The great Homer did not think it unworthy his muse to sing of boots; why then should not I write of them?—especially as I have a tale to tell, which, if carefully perused, will, ('though I say it, who ought not to say it, still I do say it,') tend to the edification of the reader. I have called my story 'A Tale of Tight Boots,' hoping that when he should see that it concerned his understanding, he would understand the necessity of regarding it attentively.
The scene of my story is the goodly city of Boston; the time, May, 1836, 'being bisextile, or leap-year.' Business and pleasure had led me to town—alas! I made it a 'bad business,' and my pleasure ended in pain. I established myself at the Tremont, and began to look around for adventures.
Rap—tap—tap!
'Come in!'
'A note, Sir.'
'Mr. H—— requests the pleasure of Mr.——'s company at dinner to-day, at two o'clock, precisely.'
Mr. H—— was an old and much-loved friend; of course I accepted. I learned that there was to be a large company, and what was of more consequence to me, that Miss L——, whom I had addressed for the last six months, was to be there. No one will think it strange, then, if I devoted more than usual attention to my toilet. Finding that the style of my boots was a little passêe, I resolved to treat myself to new ones. The shop of the artizan who kept the 'crack article' was not far off, and thither I betook myself. Having selected a pair which came near the beau ideal of a boot, in my mind's eye, I proceeded to try them on.
'A little too tight on the instep,' said I, after I had fairly succeeded in drawing them on.
''Bout right, Sir,' said the man of boots, rubbing his hand over the place indicated; 'they'll give a little; fashionable cut, Sir; make 'em all so, now; fine foot, Sir, yours, to fit a boot to; high in the instep—hollow here. They look well, Sir.'