Having finished his breakfast, Bacchus put an enormous piece of tobacco in his mouth, and commenced sharpening a small-sized scythe, that he called a razor.  In doing so, he made a noise like a high-pressure steamboat, now and then breathing on it, and going in a severe fit of coughing with every extra exertion.  On his table was a broken piece of looking-glass, on the quicksilver side of which, Arthur had, when a child, drawn a horse.  Into this Bacchus gave a look, preparatory to commencing operations.  Then, after due time spent in lathering, he hewed down at each shave, an amount of black tow that was inconceivable.  After he had done, he gathered up his traps, and stowed them away in the corner of his chest.

Phillis sat outside the door, smoking; looking in at the window, occasionally, to observe the effect of the first sight of the new shirt.  She saw him turn toward the little red painted bureau, on which she had laid out his clean clothes, starting with surprise and pleasure, when his eye first took in the delightful vision.  Cortez, when he stood conqueror of Mexico, did not feel the glow of satisfaction that thrilled through Bacchus’s heart as he gently patted the plaited ruffles and examined the wristbands, which were stitched with the utmost neatness.  He got weak in the knees with pleasure, and sat down on the chest in the corner, to support with more ease this sudden accession of happiness, while his wife was reaping a harvest of gratification at the success of her efforts toward his peace of mind.  All at once she saw a change pass over his visage.  Bacchus recollected that it would not do for him so suddenly to get into a good humor; besides, he reflected it was no more than Phillis’s duty to make him ruffled shirts, and she ought to have been so doing for the last twenty years.  These considerations induced him not to show much pleasure on the occasion, but to pretend he was not at all satisfied with the style and workmanship of the article in question.

“Why, lord a massy,” said he, “Phillis, what do you call dis here? t’aint a shirt? at fust I thought ’twas one of Miss Janet’s short night gowns you’d been a doing up for her.”

Phillis smoked on, looking inquiringly into the distant hills.

“Phillis, you don’t mean me to wear dis here to meetin?  T’aint fit.  Dese wristbands is made out o’ cotton, and I b’lieves in my soul Aunt Peggy done dis stitchin widout any spectacles.”

Phillis knocked the ashes out of her pipe, and puffed on.

“Look here, Phillis,” said Bacchus, going to the door as fast as the uncertain condition of his pantaloons would allow him, “did you ’spose I was sich a fool as to wear dis to meetin to-day?”

“Yes, I did,” said Phillis.

“Why, t’aint fit for a nigger to hoe corn in, its as big as a hay-stack.”

“Have you tried it on?” asked Phillis.

“T’aint no use,” said Bacchus, “I can tell by de looks.”