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!
[Illustration]