Arthur O'Leary His Wanderings And Ponderings In Many Lands

James Lever Charles

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pubOne.info present you this wonderfully illustrated edition. When some years ago we took the liberty, in a volume of our so-called "Confessions, " to introduce to our reader's acquaintance the gentleman whose name figures in the title page, we subjoined a brief notice, by himself, intimating the intention he entertained of one day giving to the world a farther insight into his life and opinions, under the title of "Loiterings of Arthur O'Leary.

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• Publié par: Pub One Info
• Date de parution: 06 novembre 2010
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9782819946755
• Langue: English

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ARTHUR O'LEARY
HIS WANDERINGS AND PONDERINGS IN MANY LANDS
By Charles James Lever
Edited By His Friend, Harry Lorrequer,
Illustrated By George Cruikshank.
NOTICE, PRELIMINARY AND EXPLANATORY,
BY THE EDITOR.
When some years ago we took the liberty, in a volumeof our so-called “Confessions, ” to introduce to our reader'sacquaintance the gentleman whose name figures in the title page, wesubjoined a brief notice, by himself, intimating the intention heentertained of one day giving to the world a farther insight intohis life and opinions, under the title of “Loiterings of ArthurO'Leary. ”
It is more than probable that the garbled statementand incorrect expression of which we ourselves were guiltyrespecting our friend had piqued him into this declaration, which,on mature consideration, he thought fit to abandon. For, from thathour to the present one, nothing of the kind ever transpired, norcould we ascertain, by the strictest inquiry, that such aproposition of publication had ever been entertained in theWest-End, or heard of in the “Row. ”
The worthy traveller had wandered away to “pasturesnew, ” heaven knows where! and, notwithstanding repeated littleparagraphs in the second advertizing column of the “Times”newspaper, assuring, “A. O'L. that if he would inform his friendswhere a letter would reach, all would be forgiven, ” and c. themystery of his whereabouts remained unsolved, save by the chancemention of a north-west passage traveller, who speaks of a Mr.O'Leary as having presided at a grand bottle-nosed whale dinner inBehring's Straits, some time in the autumn of 1840; and anallusion, in the second volume of the Chevalier de Bertonville'sDiscoveries in Central Africa, to an “Irlandais bien original, ”who acted as sponsor to the son and heir of King Bullanullaboo, inthe Chieckhow territory. That either, or indeed, both, theseindividuals resolved themselves into our respected friend, weentertained no doubt whatever; nor did the information cause us anysurprise, far less unquestionably, than had we heard of hisordering his boots from Hoby, or his coat from Stultz.
Meanwhile time rolled on— and whether Mr. O'Learyhad died of the whale feast, or been eaten himself by his godson,no one could conjecture, and his name had probably been lost amidthe rust of ages, if certain booksellers, in remote districts, hadnot chanced upon the announcement of his volume, and their “countryorders” kept dropping in for these same “Loiterings, ” of which thepublishers were obliged to confess they knew nothing whatever.
Now, the season was a dull one; nothing stirring inthe literary world; people had turned from books, to newspapers; agloomy depression reigned over the land. The India news wasdepressing; the China worse; the French were more insolent thanever; the prices were falling under the new tariff; pigs lookeddown, and “Repealers” looked up. The only interesting news, was thefrauds in pork, which turned out to be pickled negroes and pottedsquaws. What was to be done? A literary speculation at such amoment was preposterous; for although in an age of temperance,nothing prospered but “Punch. ”
It occurred to us, “then pondering, ” as LordBrougham would say, that as these same “Loiterings” had been askedfor more than once, and an actual order for two copies had beenseen in the handwriting of a solvent individual, there was noreason why we should not write them ourselves. There would belittle difficulty in imagining what a man like O'Leary would say,think, or do, in any-given situation. The peculiarities of hischaracter might, perhaps, give point to what dramatic people call“situations, ” but yet were not of such a nature as to make theirportraiture a matter of any difficulty.
We confess the thing savoured a good deal ofbook-making. What of that? We remember once in a row in Dublin,when the military were called out, that a sentinel happened to havean altercation with, an old woman of that class, for which theIrish metropolis used to have a patent, in all that regards streeteloquence and repartee. The soldier, provoked beyond endurance,declared at last with an oath, “that if she didn't go away, he'ddrive his bayonet through her. ” “Oh, then, the devil thank you forthat same, ” responded the hag, “sure, isn't it your trade? ” Makethe application, dear reader, and forgive us for our authorship toorder.
