* * * * *
[Illustration: ~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.