The Confessions of Harry Lorrequer — CompleteLever, Charles
General
The Confessions of Harry Lorrequer — Complete
Lever, Charles
Fiction
Such a frightful and unnatural state of things, can hardly be
conceived; and yet, shocking as it was, it was a relief to that which
led to it. I have dwelt, perhaps too long upon this painful subject;
but let my reader now accompany me a little farther, and the scene
shall be changed. Does he see that long, low, white house, with a tall,
steep roof, perforated with innumerable narrow windows. There are a few
straggling beech trees, upon a low, bleak-looking field before the
house, which is called, par excellence, the lawn; a pig or two, some
geese, and a tethered goat are, here and there musing over the state of
Ireland, while some rosy curly-headed noisy and bare-legged urchins are
gamboling before the door. This is the dwelling of the worshipful
justice, to which myself and my party were now approaching, with that
degree of activity which attends on most marches of twenty miles, under
the oppressive closeness of a day in autumn. Fatigued and tired as I
was, yet I could not enter the little enclosure before the house,
without stopping for a moment to admire the view before me. A large
tract of rich country, undulating on every side, and teeming with corn
fields, in all the yellow gold of ripeness; here and there, almost hid
by small clumps of ash and alder, were scattered some cottages, from
which the blue smoke rose in a curling column into the calm evening’s
sky. All was graceful, and beautifully tranquil; and you might have
selected the picture as emblematic of that happiness and repose we so
constantly associate with our ideas of the country; and yet, before
that sun had even set, which now gilded the landscape, its glories
would be replaced by the lurid glare of nightly incendiarism, and—but
here, fortunately for my reader, and perhaps myself, I am interrupted
in my meditations by a rich, mellifluous accent saying, in the true
Doric of the south—
“Mr. Loorequer! you’re welcome to Curryglass, sir. You’ve had a hot day
for your march. Maybe you’d take a taste of sherry before dinner? Well
then, we’ll not wait for Molowny, but order it up at once.”
So saying, I was ushered into a long, low drawing-room, in which were
collected together about a dozen men, to whom I was specially and
severally presented, and among whom I was happy to find my
boarding-house acquaintance, Mr. Daly, who, with the others, had
arrived that same day, for the assizes, and who were all members of the
legal profession, either barristers, attorneys, or clerks of the peace.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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