A NIGHT AT HOWTH.
“And must you really leave us so soon,” said Tom as we issued forth
into the street; “why I was just planning a whole week’s adventure for
you. Town is so full of all kinds of idle people, I think I could
manage to make your time pass pleasantly enough.”
“Of that,” I replied, “I have little doubt; but for the reasons I have
just mentioned, it is absolutely necessary that I should not lose a
moment; and after arranging a few things here, I shall start to-morrow
by the earliest packet, and hasten up to London at once.”
“By Jupiter,” said Tom, “how lucky. I just remember something, which
comes admirably apropos. You are going to Paris—is it not so?”
“Yes, direct to Paris.”
“Nothing could be better. There is a particularly nice person, a great
friend of mine, Mrs. Bingham, waiting for several days in hopes of a
chaperon to take care of herself and daughter—a lovely girl, only
nineteen, you wretch—to London, en route to the continent: the mamma a
delightful woman, and a widow, with a very satisfactory jointure—you
understand—but the daughter, a regular downright beauty, and a ward in
chancery, with how many thousand pounds I am afraid to trust myself to
say. You must know then they are the Binghams of—, upon my soul, I
forget where; but highly respectable.”
“I regret I have not the pleasure of their acquaintance, and the more
because I shall not be able to make it now.”
“As why?” said Tom gravely.
“Because, in the first place, I am so confoundedly pressed for time
that I could not possibly delay under any contingency that might arise;
and your fair friends are, doubtless, not so eagerly determined upon
travelling night and day till they reach Paris. Secondly, to speak
candidly, with my present hopes and fears weighing upon my mind, I
should not be the most agreeable travelling companion to two ladies
with such pretensions as you speak of; and thirdly,—”
“Confound your thirdly. I suppose we shall have sixteenthly, like a
Presbyterian minister’s sermon, if I let you go on. Why, they’ll not
delay you one hour. Mrs. Bingham, man, cares as little for the road as
yourself; and as for your petits soins, I suppose if you get the fair
ladies through the Custom-House, and see them safe in a London hotel,
it is all will be required at your hands.”
“Notwithstanding all you say, I see the downright impossibility of my
taking such a charge at this moment, when my own affairs require all
the little attention I can bestow; and when, were I once involved with
your fair friends, it might be completely out of my power to prosecute
my own plans.”
As I said this, we reached the door of a handsome looking house in
Kildare-street; upon which Tom left my arm, and informing me that he
desired to drop a card, knocked loudly.
“Is Mrs. Bingham at home,” said he, as the servant opened the door.
“No sir, she’s out in the carriage.”
“Well, you see Harry, your ill luck befriends you; for I was resolved
on presenting you to my friends and leaving the rest to its merits.”
“I can safely assure you that I should not have gone up stairs,” said
I. “Little as I know of myself, there is one point of my character I
have never been deceived in, the fatal facility by which every new
incident or adventure can turn me from following up my best matured and
longest digested plans; and as I feel this weakness and cannot correct
it; the next best thing I can do is fly the causes.”
“Upon my soul,” said Tom, “you have become quite a philosopher since we
met. There is an old adage which says, ‘no king is ever thoroughly
gracious if he has not passed a year or two in dethronement;’ so I
believe your regular lady-killer—yourself for instance—becomes a very
quiet animal for being occasionally jilted. But now, as you have some
commissions to do, pray get done with them as fast as possible, and let
us meet at dinner. Where do you dine to-day?”
“Why, upon that point, I am at your service completely.”
“Well, then, I have got a plan which I think will suit you. You said
you wished to go by Holyhead, for fear of delay; so, we’ll drive down
at six o’clock to Skinner’s and dine with him on board the packet at
Howth. Bring your luggage with you, and it will save you a vast deal of
fuss and trouble in the morning.”
