d for admission, and every movement of the black
denoted preparation and readiness for his reception. Declining his
invitation to enter, however, the Alderman placed his back against the
iron railing of the stoop, and opened a discourse with the negro. The
latter was aged, with a head that was grizzled, a nose that was levelled
nearly to the plane of his face, features that were wrinkled and confused,
and with a form which, though still solid, was bending with its load of
years.

"Brave cheer to thee, old Cupid!" commenced the burgher, in the hearty
and cordial manner with which the masters of that period were wont to
address their indulged slaves. "A clear conscience is a good night-cap,
and you look bright as the morning sun! I hope my friend the young Patroon
has slept sound as yourself, and that he has shown his face already, to
prove it."

The negro answered with the slow clipping manner that characterized his
condition and years.

"He'm werry wakeful, Masser Al'erman. I t'ink he no sleep half he time,
lately. All he a'tiverty and wiwacerty gone, an' he do no single t'ing but
smoke. A gentle'um who smoke alway, Masser Al'erman, get to be a
melercholy man, at last. I do t'ink 'ere be one young lady in York who be
he deat', some time!"

"We'll find the means to get the pipe out of his mouth," said the other,
looking askance at the black, as if to express more than he uttered.
"Romance and pretty girls play the deuce with our philosophy, in youth, as
thou knowest by experience, old Cupid."

"I no good for any t'ing, dat-a-way, now, not'ing," calmly returned the
black. "I see a one time, when few color' man in York hab more respect
among a fair sec', but dat a great while gone by. Now, de modder of your
Euclid, Masser Al'erman, war' a pretty woman, do' she hab but poor
conduc'. Den a war' young heself, and I use to visit at de Al'erman's
fadder's; afore a English come, and when ole Patroon war' a young man.
Golly! I great affection for Euclid, do' a young dog nebber come a near
me!"

"He's a blackguard! My back is no sooner turned, than the rascal's atop of
one of his master's geldings.'

"He'm werry young, master My'nert: no one get a wis'om fore a gray hair."

He's forty every minute, and the rogue gets impudence with his years. Age
is a reverend and respectable condition, when it brings gravity and
thought; but, if a young fool be tiresome, an old fool is contemptible.
I'll warrant me, you never were so th