ost pretty (if I may use so bold an expression) thing
(pardon me, gentle reader!) in the world--but I am always led away by
my feelings. In such a mind, I repeat, what a host of recollections are
stirred up by a trifle! The dogs danced! I--I could not! They frisked--I
wept. They capered--I sobbed aloud. Touching circumstances! which cannot
fail to bring to the recollection of the classical reader that exquisite
passage in relation to the fitness of things, which is to be found in
the commencement of the third volume of that admirable and venerable
Chinese novel the Jo-Go-Slow.

In my solitary walk through, the city I had two humble but faithful
companions. Diana, my poodle! sweetest of creatures! She had a quantity
of hair over her one eye, and a blue ribband tied fashionably around her
neck. Diana was not more than five inches in height, but her head was
somewhat bigger than her body, and her tail being cut off exceedingly
close, gave an air of injured innocence to the interesting animal which
rendered her a favorite with all.

And Pompey, my negro!--sweet Pompey! how shall I ever forget thee? I
had taken Pompey's arm. He was three feet in height (I like to be
particular) and about seventy, or perhaps eighty, years of age. He had
bow-legs and was corpulent. His mouth should not be called small, nor
his ears short. His teeth, however, were like pearl, and his large full
eyes were deliciously white. Nature had endowed him with no neck, and
had placed his ankles (as usual with that race) in the middle of the
upper portion of the feet. He was clad with a striking simplicity. His
sole garments were a stock of nine inches in height, and a nearly--new
drab overcoat which had formerly been in the service of the tall,
stately, and illustrious Dr. Moneypenny. It was a good overcoat. It was
well cut. It was well made. The coat was nearly new. Pompey held it up
out of the dirt with both hands.

There were three persons in our party, and two of them have already been
the subject of remark. There was a third--that person was myself. I
am the Signora Psyche Zenobia. I am not Suky Snobbs. My appearance is
commanding. On the memorable occasion of which I speak I was habited in
a crimson satin dress, with a sky-blue Arabian mantelet. And the dress
had trimmings of green agraffas, and seven graceful flounces of the
orange-colored auricula. I thus formed the third of the party. There was
the poodle. There was Pompey. There was myself. W