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THE DUBLIN

UNIVERSITY MAGAZINE

fcttrrarji anto iiolttiral journal.

VOL. XXI.

JANUARY TO JUNE.

1843.

DUBLIN:

WILLIAM CURRY, JUN. AND COMPANY.

W. S. ORR AND COMPANY, LONDON.

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DUBLIN

PRINTED BY J S. FOLDS, SON AND PATTON

», Bachelor's Walk.

THE DUBLIN

TJNIVEBSITY MAGAZINE.

Ko. CXXI. JANUAKY, 1843. Vol. XXI.

LOITERINGS OP ARTHUR OLEART.

XOTICE PHIXIMINAHY AND EXPLANATORY.
nv TUE EDITOR.

When some years ago we took the liberty, in a certain volume of our so-called " Confessions," to introduce to our readers' acquaintance the gentleman whose name figures at the head of this paper, we subjoined a brief notice, by himself, intimating the intention he entertained of giving to the world some further insight into his life and opinions, under the title of "Loiterings of Arthur O'Leary."

From that hour to the present one, however, nothing of the kind has transpired; nor could we ascertain by the strictest inquiry among "the trade," that such a proposition had ever been made to Messrs. Colburn or Curry, or indeed been even heard of in the Row. The worthy traveller himself had wandered away to pastures new—heaven knows where—and notwithstanding repeated advertisements in the Times newspaper, assuring "A. O'L. that if he would inform his friends where a letter would reach, all would be forgiven him," &c. the mystery of his whereabouts remained unsolved, save by the chance mention of a north-west-passage traveller, who speaks of a Mr. O'Leary as having presided at a grand bottle-nosed whale dinner, in Behring's Straits, some time in the autumn of 1840; while we find, in the uewly-published volume of Chevalier de Bertonville's Discoveries in Central Africa, an allusion to an "Irlandais bien original," who acted as sponsor to the son and heir of Prince Balliwallaboo, in the Chiechaw territory. That either or both should have been our respected friend, is hot only possible, but highly probable; indeed to us, who are somewhat familiar with his habits, the information conveyed less surprise, than if we heard of his ordering his boots from Hoby, or his coat from Slultz.

Meanwhile, time rolled on—and whether Mr. O'Leary had died of the whale feast, or been himself eaten by his godson, no one could conjecture; and his name would speedily have been lost among the rust of ages, had not the volume announced by him attracted the attention of certain booksellers in remote districts, and their "country orders" how and then kept dropping in for these "Loiterings," which the publishers were obliged to confess had never been written.

It was on a gloomy morning of last November, when a dark leaden sky stretched its sad-coloured mantle over the good city of Dublin, and the rain descended in long straight lines, splashing in dreary monotony in the Vol. XXL—No 121. "B

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