The Purcell Papers — Volume 1 Read online

  THE GHOST AND THE BONE SETTER.

  In looking over the papers of my late valued and respected friend,Francis Purcell, who for nearly fifty years discharged the arduousduties of a parish priest in the south of Ireland, I met with thefollowing document. It is one of many such; for he was a curious andindustrious collector of old local traditions--a commodity in whichthe quarter where he resided mightily abounded. The collection andarrangement of such legends was, as long as I can remember him, hishobby; but I had never learned that his love of the marvellous andwhimsical had carried him so far as to prompt him to commit the resultsof his inquiries to writing, until, in the character of residuarylegatee, his will put me in possession of all his manuscript papers.To such as may think the composing of such productions as theseinconsistent with the character and habits of a country priest, it isnecessary to observe, that there did exist a race of priests--those ofthe old school, a race now nearly extinct--whose education abroad tendedto produce in them tastes more literary than have yet been evinced bythe alumni of Maynooth.

  It is perhaps necessary to add that the superstition illustrated by thefollowing story, namely, that the corpse last buried is obliged,during his juniority of interment, to supply his brother tenants ofthe churchyard in which he lies, with fresh water to allay the burningthirst of purgatory, is prevalent throughout the south of Ireland.

  The writer can vouch for a case in which a respectable and wealthyfarmer, on the borders of Tipperary, in tenderness to the corns of hisdeparted helpmate, enclosed in her coffin two pair of brogues, a lightand a heavy, the one for dry, the other for sloppy weather; seeking thusto mitigate the fatigues of her inevitable perambulations in procuringwater and administering it to the thirsty souls of purgatory. Fierceand desperate conflicts have ensued in the case of two funeral partiesapproaching the same churchyard together, each endeavouring to secure tohis own dead priority of sepulture, and a consequent immunity from thetax levied upon the pedestrian powers of the last-comer. An instance notlong since occurred, in which one of two such parties, through fear oflosing to their deceased friend this inestimable advantage, made theirway to the churchyard by a short cut, and, in violation of one of theirstrongest prejudices, actually threw the coffin over the wall, lest timeshould be lost in making their entrance through the gate. Innumerableinstances of the same kind might be quoted, all tending to showhow strongly among the peasantry of the south this superstition isentertained. However, I shall not detain the reader further by anyprefatory remarks, but shall proceed to lay before him the following:

  Extract from the MS. Papers of the late Rev. Francis Purcell, ofDrumcoolagh.

  I tell the following particulars, as nearly as I can recollect them, inthe words of the narrator. It may be necessary to observe that hewas what is termed a well-spoken man, having for a considerable timeinstructed the ingenious youth of his native parish in such of theliberal arts and sciences as he found it convenient to profess--acircumstance which may account for the occurrence of several big wordsin the course of this narrative, more distinguished for euphoniouseffect than for correctness of application. I proceed then, withoutfurther preface, to lay before you the wonderful adventures of TerryNeil.

  'Why, thin, 'tis a quare story, an' as thrue as you're sittin' there;and I'd make bould to say there isn't a boy in the seven parishes couldtell it better nor crickther than myself, for 'twas my father himself ithappened to, an' many's the time I heerd it out iv his own mouth; an' Ican say, an' I'm proud av that same, my father's word was as incredibleas any squire's oath in the counthry; and so signs an' if a poor mangot into any unlucky throuble, he was the boy id go into the court an'prove; but that doesn't signify--he was as honest and as sober a man,barrin' he was a little bit too partial to the glass, as you'd find in aday's walk; an' there wasn't the likes of him in the counthry round fornate labourin' an' baan diggin'; and he was mighty handy entirely forcarpenther's work, and men din' ould spudethrees, an' the likes i' that.An' so he tuk up with bone-settin', as was most nathural, for none ofthem could come up to him in mendin' the leg iv a stool or a table; an'sure, there never was a bone-setter got so much custom-man an' child,young an' ould--there never was such breakin' and mendin' of bonesknown in the memory of man. Well, Terry Neil--for that was my father'sname--began to feel his heart growin' light, and his purse heavy; an'he took a bit iv a farm in Squire Phelim's ground, just undher the ouldcastle, an' a pleasant little spot it was; an' day an' mornin' poorcrathurs not able to put a foot to the ground, with broken arms andbroken legs, id be comin' ramblin' in from all quarters to have theirbones spliced up. Well, yer honour, all this was as well as well couldbe; but it was customary when Sir Phelim id go anywhere out iv thecountry, for some iv the tinants to sit up to watch in the ould castle,just for a kind of compliment to the ould family--an' a mighty unplisantcompliment it was for the tinants, for there wasn't a man of them butknew there was something quare about the ould castle. The neighbourshad it, that the squire's ould grandfather, as good a gintlenlan--Godbe with him--as I heer'd, as ever stood in shoe-leather, used to keepwalkin' about in the middle iv the night, ever sinst he bursted a bloodvessel pullin' out a cork out iv a bottle, as you or I might be doin',and will too, plase God--but that doesn't signify. So, as I was sayin',the ould squire used to come down out of the frame, where his picthurwas hung up, and to break the bottles and glasses--God be marciful to usall--an' dthrink all he could come at--an' small blame to him for thatsame; and then if any of the family id be comin' in, he id be up againin his place, looking as quite an' as innocent as if he didn't knowanything about it--the mischievous ould chap.

