CHAPTER XXVI.

MR. O'LEARY.

At the conclusion of my last chapter I was about to introduce to my
reader's acquaintance my friend Mr. O'Leary; and, as he is destined to
occupy some place in the history of these Confessions, I may, perhaps, be
permitted to do so at more length than his intrinsic merit at first sight
might appear to warrant.

Mr. O'Leary was, and I am induced to believe is, a particularly short,
fat, greasy-looking gentleman, with a head as free from phrenological
development as a billiard-ball, and a countenance which, in feature and
colour, nearly resembled the face of a cherub, carved in oak, as we see
them in old pulpits.

Short as is his stature, his limbs compose the least part of it. His
hands and feet, forming some compensation by their ample proportions,
with short, thick fins, vulgarly called a cobbler's thumb. His voice
varying in cadence from a deep barytone, to a high falsetto, maintains
throughout the distinctive characteristic of a Dublin accent and
pronunciation, and he talks of the "Veel of Ovoca, and a beef-steek,"
with some price of intonation. What part of the Island he came
originally from, or what may be his age, are questions I have the most
profound ignorance of; I have heard many anecdotes which would imply his
being what the French call "d'un age mur"--but his own observations are
generally limited to events occurring since the peace of "fifteen." To
his personal attractions, such as they are, he has never been solicitous
of contributing by the meretricious aids of dress. His coat, calculating