I began to comprehend Deblore's innocent reference to his favorite horse Nigger; and a successful race he had made with the well-known racer Marshall--not Rynders--was construed by my jury into a knowledge on my part of the operations of the "Underground Railroad." What could have been more absurd? I endeavored to protest. I endeavored to show them, on general and personal grounds, how utterly devoted I was to the "Peculiar Institution." "Billy Sangaree," said Judge Pyke, "do you and Major Licklickin stand by the low-lived Abolitionist, and if he says another word, blow out his Black Republican heart." They did so. I was silent. Saccharissa gave me a glance expressive of continued devotion. So long as I kept her and her hundred thousand dollars, ($100,000,) I little cared for the assaults of these noisy and ill-bred persons. "Continue, Colonel," said Judge Pyke, severely. Plickaman resumed the reading of my friend's letter. "Well, Bratley," Deblore went on, "I hope you'll be able to stand Bayou La Farouche till you're married. I couldn't do it. I roar over your letters. But I swear I respect your powers of humbug. I suppose, if you didn't let out to me, you never could lie so to your dear Saccharissa. Do you know I think you are a little too severe in calling her a mean, spiteful, slipshod, vulgar, dumpy little flirt?" "Read that again!" shrieked Saccharissa. "You are beginning to find out your Aminadab!" says Plickaman. I moved my lips to deny my name; but the pistol of Billy Sangaree was at my right temple, the pistol of Major Licklickin at my left. I was silent, and bore the scornful looks of my persecutors with patience and dignity. Plickaman repeated the sentence. "But hear the rest," said he, and read on:-- "From what you say of her tinge of African blood and other charming traits, I have constructed this portrait of the future Mrs. Bratley Chylde, as the Hottentot Venus. Behold it!" And Mellasys held up a highly colored caricature, covering one whole side of my friend's sheet. Saccharissa rose from the sofa where she had been sitting during the whole of my trial. She stood before me,--really I cannot deny it,--a little, ugly, vulgar figure, overloaded with finery, and her laces and ribbons trembled with rage. She seemed not to be able to speak, and, by way of relieving herself of her overcharge of wrath, smote me several times on either ear with that pudgy hand I had so often pressed in mine or tenderly kissed. At this exhibition of a resentment I can hardly deem feminine, the Fire-Eaters roared with laughter and cheered her to continue. A circle of negroes also, at the window, expressed their amusement at the scene in the guttural manner of their race. I could not refrain from tears at these unhappy exhibitions on the part of my betrothed. They augured ill for the harmony of our married life. "Hit him again, Rissy! he's got no friends," that vulgar Plickaman urged.