A single blow of the massive glittering knocker brought a servant to the door.  The promptitude with which this summons was answered showed that, notwithstanding the early hour, the Alderman was an expected guest.  The countenance of him who acted as porter betrayed no surprise when he saw the person who applied 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 thoughtless, or so heartless, Cupid, as to ride an overworked beast, at night!”

“Well, I get pretty ole, Masser Myn’ert an’ I forget all he do when a young man.  But here be’e Patroon, who know how to tell’e Al’erman such t’ing better than a poor color’ slave.”