3/2/25
I've been reading "Bracebridge Hall" by Washington Irving, and for the second time I ran across the chapter entitled "The Stout Gentleman." This story struck me as deeply familiar the first time I encountered it some years ago. So much so, I could almost swear I had written it as Mathew Franklin Whittier. I didn't suspect Irving of plagiarism, and besides, it was published when Mathew was a boy of nine years old. But it certainly could have had a profound influence on him. What I seem to be remembering, viscerally, is how deeply Mathew admired that story.

In fact, right off the bat I can think of three of Mathew's works which seemingly draw some elements from it. That being said, as I sit here this morning, I can't think of any of the more than 3,000 of Mathew's works which employ the primary plot device of trying to figure out who someone is, based on clues. Such a direct borrowing would have required some tip-of-the-hat to that author.

The theme of "The Stout Gentleman," in case you're not familiar with it (and I highly recommend reading it), is that a traveler finds himself stuck indoors at an inn, on a dismal, rainy day, with nothing to do. He has read all the magazines, there is no-one to talk to, and he is bouncing off the walls with boredom. Suddenly, he hears--but does not see--the arrival of a new guest, who is conveniently referred to by the inn staff as "the stout gentleman." The narrator's mind goes into detective-mode hyperdrive. Gradually, through inductive reasoning, he forms a picture of the guest, refining it with each new piece of information.

This, effectively, is Sherlock Holmes logic, except that there has been no murder. Both the graphic depiction of the protagonist's boredom, and the detective logic, are nothing short of brilliant. Likely, it is somewhat autobiographical, since Irving had been recently traveling about England with his publisher, John Murray, at the time. Mathew also wrote from real life, for the same reason--such fiction tends to have a power and depth that purely imaginary works can't touch.

I thought I'd share some of Mathew's pieces which I think may owe a debt to "The Stout Gentleman." First up is an anecdote (no doubt from life) from the travelogue signed "Quails" in the Boston "Weekly Museum." Irving sets up "The Stout Gentleman" by couching it as a tale told by an unlikely fellow in a group at an inn, where each is being asked to tell a tale. The last man in the circle seems like the last person who would be able to tell an entertaining yarn, but his turns out to be the best.

Now, this premise may have been a cliché, for all I know. But Mathew, writing as "Quails" in the Jan. 11, 1851 edition, does the same. He is riding in a carriage, and each passenger is expected, in turn, to tell a story. The last one hardly seems the type to succeed; but he unexpectedly rises to the occasion, and his story beats all the others! I found a variation of this same tall-tale (concerning a hunter who kills an absurd number of animals with a single shot) in the "Bert and I" New-England humor series, so it was probably part of folklore even in Mathew's day. Here's the relevant introduction:

The passion for story-telling among the passengers having now become a mania, however, every man was expected to do his best in the way of relating wonderful exploits, hair breadth escapes, and the greatest amount of game ever known to be secured from one shot.

After a number of the above Munchausen sketches had been given, and heartily laughed over, friend F. proposed that we should now be favored with a story from the gentleman with the white hair and eye-brows, and the request was no sooner made than the three lumbermen on the middle seat exclaimed in one voice--

"Certainly--by all means! Whitehead, give us a story."

We whispered to friend F. not to insist upon a story from the gentleman in white, for if he attempted to entertain us he would probably spin out a long yarn with neither head nor tail to it, and would therefore be occupying time, which could be turned to a better advantage, by either of the other passengers.

"I do n't agree with you," whispered F. "I have been watching the fellow during the last half hour, and have noticed that although he in no instance, has laughed aloud, still there has been at times, a shrewd, devil-may-care twinkle, about his eyes, which, together with a few other demonstrations that I have noticed, leads me to think that he is not only a man of experience, wit and great conversation powers, but one possessing considerable originality and a well-cultivated and polished mind."

"Very well, then," we replied, "go ahead and see if your predilections prove true; but if you do n't get disappointed in your man, we'll pay the pea-nuts."

After much persuasion from all present--for even the Cockney was anxious to hear what the "still passenger" could say for himself--our friend in white, after stretching out his long legs and rubbing his bony fingers together, turned down the coon-collar to his wolf-skin overcoat and commenced thus:--

I can think of at least three of Mathew's stories where the introduction is set in a public inn, though that in itself may have been fairly common. This one comes from a novel plagiarized and published by Francis A. Durivage, in "Ballou's Pictorial," entitled "Steel and Gold: Or, The Heir of Glenville." Since it's a bit much to type, I'll give you the first page, here.

Finally, there is an essay in which Mathew writes about insomnia during a storm, in Portland, Maine. There is some question about this pseudonym, "Juniper"--with clear evidence pro and con, I finally concluded that some other writer attempted to usurp it, such that some of the pieces are Mathew's, but some are the work of this other author (the only instance in which I made that determination). The following, however, would definitely have been Mathew's:

November--darkest and dreariest of all the months in the year! Here again--and before my spirits have yet fully shaken off the gloomy influences of thy past visit!--November, in which the weather seems trying all its unpleasant phases to find which is worst, and settling on the most disagreeable at last! November, in which "the people of England hang and drown themselves!" No wonder! though, for myself, as a mere matter of taste, I prefer leaving this world at some season when I am on better terms with it than at this gloomy period. I would not like to die in "night and storm and darkness." If I have brought no sunshine into the world, I desire to leave some in it when I should go out.

A stormy night in November! Could a drearier picture be painted in so few words? It rains, oh, how it rains! A watering-pot is nothing in comparison.

I love a pleasant, earnest, sociable shower, when the big drops come down with a merry tinkle, dancing on the roof like the fall of myriads of tiny feet, and keeping up a low, sweet conversation with the listening leaves and spires of grass, while they nod a joyful assent to every encouraging whisper. Such showers are almost more pleasant and loveable than sunshine.