  'Well, your honour, as I was sayin', one time the family up at thecastle was stayin' in Dublin for a week or two; and so, as usual, someof the tinants had to sit up in the castle, and the third night it kemto my father's turn. "Oh, tare an' ouns!" says he unto himself, "an'must I sit up all night, and that ould vagabone of a sperit, glory beto God," says he, "serenadin' through the house, an' doin' all sorts ivmischief?" However, there was no gettin' aff, and so he put a bouldface on it, an' he went up at nightfall with a bottle of pottieen, andanother of holy wather.

  'It was rainin' smart enough, an' the evenin' was darksome and gloomy,when my father got in; and what with the rain he got, and the holywather he sprinkled on himself, it wasn't long till he had to swally acup iv the pottieen, to keep the cowld out iv his heart. It was the ouldsteward, Lawrence Connor, that opened the door--and he an' my father woralways very great. So when he seen who it was, an' my father tould himhow it was his turn to watch in the castle, he offered to sit up alongwith him; and you may be sure my father wasn't sorry for that same. Sosays Larry:

  '"We'll have a bit iv fire in the parlour," says he.

  '"An' why not in the hall?" says my father, for he knew that thesquire's picthur was hung in the parlour.

  '"No fire can be lit in the hall," says Lawrence, "for there's an ouldjackdaw's nest in the chimney."

  '"Oh thin," says my father, "let us stop in the kitchen, for it's veryunproper for the likes iv me to be sittin' in the parlour," says he.

  '"Oh, Terry, that can't be," says Lawrence; "if we keep up the ouldcustom at all, we may as well keep it up properly," says he.

  '"Divil sweep the ould custom!" says my father--to himself, do ye mind,for he didn't like to let Lawrence see that he was more afeard himself.

  '"Oh, very well," says he. "I'm agreeable, Lawrence," says he; and sodown they both wint to the kitchen, until the fire id be lit in theparlour--an' that same wasn't long doin'.

  'Well, your honour, they soon wint up again, an' sat down mightycomfortable by the parlour fire, and they beginned to talk, an' tosmoke, an' to dhrink a small taste iv the pottieen; and, moreover, theyhad a good rousin' fire o' bogwood and turf, to warm their shins over.

  'Well, sir, as I was sayin' they kep' convarsin' and smokin' togethermost agreeable, until Lawrence beginn'd to get sleepy, as was butnathural for him, for he was an ould sarvint man, and was used to agreat dale iv sle
ep.

  '"Sure it's impossible," says my father, "it's gettin' sleepy you are?"

  '"Oh, divil a taste," says Larry; "I'm only shuttin' my eyes," sayshe, "to keep out the parfume o' the tibacky smoke, that's makin' themwather," says he. "So don't you mind other people's business," sayshe, stiff enough, for he had a mighty high stomach av his own (rest hissowl), "and go on," says he, "with your story, for I'm listenin'," sayshe, shuttin' down his eyes.

  'Well, when my father seen spakin' was no use, he went on with hisstory. By the same token, it was the story of Jim Soolivan and his ouldgoat he was tellin'--an' a plisant story it is--an' there was so muchdivarsion in it, that it was enough to waken a dormouse, let alone topervint a Christian goin' asleep. But, faix, the way my father touldit, I believe there never was the likes heerd sinst nor before, forhe bawled out every word av it, as if the life was fairly lavin' him,thrying to keep ould Larry awake; but, faix, it was no use, for thehoorsness came an him, an' before he kem to the end of his story LarryO'Connor beginned to snore like a bagpipes.

