Rivets indeed! Why, how can a boot be decent as is nailed together just as a chip would make a box? 'Tain't natural, no more nor gutta-percha was, nor india-rubber was. Course I had to take to gutta-percha soles, as it was the fashun, else yer lose yer trade; but there you were, sticking the things on with a lot o' grease tar stuff, and then as soon as they got warm, off they comes again, and serve 'em right too for not being sewed, and then touched round the wearing Darts with a few rows o' sprigs neatly put in, or a facing o' sparrables. And here's yer everlasting soles and yer machinery and clat! Don't tell me: why, they can't answer any more than indy-rubber goloshes can, as raises your corns, an' draws yer feet, an' makes a man miserable, as of course every one is as ain't got a decent shoe to his foot. It's all very fine having yer new fangles, and one introdoosing cork, and another iron, and another copper and copper toes. You may have yer grand warerusses over Southwark way; but my 'pinion is as it must come down to us at last, as only stands to reason. Now here you are; you've bought yer pair o' ready-mades and worn 'em a bit, and then where are you? why, a-looking out for "J. Weltus, shoemaker, repairs neatly executed"--as it says on the board over the stall, as cost me a soleing and heeling for a painter chap outer work as did it for me, and put no dryers in his colour, so as the boys give it that pitted-with-the-small-pox look by aimin' at it with their popguns. Well, you looks for J. Weltus, and finds him sittin' in his stall in the court, and shows him what's up, and very naterally he laughs at yer, as he does at all as runs away from your fine old conservative wax-end and leather, for your improved, reform, upright bench, and machine-made understandings. But J. Weltus takes pity on you, and soon has yer boots in hand; and, as the swell says, he "analyses" 'em. And then where are yer? Here's your sole good for nought--the welt gone, heel sunk, and a whole regiment of pegs sticking up inside fit to rasp every bit o' skin off yer foot. Well, of course he grins; but you wants 'em to-morrow? Werry good; and he grins again to find that with all yer machine-making and sewing, yer obliged to come back to the old mender after all; so he takes off his glasses, gets Kidney Joe to cast a hye on his stall, and runs round to the grindery shop in Drury Lane, and comes back in ten minutes with a few real Archangel bristles, a ball of hemp, a set of first-class leather, some stuffin'; and of course, just as if to insult him, the counter's chock full o' ready-closed uppers, with all sorts o' jigamaree, fiddle-faddle stitching about 'em, as ain't no good only to let the water in. Then off he sets again--only he has to go back for his wax, which is, as one may say, the mainspring of a boot--the mortar of the edifice, as holds all together and as it should be.