A Mysterious Lodger

In September, 1852, I occupied a room in a two story frame building on Stockton Street. In the hose were perhaps half a dozen lodgers—possibly more. As I seldom visited my room during the day, and invariably retired at twelve o’clock, I rarely met any of my neighbors—or, if I did, it was without my knowing them. With two of my fellow lodgers I became partially acquainted. One was a middle-aged man, occupying a room adjoining mine, and divided from it by a thin partition. Against that thin boundary stood our beds—the middle-aged gentleman’s and mine—not to exceed three inches apart. The middle-aged man gentle-man was weeded to the habit of snoring. And his was a peculiar snore; not a periodical murmur, accompanying every fourth or fifth respiration, but a terrific an uninterrupted combination of snorts, groans, and snuffles, with the addition of teeth grinding, and occasional plunges of the extremities against the creaking headboard. For a week I bore up against the clatter. At length, one night, I knocked at his door. I was desperate. He rose, struck to light, and for the first time we met face to face. I had prepared myself to judge him with sarcasm—to abuse him with billingsgate—to sink him with abuse. His face was so round and jovial, and his head so entirely destitute of hair, that I could not summon courage to utter a harsh word. For a moment we peered silently into each other’s faces.

“Can I do anything for you?” I inquired.

Smith, for that was his name, must have read my thoughts—must have known that he snored—must have been aware of the object of my visit—for he immediately replied:

“Yes, my friend, join me in a glass of brandy and water—I have a few drops of something genuine. Permit me to insist,” he continued, observing my hesitation, “you will sleep all the better for it,” and he gave me a look welling over with commiseration.

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