Nothing could be better management for me than this, so I accordingly
promised acquiescence; and having appointed a rendezvous for six
o’clock, bade O’Flaherty good by, inwardly rejoicing that my plans were
so far forwarded, and that I was not to be embarrassed with either Mrs.
Bingham or her daughter, for whose acquaintance or society I had no
peculiar ambition.
My commissions, though not very numerous, occupied the few hours which
remained, and it was already a few minutes past six o’clock when I took
my stand under the piazza of the Post Office to wait for O’Flaherty. I
had not long to do so, for immediately after I had reached the spot, he
arrived in an open barouche and four posters, with three other young
men, to whom he severally introduced me, but whose names I have totally
forgotten; I only remember that two of the party were military men then
quartered in town.
When I had taken my seat, I could not help whispering to Tom, that
although his friend Skinner might be “bon” for a visitation or two at
his dinner, yet as we were now so strong a party, it might be as well
to dine at the hotel.
“Oh,” said he, “I have arranged all that; I have sent him a special
messenger two hours since, and so make your mind easy—we shall not be
disappointed, nor be short-taken.”
Our drive, although a long one, passed quickly over, and before we had
reached our destination, I had become tolerably intimate with all the
party, who were evidently picked men, selected by O’Flaherty for a
pleasant evening.
We drove along the pier to the wharf, where the steamer lay, and were
received at once by Tom’s friend with all the warm welcome and
hospitality of a sailor, united with the address and polish of a very
finished gentleman. As we descended the companion-ladder to the cabin,
my mind became speedily divested of any fears I might have indulged in,
as to the want of preparation of our entertainer. The table was covered
with all the appanage of handsome plate and cut glass, while the
side-tables glittered with a magnificent dessert, and two large
wine-coolers presented an array of champagne necks shining with their
leaden cravats that would have tempted an anchorite.
I remember very little else of that evening than the coup d’oeil I have
mentioned; besides, were my memory more retentive, I might scruple to
trespass farther on my reader’s patience, by the detail of those
pleasures, which, like love-letters, however agreeable to the parties
immediately concerned, are very unedifying to all others. I do
remember, certainly, that good stories and capital songs succeeded each
other with a rapidity only to be equalled by the popping of corks; and
have also a very vague and indistinct recollection of a dance round the
table, evidently to finish a chorus, but which, it appears, finished me
too, for I saw no more that night.
How many men have commemorated the waking sensations of their
fellow-men, after a night’s debauch; yet at the same time, I am not
aware of any one having perfectly conveyed even a passing likeness to
the mingled throng of sensations which crowd one’s brain on such an
occasion. The doubt of what has passed, by degrees yielding to the
half-consciousness of the truth, the feeling of shame, inseparable
except to the habitually hard-goer, for the events thus dimly pictured,
the racking headache and intense thirst, with the horror of the
potation recently indulged in: the recurring sense of the fun or
drollery of a story or an incident which provokes us again to laugh
despite the jarring of our brain from the shaking. All this and more
most men have felt, and happy are they when their waking thoughts are
limited to such, at such times as these—the matter becomes considerably
worse, when the following morning calls for some considerable exertion,
for which even in your best and calmest moments, you only find yourself
equal.
It is truly unpleasant, on rubbing your eyes and opening your ears, to
discover that the great bell is ringing the half-hour before your
quarterly examination at college, while Locke, Lloyd, and Lucian are
dancing a reel through your brain, little short of madness; scarcely
less agreeable is it, to learn that your friend Captain Wildfire is at
the door in his cab, to accompany you to the Phœnix, to stand within
twelve paces of a cool gentleman who has been sitting with his arm in
Eau de Cologne for the last half-hour, that he may pick you out
“artist-like.” There are, besides these, innumerable situations in
which our preparations of the night would appear, as none of the
wisest; but I prefer going at once to my own, which, although
considerably inferior in difficulty, was not without its own
“desagremens.”