Besides, had we not before us the example ofAlexandre Dumas, in France, whose practice it is to amuse the worldby certain Souvenirs de “Voyage, ” which he has never made, noteven in imagination but which are only the dressed-up skeletons ofother men's rambles, and which he buys, exactly as the Jews do olduniforms and court suits, for exportation to the colonies. And thuswhile thousands of his readers are sympathizing with the sufferingof the aforesaid Alexandre, in his perilous passage of the greatdesert, or his fearful encounter with Norwegian wolves, little knowthey that their hero is snugly established in his “entresol” of the“Rue d'Alger, ” lying full length on a spring-cushioned sofa, witha Manilla weed on his lip, and George Sand's last bulletin ofwickedness, half cut before him. These “Souvenirs de Voyage” beingnothing more than the adventures and incidents of Messrs. John Doeand Richard Doe, paragraphed, witticized, and spiced for publictaste, by Alexandre Dumas, pretty much as cheap taverns give“gravy” and “ox-tail”— the smallest modicum of meat, to the mosthigh-seasoned and hot-flavoured condiments.
If, then, we had scruples, here was a precedent torelieve our minds— here a case perfectly in point, at least so faras the legitimacy of the practice demanded. But, unhappily, itended there: for although it may be, and indeed is, verypracticable for Monsieur Dumas, by the perfection of his“cuisine, ” to make the meat itself a secondary part of thematter; yet do we grievously fear that a tureen full of “O'Leary, ”might not be an acceptable dish, because there was a bone of “HarryLorrequer” in the bottom.
With all these pros and cons ourvain-glorious boast to write the work in question stared ussuddenly in the face; and, really, we felt as much shame as canreasonably be supposed to visit a man, whose countenance has beenhawked about the streets, and sold in shilling numbers. What was tobe done? There was the public, too; but, like Tony Lumpkin, we feltwe might disappoint the company at the Three Jolly Pigeons— butcould we disappoint ourselves?
Alas! there were some excellent reasons against sucha consummation. So, respected reader, whatever liberties we mighttake with you, we had to look nearer home, and bethink us ofourselves. After all — and what a glorious charge to the juryof one's conscience is your after all! — -what a plenary indulgenceagainst all your sins of commission and omission! — what amakepeace to self-accusation, and what a salve to heartfeltrepinings! — after all, we did know a great deal about O'Leary: hislife and opinions, his habits and haunts, his prejudices,pleasures, and predilections: and although we never performed Bozto his Johnson, still had we ample knowledge of him for allpurposes of book-writing; and there was no reason why we should notassume his mantle, or rather his Macintosh, if the weather requiredit.
Having in some sort allayed our scruples in thisfashion, and having satisfied our conscience by the resolve, thatif we were not about to record the actual res gesto of Mr.O'Leary, neither would we set down anything which might not have been one of his adventures, nor put into his mouth anyimaginary conversations which he might not have sustained;so that, in short, should the volume ever come under the eyes ofthe respected gentleman himself, considerable mystification wouldexist, as to whether he did not say, do, and think, exactly as wemade him, and much doubt lie on his mind that he was not the authorhimself.
We wish particularly to lay stress on the honesty ofthese our intentions— the more, as subsequent events haveinterfered with their accomplishment; and we can only assure theworld of what we would have done, had we been permitted. And herelet us observe, en passant , that if other literarycharacters had been actuated by similarly honourable views, weshould have been spared those very absurd speeches which Sallustattributes to his characters in the Catiline conspiracy; andanother historian, with still greater daring, assumes the Prince ofOrange ought to have spoken, at various epochs in the lateBelgian revolution.
With such prospective hopes, then, did we engage inthe mystery of these same “Loiterings, ” and with a pleasure suchas only men of the pen can appreciate, did we watch the bulky pileof MS. that was growing up before us, while the interest of thework had already taken hold of us; and whether we moved our puppetsto the slow figure of a minuet, or rattled them along at theslap-dash, hurry-scurry, devil-may-care pace, for which our criticshabitually give us credit, we felt that our foot beat timeresponsively to the measure, and that we actually began to enjoythe performance.
In this position stood matters, when early onemorning in December the post brought us an ominous-looking epistle,which, even as we glanced our eye on the outside, conveyed animpression of fear and misgiving to our minds. If there are men inwhose countenances, as Pitt remarked, “villany is so impressed, itwere impiety not to believe it, ” so are there certain letterswhose very-shape and colour, fold, seal, and superscription havesomething gloomy and threatening— something of menace and mischiefabout them. This was one of these: the paper was a greenishsickly-white, a kind of dyspeptic foolscap; the very mill thatfabricated it might have had the shaking ague. The seal was ofbottle-wax, the impression, a heavy thumb. The address ran, “To H.L. ” The writing, a species of rustic paling, curiously interwovenand gnarled, to which the thickness of the ink lent a needlessobscurity, giving to the who