The Confessions of Harry Lorrequer — CompleteLever, Charles
General
The Confessions of Harry Lorrequer — Complete
Lever, Charles
Fiction
“Well now,” thought I, “as he will scarcely venture up here again, and
as I may, by leaving this, be only incurring the risk of encountering
him, my best plan is to stay where I am if it be possible.” With this
intent I proceeded to explore the apartment, which from its perfect
stillness, I concluded to be unoccupied. After some few minutes groping
I reached a low bed, fortunately empty, and although the touch of the
bed-clothes led to no very favourable augury of its neatness or
elegance, there was little choice at this moment, so I rolled myself up
in my recent booty, and resolved to wait patiently for day-break to
regain my apartment.
As always happens in such circumstances, sleep came on me unawares—so
at least every one’s experience I am sure can testify, that if you are
forced to awake early to start by some morning coach, and that
unfortunately you have not got to bed till late at night, the chances
are ten to one, that you get no sleep whatever, simply because you are
desirous for it; but make up your mind ever so resolutely, that you’ll
not sleep, and whether your determination be built on motives of
propriety, duty, convenience, or health, and the chances are just as
strong that you are sound and snoring before ten minutes.
How many a man has found it impossible, with every effort of his heart
and brain aiding his good wishes, to sit with unclosed eyes and ears
through a dull sermon in the dog-days; how many an expectant, longing
heir has yielded to the drowsy influence when endeavouring to look
contrite under the severe correction of a lecture on extravagance from
his uncle. Who has not felt the irresistible tendency to “drop off” in
the half hour before dinner at a stupid country-house? I need not
catalogue the thousand other situations in life infinitely more
“sleep-compelling” than Morphine; for myself, my pleasantest and
soundest moments of perfect forgetfulness of this dreary world and all
its cares, have been taken in an oaken bench, seated bolt upright and
vis a vis to a lecturer on botany, whose calming accents, united with
the softened light of an autumnal day, piercing its difficult rays
through the narrow and cobwebbed windows, the odour of the recent
plants and flowers aiding and abetting, all combined to steep the soul
in sleep, and you sank by imperceptible and gradual steps into that
state of easy slumber, in which “come no dreams,” and the last sounds
of the lecturer’s “hypogenous and perigenous” died away, becoming
beautifully less, till your senses sank into rest, the syllables
“rigging us, rigging us,” seemed to melt away in the distance and fade
from your memory—Peace be with you, Doctor A. If I owe gratitude any
where I have my debt with you. The very memory I bear of you has saved
me no inconsiderable sum in hop and henbane. Without any assistance
from the sciences on the present occasion, I was soon asleep, and woke
not till the cracking of whips, and trampling of horses’ feet on the
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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