 | THE STOUT GENTLEMAN,
A TALE OF MYSTERY. Bracebridge Hall, or, The humorists |  |
THE STOUT GENTLEMAN,
A TALE OF MYSTERY.
I'll cross it, though it blast me!
Hamlet.
It was a rainy Sunday, in the gloomy month
of November. I had been detained in the
course of a journey, by a slight indisposition,
from which I was recovering, but I was still
feverish, and was obliged to keep within doors
all day, in an inn of the small town of Derby.
A wet Sunday in a country inn! whoever has
had the luck to experience one, can alone judge
of my situation. The rain pattered against
the casements; the bells tolled for church
with a melancholy sound. I went to the windows
in quest of something to amuse the eye;
but it seemed as if I had been placed completely
of my bed room looked out among tiled
roofs and stacks of chimneys; while those of
my sitting room commanded a full view of the
stable yard. I know of nothing more calculated
to make a man sick of this world than a stable
yard on a rainy day. The place was littered
with wet straw, that had been kicked about
by travellers and stable boys; in one corner
was a stagnant pool of water surrounding
an island of muck; there were several half
drowned fowls, crowded together under a cart,
among which was a miserable, crest-fallen
cock, drenched out of all life and spirit; his
drooping tail matted as it were into a single
feather, along which the water trickled from
his back. Near the cart was a half-dozing
cow, chewing the cud, and standing patiently
to be rained on, with wreaths of vapour
rising from her reeking hide; a wall-eyed horse,
tired of the loneliness of the stable, was poking
his spectral head out of a window, with the rain
dripping on it from the eaves; an unhappy cur,
every now and then, between a bark and
a yelp; a drab of a kitchen wench tramped
backwards and forwards through the yard in
pattens, looking as sulky as the weather itself;
every thing, in short, was comfortless and forlorn,
excepting a crew of hard-drinking ducks,
assembled like boon companions round a puddle,
and making a riotous noise over their liquor.
I was lonely and listless, and wanted amusement.
My room soon became insupportable. I
abandoned it and sought what is technically called
the traveller's room. This is a public room
set apart at most inns for the accomodation of
a class of wayfarers called travellers or riders;
a kind of commercial knights errant, who are
incessantly scouring the kingdom in gigs, on
horseback, or by coach. They are the only
successors, that I know of at the present day,
to the knights errant of yore. They lead the
same kind of roving adventurous life, only
changing the lance for a whip, the buckler for
a pattern card, and the coat of mail for an
charms of peerless beauty, they rove about
spreading the fame and standing of some substantial
tradesman or manufacturer, and are
ready at any time to bargain in his name; it
being the fashion now-a-days to trade instead of
fight with one another. As the room of the
Hostel, in the good old fighting times, would
be hung round at night with the armour of
way-worn warriors, such as coats of mail, falchions,
and yawning helmets; so the traveller's
room is garnished with the harnessing of their
successors; with box coats, whips of all kinds,
spurs, gaiters, and oil cloth covered hats.
I was in hopes of finding some of these
worthies to talk with, but was disappointed.
There were, indeed, two or three in the
room; but I could make nothing of them. One
was just finishing his breakfast; quarrelling
with his bread and butter, and huffing the
waiter; another buttoned on a pair of gaiters,
with many execrations at “Boots,” for not
having cleaned his shoes well; a third sat
looking at the rain as it streamed down the
window glass: they all appeared infected by
the weather, and disappeared, one after the
other, without exchanging a word.
I sauntered to the window, and stood gazing
at the people picking their way to church, with
petticoats hoisted midleg high and dripping umbrellas.
The bell ceased to toll, and the streets
became silent. I then amused myself with
watching the daughters of a tradesman opposite;
who, being confined to the house, for fear
of wetting their Sunday finery, played off their
charms at the front windows to fascinate the
chance tenants of the inn. They at length
were summoned away by a vigilant vinegar-faced
mother, and I had nothing farther from
without to amuse me.
What was I to do, to pass away the long-lived
day? I was sadly nervous and lonely;
and every thing about an inn seems calculated to
make a dull day ten times dullar. Old newspapers
smelling of beer and tobacco smoke, and
Good for nothing books, that were worse than
the rainy weather. I bored myself to death
with an old volume of the Lady's Magazine.
I read all the common placed names of ambitious
travellers scrawled on the panes of glass:
the eternal families of the Smiths, and the
Browns, and the Jacksons, and the Johnsons,
and all the other sons; and I decyphered several
scraps of fatiguing inn-window poetry that
I have met with in all parts of the world.
