consent to support me.
Before we had walked half round the garden, she had promised to be mine;
and Harry Lorrequer, who rose that morning with nothing but despair and
darkness before him, was now the happiest of men.

Dear reader, I have little more to confess. Lord Callonby's politics
were fortunately deemed of more moment than maidenly scruples, and the
treasury benches more respected than the trousseau. Our wedding was
therefore settled for the following week. Meanwhile, every day seemed
to teem with its own meed of good fortune. My good uncle, under whose
patronage, forty odd years before, Colonel Kamworth had obtained his
commission, undertook to effect the reconciliation between him and the
Wallers, who now only waited for our wedding, before they set out for
Hydrabad cottage, that snug receptacle of Curry and Madeira, Jack
confessing that he had rather listen to the siege of Java, by that
fire-side, than hear an account of Waterloo from the lips of the great
Duke himself.

I wrote to Trevanion to invite him to Munich for the ceremony, and the
same post which informed me that he was en route to join us, brought also
a letter from my eccentric friend O'Leary, whose name having so often
occurred in these confessions, I am tempted to read aloud, the more so as
its contents are no secret, Kilkee having insisted upon reading it to a
committee of the whole family assembled after dinner.

"Dear Lorrequer,

"The trial is over, and I am acquitted, but still in St. Pelagie;
for as the government were determined to cut my head off if guilty,
so the mob resolved to murder me if innocent. A pleasant place
this: before the trial, I was the most popular man in Paris; my face
was in every print shop; plaster busts of me, with a great organ
behind the ear, in all the thoroughfares; my autograph selling at
six and twenty sous, and a lock of my hair at five francs. Now that
it is proved I did not murder the "minister at war," (who is in
excellent health and spirits) the popular feeling against me is very
violent; and I am looked upon as an imposter, who obtained his
notoriety under false pretences; and Vernet, who had begun my
picture for a Judas, has left off in disgust. Your friend Trevanion
is a trump; he procured a Tipperary gentleman to run away with Mrs.
Ram, and they were married at Frankfort, on Tuesday last. By the
by, what an escap