The Confessions of Harry Lorrequer — CompleteLever, Charles
General
The Confessions of Harry Lorrequer — Complete
Lever, Charles
Fiction
While I yet hesitated, the problem resolved itself; for, gazing down
upon the bright gravel, brilliantly lighted by the surrounding lamps, I
lost my balance, and came tumbling and rolling from top to bottom,
where I fell upon a large mass of some soft substance, to which, in all
probability, I owe my life. In a few seconds I recovered my senses, and
what was my surprise to find that the downy cushion beneath, snored
most audibly! I moved a little to one side, and then discovered that in
reality it was nothing less than an alderman of Cork, who, from his
position, I concluded had shared the same fate with myself; there he
lay, “like a warrior taking his rest,” but not with his “martial cloak
around him,” but a much more comfortable and far more costly robe—a
scarlet gown of office—with huge velvet cuffs and a great cape of the
same material. True courage consists in presence of mind; and here mine
came to my aid at once: recollecting the loss I had just sustained, and
perceiving that all was still about me, with that right Peninsular
maxim, that reprisals are fair in an enemy’s camp, I proceeded to strip
the slain; and with some little difficulty—partly, indeed, owing to my
unsteadiness on my legs—I succeeded in denuding the worthy alderman,
who gave no other sign of life during the operation than an abortive
effort to “hip, hip, hurra,” in which I left him, having put on the
spoil, and set out on my way to the barrack with as much dignity of
manner as I could assume in honour of my costume. And here I may
mention (en parenthese) that a more comfortable morning gown no man
ever possessed, and in its wide luxuriant folds I revel, while I write
these lines.
When I awoke on the following day I had considerable difficulty in
tracing the events of the past evening. The great scarlet cloak,
however, unravelled much of the mystery, and gradually the whole of my
career became clear before me, with the single exception of the episode
of Phil Beamish, about which my memory was subsequently refreshed—but I
anticipate. Only five appeared that day at mess; and, Lord! What
spectres they were!—yellow as guineas; they called for soda water
without ceasing, and scarcely spoke a word to each other. It was plain
that the corporation of Cork was committing more havoc among us than
Corunna or Waterloo, and that if we did not change our quarters, there
would be quick promotion in the corps for such as were “seasoned
gentlemen.” After a day or two we met again together, and then what
adventures were told—each man had his own story to narrate; and from
the occurrences detailed, one would have supposed years had been
passing, instead of the short hours of an evening party. Mine were
indeed among the least remarkable; but I confess that the air of
vraisemblance produced by my production of the aldermanic gown gave me
the palm above all competitors.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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