“I’m sorry you don’t like it,” said Phillis.

“Like it,” said Bacchus, contemptuously, “why, if it twasn’t for the trouble of going to my chist, I’d wear one of my old ones.  Cuss de ruffles, I wish you’d cut ’em off.”

Bacchus went in, and in due time made his appearance in full dress.  He wore the blue coat and buff vest, and a pair of white pantaloons, made after the old style.  His shoes were as bright as his eyes, and his hat dusted until it only wanted an entire new nap to make it as good as new.  His hair was combed in a sort of mound in front, and the tout ensemble was astounding.  He passed Phillis in a dignified way, as if she were a valuable cat that he would not like to tread upon.

Phillis looked after him with a most determined expression of face.  If she had been made out of stone she could not have seemed more resolved.  She got up, however, soon after, and went in to arrange matters after her lord and master.

Bacchus purposely passed Aunt Peggy’s cabin, making her a stylish bow.  Peggy had taken off her handkerchief, to air her head, her hair standing off every which way, appearing determined to take her up somewhere, the point of destination being a matter of no consequence.  She chuckled audibly as she saw Bacchus.

“Look at dat ole fool now, wid dat ruffled shirt on; he’s gwine to bust dis blessed mornin.  Look at de way he’s got his wool combed up.  I b’lieves in my soul he’s got somebody buried up thar.  He’s a raal ole peacock.  Dat’s de way!  ’Kase I’m ole and wuthless, no matter ’bout me; and dat ole nigger ’lowed to make a fool of hisself, dressin up drunk in a ruffled shirt.  No matter, I’ll be dead and out of der way, fore long.”

Bacchus prayed with great effect this morning, calling himself and the whole congregation the most dreadful names, with the utmost satisfaction.  He made a short address too, warning the servants against sin in general, and a love of finery in particular.  On his return he beamed forth upon Phillis like one of her own “morning glories.”  The rest of the day he was brimful of jokes and religion.

The next Sunday came around.  Phillis smoked outside while Bacchus made his toilet.

“Phillis,” said the old fellow, blandly, coming to the door, “I don’t see my ruffled shirt out here.”

“High” said Phillis, “I laid your shirt with the rest; but I’ll look.  Here it is,” said she, pleasantly, “jest where I put it.”

“Why, whar’s the ruffles?”

“I cut ’em off,” said Phillis; “you asked me to.”

Bacchus got weak in the knees again, and had to sit down on the old chest.  Not a word escaped his lips; a deep sigh burst from the pent-up boiler of his remorse.  With an agonized countenance he seized a piece of rag which he had used as a shaving towel, and wiped away a repentant tear.  His soul was subdued within him.  He went to meeting, but declined officiating in any capacity, pleading a pain in his stomach as an excuse.  At dinner he found it impossible to finish the remaining quarter of a very tough old rooster Phillis had stuffed and roasted for him.  At sundown he ate a small-sized hoe-cake and a tin pan of bonnyclabber; then observing “That he believed he was put into dis world for nothing but to have trouble,” he took to his bed.