5th February 1826

Monumental indisposition after last night’s expedition. Perhaps Mama is quite right; I am becoming a confirmed lushington!

[Herewith follows an account of a night on the spree and … a DISASTER!]

Walked to Covent Garden with Sykes through the narrow back streets at the bottom of Tottenham Court Road. By the time we reached Seven Dials, there was fearful carousing at every street-corner and beneath every lamp. Two frowsy-looking young women stopped and asked me, ‘are you good-natured, dear?’ and then burst out laughing. Sykes assured them that he was very good-natured and would they give him a kiss? But then a big rough-looking barrel-chested fellow came along and told him to ‘stop bothering my gals, or I’ll give you a smack on the lips, my little cockle, and one you won’t forget in a hurry.’ Even Sykes was cowed. We hurried off to meet Forsythe and then went straight to Offley’s Wine Vaults, on the far side of the market. It is a very fine establishment – all gaslight and gilding – but we went downstairs into the cellar – the famous Terpsichorean Cave!

At first, I could not see much through the dense fug of cigar smoke. The room, I should say, was no larger than a decent drawing-room in a respectable house, brick arches, with three deal tables arranged horseshoe-fashion. A dozen young men were sitting around in the dim candlelight, all thoroughly fast sorts (jewelled tie-pins; chequered weskits; and white gloves, scattered here and there, like the trophies of some genteel Scottish Cannibal). 

[note to self: do buy a good pair of gloves, when able]

A rotund older gent with the most uncompromising beard – none other than the great Mr Finch-Herbert himself – sat at the centre with an auctioneer’s hammer, which he banged on the table and called for toasts basso profundo. There was a tattered notice fixed to the wall behind his head which read:

1. No song without drink.

2. No drink without song.

3. No exceptions.

They were already in the middle of raising glasses to the immortal memory of Nelson when Forsythe introduced us to the company as ‘two respectable young minnows as wish to swim upstream.’ Great whoops and cries; then the whole assembly began to thump the tables and demand a song!

I climbed onto the nearest table and tried giving Nan of Wapping’s Ghost, although I could only remember two verses and was very nervous. Sykes gave a very smutty ditty about a maid and a fishmonger, which, I am sorry to say, won him many friends among the company. Then the waiter appeared, Finch-Herbert shouted ‘pray gentlemen, give him your orders’ and we had to treat the entire room to ‘goes’ of gin and brandy.

I am, in consequence of these heroic libations, now a proud member of The Friendly Chorus of Neptune!

Much boozy-woozery all night; and all my money vanished like water down a drain. I also tried a puff on a havannah and nearly choked. The only fellow I did not like was a flash cove with a ridiculous drawl, and extravagant cravat and tiepin, called Montague Pym (a colleague of Forsythe’s from the Minor Emoluments Office and his fellow lodger at Buckingham Street). He was very proud of his moustaches; said that he was ‘reading for the bar’; and asked after ‘my people.’ I told him my Papa had a private income (I did not say ‘pension’, I confess) and I will swear he sniggered as he drank his brandy. Sykes took me aside and offered to strike him down; but I said that I should prefer a battle of wits, only perhaps when I was not quite so thoroughly sluiced. I fear it was not long afterwards that I accidentally sat on my own hat.

We left at half past three in the morning (!) and I slept for a while on Forsythe’s floor (v. hard!). Could not stomach bacon and eggs – neither of us felt very lively – so I wandered back home for breakfast, thoroughly knocked-up.

Unfortunately, I chose the wrong moment to arrive in Johnson Street. For, as I approached our house, I suddenly realised that SELENA was leaving No.13, in company with her great aunt. She was dressed for church and looking like an ANGEL. I stood there on the pavement, disordered, dumbfounded and wretched, resembling some pathetic vagrant on the tramp, with my collar askew, dented hat, and the lingering aroma of liquor. I found myself quite frozen to the spot. I suppose I had in mind that I might, at the very least, bid them good morning – but it was all no use. The old woman brushed past me like I was a common beggar, saying very loudly, ‘Come, my dear, let us not linger in the public street!’ 

Selena – OH SELENA! – averted her eyes and stepped into the hackney coach that was waiting for them.

Fanny, when she opened our front door, said I looked less like a jolly dog and more like a miserable mongrel.

She is right. I am quite ruined.