_Author._ “Well, Peter, what did you go about when you quit the seas?”
_Peter._ “The year I quit the seas, I went to live with Madam Rylander, and stayed with her a year, and she gin me twenty-five dollars a month, and I made her as slick a darkey as ever made a boot shine, and she was as fine a lady as ever scraped a slipper over Broadway. While I lived there, I used to visit at Mr. John Macy’s, a rich quaker who lived in Broadway, across from old St. Paul’s. There was a colored girl lived with his family, by the name of Susan, and they called her Susan Macy; she was handsome and well edicated tu, and brought up like one of his own children; and they thought as much on her as one of their daughters, and she was as lovely a dispositioned gal as ever I seed; and I enjoyed her society _mazinly_.
“Well, one mornin’ she got up and went to her mistress’ bedroom, and asked her what she’d have for breakfast—’Veal cutlet’ says she; and the old man says, ‘Thee’ll find money in the sideboard to pay for it;’ and she did, and took her basket and goes to the market a singin’ along as usual—she was a great hand to sing; and gits her meat, and on her return, she meets a couple of gentlemen, and one had a bundle, and says he, ‘Girl if you’ll take this bundle down to the wharf, I’ll give you a silver dollar;” and she thought it could do no harm, and so she goes with it down to the ship they described, and as she reached out the bundle, a man catched her and hauled her aboard and put her down in the hole.
“Her master and mistress got up and waited and waited, and she didn’t come; and they went and sarched the street, and finds the basket, but nothin’ could be heard of Susan in the whole city; and they finally gin up that she was murdered.
“Well, I’ll tell you the rest of the story, for I heard on her arter this.
“I stayed my year out with Madam Rylander, and then I quit; and she was despod anxious to keep me, but I had other fish to fry, and took a notion I’d drive round the country and play the gentleman.
“I come across, in New York, a young feller of color, his parents very respectable folks who lived in Philadelphia; and they took an anxious notion for me to go home with ’em; and I started with ’em for Philadelphia; and I had as good clothes as any feller, and a considerable money, and I thought I might as well spend it so as any way. Well come to Philadelphia, I found the Nixon’s very rich and _mazin’ respectable_; and I got acquain’ted with the family, and they had a darter by the name of _Solena_, and she was _dreadful handsome_, and she struck my fancy right off the first sight I had on her. She was handsome in fetur and pretty spoken and handsome behaved every way. Well I made up my mind the first sight I had on her, I’d have her _if I could git her_. I’d been in Philadelphia ’bout a week, and I axed her for her company, and ’twas granted. I made it my business to wait on her, and ride round with her, and visit her _alone_, as much as I could. The old folks seemed to like it _mazinly_, and that pleased me, and I went the _length of my rope, and felt my oats tu_. I treated her like a gentleman as far as I knew how—I took her to New York three times, in company with her brothers and their sweethearts; and we went in great splendor tu, and I found that every day, I was nearin’ the prize, and finally I popped the question, and arter some hesitation, she said, ‘Yis, Peter.’ But I had another Cape to double, and that was to git the consent of the old folks; and so one Sunday evenin’, as we was a courtin’ all alone in the parlor, I concluded, a fain’t heart never won a fair lady; and so I brushes up my hair, and starts into the old folks’ room, and I right out with the question; and he says.