When I awoke, therefore, on board the “Fire-fly,” the morning after our
dinner-party, I was perfectly unable, by any mental process within my
reach, to discover where I was. On ship-board I felt I must be—the
narrow berth—the gilded and panelled cabin which met my eye, through my
half-open curtains, and that peculiar swelling motion inseparable from
a vessel in the water, all satisfied me of this fact. I looked about
me, but could see no one to give me the least idea of my position.
Could it be that we were on our way out to Corfu, and that I had been
ill for some time past?
But this cabin had little resemblance to a transport; perhaps it might
be a frigate—I knew not. Then again, were we sailing, or at anchor, for
the ship was nearly motionless; at this instant a tremendous noise like
thunder crashed through my head, and for a moment I expected we had
exploded, and would be all blown up; but an instant after I discovered
it must be the escape of the steam, and that I was on board a packet
ship. Here, then, was some clue to my situation, and one which would
probably have elicited all in due season; but just at this moment a
voice on deck saved me from any further calculations. Two persons were
conversing whose voices were not altogether unknown to me, but why I
knew not.
“Then, Captain, I suppose you consider this as an excellent passage.”
“Yes, of course I do,” replied the captain, “it’s only five hours since
we left Howth, and now you see we are nearly in; if we have this run of
the tide we shall reach the Head before twelve o’clock.”
“Ha! ha!” said I to myself, “now I begin to learn something. So we have
crossed the channel while I was sleeping—not the least agreeable thing
for a man to hear who suffers martyrdom from sea sickness—but let me
listen again.”
“And that large mountain there—is that Snowdon?”
“No. You cannot see Snowdon; there is too much mist about it; that
mountain is Capel Carrig; and there that bold bluff to the eastward,
that is Penmen Mawr.”
“Come, there is no time to be lost,” thought I; so springing out of my
berth, accoutred as I was, in merely trowsers and slippers, with a red
handkerchief fastened night-cap fashion round my head, I took my way
through the cabin.
My first thought on getting upon my legs was how tremendously the
vessel pitched, which I had not remarked while in my berth, but now I
could scarce keep myself from falling at every step. I was just about
to call the steward, when I again heard the voices on deck.
“You have but few passengers this trip.”
“I think only yourself and a Captain Lorrequer,” replied the captain,
“who, by-the-by, is losing all this fine coast, which is certainly a
great pity.”
“He shall not do so much longer,” thought I; “for as I find that there
are no other passengers, I’ll make my toilet on deck, and enjoy the
view besides.” With this determination I ascended slowly and cautiously
the companion ladder, and stepped out upon the deck; but scarcely had I
done so, when a roar of the loudest laughter made me turn my head
towards the poop, and there to my horror of horrors, I beheld Tom
O’Flaherty seated between two ladies, whose most vociferous mirth I
soon perceived was elicited at my expense.
All the party of the preceding night were also there, and as I turned
from their grinning faces to the land, I saw, to my shame and
confusion, that we were still lying beside the pier at Howth; while the
band-boxes, trunks, and imperials of new arrivals were incessantly
pouring in, as travelling carriages kept driving up to the place of
embarkation. I stood perfectly astounded and bewildered—shame for my
ridiculous costume would have made me fly at any other time—but there I
remained to be laughed at patiently, while that villain O’Flaherty
leading me passively forward, introduced me to his friends—“Mrs.
Bingham, Mr. Lorrequer; Mr. Lorrequer, Miss Bingham. Don’t be
prepossessed against him, ladies, for when not in love, and properly
dressed, he is a marvellously well-looking young gentleman; and as—”
What the remainder of the sentence might be, I knew not, for I rushed
down into the cabin, and locking the door, never opened it till I could
perceive from the stern windows that we were really off on our way to
England, and recognized once more the laughing face of O’Flaherty, who,
as he waved his hat to his friends from the pier, reminded them that
“they were under the care and protection of his friend Lorrequer, who,
he trusted, would condescend to increase his wearing apparel under the
circumstances.”