We knocked at the outer-gate, but no one answered. At length our black guide found out a bell-pull, and presently the clang of a bell resounded throughout the mansion. Still no one answered. I pushed against, the door, and found it was open, and Mr Treenail and myself immediately ascended a flight of six marble steps, and stood in the lower piazza, with the hall, or lower vestibule, before us. We entered. A very well-dressed brown woman, who was sitting at her work at a small table, along with two young girls of the same complexion, instantly rose to receive us. “Beg pardon,” said Mr Treenail, “pray, is this Mr----‘s house?” “Yes, sir, it is.” “Will you have the goodness to say if he be at home?” “Oh yes, sir, he is dere upon dinner wid company,” said the lady. “Well,” continued the lieutenant, “say to him, that an officer of his Majesty’s sloop Torch is below, with despatches for the admiral.” “Surely, sir,--surely,” the dark lady continued;--“Follow me, sir; and dat small gentleman,--[Thomas Cringle, Esquire, no less!]--him will better follow me too.” We left the room, and, turning to the right, landed in the lower piazza of the house, fronting the north. A large clumsy stair occupied the easternmost end, with a massive mahogany balustrade, but the whole affair below was very ill lighted. The brown lady preceded us; and planting herself at the bottom of the staircase, began to shout to some one above. “Toby!--Toby!--buccra gentlemen arrive, Toby.” But no Toby responded to the call. “My dear madam,” said Treenail, “I have little time for ceremony. Pray usher us up into Mr----‘s presence.” “Den follow me, gentlemen, please.” Forthwith we all ascended the dark staircase until we reached the first landing-place, when we heard a noise as of two negroes wrangling on the steps above us. “You rascal!” sang out one, “take dat; larn you for teal my wittal!”--then a sharp crack, as if he had smote the culprit across the pate; whereupon, like a shot, a black fellow, in a handsome livery, trundled down, pursued by another servant with a large silver ladle in his hand, with which he was belabouring the fugitive over his flinthard skull, right against our hostess, with the drumstick of a turkey in his hand, or rather in his mouth. “Top, you tief--top, you tief!--for me piece dat,” shouted the pursuer.