ess of weather
from 11 o'clock, when we usually bade good-night, to past twelve, and
then to one o'clock, waiting for a dry moment to get home to the
barracks--a good mile and a half off. Every time old Father Mahony went
to look at the weather, he came back saying, 'It's worse it's getting;
such a night of rain, glory be to God, never was seen.' So there was no
good in going out to be drenched to the skin, and I sat quietly waiting,
taking, between times, a little punch, just not to seem impatient, nor
distress their rev'rances. At last it struck two, and I thought--'well,
the decanter is empty now, and I think, if I mean to walk, I've taken
enough for the present;' so, wishing them all manner of happiness, and
pleasant dreams, I stumbled by way down stairs, and set out on my
journey. I was always in the habit of taking a short cut on my way home,
across the 'gurt na brocha,' the priest's meadows, as they call them, it
saved nearly half a mile, although, on the present occasion, it exposed
one wofully to the rain, for there was nothing to shelter against the
entire way, not even a tree. Well, out I set in a half trot, for I staid
so late I was pressed for time; besides, I felt it easier to run than
walk; I'm sure I can't tell why; maybe the drop of drink I took got
into my head. Well, I was just jogging on across the common; the rain
beating hard in my face, and my clothes pasted to me with the wet;
notwithstanding, I was singing to myself a verse of an old song, to
lighten the road, when I heard suddenly a noise near me, like a man
sneezing. I stopped and listened,--in fact, it was impossible to see
your hand, the night was so dark--but I could hear nothing; the thought
then came over me, maybe it's something 'not good,' for there were very
ugly stories going about what the priests used to do formerly in these
meadows; and bones were often found in different parts of them. Just as
I was thinking this, another voice came nearer than the last; it might be
only a sneeze, after all; but in real earnest it was mighty like a groan.
'The Lord be about us,' I said to myself, 'what's this?--have ye the
pass?' I cried out, 'have ye the pass? or what brings ye walking here,
in nomine patri?' for I was so confused whether it was a 'sperit' or not,
I was going to address him in Latin--there's nothing equal to the dead
languages to lay a ghost, every body knows. Faith the moment I said
these words he gave another groan, dee