It was not long after this, that, seated in a coffee-room in Piccadilly, my attention was drawn to the indolent and comfortable attitude of a person, who, with his legs stretched conspicuously along the cushioned bench, was reading a newspaper. How it was I can hardly tell; but my eye was irresistibly attracted to his boots, just as Othello's was to the handkerchief bound round the wounded limb of Cassio. He seemed to be proud of them; they were ostentatiously elevated into view. The boots were Hessians. Though not now worn in their very "newest gloss," they were yet in excellent, I may say in enviable condition. My anxious glance not only wandered over their polished surface, but seemed to penetrate to their rich bright linings, the colour whereof was now no more a secret to me than were those silken tassels that dangled to delight the beholder. I knew _my_ boots again. The wearer, having the newspaper spread before his face, could not notice any observation directed to his lower extremities; my opportunity of inspection therefore was complete. They _were_ my Hessians. My first impulse was to ring the bell for a boot-jack, and claim them upon the spot; but before I could do so the stranger suddenly sprang upon his feet, seized his hat, and with one complacent glance at those tasselled habiliments, which were far from having lost all their "original brightness," swaggered out of the coffee-room. Curiosity prompted me to follow--I caught a glimpse of the bright backs of my boots as they flashed round the corner of a neighbouring street. Pursuing them, I surveyed the wearer; and now perceived that not even those incomparable Hessians could transform a satyr into Hyperion, or convert a vulgar strut into the walk of a gentleman. Those boots were never made for such limbs--never meant to be "sported" after so villanous a fashion. You could see that his calves were indifferently padded, and might have sworn the swaggerer was a swell blackleg--one of the shabby-genteel, and visibly-broken-down class. Accordingly, after a turn or two, it was anything but surprising to see him squeeze himself into a narrow passage over the door of which was written the word "Billiards." I heard my boots tramping up the dingy staircase to which the passage led--and my feet, as though from sympathy, and what the philosopher calls the "eternal fitness of things," were moving after them--when the "_cui bono?_" forcibly occurred to my mind! If I should demand my Hessians, was there a probability of obtaining them? and if I should obtain them, was there a possibility of my ever wearing them again? Could I think of treading in the boots of a blackleg, albeit they never were his own? No, I gave them up to the profanation which was their destiny. I called up Hamlet's reflection on the vile uses to which we may return; and as for the gambler, who in once virtuous boots threaded the paths of vice and depravity, I kicked him--"with my mind's toe, Horatio"--and passed on.