"Whin a man's that cross and crabbed that his sowle's as black as paint, An' his contrary conversation wud petrify a saint, And he will ate mate on fast days, an scornes the praste as well, Ould Nick will soon be after him, to escort him straight to (the guard room)." QUIN. Years ago I was soldiering in South Africa, and at that time owned a few horses, my own private property and nothing to do with the Government. I used to race a bit in a small way, just for the sport, and it became necessary for me to employ a groom who must be my own private servant. Now grooms were hard to get, especially at the price I could afford to pay, and I did not want a man of the sundowner stamp. One evening my servant came to me and informed me that a man had come into camp who was looking out for a job and he thought he would do. On my asking him why he thought he would do (for Quin, though an Irishman, was, wonderful to relate, no horseman and had no knowledge of horses) replied: "The man is an Irishman, a small man, a knowledgeable man, and also a townie of my own." So I decided to see him, and Mike O'Leary was ushered in. Directly I saw him I seemed to know him, but for a time could not place him, till at last it flashed through my mind he must be Charles Lever's Corney Delaney come to life again, or at all events the creature in front of me must be a descendant of his. Not that the dress was similar, for my man wore breeches and boots, both of which wanted renewing, but the head, the face, the cross, crabbed expression and the general appearance were exactly like the immortal Corney as depicted by Phiz in "Jack Hinton." He was a tough, wiry little fellow, showing, as we say out in the colonies, the marks of the Whalaby. He stood rigidly to attention, after glancing at myself and belongings with a sneering grin that would have excited the envy of Satan himself. So I opened fire with the remark: "You are an old soldier." "I am," quoth he; "and served in the 57th, God bless them! They wor a rigimint you could be proud of, not a tearing lot of divils the likes of what you've got here. Bad scran to them! it's neither soldiers or peelers they be." "Well, well," I said, "leave the men alone. I want a groom. Are you one?" "It's a lot of grooms you do be wanting, judging by the look of your troop horses," he snarled. "Leave the troop horses alone. I want a man as my own private servant. Do you want work of that sort?" "I may take you on trial," he rejoined, "for did I not serve under your honourable father, Sir George Brown, in the Crimee."