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