“That is all right.  Now, Mr. O’Leary, I must pray you to forgive all the liberty I have taken with you, and also permit me to defer the explanation of many circumstances which seem at present strange, till—­”

“Till sine die, if the story be a long one, my dear sir—­there’s nothing I hate so much, except cold punch.”

“You are going to Paris,” said I; “is it not so?”

“Yes, I’m thinking of it.  I was up at Trolhatten, in Norway, three weeks ago, and I was obliged to leave it hastily, for I’ve an appointment with a friend in Geneva.”

“Then how do you travel?”

“On foot, just as you see, except that I’ve a tobacco bag up stairs, and an umbrella.”

“Light equipment, certainly; but you must allow me to give you a set down as far as Amiens, and also to present you to my friends there.”

To this Mr. O’Leary made no objection; and as Miss Bingham could not bear any delay, in her anxiety to join her mother, we set out at once—­the only thing to mar my full enjoyment at the moment being the sight of the identical vestments I had so lately figured in, bobbing up and down before my eyes for the whole length of the stage, and leading to innumerable mischievous allusions from my friend Mr. O’Leary, which were far too much relished by my fair companion.

At twelve we arrived at Amiens, when I presented my friend Mr. O’Leary to Mrs. Bingham.

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 from its length of waist, and ample skirt, would fit Bumbo Green, while his trowsers, being made of some cheap and shrinking material, have gradually contracted their limits, and look now exactly like knee-breeches, without the usual buttons at the bottom.