BY CAPTAIN MARRYAT, R.N.

The votaries of Fashion are considered heartless. Can they well be otherwise, when they worship a deity so remorseless and so unfeeling? Fashion not only ruins her own followers, but she is continually plunging into poverty and distress those who know nothing of her until they find that through her means they have become outcasts, deprived of their means of subsistence, and that their children are crying for bread. It is no matter how trifling may be the alteration which has been enforced by this despotic goddess, this is certain, that that alteration has been the cause of misery to hundreds; and if the step taken by her is one of magnitude, not only thousands, but whole towns, nay provinces, on the Continent are thrown from want of employment into misery. The town of Woodstock is one proof, out of many, how severely a community may suffer from change in fashion. The gloves formerly made there, and the manufacture of which had become a trade and means of livelihood to so many large families, are now no longer worn. The people had been brought up to this trade, and were not competent to any other, until they had begun anew and learnt one in their advanced life. Woodstock was once a flourishing town; now it has dwindled into comparative obscurity. Thus it has been, thus it is, and thus it will be with many more; for Fashion ever changes, and every change is accompanied with a petty revolution, attended with distress, which her votaries, glorying in their close attendance upon her ear, either never hear of, or which, if heard by them, is received with nonchalance and indifference.

I have been drawn into the above remarks in consequence of my whole story depending upon an article which is now no longer to be seen—indeed, I may add, is no longer to be mentioned but in a circuitous manner. Why this extreme squeamishness has latterly taken place I really cannot imagine. A garment is but a garment; and as we may talk of all other garments used by either sex without fear of offence, why should this one have latterly fallen into disgrace? At all events, I must either mention this unmentionable article, or not tell my story. I have, therefore, only now to give due notice to all ladies who may already surmise what the article in question may be, that now is the proper time for them to close the book, or to skip over to the next contribution, for my narrative is wholly dependent upon a pair of them.

I remember when I was a boy, I should say about forty years ago, when this article of dress was considered not only to be indispensable, but also indispensable that it was made of buckskin. It was worn high up, reaching to the chest, met with a very short waistcoat; add to these a blue coat and metal buttons, and the hair well powdered, and a fashionable man of 1800 stood before you. There were inconveniences attending buckskin; but when Fashion dictates, her votaries overcome all obstacles; Pride knows no pain, is an English proverb, met by one from the opposite side of the Channel, Il faut souffrir pour Être belle. The difficulty of getting into a pair of these articles, after they had been cleaned, was considerable; and when they became wet, they were anything but comfortable to the wearer. However, they have passed away, and this country has gained by their disappearance; for the leather out of which they were made came from the Continent, and the wool of this country has now occupied its place, in the cloth trousers which have succeeded them. And now to my story.

Before railroads were dreamt of, and people were satisfied with eight miles an hour, there was a certain person at Liverpool, who had gone down there on some sort of speculation or another; but whether it was to purchase cotton, or to attend the races, or to do a little business in any other way, does not exactly appear. This, however, is certain, that his speculations, whatever they might have been, failed, and that he found himself in the widest street in the town with exactly one guinea left in his pocket. One guinea would not pay his fare to London, whither he had decided upon going. He was, therefore, left to his own resources; that is, the resources of an ingenious mind, to help the one-pound-one, which was in his waistcoat-pocket.

It was not until he had walked up and down the long street for at least the tenth time that he came to any resolution: at last he slapped his buckskins, as much as to say I have it, and walking on a little farther, he looked at the clock which was in the coach-office, crossed the street, and went over to the hotel, which was directly opposite.

But I must now describe the appearance and dress of the person in question. He was a man of about thirty-five years of age, of handsome exterior, tall, and well made; he wore powder, a white cravat, a blue coat, very short figured waistcoat, and the articles in question, to wit, a pair of buckskin inexpressibles, to which must be added a pair of white top-boots. He had also a surtout-coat, of fine cloth, over all, but which was unbuttoned when he entered the hotel. In short, he appeared to be a dandied, rakish sort of gentleman of the time, with a look and manner implying that he had plenty of money to spend, and did not care a fig for anybody. No one could have ever imagined, with such an external appearance, that he had no more than one guinea in his pocket. Our gentleman walked into the coffee-room of the hotel, and took his seat in one of the boxes, with an air of pretension. In an authoritative tone he called the waiter, and when the waiter came, he called for the bill of fare, which was humbly presented. Our gentleman ran down its contents. "I'll have a bit of fish, waiter,—which do you recommend to day?"

"All good, sir; but cod and oyster-sauce just in season."

