"Mr Bleaks," said I, stepping up to the overseer, who, in his Guernsey shirt, calico inexpressibles, and straw hat, his hands in his pockets and a cigar in his mouth, was lounging about, and apparently troubling himself very little about his employer. "Mr Bleaks, will you be so good as to have the gig and my luggage brought on shore?" "Ha! Mr Howard!" said the man, "is it you? Didn't expect ye so soon." "I hope that, if unexpected, I am not unwelcome," replied I, a little vexed at this specimen of genuine Pennsylvanian dryness. "You ain't come alone, are you?" continued Bleaks, examining me at the same time out of the corners of his eyes. "Thought you'd have brought us a dozen blackies. We want 'em bad enough." "_Est-il permis, Monsieur?_" now interposed the Creole, taking my hand, and pointing towards the house. "And the steamer?" said I, in a tone as drawling as I could make it, and without moving a pace in the direction indicated. "Oh! that will wait," replied Menou, smiling. What could I do with such a persevering fellow? There was nothing for it but to walk up with him to the house, however unpleasant I found it so to do. And unpleasant to me it certainly was, in the then state of my habitation and domain. It was a melancholy sight--a perfect abomination of desolation. Every thing looked so ruined, decayed, and rotten, that I felt sick and disgusted at the prospect before me. I had not expected to find matters half so bad. Of the hedge round the garden only a few sticks were here and there standing; in the garden itself some unwholesome-looking pigs were rooting and grubbing. As to the house! Merciful heavens! Not a whole pane in the windows! all the frames stopped and crammed with old rags and bunches of Indian corn leaves! I could not expect groves of orange and citron trees--I had planted none; but this! no, it was really too bad. Every picture must have its shady side, but here there was no bright one; all was darkness and gloom. We did not meet a living creature as we walked up from the shore, winding our way amongst the prostrate and decaying tree-trunks that encumbered the ground. At last, near the house, we stumbled upon a trio of black little monsters, that were rolling in the mud with the dogs, half a shirt upon their bodies, and dirty as only the children of men possibly can be. The quadrupeds, for such they looked, jumped up on our approach, stared at us with their rolling eyes, and then scuttled away to hide themselves behind the house. Ha! Old Sybille! Is it you? She was standing before a caldron, suspended, gipsy-fashion, from a triangle of sticks--looking, for all the world, like a dingy parody of one of Macbeth's witches. She, too, stared at us, but without moving. I must introduce myself, I suppose. Now she has recognised me, and comes towards us with her enormous spoon in her hand. I wonder that her shriveled old turkey's neck--which cost me seventy-five dollars, by the by--has not got twisted before now.