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.

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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 to “avoid useless repetition,” hence that polish is the Alpha and Omega of their shining days.  Their term of servitude varies from three to six weeks:  during the first they are fastened to the topmost of their ten holes; the next fortnight, owing to the breaking of the lace, and its frequent knotting, they are shorn of half their glories, and upon the total destruction of the thong (a thing never replaced), it appears a matter of courtesy on their parts to remain on at all.  On some occasions various of their wearers have transferred them as a legacy to very considerable mobs, without particularly stating for which especial individual they were intended.  This kicking off their shoes “because they wouldn’t die in them,” has generally proved but a sorry method of lengthening existence.

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HESSIANS,

are little more than ambitious Wellingtons, curved at the top—­wrinkled at the bottom (showing symptoms of superannuation even in their infancy), and betasselled in the front, offering what a Wellington never did—­a weak point for an enemy to seize and shake at his pleasure.

There’s no “speculation” in them—­they are entirely superficial:  like a shallow fellow, you at once see through, and know all about them.  There is no mystery as to the height they reach, how far they are polished, or the description of leg they cling round.  Save Count D’Oraay, we never saw a calf in a pair of them—­that is, we never saw a leg with a calf.  Their general tenants are speculative Jew clothesmen who have bought them “vorth the monish” (at tenth hand), seedy chamber counsel, or still more seedy collectors of rents.  They are fast falling into decay; like dogs, they have had their “Day (and Martin’s”) Acts, but both are past.  But woh! ho!