But this is not a hearty, earnest, good-natured, refreshing rain. It is a sullen, complaining, unsocial storm. The heavy drops beat against the windows with an angry, spiteful emphasis, and the wind has a weird-like unhappy moan, which sends a prickly shudder thrilling all through me--a feeling as though some ghostly influence is abroad--some ungentle presence near me.

TEN O'CLOCK. Every thing is dull and dismal, and oppressively unnatural. The very shadows on the wall seem to assume more fantastic shapes, and to distort themselves more grotesquely than ever. The fire burns sullenly, with an occasional discontented crack.

I am alone; at least, I have no visible companions. If there are unseen visitants here, I wish they would make their presence known to me.

The shutters rattle and creak, and the bare branches of the great tree by my window writhe and groan in the strong wind. The rain comes down fitfully--now plashing in whirling torrents, and anon sobbing itself away into an uneasy hush.

I am sitting close by the window, from which I have pushed aside the curtain; and as I press my face against the glass, and try to penetrate the thick darkness with aching eyes, I fancy that I see strange shapes and evil faces peering at me through the black night, and almost shrink back in superstitious awe, as a leafless branch of the old elm comes sweeping like a skeleton hand across the window.

But this is all nervousness--or would be, but that I have no nerves. As it is, I call these uneasy fancies only the natural effect of a November night storm on a heart and imagination which have been left too much "to their own destruction."

But I will move away from the window; for the wind sifts in around the sash, and sways the flame of my lamp, making its light unsteady and blue and wavering.

Again, none of these examples are close enough to "The Stout Gentleman" that I would classify them as plagiarism, per se. They suggest, to me, both admiration and influence, the way a tennis player might, for example, incorporate an element of Roger Federer's serve into his game. As for my deep subjective feeling of excited recognition when I read Irving's story, there's no way I can convey it to you, or prove it to you.

There is one more consideration. If we were behind the scenes with Washington Irving, on this journey with his publisher, we might find that this particular day found Irving not so much bored, as struggling with writer's block. What Irving did, then, was to turn his very writer's block into the subject of his essay. Mathew did this two or three times, that I can think of. Here's one example:

Mr. Editor:--Did you ever try to draw up ideas from the profound abyss of nothing? or speak when you had nothing to say? If you have, you can sympathize with me in this attempt to send you something for your weekly collection of rarities. I have heard of a great many impossible things; such as a man's lifting himself, or biting off his own nose; but of all the impossibilities ever dreamed of, there are none so far beyond the reach of accomplishment, as to make a good, readable, interesting, entertaining article out of nothing. Although it has been said this material world, with all its variety of rocks and water, fields and flowers, was created from nothing, let a man sit down, with his pen, ink and paper before him, and try to write a communication to a friend, and find, after studying an hour, that he has nothing to say, I should not wonder if he had some very serious doubts of the origin of matter.

I have been beating about for a week to find some rare specimen of country curiosities for the Carpet-Bag, and at last have found--Nothing. Did your readers ever see it? A famous painter once asked his pupil, who sat gazing very intently, with his head elevated, at the window, "What do you see?" "Nothing, sir," was the reply. Every body has seen it,--sometimes we hear Nothing, or feel, or smell it. It seems discernable by the eye and palpable to the touch, but yet nobody can describe it. It seems to be a sort of ubiquitous nonentity, everywhere present but remaining nowhere. We sometimes see it by daylight, but, like ghosts and fairies, it is more often seen in the dark. I said Nobody can describe it; and he is the only gentleman who can do it. Nobody and Nothing are sort of Siamese twins; they are always together, and there is no telling the mischief they do in the world. The ancient Jews had a goat, on whose heda the high priest laid his hands, and, confessing all the sins of the people, sent him into the wilderness, with the burden of Israel's sins on his head, that he might bear them to a land without inhabitants. But the Gentiles cannot afford to lose the goat, so they lay all their sins upon Mr. Nobody, who carries them nowhere. How would the little roguish urchins in our common schools get along without this impalpable something, that we call nothing, and Mr. Nobody to assist them? "John," inquires the teacher, "what are you doing there?" "Nothing." "What are you chewing, George?" "Nothing." "Well, who laid this ball of mud in my chair?" "Nobody." Nothing is as handy as a jack-knife, and Nobody is always a "friend in need," and he is the most accomplished juggler in the world. Your surprising stories of Eastern jugglers fade into insignificant affairs compared with his. I have known him to turn over a load of hay in a dark night, and on a smooth road, and it was so adroitly done that the unlucky bumpkin who was driving could not believe that Nobody did it. And he has been known to take a horse-wagon and hang it in a tree top--and thousands of tricks of this kind have been ascribed to him, real feats of strength, cunning or agility. Many of them, to be sure, were not in themselves surprising, but the great mystery is, how Nobody could perform them.

Having commenced with nothing, and got down to nobody, I think it is time to close, barely premising that in my next I will tell you a story about one Miss Nobody, who proved to be somebody.

Best regards,

Stephen Sakellarios, M.S.

P.S. Talk about absurdities, an original copy of "The Three Brides, Love in a Cottage, and Other Tales," which is a compilation of stories by Mathew Franklin Whittier plagiarized by Francis A. Durivage, is for sale on Ebay. It's not in great condition, and it's from 1856 rather than the original 1852 printing. However, it contains "The New Year's Bells," which was Mathew and Abby's starting template, originally written by them in collaboration, in the early 1830's, for "A Christmas Carol." It's being sold for a little under $10. How sad--and how ridiculous! Do you have any idea of what this book will be worth, 50 or 100 years from now? (I have two 1852 editions in good condition, so I don't need a third.)