In taking leave of me, Mr. B. made
      a proposition for the purchase of the paper when written; but as
      he could offer me only fifty guineas a sheet, I thought it better
      to let our society have it, than sacrifice it for so paltry a
      sum. Notwithstanding this niggardly spirit, however, the
      gentleman showed his consideration for me in all other respects,
      and indeed treated me with the greatest civility. His parting
      words made a deep impression upon my heart, and I hope I shall
      always remember them with gratitude. “My dear Miss Zenobia,” he said, while the tears stood in his
      eyes, “is there anything else I can do to promote the success of
      your laudable undertaking? Let me reflect! It is just possible
      that you may not be able, so soon as convenient, to—to—get
      yourself drowned, or—choked with a chicken-bone, or—or
      hung,—or—bitten by a—but stay! Now I think me of it, there are a
      couple of very excellent bull-dogs in the yard—fine fellows, I
      assure you—savage, and all that—indeed just the thing for your
      money—they’ll have you eaten up, auricula and all, in less than
      five minutes (here’s my watch! )—and then only think of the
      sensations! Here! I say—Tom!—Peter!—Dick, you villain!—let out
      those”—but as I was really in a great hurry, and had not another
      moment to spare, I was reluctantly forced to expedite my
      departure, and accordingly took leave at once—somewhat more
      abruptly, I admit, than strict courtesy would have otherwise
      allowed. It was my primary object upon quitting Mr. Blackwood, to get into
      some immediate difficulty, pursuant to his advice, and with this
      view I spent the greater part of the day in wandering about
      Edinburgh, seeking for desperate adventures—adventures adequate
      to the intensity of my feelings, and adapted to the vast
      character of the article I intended to write. In this excursion I
      was attended by one negro servant, Pompey, and my little lap-dog
      Diana, whom I had brought with me from Philadelphia. It was not,
      however, until late in the afternoon that I fully succeeded in my
      arduous undertaking. An important event then happened of which
      the following Blackwood article, in the tone heterogeneous, is
      the substance and result. A PREDICAMENT


What chance, good lady, hath bereft you thus?—COMUS. It was a quiet and still afternoon when I strolled forth in the
      goodly city of Edina. The confusion and bustle in the streets
      were terrible. Men were talking. Women were screaming. Children
      were choking. Pigs were whistling. Carts they rattled. Bulls they
      bellowed. Cows they lowed. Horses they neighed. Cats they
      caterwauled. Dogs they danced. _Danced!_ Could it then be
      possible? Danced! Alas, thought I, my dancing days are over! Thus
      it is ever. What a host of gloomy recollections will ever and
      anon be awakened in the mind of genius and imaginative
      contemplation, especially of a genius doomed to the everlasting,
      and eternal, and continual, and, as one might say,
      the—continued—yes, the continued and continuous, bitter,
      harassing, disturbing, and, if I may be allowed the expression,
      the very disturbing influence of the serene, and godlike, and
      heavenly, and exalted, and elevated, and purifying effect of what
      may be rightly termed the most enviable, the most truly
      enviable—nay! the most benignly beautiful, the most deliciously
      ethereal, and, as it were, the most 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 ribbon 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. We were three. Thus
      it is said there were originally but three Furies—Melty, Nimmy,
      and Hetty—Meditation, Memory, and Fiddling. Leaning upon the arm of the gallant Pompey, and attended at a
      respectable distance by Diana, I proceeded down one of the
      populous and very pleasant streets of the now deserted Edina. On
      a sudden, there presented itself to view a church—a Gothic
      cathedral—vast, venerable, and with a tall steeple, which towered
      into the sky. What madness now possessed me? Why did I rush upon
      my fate? I was seized with an uncontrollable desire to ascend the
      giddy pinnacle, and then survey the immense extent of the city.