“Why, you home, be sure, massa,” replied Scipio, whimpering from the effects of the rough salutation I had bestowed upon him, “and be broad daylight, and you no bin to bed yit.”
I looked at the decanter. It was empty.
“Oh!” ejaculated I.
The odious apparel of the preceding night still decked my person and strewed the room. There was a sickening odor of stale tobacco-smoke hovering through the chamber, and, with a very clear perception that I should require a tumbler of Hock and soda to reinvigorate the inner man, I arrived at the comfortable conclusion that I was still in propria persona, the “man who could never dress well.”
P. S. I’m off to Paris. Fitzcrocky has Julia’s promise. A pea-green coat with gilt buttons, and a scarlet satin lining has done my business.
SUMMER’S BACCHANAL.
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BY J. BAYARD TAYLOR.
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