the Chevalier de Bertonville's Discoveries in
Central Africa, to an "Irlandais bien original," who acted as sponsor
to the son and heir of King Bullanullaboo, in the Chieckhow territory.
That either, or indeed, both, these individuals resolved themselves
into our respected friend, we entertained no doubt whatever; nor did the
information cause us any surprise, far less unquestionably, than had we
heard of his ordering his boots from Hoby, or his coat from Stultz.

Meanwhile time rolled on--and whether Mr. O'Leary had died of the whale
feast, or been eaten himself by his godson, no one could conjecture,
and his name had probably been lost amid the rust of ages, if certain
booksellers, in remote districts, had not chanced upon the announcement
of his volume, and their "country orders" kept dropping in for these
same "Loiterings," of which the publishers were obliged to confess they
knew nothing whatever.

Now, the season was a dull one; nothing stirring in the literary world;
people had turned from books, to newspapers; a gloomy depression reigned
over the land. The India news was depressing; the China worse; the
French were more insolent than ever; the prices were falling under
the new tariff; pigs looked down, and "Repealers" looked up. The only
interesting news, was the frauds in pork, which turned out to be pickled
negroes and potted squaws. What was to be done? A literary speculation
at such a moment was preposterous; for although in an age of temperance,
nothing prospered but "Punch."

It occurred to us, "then pondering," as Lord Brougham would say, that as
these same "Loiterings" had been asked for more than once, and an actual
order for two copies had been seen in the handwriting of a solvent
individual, there was no reason why we should not write them ourselves.
There would be little difficulty in imagining what a man like O'Leary
would say, think, or do, in any-given situation. The peculiarities of
his character might, perhaps, give point to what dramatic people
call "situations," but yet were not of such a nature as to make their
portraiture a matter of any difficulty.

We confess the thing savoured a good deal of book-making. What of that?
We remember once in a row in Dublin, when the military were called out,
that a sentinel happened to have an altercation with, an old woman of
that class, for which the Irish metropolis used to have a patent, in all
that regards street eloquence and repartee. The soldier,