  '"Oh, blur an' agres," says my father, "isn't this a hard case," sayshe, "that ould villain, lettin' on to be my friend, and to go asleepthis way, an' us both in the very room with a sperit," says he. "Thecrass o' Christ about us!" says he; and with that he was goin' to shakeLawrence to waken him, but he just remimbered if he roused him, thathe'd surely go off to his bed, an' lave him complately alone, an' thatid be by far worse.

  '"Oh thin," says my father, "I'll not disturb the poor boy. It id beneither friendly nor good-nathured," says he, "to tormint him while heis asleep," says he; "only I wish I was the same way, myself," says he.

  'An' with that he beginned to walk up an' down, an' sayin' his prayers,until he worked himself into a sweat, savin' your presence. But it wasall no good; so he dthrunk about a pint of sperits, to compose his mind.

  '"Oh," says he, "I wish to the Lord I was as asy in my mind as Larrythere. Maybe," says he, "if I thried I could go asleep;" an' with thathe pulled a big arm-chair close beside Lawrence, an' settled himself init as well as he could.

  'But there was one quare thing I forgot to tell you. He couldn'thelp, in spite av himself, lookin' now an' thin at the picthur, an' heimmediately obsarved that the eyes av it was follyin' him about, an'starin' at him, an' winkin' at him, wheriver he wint. "Oh," says he,when he seen that, "it's a poor chance I have," says he; "an' bad luckwas with me the day I kem into this unforthunate place," says he. "Butany way there's no use in bein' freckened now," says he; "for if I am todie, I may as well parspire undaunted," says he.

  'Well, your honour, he thried to keep himself quite an' asy, an' hethought two or three times he might have wint asleep, but for the waythe storm was groanin' and creakin' through the great heavy branchesoutside, an' whistlin' through the ould chimleys iv the castle. Well,afther one great roarin' blast iv the wind, you'd think the walls iv thecastle was just goin' to fall, quite an' clane, with the shakin' iv it.All av a suddint the storm stopt, as silent an' as quite as if it wasa July evenin'. Well, your honour, it wasn't stopped blowin' forthree minnites, before he thought he hard a sort iv a noise over thechimley-piece; an' with that my father just opened his eyes the smallesttaste in life, an' sure enough he seen the ould squire gettin' out ivthe picthur, for all the world as if he was throwin' aff his ridin'coat, until he stept out clane an' complate, out av the chimley-piece,an' thrun himself down an the floor. Well, the slieveen ould chap--an'my father thought it was the dirtiest turn iv all--before he beginnedto do anything out iv the way, he stopped for a while to listen wor theyboth asleep; an' as soon as he thought all was quite, he put out hishand and tuk hould iv the whisky bottle, an dhrank at laste a pint ivit. Well, your honour, when he tuk his turn out iv it, he settled itback mighty cute entirely, in the very same spot it was in before. An'he beginned to walk up an' down the room, lookin' as sober an' as solidas if he never done the likes at all. An' whinever he went apast myfather, he thought he felt a great scent of brimstone, an' it was thatthat freckened him entirely; for he knew it was brimstone that wasburned in hell, savin' your presence. At any rate, he often heerd itfrom Father Murphy, an' he had a right to know what belonged to it--he'sdead since, God rest him. Well, your honour, my father was asy enoughuntil the sperit kem past him; so close, God be marciful to us all, thatthe smell iv the sulphur tuk the breath clane out iv him; an' with thathe tuk such a fit iv coughin', that it al-a-most shuk him out iv thechair he was sittin' in.

  '"Ho, ho!" says the squire, stoppin' short about two steps aff, andturnin' round facin' my father, "is it you that's in it?--an' how's allwith you, Terry Neil?"

  '"At your honour's sarvice," says my father (as well as the fright idlet him, for he was more dead than alive), "an' it's proud I am to seeyour honour to-night," says he.

  '"Terence," says the squire, "you're a respectable man" (an' it wasthrue for him), "an industhrious, sober man, an' an example of inebrietyto the whole parish," says he.

  '"Thank your honour," says my father, gettin' courage, "you were alwaysa civil spoken gintleman, God rest your honour."

  '"REST my honour?" says the sperit (fairly gettin' red in the face withthe madness), "Rest my honour?" says he. "Why, you ignorant spalpeen,"says he, "you mane, niggarly ignoramush," says he, "where did you laveyour manners?" says he. "If I AM dead, it's no fault iv mine," says he;"an' it's not to be thrun in my teeth at every hand's turn, by the likesiv you," says he, stampin' his foot an the flure, that you'd think theboords id smash undther him.

  '"Oh," says my father, "I'm only a foolish, ignorant poor man," says he.