The day continued lowering and gloomy;
the slovenly, ragged, spongy clouds drifted
heavily along in the air; there was no variety
even in the rain; it was one dull, continued,
monotonous patter, patter, patter; excepting that
now and then I was enlivened by the idea of a
brisk shower, from the rattling of the drops
upon a passing umbrella. It was quite refreshing
(if I may be allowed a hackneyed phrase
of the day) when in the course of the morning
a horn blew, and a stage coach whirled through
the street, with outside passengers stuck all
seethed together, and reeking with the steams
of wet box coats and upper Benjamins.
The sound brought out from their lurking
places a crew of vagabond boys, and vagabond
dogs, with the carrotty headed hostler and that
non descript animal ycleped Boots, and all the
other vagabond race that infest the purlieus of
an inn; but the bustle was transient; the coach
again whirled on its way; and boy, and dog,
and hostler, and boots, all slunk back again to
their holes; and the street again became silent,
and the rain continued to rain on. In fact there
was no hope of its clearing up; the barometer
pointed to rainy weather; mine hostess' tortoiseshell
cat sat by the fire washing her face and
rubbing her paws over her ears; and on referring
to the almanac, I found a direful prediction
stretching from the top of the page to the
bottom through the whole month, “expect-muchrain-about-this-time.”
I was dreadfully hipped. The hours seemed
as if they would never creep by. The very
ticking of the clock became irksome. At length
ringing of a bell. Shortly after I heard the
voice of a waiter at the bar, “The Stout Gentleman,
in No. 13, wants his breakfast. Tea
and bread and butter, with ham and eggs; the
eggs not to be too much done.”
In such a situation as mine every incident is
of importance. Here was a subject of speculation
presented to my mind, and ample exercise
for my imagination. I am prone to paint
pictures to myself, and on this occasion I had
some materials to work upon. Had the guest
up stairs been mentioned as Mr. Smith, or
Mr. Brown, or Mr. Jackson, or Mr. Johnson;
or merely as the gentleman in No. 13, it would
have been a perfect blank to me. I should have
thought nothing of it. But “the Stout Gentleman!—”
the very name had something in it
of the picturesque. It at once gave the size, it
embodied the personage to my mind's eye, and
my fancy did the rest. “He was stout, or as
some term it, lusty; in all probability therefore
he was advanced in life; some people expanding
late, and in his own room, he must be a man
accustomed to live at his ease, and above the
necessity of early rising; no doubt a round, rosy,
lusty old gentleman.”
There was another violent ringing. The Stout
Gentleman was impatient for his breakfast. He
was evidently a man of importance; “well to
do in the world,” accustomed to be promptly
waited upon, of a keen appetite, and a little cross
when hungry; “perhaps,” thought I, “he may
be some London alderman; or who knows but
he may be a member of parliament?”
The breakfast was sent up, and there was a
short interval of silence; he was doubtless making
the tea. Presently there was a violent ringing,
and before it could be answered, another
ringing still more violent. “Bless me! what a
choleric old gentleman!” The waiter came
down in a huff. The butter was rancid; the
eggs were overdone; the ham was too salt. The
Stout Gentleman was evidently nice in his eating.
One of those who eat and growl, and keep the
with the household.
The hostess got into a fume. I should observe
that she was a brisk, coquettish woman; a
little of a shrew, and something of a slammer-kin,
but very pretty withal; with a nincompoop
for a husband, as shrews are apt to have. She
rated the servants roundly for their negligence
in sending up so bad a breakfast; but said not a
word against the Stout Gentleman; by which I
clearly perceived that he must be a man of consequence;
entitled to make a noise and to give
trouble at a country inn. Other eggs and ham
and bread and butter were sent. They appeared
to be more graciously received; at least there
was no further complaint.
I had not made many turns about the traveller's
room when there was another ringing.
Shortly afterwards there was a stir, and an inquest
about the house. “The Stout Gentleman
wanted the Times, or the Chronicle newspaper.”
I set him down, therefore, for a whig; or rather,
from his being so absolute and lordly where he
Hunt I had heard was a large man; “who
knows,” thought I, “but it is Hunt himself?”
