“Whoosh!” said one of the pounders, coming close to the postilion, and pointing his thumb back towards the chaise. “Who have you in it?” “Oh, you need not scruple, he’s a very honest man;--he’s only a man from North Wales, one Mr. Evans, an innocent jantleman, that’s sent over to travel up and down the country, to find is there any copper mines in it.” “How do you know, Larry?” “Because I know very well, from one that was tould, and I _seen_ him tax the man of the King’s Head with a copper half-crown at first sight, which was only lead to look at, you’d think, to them that was not skilful in copper. So lend me a knife, till I cut a linchpin out of the hedge, for this one won’t go far.” Whilst Larry was making the linchpin, all scruple being removed, his question about St. Dennis and the rent was answered. “Ay, it’s the rint, sure enough, we’re pounding out for him; for he sent the driver round last night-was-eight days, to warn us Old Nick would be down a’-Monday, to take a sweep among us; and there’s only six clear days, Saturday night, before the assizes, sure: so we must see and get it finished any way, to clear the presentment again’ the swearing day, for he and Paddy Hart was the overseers themselves, and Paddy is to swear to it.” “St. Dennis, is it? Then you’ve one great comfort and security--that he won’t be _particular_ about the swearing; for since ever he had his head on his shoulders, an oath never stuck in St. Dennis’s throat, more than in his own brother, Old Nick’s.” “His head upon his shoulders!” repeated Lord Colambre. “Pray, did you ever hear that St. Dennis’s head was off his shoulders?” “It never was, plase your honour, to my knowledge.” “Did you never, among your saints, hear of St. Dennis carrying his head in his hand?” said Lord Colambre. “The _rael_ saint!” said the postilion, suddenly changing his tone, and looking shocked. “Oh, don’t be talking that way of the saints, plase your honour.” “Then of what St. Dennis were you talking just now?--Whom do you mean by St. Dennis, and whom do you call Old Nick?” “Old Nick,” answered the postilion, coming close to the side of the carriage, and whispering,--“Old Nick, plase your honour, is our nickname for one Nicholas Garraghty, Esq., of College-green, Dublin, and St. Dennis is his brother Dennis, who is Old Nick’s brother in all things, and would fain be a saint, only he’s a sinner. He lives just by here, in the country, under-agent to Lord Clonbrony, as Old Nick is upper-agent--it’s only a joke among the people, that are not fond of them at all. Lord Clonbrony himself is a very good jantleman, if he was not an absentee, resident in London, leaving us and every thing to the likes of them.”