The Water-Witch | Page 9

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."
"A fair rising and a lucky day to you, Patroon!" cried the Alderman,
saluting a large, slow-moving, gentlemanly-looking young man of
five-and-twenty, who advanced, with the gravity of one of twice that
number of years, from the interior of the house, towards its outer door
"The winds are bespoken, and here is as fine a day as ever shone out of
a clear sky, whether it came from the pure atmosphere of Holland, or of
old England itself. Colonies and patronage! If the people on the other
side of the ocean had more faith in mother Nature, and less opinion of
themselves, they would find it very tolerable breathing in the

plantations. But the conceited rogues are like the man who blew the
bellows, and fancied he made the music; and there is never a hobbling
imp of them all, but he believes he is straighter and sounder, than the
best in the colonies. Here is our bay, now, as smooth as if it were shut
in with twenty dykes, and the voyage will be as safe as if it were made
on a canal."
"Dat werry well, if a do it," grumbled Cupid, who busied himself
affectionately about the person of his master. "I think it alway better to
travel on 'e land, when a gentle'um own so much as Masser Oloff Der
war' 'e time a ferry-boat go down, wid crowd of people; and nobody
ebber come up again to say how he feel."
"Here is some mistake!" interrupted the Alderman, throwing an uneasy
glance at his young friend. "I count four-and-fifty years, and remember
no such calamity."
"He'm werry sing'lar how a young folk do forget! 'Ere war' drown six
people in dat werry-boat. A two Yankee, a Canada Frenchman, and a
poor woman from a Jarseys. Ebbery body war werry sorry for a poor
woman from a Jarseys!"
"Thy tally is false, Master Cupid," promptly rejoined the Alderman,
who was rather expert at figures. "Two Yankees, a Frenchman, and
your Jersey woman, make but four."
"Well, den I s'pose 'ere war' one Yankee; but I, know all war' drown,
for 'e Gubbenor lose he fine coach-horses in dat werry-boat."
"The old fellow is right, sure enough; for I remember the calamity of
the horses, as if it were but yesterday.