in point of fact, ought to receive credit for the greater portion of old Dick’s reputation, or at least for all that was good of it.  Jemmy was his old, confidential—­enemy—­for more than forty years, during the greater portion of which period it could scarcely be said with truth that, in Jemmy’s hands, Dick o’ the Grange ought to be looked to as a responsible person.  When we say “enemy,” we know perfectly well what we mean; for if half a dozen battles between Jemmy and his master every day during the period above mentioned constituted friendship, then, indeed, the reader may substitute the word friend, if he pleases.

In fact, Dick and Jemmy had become notorious throughout the whole country; and we are certain that many of our readers will, at first glance, recognize these two remarkable individuals.  Truly, the ascendancy which Jemmy had gained over the magistrate, was surprising; and nothing could be more amusing than the interminable series of communications, both written and oral, which passed between them, in the shape of dismissals from service on the one side, and notices to leave on the other; each of which whether written or oral, was treated by the party noticed with the most thorough contempt.  Nothing was right that Jemmy disapproved of, and nothing wrong that had his sanction, and this without any reference whatsoever to the will of his master, who, if he happened to get into a passion about it, was put down by Jemmy, who got into a greater passion still; so that, after a long course of recrimination and Billinsgate on both sides, delivered by Jemmy in an incomparably louder voice, and with a more consequential manner, old Dick was finally forced to succumb.

The worthy magistrate and his son were at breakfast next morning, when young “Master Richard,” as he was called, rung the bell, and Jemmy attended—­for we must add, that Jemmy discharged the duties of butler, together with any other duty that he himself deemed necessary, and that without leave asked or given.

“Where’s Hanlon, Jemmy?” he asked.

“Hanlon? troth, it’s little matther where he is, an’ devil a one o’ myself cares.”

“Well, but I care, Jemmy, for I want him.  Where is he?”

“He’s gone up to that ould streele’s, that lives in the cabin above there.  I don’t like the same Hanlon; nobody here knows anything about him, nor he won’t let them know anything about him.  He’s as close as Darby Skinadre, and as deep as a dhraw-well.  Altogether, he looks as if there was a weight on his conscience, for all his lightness an’ fun—­an’ if I thought so, I’d discharge him at wanst.”

“And I agree with you for once,” observed his master; “there is some cursed mystery about him.  I don’t like him, either, to say the truth.”

“An’ why don’t you like him?” asked Jemmy, with a contemptuous look.

“I can’t say; but I don’t.”

“No! you can’t?  I know you can’t say anything, at all events, that you ought to say,” replied Jemmy, who, like, his master, would have died without contradiction; “but I can say why you don’t like him; it’s bekaise he’s the best sarvint ever was about your place; that’s the raison you don’t like him.  But what do you know about a good sarvint or a bad one, or anything else that’s useful to you, God help you.”