My curiosity began to be awakened. I inquired
of the waiter who was this Stout Gentleman
that was making all this stir; but I could
get no information. Nobody seemed to know
his name. The landlords of bustling inns seldom
trouble their heads about the names of their
transient guests. The colour of a coat, the
shape or size of the person is enough to suggest a
travelling name. It is either the tall gentleman
or the short gentleman; or the gentleman in
black, or the gentleman in snuff colour, or, as in
the present instance, the Stout Gentleman; a designation
of the kind once hit on answers every
purpose, and saves all farther inquiry.
Rain—rain—rain! pitiless, ceaseless rain! no
such thing as putting a foot out of doors, and no
occupation or amusement within. By and bye
I heard some one walking over head. It was in
the Stout Gentleman's room. He evidently was
a large man by the heaviness of his tread; and
rich old square toes, of regular habits, and is now
taking exercise after breakfast.”
I now read all the advertisements of coaches
and hotels that were stuck about the mantle
piece. The Lady's Magazine had become an
abomination to me; it was as tedious as the day
itself. I wandered out, not knowing what to
do, and ascended again to my room. I had not
been there long when there was a squall from a
neighbouring bed room. A door opened and
slammed violently; a chambermaid that I had
remarked for a ruddy good humoured face, went
down stairs in a violent flurry. The Stout Gentleman
had been rude to her.
This sent a whole host of my deductions to
the deuce in a moment. This unknown personage
could not be an old gentleman; for old gentlemen
are not apt to be so obstreperous to chambermaids.
He could not be a young gentleman;
for young gentleman are not apt to inspire
such indignation. He must be a middle aged
the girl would not have taken the matter in such
terrible dudgeon. I confess I was sorely puzzled.
In a few minutes I heard the voice of my
landlady. I caught a glance of her as she came
tramping up stairs, her face glowing, her cap
flaring, her tongue wagging the whole way.
“She'd have no such doings in her house, she'd
warrant. If gentlemen did spend their money
freely it was no rule. She'd have no servant
maids of her's treated in that way, when they
were about their work, that's what she would'nt.”
As I hate squabbles, particularly with women,
and above all with pretty women, I slunk back
into my room and partly closed the door; but
my curiosity was too much excited not to listen.
The landlady marched intrepidly to the enemy's
citadel, and entered it with a storm. The door
closed after her. I heard her voice in high windy
clamour for a moment or two. Then it gradually
subsided, like a gust of wind in a garret.
Then there was a laugh; then I heard nothing
more. After a little while my landlady came
cap, which was a little on one side. As she went
down stairs I heard the landlord ask her what
was the matter; she said, “nothing at all—
only the girl's a fool.” I was more than ever
perplexed what to make of this unaccountable
personage, who could put a good-natured chambermaid
in a passion, and send away a termagant
landlady in smiles. He could not be so
old, nor cross, nor ugly either.
I had to go to work at his picture again and
to paint him entirely different. I now set him
down for one of those Stout Gentlemen that are
frequently met with swaggering about the doors
of country inns. Moist, merry fellows, in Belcher
handkerchiefs; whose bulk is a little assisted
by malt liquors. Men who have seen the world
and been sworn at Highgate. Who are used
to tavern life; up to all the tricks of tapsters,
and knowing in the ways of sinful publicans.
Free livers on a small scale; who are prodigal
within the compass of a guinea; who call all the
waiters by name; tousle the maids; gossip with
port or a glass of negus after dinner.
The morning wore away in forming these and
similar surmises. As fast as I wove one system
of belief, some movement of the unknown would
completely overturn it, and throw all my thoughts
again into confusion. Such are the solitary operations
of a feverish mind. I was, as I have
said, extremely nervous, and the continual meditation
on the concerns of this invisible personage
began to have its effect—I was getting a fit of
the fidgets.
Dinner time came. I hoped the Stout Gentleman
might dine in the traveller's room, and that
I might at length get a view of his person; but
no—he had dinner served in his own room.
What could be the meaning of this solitude and
mystery? He could not be a radical; there
was something too aristocratical in thus keeping
himself apart from the rest of the world, and
condemning himself to his own dull company
throughout a rainy day. And then, too, he lived
too well for a discontented politician. He seemed
over his wine like a jolly friend of good living.
Indeed, my doubts on this head were soon at
an end; for he could not have finished his first
bottle before I could faintly hear him humming
a tune; and on listening I found it to be “God
save the King.” 'Twas plain then he was no
radical, but a faithful subject; one that grew
loyal over his bottle, and was ready to stand by
king and constitution when he could stand by
nothing else. But who could he be!—my
conjectures began to run wild—was he not some
personage of distinction travelling incog?—
“God knows!” said I, at my wit's end, “it
may be one of the royal family for aught I
know, for they are all Stout Gentlemen!”
