They were such as many of our field-officers now in
Canada are in the habit of wearing--coming high up on the thigh,
perfectly water-proof, but very light, and pliant as a glove. I saw
nothing of American manufacture to compare with them. Some of my
duck-shooting acquaintance at Baltimore were never weary of admiring
their fair proportions; nor did my sage counselor, before alluded to,
refuse his warm approbation; but he urged very strongly the hazard of my
wearing them on my way to the Lower Potomac--to carry or transmit them
otherwise was simply impossible. Nevertheless, neither Bombastes nor
Dalgetty could have clung more obstinately to this favorite _chaussure_
than did I to mine. I knew that in the South, where an ordinary pair of
cavalry boots commands readily seventy dollars or more, they could not
be matched, and I had not
Lived in the saddle for years a score,
without learning that on a long march the value of thoroughly well
fitting and comfortable nether integuments is "above rubies." And they
did carry me right well and safely through many rough ways and much wild
weather, impervious alike to water, mud, rain, or snow. I _will_ give
honor where honor is due. Fagg, of Panton street, was the architect.[1]
So I "set my foot down," literally and metaphorically, on this point,
absolutely determined that boots and saddle-bags should share my
fortunes.
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