canaan was cursed with religious rigor on the Mellasys
plantation at Bayou La Farouche.

All this time Mellasys Plickaman had been my _bête 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.

"Who's your man for President?" my interlocutor continued, rather
roughly.

I had heard in conversation, without giving the fact much attention,