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 escape you had of Emily:  she was only quizzing you all the time.  She is engaged to be married to Tom O’Flaherty, who is here now.  Emily’s imitation of you, with the hat a little on one side, and a handkerchief flourishing away in one hand, is capital; but when she kneels down and says, ‘dearest Emily, &c.’ you’d swear it was yourself.”—­[Here the laughter of the auditory prevented Kilkee proceeding, who, to my utter confusion, resumed after a little.]—­“Don’t be losing your time making up to Lord Callonby’s daughter”—­[here came another burst of laughter]—­“they say here you have not a chance, and moreover she’s a downright flirt.”—­["It is your turn now, Jane,” said Kilkee, scarcely able to proceed.] —­“Besides that, her father’s a pompous old Tory, that won’t give a sixpence with her; and the old curmudgeon,