Billy Boots.
Billy Boots.
For the Table Book.
On January 6th, 1815, died at Lynn, Norfolk, at an advanced age, (supposed about seventy,) this eccentric individual, whose proper name, William Monson, had become nearly obliterated by his professional appellation of Billy Boots; having followed the humble employment of shoeblack for a longer period than the greater part of the inhabitants could remember. He was reported, (and he always professed himself to be,) the illegitimate son of a nobleman, whose name he bore, by a Miss Cracroft. Of his early days little is known, except from the reminiscences of conversation which the writer of this article at times held with him. From thence it appears, that having received a respectable education, soon after leaving school, he quitted his maternal home in Lincolnshire, and threw himself upon the world, from whence he was sought out by some of his paternal brothers, with the intention of providing and fixing him in comfortable circumstances; but this dependent life he abhorred, and the wide world was again his element. After experiencing many vicissitudes, (though possessing defects never to be overcome,—a diminutive person,—a shuffling, slip-shod gait,—and a weak, whining voice,) he joined a company of strolling players, and used to boast of having performed “Trueman,” in “George Barnwell:” from this he imbibed an ardent histrionic cacoethes, which never left him, but occupied many of his leisure moments, to the latest period of his life. Tired of rambling, he fixed his residence at Lynn, and adopting the useful vocation of shoe-black, became conspicuous as a sober, inoffensive, and industrious individual. Having, by these means, saved a few guineas, in a luckless hour, and when verging towards his fiftieth year, he took to himself a wife, a dashing female of more favourable appearance than reputation. In a few days from the tying of the gordian knot, his precious metal and his precious rib took flight together, never to return; and forsaken Billy whined away his disaster, to every pitying inquirer, and continued to brush and spout till time had blunted the keen edge of sorrow.
Notwithstanding this misfortune, Billy made no rash vow of forswearing the sex, but ogled every mop-squeezer in the town, who would listen to his captivating eloquence, and whenever a roguish Blousalinoa consented to encourage his addresses, he was seen early and late, like a true devotee snuffing a pilgrimage to the shrine of his devotions. In a summer evening after the labour of the day, on these occasions, and on these occasions only, he used to clean himself and spruce up, in his best suit, which was not improperly termed his courting suit—a worn-out scarlet coat, reaching to his heels, with buttons of the largest dimensions—the other part of his dress corresponding. When tired of the joke, his faithless inamorata, on some frivolous pretence, contrived to discard him, leaving him to “fight his battles o’er again,” and seek some other bewitching fair one, who in the end served him as the former; another and another succeeded, but still poor Billy was ever jilted, and still lived a devoted victim to the tender passion.
Passionately fond of play-books, of which he had a small collection—as uninviting to the look as himself in his working dress—and possessing a retentive memory, he would recite, not merely the single character, but whole scenes, with all the dramatis personæ. His favourite character, however, was “Shylock;” and here, when soothed and flattered, he exhibited a rich treat to his risible auditors in the celebrated trial scene, giving the entire dialogue, suiting the action and attitude to the words, in a style of the most perfect caricatural originality. At other times, he would select “The Waterman,” and, as “Tom Tug,” warble forth, “Then farewell my trim-built wherry,” in strains of exquisitely whining melody. But, alas! luckless wight! his only reward was ridicule, and for applause he had jokes and quizzing sarcasms.
Like most of nature’s neglected eccentrics, Billy was a public mark of derision, at which every urchin delighted to aim. When charges of “setting the river Thames on fire!” and “roasting his wife on a gridiron!” were vociferated in his ears, proudly conscious of his innocence of such heinous crimes, his noble soul would swell with rage and indignation; and sometimes stones, at other times his brushes, and oftentimes his pot of blacking, were aimed at the ruthless offender, who frequently escaped, while the unwary passer-by received the marks of his vengeance. When unmolested, he was harmless and inoffensive.
Several attempts, it is said, were made towards the latter part of his life to settle an annuity on him; but Billy scorned such independence, and maintained himself till death by praiseworthy industry. After a few days’ illness, he sank into the grave, unhonoured and unnoticed, except by the following tribute to his memory, written by a literary and agricultural gentleman in the neighbourhood of Lynn, and inserted in the “Norwich Mercury” newspaper of that period.
K.
Elegiac Lines on William Monson, late of Lynn, an eccentric Character; commonly y’clept Billy Boots.
Imperial Fate, who, with promiscuous course,
Exerts o’er high and low his influence dread;
Impell’d his shaft with unrelenting force,
And laid thee, Billy, ’mongst the mighty dead!
Yet ’though, when borne to thy sepulchral home,
No pomp funereal grac’d thy poor remains,
Some “frail memorial” should adorn thy tomb,
Some trifling tribute from the Muse’s strains.
Full fifty years, poor Billy! hast thou budg’d,
A care-worn shoe-black, up and down the streets;
From house to house, with slip-shod step hast trudg’d,
’Midst summer’s rays, and winter’s driving sleets.
Report allied thee to patrician blood,
Yet, whilst thy life to drudg’ry was confin’d,
Thy firmness each dependent thought withstood,
And prov’d,—thy true nobility of mind.
With shuffling, lagging gait, with visage queer,
Which seem’d a stranger to ablution’s pow’r,
In tatter’d garb, well suited to thy sphere,
Thou o’er life’s stage didst strut thy fretful hour.
O’er boots and shoes, to spread the jetty hue,
And give the gloss,—thou Billy, wert the man,
No boasting rivals could thy skill outdo—
Not “Day and Martin,” with their fam’d japan.
On men well-bred and perfectly refin’d,
An extra polish could thine art bestow;
At feast or ball, thy varnish’d honours shin’d,
Made spruce the trader, and adorn’d the beau.
When taunting boys, whom no reproof could tame,
On thee their scoffs at cautious distance shed,
A shoe or brush, impetuous wouldst thou aim,
Wing’d with resentment, at some urchin’s head.
With rage theatric often didst thou glow,
(Though ill adapted for the scenic art;)
As Denmark’s prince soliloquiz’d in woe,
Or else rehears’d vindictive Shylock’s part.
Brushing and spouting, emulous of fame,
Oft pocketing affronts instead of cash,
In Iago’s phrase, sometimes thou might’st exclaim
With too much truth,—“who steals my purse steals trash.”
Peace to thine ashes! harmless in thy way,
Long wert thou emp’ror of the shoe-black train,
And with thy fav’rite Shakspeare we may say,
We “ne’er shall look upon thy like again.”