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542 made the officers, charged with their execution, rather die by their own hand than incur the infamy of obedience.

Decade has succeeded decade, bringing no amelioration to the fall of this unhappy country; but the day approaches when the warning spoken by Edmund Burke, in 1798, will be justified: the nations of Europe will repent the great iniquity consummated in the dismemberment of Poland, and those who profited by that dismemberment will repent the most bitterly. E. S.

, in want of a dinner one day, Credit all gone, and no money to pay, Stole from the priest a fat pullet, they say, And went to confession just afther; “Your riv’rince,” says Paddy, “I stole this fat hen.” “What, what!” says the priest, “at your owld thricks again? Faith, you’d rather be staalin’ than sayin’ amen, Paddy O’Rafther!”

“Sure you wouldn’t be angry,” says Pat, “if you knew That the best of intintions I had in my view, For I stole it to make it a present to you, And you can absolve me afther.” “Do you think,” says the priest, “I’d partake of your theft? Of your seven small senses you must be bereft— You’re the biggest blackguard that I know, right or left, Paddy O’Rafther!”

“Then what shall I do with the pullet,” says Pat, If“If [sic] your riv’rince won’t take it?—By this and by that I don’t know no more than a dog nor a cat What your riv’rince would have me be afther.” “Why then,” says his rev’rence, “you sin-blinded owl, Give back to the man that you stole from, his fowl, For if you do not, ’twill be worse for your sowl, Paddy O’Rafther.”

Says Paddy, “I ask’d him to take it—’tis thrue As this minit I’m talkin’, your riv’rince, to you; But he wouldn’t resaive it—so what can I do?” Says Paddy, nigh chokin’ with laughter. “By my throth,” says the priest, “but the case is absthruse; If he won’t take his hen, why the man is a goose— ’Tis not the first time my advice was no use, Paddy O’Rafther!

“But for sake of your sowl, I would sthrongly advise To some one in want you would give your supplies, Some widow, or orphan, with tears in their eyes; And then, you may come to me, afther.” So Paddy went off to the brisk Widow Hoy, And the pullet, between them, was eaten with joy, And, says she, ’pon my word you’re the cleverest boy, Paddy O’Rafther!”

Then Paddy went back to the priest, the next day, And told him the fowl he had given away To a poor lonely widow, in want and dismay, The loss of her spouse weeping after. “Well, now,” says the priest, “I’ll absolve you, my lad, For repentantly making the best of the bad, In feeding the hungry and cheering the sad, Paddy O’Rafther!”

to premise that I am myself a believer in ghosts. I have too the pleasure of a slight acquaintance with Mr. Home, and am by no means so convinced as some people seem that that gentleman is an impostor. This admission may indispose some to put faith in my statements. If so, I am sorry, but cannot help it. The thing is true. We all saw it. Others have seen it beside ourselves: many others.

I wish also to premise that the circumstances I am about to relate have not affected one way or another my former belief. It is neither weakened nor strengthened by what we saw. I will tell you why presently.

It was about a month ago. We were a large party, a very large one. A holiday party bent on a full allowance of Easter enjoyment, thinking of anything but the grisly King of Terrors. Suddenly the room grew dark. An invisible hand seemed to shut out, as with a thick curtain, the brilliant glow of day. A solitary lamp, lighted for some former purpose of amusement, and apparently forgotten on a distant table alone threw a few feeble rays of light athwart the gloom of the spacious apartment. Even that seemed to burn with a grim and unearthly lustre. Still we were not awed. Perhaps numbers gave us courage. Perhaps—but I will not waste words in conjecture. Enough that at all events our high spirits carried us through. One even, more reckless than the rest, exclaimed:

“Now is the time for a ghost! But he should come with three knocks in the regular way.”

Rap! Rap! Rap!

“Hush!”

Rap! Rap! Rap!

“Who is there?”

No one. The door is opened. There is no one outside.

Rap! Rap! Rap!

“Come in!”

The door did not open now. There was no trap—no opening in papered wall or carpeted floor. No grating as of lifted window or sliding panel; no sound save as of the wind sighing wildly through some distant corridor.

But It came in! It! The nameless, the terrible one!

Or rather, It was there! There before us all, where but that moment, for some purpose of amusement, a wide space had been cleared. There, right in the gleam of the solitary lamp.

Tall, shadowy, motionless. Draped from head to foot in long, shapeless robes of white. Dim and indistinct at first, as though but some nascent vision sketched lightly by fancy’s pencil on the unsubstantial air. Clearer and sharper as the dim outline filled slowly in with fold after fold of the long gleaming robe. Standing out at last plain as