  '"You're nothing else," says the squire: "but any way," says he, "it'snot to be listenin' to your gosther, nor convarsin' with the likesiv you, that I came UP--down I mane," says he--(an' as little as themistake was, my father tuk notice iv it). "Listen to me now, TerenceNeil," says he: "I was always a good masther to Pathrick Neil, yourgrandfather," says he.

  '"'Tis thrue for your honour," says my father.

  '"And, moreover, I think I was always a sober, riglar gintleman," saysthe squire.

  '"That's your name, sure enough," says my father (though it was a biglie for him, but he could not help it).

  '"Well," says the sperit, "although I was as sober as most men--at lasteas most gintlemin," says he; "an' though I was at different pariods amost extempory Christian, and most charitable and inhuman to the poor,"says he; "for all that I'm not as asy where I am now," says he, "as Ihad a right to expect," says he.

  '"An' more's the pity," says my father. "Maybe your honour id wish tohave a word with Father Murphy?"

  '"Hould your tongue, you misherable bliggard," says the squire; "it'snot iv my sowl I'm thinkin'--an' I wondther you'd have the impitence totalk to a gintleman consarnin' his sowl; and when I want THAT fixed,"says he, slappin' his thigh, "I'll go to them that knows what belongs tothe likes," says he. "It's not my sowl," says he, sittin' down opossitemy father; "it's not my sowl that's annoyin' me most--I'm unasy on myright leg," says he, "that I bruk at Glenvarloch cover the day I killedblack Barney."

  'My father found out afther, it was a favourite horse that fell undherhim, afther leapin' the big fence that runs along by the glin.

  '"I hope," says my father, "your honour's not unasy about the killin' ivhim?"

  '"Hould your tongue, ye fool," said the squire, "an' I'll tell you whyI'm unasy on my leg," says he. "In the place, where I spend most iv mytime," says he, "except the little leisure I have for lookin' about mehere," says he, "I have to walk a great dale more than I was ever usedto," says he, "and by far more than is good for me either," says he;"for I must tell you," says he, "the people where I am is ancommonlyfond iv cowld wather, for there is nothin' betther to be had; an',moreover, the weather is hotter than is altogether plisant," says he;"and I'm appinted," says he, "to assist in carryin' the wather, an' getsa mighty poor share iv it myself," says he, "an' a mighty throublesome,wearin' job it is, I can tell you," says he; "for they're all iv themsurprisinly dthry, an' dthrinks it as fast as my
legs can carry it,"says he; "but what kills me intirely," says he, "is the wakeness in myleg," says he, "an' I want you to give it a pull or two to bring it toshape," says he, "and that's the long an' the short iv it," says he.

  '"Oh, plase your honour," says my father (for he didn't like to handlethe sperit at all), "I wouldn't have the impidence to do the likes toyour honour," says he; "it's only to poor crathurs like myself I'd do itto," says he.

  '"None iv your blarney," says the squire. "Here's my leg," says he,cockin' it up to him--"pull it for the bare life," says he; an'"if youdon't, by the immortial powers I'll not lave a bone in your carcish I'llnot powdher," says he.

  'When my father heerd that, he seen there was no use in purtendin',so he tuk hould iv the leg, an' he kep' pullin' an' pullin', till thesweat, God bless us, beginned to pour down his face.

  '"Pull, you divil!" says the squire.

  '"At your sarvice, your honour," says my father.

  "'Pull harder," says the squire.

  'My father pulled like the divil.

  '"I'll take a little sup," says the squire, rachin' over his hand to thebottle, "to keep up my courage," says he, lettin' an to be very wake inhimself intirely. But, as cute as he was, he was out here, for he tukthe wrong one. "Here's to your good health, Terence," says he; "an' nowpull like the very divil." An' with that he lifted the bottle of holywather, but it was hardly to his mouth, whin he let a screech out, you'dthink the room id fairly split with it, an' made one chuck that sent theleg clane aff his body in my father's hands. Down wint the squire overthe table, an' bang wint my father half-way across the room on his back,upon the flure. Whin he kem to himself the cheerful mornin' sun wasshinin' through the windy shutthers, an' he was lying flat an his back,with the leg iv one of the great ould chairs pulled clane out iv thesocket an' tight in his hand, pintin' up to the ceilin', an' ould Larryfast asleep, an' snorin' as loud as ever. My father wint that mornin' toFather Murphy, an' from that to the day of his death, he never neglectedconfission nor mass, an' what he tould was betther believed that hespake av it but seldom. An', as for the squire, that is the sperit,whether it was that he did not like his liquor, or by rason iv the lossiv his leg, he was never known to walk agin.'