ompletely have failed
in without O'Grady's assistance. He, however, entered upon it _con
amore_; and under his auspices, not only did Lady Charlotte receive the
visits of Father Tom Loftus, but Mr. Paul became actually a favourite
with my cousin Julia; and, finally, the grand catastrophe of the drama
was accomplished, and my lady-mother proceeded in all state to wait on
Mrs. Rooney herself, who, whatever her previous pretensions, was so awed
by the condescension of her ladyship's manner that she actually struck
her colours at the first broadside.

Weddings are stupid things in reality, but on paper they are detestable.
Not even the _Morning Post_ can give them a touch of interest. I shall
not, then, trouble my reader with any narrative of white satin and
orange-flowers, bouquets, breakfasts, and Bishop Luscombe; neither shall
I entertain him with the article in the French _Feuilleton_ as to
which of the two brides was the more strictly beautiful, and which more
lovely.

Having introduced my reader to certain acquaintances--some of them
rather equivocal ones, I confess--I ought perhaps to add a word of their
future fortunes.

Mr. Ulick Burke escaped to America, where, by the exercise of his
abilities and natural sharpness, he accumulated a large fortune, and
distinguished by his anti-English prejudices, became a leading member of
Congress.

Of Lord Dudley de Vere I only know that he has lived long enough, if not
to benefit by experience, to take advantage of Lord Brougham's change in
the law of imprisonment for debt. I saw his name in a late number of
the _Times_, with a debt of some fifteen thousand annexed to it, against
which his available property was eleven pounds odd shillings.

Father Loftus sleeps in Murranakilty. No stone marks his resting-place;
but not a peasant's foot, for many a mile round, has not pressed the
little pathway that leads to his grave, to offer up a prayer for a good
man and a friend to the poor.

Tipperary Joe is still to be met on the Kilkenny road. His old red coat,
now nearly russet colour, is torn and ragged; the top-boots have given
place to bare legs, as well tanned as their predecessors; but his merry
voice and cheerful 'Tally-ho!' are still as rich as of yore, and his
heart, poor fellow! as light as ever it was.

Corny Delany is the amiable proprietor of a hotel in the neighbourhood
of Castlebar, where his habitual courtesy and amenity are as conspicuous
as of yore. He has req