We did not dream his feet were in them; ten years’ probation seemed to vanish at the sight!—­we wept!  He spoke—­could we believe our ears?  “Marvel of marvels!” despite the propinquity of the Bluchers, despite their wide-spreading contamination, his voice was unaltered.  We were puzzled! we were like the first farourite when “he has a leg,” or, “a LEG has him,” i.e., nowhere!

John Smith coughed, not healthily, as of yore; it was a hollow emanation from hypocritical lungs:  he sneezed; it was a vile imitation of his original “hi-catch-yew!” he invited us to dinner, suggested the best cut of a glorious haunch—­we had always had it in the days of the Wellingtons—­now our imagination conjured up cold plates, tough mutton, gravy thick enough in grease to save the Humane Society the trouble of admonitory advertisements as to the danger of reckless young gentlemen skating thereon, and a total absence of sweet sauce and currant-jelly.  We paused—­we grieved—­John Smith saw it—­he inquired the cause—­we felt for him, but determined, with Spartan fortitude, to speak the truth.  Our native modesty and bursting heart caused our drooping eyes once more to scan the ground, and, next to the ground, the wretched Bluchers.  But, joy of joys! we saw them all! ay, all!—­all—­from the seam in the sides to the leech-like fat cotton-ties.  We counted the six lace-holes; we examined the texture of the stockings above, “curious three-thread”—­we gloated over the trousers uncontaminated by straps, we hugged ourselves in the contemplation of the naked truth.

John Smith—­our own John Smith—­your John Smith—­everybody’s John Smith—­again entered the arm-chair of our affections, the fire of our love stirred, like a self-acting poker, the embers of cooling good fellowship, and the strong blaze of resuscitated friendship burst forth with all its pristine warmth.  John Smith wore Bluchers but he wore them like an honest man; and he was the only specimen of the genus homo (who sported trowsers) that was above the weakness of tugging up his suspenders and stretching his broadcloth for the contemptible purpose of giving a fictitious, Wellingtonian appearance to his eight-and-sixpennies.

[Illustration]

ANKLE-JACKS,

to indulge in the sporting phraseology of the Racing Calendar, appear to be “got by Highlows out of Bluchers.”  They thrive chiefly in the neighbourhoods of Houndsditch, Whitechapel, and Billingsgate.  They attach themselves principally to butchers’ boys, Israelitish disposers of vix and pinthils, and itinerant misnomers of “live fish.”  On their first introduction to their masters, by prigging or purchase, they represent some of the glories of “Day and Martin;” but, strange to say, though little skilled in the penman’s art, their various owners appear to be imbued with extraordinary veneration for the wholesome advice contained in the round-text copy, wherein youths are admonished