I have said nothing about the ghosts of Aghadoe Abbey, but it has many
ghosts, or it had.

First and foremost there is the Lord St. Leger, who was killed in a
Dublin street brawl a hundred years ago, who will come driving home at
midnight headless in his coach, and the coachman driving him also
headless, carrying his head under his arm. That is not a very pleasant
thing to see enter as the gates swing open of themselves to let the
ghost through.

Then there is the ghost of the woman who cries outside in the shrubbery.
I have seen her myself in a glint of the moonlight, her black hair
covering her face as she bends to the earth, incessantly seeking
something among the dead leaves, which she cannot discover, and for
which she cries.

And again, there is the lady who goes down the stairs, down, down,
through the underground passage, and yet lower to the well that lies
under the house, and is seen no more. A new maid once saw her in broad
daylight--or at least in the grey of the morning--and followed her down
the stairs, thinking that it was one of the family ill perhaps, who
needed some attention. She could tell afterwards the very pattern of the
lace on the fine nightgown, and describe how the fair curls clustered on
the lady's neck. It was only when the lady disappeared before her, a
white shimmer down the darkness of the underground corridor, that the
poor thing realized she had seen a ghost, and fell fainting, with a
clatter of her dustpan and brush which brought her help.

I could make a long list of the ghosts, for they are many, but I will