"Well, then, let it be so, with a broiled chicken and mushrooms. If I recollect right, you had some good wine here once?"

"Yes, sir—we have the same bin now—the port you mean, sir?"

"Yes, the port; tell Mr.—— I forget the landlord's name."

"Mr. Bansom."

"Very true;—tell Bansom to let me have a bottle of his best, and a pint of good madeira for dinner."

"Yes, sir. When will you have your dinner?"

"As soon as it can be got ready. In the mean time get me a newspaper."

In due time the dinner made its appearance, and ample justice was done to it by our gentleman. After the cloth was removed, the port wine was produced, and this he appeared determined to enjoy, as he remained at table sipping it until every other person who had been in the coffee-room had quitted it, and he was left alone. He then poured out the last glass, rang the bell, and demanded his bill. It was all ready:—

"Not dear, I must say," observed the gentleman, after he had read the bill; "I must patronise this house again. The port is really good wine; I knew it again directly,—£1. 4s. 6d.—half-a-crown for the waiter, £1. 7s." Then the gentleman put his hand into his right waistcoat pocket, and felt for his purse, found it not there, so he inserted his other hand into his left waistcoat pocket, no purse there.—"Hum," says he, with surprise; down went his right hand into the pocket of his buckskins on the right side, no purse there; down into the left, even to the bottom, no purse there.—"The devil!" exclaimed he, feeling his coat pockets, as a last hope—both empty. "Why, waiter, I've left my purse!" exclaimed he, rising up from his seat; "and now, I perceive, I've not my watch and seals. I must have left them both on the table. You don't recollect me—what must I do?"

"If you please," replied the waiter, respectfully, coming to the point, "you must pay your bill."

"Of course I must," replied the gentleman; "I cannot expect you to trust me; what can I do? I must leave you something in pledge."

"If you please, sir," replied the waiter.

"What shall it be—my surtout coat? I can spare that."

"Yes, sir," replied the waiter, who surveyed his coat, and was satisfied; "that will do."

"Well, then, help me with it off. On second thoughts, I do not think I can let you have my coat, I have suffered so dreadfully with the rheumatism in my shoulders. I dare not, upon my soul, I daren't; you must have something else. What shall it be—my boots, my new white top-boots?"

"I think, sir, you couldn't well walk away in stockings without getting cold and rheumatism," replied the waiter.

"Very true, what a fool I am! but so unaccustomed to be placed in so awkward a position, I do believe I've lost my senses—to give my boots were madness. I'll tell you how it shall be, waiter, I'll give you my buckskins—bran new—worth two pair of boots; I shan't miss them if I walk fast and button up."

"As you please, sir," replied the waiter.

After a deal of trouble, the buckskins were in the hands of the waiter; our gentleman pulled on his boots again, buttoned his surtout close in front, and promising to redeem them faithfully by his servant the next morning, quitted the hotel, holding himself very erect, that no opening in the front of his surtout should discover that he was minus so very important and indispensable an article of habiliment.

Our gentleman did not walk very far; he crossed the street and entered the hotel which was opposite to the one which he had just quitted, and from which he knew that the coaches went to London.

Again he walked into the coffee-room, took his seat without his deficiencies being perceived, and calling the waiter, said to him—"The coach starts from this hotel to London, I believe?"

"Yes, sir."

"At what hour?"

"At half-past five exactly, sir."

"Well, then, I shall take a supper and a bed; and here," continued he, throwing his guinea down on the table, "book me an inside place by the name of Mr. William Baring."

The waiter had heard of the name before, and bowed respectfully.

"Any luggage, sir?"

"No, I took my place this night by the mail, and was compelled to stay on important business just as I was getting into the coach. My luggage went on, I shall find it when I arrive."

Our gentleman ordered a good supper, and at half-past ten requested to be shown to his bed-room.

"Boots," said he, "recollect you call me at half-past four exactly, as I am hard of waking. Don't forget; and if you don't see me getting up in five minutes, rouse me again."

"Yes, sir," replied the Boots.

At half-past four the Boots made his appearance with a lanthorn, and after some considerable shaking, our gentleman roused up and sat by the side of the bed. The Boots had lighted the candle, and stood by.

"Yaw—aw!" said our gentleman, shaking himself and yawning. "How horrid it is to be up before daylight. Ah, well! Boots, give me my stockings."

"Yes, sir."

The stockings were slowly dragged on. "Now then Boots, my buckskins." The Boots turned over the other garments, looked here and there, and upon every chair; at the foot of the bed, and in the bed, under the pillow, under the bolster.

"I can't see no buckskins, sir."

