A stranger at Salisbury reads about a convicted robber in the paper and explodes with contempt, calling him a scoundrel and a lady-killer who deserves worse than hanging. Moments later, in an inn, a Gipsy woman remembers the very same man with nothing but affection. To her, he’s a real gentleman — the kind who quietly paid his share when Carrie had a baby, who would have given more, who hugged her son as if he were his own. The poem just places these two voices side by side, without nudging you toward one. The mood is wry and unsettling. You feel the raw gap between public disgrace and private decency, and it gently prods at the simple ways we label a person. The woman’s grateful, everyday tone — “Nicer man never trod” — hangs in the air, making the stranger’s easy fury seem too narrow. It doesn’t excuse the crimes; it just quietly reminds you that people are never only one thing.
A Gentleman — Summary
"HE has robbed two clubs. The judge at Salisbury Can't give him more than he undoubtedly Deserves. The scoundrel! Look at his photograph! A lady-killer! Hanging's too good by half For such as he." So said the stranger, one With crimes yet undiscovered or undone. But at the inn the Gipsy dame began: "Now he was what I call a gentleman. He went along with Carrie, and when she Had a baby he paid up so readily His half a crown. Just like him. A crown'd have been More like him. For I never knew him mean. Oh! but he was such a nice gentleman. Oh! Last time we met he said if me and Joe Was anywhere near we must be sure and call. He put his arms around our Amos all As if he were his own son. I pray God Save him from justice! Nicer man never trod."