The weather continued rainy. The mysterious
unknown kept his room, and as far as I could
judge, his chair; for I did not hear him move.
In the mean time, as the day advanced, the traveller's
room began to be frequented. Some
who had just arrived came in buttoned up in
box coats; others came home who had been
and some their tea. Had I been in a different
mood, I should have found entertainment
in studying this peculiar class of men. There
were two, especially, who were regular wags of
the road, and up to all the standing jokes of travellers.
They had a thousand sly things to say
to the waiting maid, whom they called Louisa,
and Ethelinda, and a dozen other fine names;
changing the name every time, and chuckling
amazingly at their own waggery. My mind,
however, had become completely engrossed by
the Stout Gentleman. He had kept my fancy in
chance during a long day, and it was not now to
be diverted from the scent.
The evening gradually wore away. The
travellers read the papers two or three times over.
Some drew round the fire, and told long stories
about their horses; about their adventures; their
overturns and breakings down. They discussed
the credits of different merchants and different
inns, and the two wags told several choice anecdotes
of pretty chambermaids and kind landladies.
they called their “night caps,” that is to say,
strong glasses of brandy and water with sugar; or
some other mixture of the kind; after which they
one after another rang for “Boots” and the chambermaid,
and walked up to bed in old shoes, cut
down into marvellously uncomfortable slippers.
There was only one man left; a short legged,
long-bodied plethoric fellow with a very large
sandy head. He sat by himself with a glass of
port wine negus, and a spoon; sipping and stirring
until nothing was left but the spoon. He
gradually fell asleep, bolt upright in his chair,
with the empty glass standing before him; and
the candle seemed to fall asleep too, for the wick
grew long, and black, and cabbaged at the end,
and dimmed the little light that remained in the
chamber.
The gloom that now prevailed was contagious.
Around hung the shapeless and almost
spectral box coats of departed travellers, long
since buried in deep sleep. I only heard the
ticking of the clock, with the deep-drawn breathings
the rain, drop-drop-drop, from the eaves of the
house.
The church bells chimed midnight.—All at
once the Stout Gentleman began to walk over
head, pacing slowly backwards and forwards.
There was something extremely awful in all this
—especially to one in my state of nerves. These
ghastly great coats; these guttural breathings; and
the creaking footsteps of this mysterious being.
His steps grew fainter and fainter; and at length
died away. I could bear it no longer. I was
wound up to the desperation of a hero of romance.
“Be he who or what he may,” said I
to myself, “I'll have a sight of him!” I seized
a chamber candle and hurried up to No. 13.
The door stood ajar. I hesitated—I entered—the
room was deserted. There stood a large broad
bottomed elbow chair at a table, on which was
an empty tumbler, and a “Times” newspaper,
and the room smelt powerfully of Stilton
cheese.
The mysterious stranger had evidently but
just retired. I turned off to my room sorely disappointed.
a large pair of boots with dirty waxed tops
standing at the door of a bed chamber. They
doubtless belonged to the unknown; but it would
not do to disturb so redoubtable a personage in
his den; he might discharge a pistol or something
worse at my head. I went to bed, therefore,
and lay awake half the night in a terribly
nervous state; and even when I fell asleep I was
still haunted in my dreams by the idea of the
stout gentleman and his wax-topped boots.
I slept rather late the next morning; and was
awakened by some stir and bustle in the house,
which I could not at first comprehend; until
getting more awake, I found there was a mail
coach starting from the door. Suddenly there
was a cry from below:
“The gentleman has forgot his umbrella!
look for the gentleman's umbrella in No. 13.”
I heard an immediate scampering of a chambermaid
along the passage, and a shrill reply,
as she ran, “here it is! here's the gentleman's
umbrella!”
The mysterious stranger then was on the
point of setting off. This was the only chance
I should ever have of knowing him. I sprang
out of bed; scrambled to the window; snatched
aside the curtains, and just caught a glimpse of
the rear of a person getting in at the coach door.
The skirts of a brown coat parted behind, and
gave me a full view of the broad disk of a pair
of drab breeches. The door closed; “All right,”
was the word; the coach whirled off—and that
was all I ever saw of the Stout Gentleman!
| THE STOUT GENTLEMAN,
A TALE OF MYSTERY. Bracebridge Hall, or, The humorists | |