"Pooh, nonsense! man."

Another useless turn round the room. "Well, I'm sure, sir, I can't see them."

"How very odd!" exclaimed our gentleman; "perhaps I'm sitting on them." He rose, but there were no buckskins under him. "How excessively strange! You didn't take them away with you when you took the boots, did you?"

"No, sir; I never comed into the room. You put your boots outside."

"So I did, now I recollect; but still the buckskins must be found." Another ineffectual search of five minutes, during which our gentleman gradually showed that the serenity of his temper was ruffling, till at last he became in a furious passion.

"By heavens! this is too bad: in a respectable house, too. Boots, go up to your master, and tell him I must see him immediately—say immediately, and without delay—Mr. William Baring—recollect, instantly!"

In a few minutes the landlord of the hotel made his appearance, half dressed, and not very well pleased at being compelled to turn out at such an unseasonable hour; but the name of Baring had been mentioned, and was not to be trifled with.

"You wish to speak to me, sir?"

"Yes, sir, I do wish to speak to you. I came here last night, having been obliged to give up my place in the seven o'clock mail, in consequence of pressing and important business which detained me. I booked myself by the fast coach, supped and slept here, desiring that I might be called in good time, as my immediate return to London is important. On my being called and getting up, I found that somebody had stole my buck-skins—that's all—nothing more. My buckskins—buckskins, sir, have disappeared!"

"I'm very sorry, sir—very sorry; can't imagine how. Some mistake, I presume," stammered the landlord.

"My buckskins are gone, sir, and no mistake," replied our gentleman. "I considered this a respectable honest house, sir, but it appears——"

This attack upon the respectability of the house made the landlord angry—it was a sore point.

"My house is respectable, sir—always has been respectable, sir—always will be, I trust. No gentleman ever lost his buckskins here before, sir. What they brought they have always taken away!"

"Why, sir!" exclaimed our gentleman, in a towering passion, "what do you mean to imply, sir? Do you suppose that a gentleman would come here without such an indispensable article of dress?"

"No, sir, no," replied the landlord, who cooled down as his adversary became excited; "I didn't mean to say that, sir."

"Then you'll just hear what I have to say, sir," replied our gentleman: "I'm not to be robbed in this barefaced way;—and the credit of your house, sir, is gone; for as soon as I arrive in town, I will write a letter to the Times, Chronicle, Herald, Post, and Morning Advertiser, stating the whole of the infamous transaction, and sign it with my own name, sir—with my own name; and then we shall see how long you are in a position to rob the public in this way. Yes, sir, and my lawyer shall send you a letter, as soon as I arrive in town, for an action of damages and recovery, sir."

Then our gentleman walked rapidly up and down the room, his shirt waving to and fro as if it was as much excited as himself.

"I'm very sorry, sir—very sorry," said the landlord; "but, sir, I have a pair of double-milled trousers which I think would fit you, so as to enable you to go to town, until the buckskins can be replaced."

"Double-milled! thank you, sir. You appear to consider my loss as only amounting to a pair of buckskins, Mr. Landlord; but who, sir, is to repay me the forty pounds and upwards, in bank-notes, which were in the pockets of my buckskins—heh! sir?"

This was, indeed, a new feature in the case, which the landlord did not expect.

"Forty pounds odd, sir!" exclaimed the landlord.

"Yes, sir, forty pounds. Let me see, forty-four pounds exactly. Now, sir, is that money to be forthcoming?—in one word, sir—there is no time to lose. If I miss the coach, I post all the way to town at your expense, as soon as I have procured something to put on. The house of Baring can't go to town in its shirt—the house of Baring will be revenged, sir—your treatment is past bearing, and—I give you five minutes to decide."

The landlord did decide. The buckskins had disappeared—the credit of his house was at stake—the house of Baring was his enemy—there was no help for it. The double-milled and £45 were handed over—the wrath of our gentleman was appeased—he even, before he slipped into the coach, promised to patronise the hotel.

The coach had been on the road about six hours, when the waiter stepped over to his chum, the waiter of the hotel opposite, to tell him what a shindy there had been about a pair of buckskins; the other waiter produced the buckskins left in pledge; and on their description of our gentleman, no doubt was left but that, although not probable, it was very possible that a gentleman could come into an hotel without his inexpressibles.

The landlord was almost frantic at having been so imposed upon; but, as usual in all such cases, he soon made up the loss incurred by our gentleman's visit to the hotel, by charging it upon those who came there, not only with buckskins, but with money in their buckskins-pockets; and thus ends my story of "How to raise the Wind; or, the Buckskins."