The Boots

THE Prince of Darkness! What a wealth of suggestiveness in that old phrase which once had only theological significance, but now is surely applicable only to him who shines in darkness, — ‘The Boots.’ There are few persons about whom I have so great a curiosity as about this the most serviceable being in Europe. Nobody else in England or on the Continent works so deftly by night, nobody else has such knowledge of human nature, or such accurate information about the details of travel. The Boots is, indeed, the very basic element in the traveler’s comfort.

There is a kind of charm in the fact that he never has a proper name; not Tom or Will or Jack, but always the generalized term, ‘the Boots.’ We never call the cook ‘ the kettles,’ nor the clergyman ‘the sinners’; why should one member of society be singled out to receive a poetic appellation? Is it not because we recognize something picturesque, poetic, unusual, in his relation to human kind? He makes no demand that we recognize his personality. He perfects his work in the generous silence of self-abnegation, willing to be hidden behind a figure of speech which most of us cannot identify.

Assuredly we take him too much as a matter of course, and accept his services thoughtlessly; we never pause to ponder over the strange life which he leads, this ruler over all the shades, who gives lustre to all he touches. Muddy, stained, demoralized though your shoes may be at ten P. M., at dawn they stand before your door so decorous, so statuesque, with shining morning faces, that you long to hear the tale of their midnight wanderings. The process calls for a bit of superstitious wonder, for it seems to realize the old legends about that ‘ merry wanderer of the night,’ who may now use Puck’s polish, following darkness like a dream.

Think of the Boots’s experience in judging human nature by its shoes! He, if anybody, knows what is the chief end of man. Doubtless he reads character as subtly as Sherlock Holmes could, and might give extensive commentaries upon his acquaintances. From the shape and style and quality of your shoes, from the places which show wear, he can deduce your nationality, your age, your character, even your religion, for, flat as the joke is, the Boots distinguishes between soles and souls. He knows your whole walk in life, — to the very last.

What is his outlook on the world? Is he a melancholy man inclined to look darkly at all things, or is it only over boots, shoes, and slippers that he casts the pall of his dark spirit? Is he jocund ? Does he, with Herrick, love a careless shoestring? Is he a respecter of persons, has he preferences in boots, or are all equal in his sight? Does he grudge humanity two feet apiece, particularly muddy tourists, and does he join with Caligula and wish that ‘all the Roamin’ people had but one foot’?

Lest I make too much of a fetish of the Boots, I must turn to other aspects of his life. He polishes knives, he carries luggage, he is general factotum, and, in especial, a trustworthy and accurate source of information. He knows the difference between Carlyle and Carlisle, he can understand that when you say ‘freight’ you mean ‘goods.’ Last summer I asked a hotel proprietor how many feet there are in the English mile. He disappeared for an entire day. I realize now, that I should have asked the Boots. As a judge of hotels and lodging-houses, the Boots is unequaled. What do we not owe to the Boots at the Rothay for his suggestion about a lodging at Grasmere? Did not he recommend that bower of roses where we sat all day long beside the clear little river, watching the Wordsworthian hills? Quiet, respectful service he always renders you, yet sometimes there must be moments of despondency, for