The Irish are playing the
very devil through this part of the country--we are close to the line of
the great Erie railroad--and they are murdering, and robbing, and I know
not what, for miles around. The last time I was at old Tom's he told me
that but ten days or a fortnight previously a poor Irish woman, who
lived in his village, started to pay a visit to her mother by the self
same road we shall pass to-night; and was found the next morning with
her person brutally abused, kneeling against a fence stone dead,
strangled with her own cambric handkerchief. He says, too, that not a
week passes but some of them are found dead in the meadows, or in the
ditches, killed in some lawless fray; and no one ever dreams of taking
any notice, or making any inquiry about the matter!"

"Is it possible? then keep the guns at hand by all means!"

"Yes! but this time we will violate my rule about the copper caps--there
is no rule, you are aware, but what has some exception--and the
exception to this of mine is, always take off your copper caps before
getting into a wagon; the jar will occasionally explode them, an upset
will undoubtedly. So uncap, Messrs. Forester and A---, and put the
bright little exploders into your pockets, where they will be both safe
and handy! And now, birds are in, drinks are in, dogs and guns are in,
and now let us be off!"

No more words were wasted; the landlord's bill was paid, Frank Forester
and Timothy got up behind, the Commodore took the front seat, Harry
sprang, reins in hand, to the box, and off they bowled, with lamps and
cigars burning merrily, for it was now quite dark, along the well-known
mountain road, which Archer boasted he could drive as safely in the most
gloomy night of winter as in a summer noon. And so it proved this time,
for though he piloted his horses with a cool head and delicate finger
through every sort of difficulty that a road can offer, up long and
toilsome hills without a rail between the narrow track and the deep
precipice, down sharp and stony pitches, over loose clattering bridges,
along wet marshy levels, he never seemed in doubt or trouble for a
moment, but talked and laughed away, as if he were a mere spectator.

After they had gone a few miles on their way--"you broke off short,
Archer," said the Commodore, "in the middle of your dissertation on the
natural history and habits of the woodcock, turning a propos des bottes
to the cruelty of killing them in midsummer. In a