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The Confessions of Harry Lorrequer, Complete by Charles James Lever (1806-1872)

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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 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, your uncle, has as much
idea of providing for you, as he has of dying."--[This last sally
absolutely convulsed all parties.]--"To be sure Kilkee's a fool, but
he is no use to you."--["Begad I thought I was going to escape,"
said the individual alluded to, "but your friend O'Leary cuts on
every side of him."] The letter, after some very grave reflections
upon the hopelessness of my pursuit, concluded with a kind pledge to
meet me soon, and become my travelling companion. Meanwhile, added
he, "I must cross over to London, and look after my new work, which
is to come out soon, under the title of 'the Loiterings of Arthur

This elegant epistle formed the subject of much laughter and conversation
amongst us long after it was concluded; and little triumph could be
claimed by any party, when nearly all were so roughly handled. So passed
the last evening I spent in Munich--the next morning I was married.



A c'est egal, mam'selle, they don't mind these things in France
A rather unlady-like fondness for snuff
A crowd is a mob, if composed even of bishops
Accept of benefits with a tone of dissatisfaction
Accustomed to the slowness and the uncertainty of the law
Air of one who seeks to consume than enjoy his time
Always a pleasure felt in the misfortunes of even our best friend
Amount of children which is algebraically expressed by an X
And some did pray--who never prayed before
Annoyance of her vulgar loquacity
Brought a punishment far exceeding the merits of the case
Chateaux en Espagne
Chew over the cud of his misfortune
Daily association sustains the interest of the veriest trifles
Dear, dirty Dublin--Io te salute
Delectable modes of getting over the ground through life
Devilish hot work, this, said the colonel
Disputing "one brandy too much" in his bill
Empty, valueless, heartless flirtation
Ending--I never yet met the man who could tell when it ended
Enjoy the name without the gain
Enough is as good as a feast
Escaped shot and shell to fall less gloriously beneath champagne
Every misfortune has an end at last
Exclaimed with Othello himself, "Chaos was come again;"
Fearful of a self-deception where so much was at stake
Fighting like devils for conciliation
Finish in sorrow what you have begun in folly
Gardez vous des femmes, and more especially if they be Irish
Green silk, "a little off the grass, and on the bottle"
Had a most remarkable talent for selecting a son-in-law
Had to hear the "proud man's contumely"
Half pleased and whole frightened with the labour before him
Has but one fault, but that fault is a grand one
Hating each other for the love of God
He first butthers them up, and then slithers them down
He was very much disguised in drink
How ingenious is self-deception
If such be a sin, "then heaven help the wicked"
Indifferent to the many rebuffs she momentarily encountered
Involuntary satisfaction at some apparent obstacle to my path
Jaunting-cars, with three on a side and "one in the well"
Least important functionaries took the greatest airs upon them
Levelling character of a taste for play
Listen to reason, as they would call it in Ireland
Memory of them when hallowed by time or distance
Might almost excite compassion even in an enemy
Misfortune will find you out, if ye were hid in a tay chest
Mistaking zeal for inclination
Mistaking your abstraction for attention
My English proves me Irish
My French always shows me to be English
Never able to restrain myself from a propensity to make love
Nine-inside leathern "conveniency," bumping ten miles an hour
No equanimity like his who acts as your second in a duel
Nothing seemed extravagant to hopes so well founded
Nothing ever makes a man so agreeable as the belief that he is
Now, young ladies, come along, and learn something, if you can
Oh, the distance is nothing, but it is the pace that kills
Opportunely been so overpowered as to fall senseless
Other bottle of claret that lies beyond the frontier of prudence
Packed jury of her relatives, who rarely recommend you to mercy
Pleased are we ever to paint the past according to our own fancy
Profoundly and learnedly engaged in discussing medicine
Profuse in his legends of his own doings in love and war
Rather better than people with better coats on them
Rather a dabbler in the "ologies"
Recovered as much of their senses as the wine had left them
Respectable heir-loom of infirmity
Seems ever to accompany dullness a sustaining power of vanity
Sixteenthly, like a Presbyterian minister's sermon
Stoicism which preludes sending your friend out of the world
Strong opinions against tobacco within doors
Suppose I have laughed at better men than ever he was
Sure if he did, doesn't he take it out o' me in the corns?
That vanity which wine inspires
That "to stand was to fall,"
That land of punch, priests, and potatoes
The divil a bit better she was nor a pronoun
The tone of assumed compassion
The "fat, fair, and forty" category
There are unhappily impracticable people in the world
There is no infatuation like the taste for flirtation
They were so perfectly contented with their self-deception
Time, that 'pregnant old gentleman,' will disclose all
Unwashed hands, and a heavy gold ring upon his thumb
Vagabond if Providence had not made me a justice of the peace
We pass a considerable portion of our lives in a mimic warfare
What will not habit accomplish
What we wish, we readily believe
What we wish we readily believe
When you pretended to be pleased, unluckily, I believed you
Whenever he was sober his poverty disgusted him
Whiskey, the appropriate liquor in all treaties of this nature
Whose paraphrase of the book of Job was refused
Wretched, gloomy-looking picture of woe-begone poverty

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