Well, we don't like them. They are shocking impostors--walking discomforts!
They had no right to be made at all; or, if made, 'twas a sin for them to
be so christened (are Bluchers Christians?).
They are Wellingtons cut down; so, in point of genius, was their baptismal
sponsor: but these are _vilely tied_, and that the hardy old Prussian would
never have been while body and soul held together. He was no beauty, but
these are decidedly ugly commodities, chiefly tenanted by swell purveyors
of cat's-meat, and burly-looking prize-fighters. They have the _fortiter in
re_ for kicking, but not the _suaviter in modo_ for corns. Look at them
villanously treed out at the "Noah's Ark" and elsewhere; what are they but
eight-and-six-penny worth of discomfort! They will no more accommodate a
decent foot than the old general would have turned his back in a charge, or
cut off his grizzled mustachios. If it wasn't for the look of the thing,
one might as well shove one's foot into a box-iron. We wouldn't be the man
that christened them, and take a trifle to meet the fighting old marshal,
even in a world of peace; in short, they are ambulating humbugs, and the
would-be respectables that wear 'em are a huge fraternity of "false
pretenders." Don't trust 'em, reader; they are sure to do you! there's
deceit in their straps, prevarication in their trousers, and connivance in
their distended braces. We never met but one exception to the above
rule--it was John Smith. Every reader has a friend of the name of John
Smith--in confidence, that _is_ the man. We would have sworn by him; in
fact, we did swear by him, for ten long years he was our oracle. Never
shall we forget the first, the only time our faith was shaken. We gazed
upon and loved his honest face; we reciprocated the firm pressure of his
manly grasp; our eyes descended in admiration even unto the ground on which
he stood, and there, upon that very ground--the ground whose upward growth
of five feet eight seemed Heaven's boast, an "honest man"--we saw what
struck us sightless to all else--a pair of Bluchers!
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]