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 arduous dutiesof a parish priest in the south of Ireland, I met with the followingdocument. It is one of many such, for he was a curious and industriouscollector of old local traditions--a commodity in which the quarter wherehe resided mightily abounded. The collection and arrangement of suchlegends was, as long as I can remember him, his hobby; but I had neverlearned that his love of the marvellous and whimsical had carried him sofar as to prompt him to commit the results of his enquiries to writing,until, in the character of residuary legatee, his will put me inpossession of all his manuscript papers. To such as may think thecomposing of such productions as these inconsistent with the characterand habits of a country priest, it is necessary to observe, that theredid exist a race of priests--those of the old school, a race now nearlyextinct--whose habits were from many causes more refined, and whosetastes more literary than are those of the alumni of Maynooth.It is perhaps necessary to add that the superstition illustrated by thefollowing story, namely, that the corpse last buried is obliged, duringhis juniority of interment, to supply his brother tenants of thechurchyard in which he lies, with fresh water to allay the burning thirstof purgatory, is prevalent throughout the south of Ireland. The writercan vouch for a case in which a respectable and wealthy farmer, on theborders of Tipperary, in tenderness to the corns of his departedhelpmate, enclosed in her coffin two pair of brogues, a light and aheavy, the one for dry, the other for sloppy weather; seeking thus tomitigate the fatigues of her inevitable perambulations in procuringwater, and administering it to the thirsty souls of purgatory. Fierce anddesperate 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 show howstrongly, 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,in the 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 bigwords, in the course of this narrative, more distinguished foreuphonious effect, than for correctness of application. I proceedthen, without further preface, to lay before you the wonderfuladventures of Terry Neil."Why, thin, 'tis a quare story, an' as thrue as you're sittin' there; andI'd make bould to say there isn't a boy in the seven parishes could tellit 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 man gotinto any unlucky throuble, he was the boy id go into the court an' prove;but that dosen't signify--he was as honest and as sober a man, barrin' hewas a little bit too partial to the glass, as you'd find in a day's walk;an' there wasn't the likes of him in the counthry round for natelabourin' an' baan diggin'; and he was mighty handy entirely forcarpenther's work, and mendin' ould spudethrees, an' the likes i' that.An' so he tuck up with bone-setting, 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 bones knownin the memory of man. Well, Terry Neil, for that was my father's name,began to feel his heart growin' light and his purse heavy; an' he took abit iv a farm in Squire Phalim's ground, just undher the ould castle, an'a pleasant little spot it was; an' day an' mornin', poor crathurs notable to put a foot to the ground, with broken arms and broken legs, id becomin' ramblin' in from all quarters to have their bones spliced up.Well, yer honour, all this was as well as well could be; but it wascustomary when Sir Phelim id go any where out iv the country, for some ivthe tinants to sit up to watch in the ould castle, just for a kind of acompliment to the ould family--an' a mighty unpleasant compliment it wasfor the tinants, for there wasn't a man of them but knew there was something quare about the ould castle. The neighbours had it, that thesquire's ould grandfather, as good a gintleman, God be with him, as Iheer'd as ever stood in shoe leather, used to keep walkin' about in themiddle iv the night, ever sinst he bursted a blood vessel pullin' out acork out iv a bottle, as you or I might be doin', and will too, plaseGod; but that dosen't signify. So, as I was sayin', the ould squire usedto come down out of the frame, where his picthur was hung up, and tobrake the bottles and glasses, God be marciful to us all, an' dhrink allhe could come at--an' small blame to him for that same; and then if anyof the family id be comin' in, he id be up again in his place, looking asquite an' innocent as if he didn't know any thing about it--themischievous 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, some ofthe tenants had to sit up in the castle, and the third night it kem tomy father's turn. 'Oh, tare an ouns,' says he unto himself, 'an' must Isit up all night, and that ould vagabond of a sperit, glory be to God,'says he, 'serenading through the house, an' doin' all sorts ivmischief.' However, there was no gettin' aff, and so he put a bould faceon 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 the holy wather he sprinkled on himself, itwasn't long till he had to swallee a cup iv the pottieen, to keep thecowld out iv his heart. It was the ould steward, Lawrence Connor, thatopened the door--and he an' my father wor always very great. So when heseen who it was, an' my father tould him how it was his turn to watch inthe castle, he offered to sit up along with him; and you may be sure myfather wasn't sorry for that same. So says 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 the squire'spicthur 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 veryumproper 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 went 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 beginn'd to talk, an' to smoke,an' to dhrink a small taste iv the pottieen; and, moreover, they had agood rousing fire of 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 sleep."'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,' says he,'to keep out the parfume of the tibacky smoke, that's makin' themwather,' says he. 'So don't you mind other people's business,' says hestiff 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 pleasant 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 tould it,I believe there never was the likes heerd sinst nor before for he bawledout every word av it, as if the life was fairly leavin' him thrying tokeep ould Larry awake; but, faix, it was no use, for the hoorsness camean him, an' before he kem to the end of his story, Larry O'Connorbeginned 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 completely alone, an' that idbe 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 he isasleep,' 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 dhrunk 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 that hepulled a big arm-chair close beside Lawrence, an' settled himself in itas well as he could."But there was one quare thing I forgot to tell you. He couldn't help, inspite av himself, lookin' now an' thin at the picthur, an' he immediatelyobserved that the eyes av it was follyin' him about, an' starin' at him,an' winkin' at him, wherever he wint. 'Oh,' says he, when he seen that,'it's a poor chance I have,' says he; 'an' bad luck was with me the day Ikem into this unforthunate place,' says he; 'but any way there's no usein bein' freckened now,' says he; 'for if I am to die, I may as wellparspire 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 way thestorm was groanin' and creekin' through the great heavy branches outside,an' whistlin' through the ould chimnies iv the castle. Well, afther onegreat roarin' blast iv the wind, you'd think the walls iv the castle wasjust goin' to fall, quite an' clane, with the shakin' iv it. All av asuddint the storm stopt, as silent an' as quite as if it was a Julyevenin'. Well, your honour, it wasn't stopped blowin' for three minnites,before he thought he hard a sort iv a noise over the chimney-piece; an'with that my father just opened his eyes the smallest taste in life, an'sure enough he seen the ould squire gettin' out iv the picthur, for allthe world as if he was throwin' aff his ridin' coat, until he stept outclane an' complate, out av the chimly-piece, an' thrun himself down anthe floor. Well, the slieveen ould chap--an' my father thought it was thedirtiest turn iv all--before he beginned to do anything out iv the way,he stopped, for a while, to listen wor they both asleep; an' as soon ashe thought all was quite, he put out his hand, and tuck hould iv thewhiskey bottle, an' dhrank at laste a pint iv it. Well, your honour, whenhe tuck his turn out iv it, he settled it back mighty cute intirely, inthe very same spot it was in before. An' he beginn'd to walk up an' downthe room, lookin' as sober an' as solid as if he never done the likes atall. An' whinever he went apast my father, he thought he felt a greatscent of brimstone, an' it was that that freckened him entirely; for heknew it was brimstone that was burned in hell, savin' your presence. Atany rate, he often heer'd it from Father Murphy, an' he had a right toknow what belonged to it--he's dead since, God rest him. Well, yourhonour, my father was asy enough until the sperit kem past him; so close,God be marciful to us all, that the smell iv the sulphur tuck the breathclane out iv him; an' with that he tuck such a fit iv coughin', that ital-a-most shuck him out iv the chair 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 id lethim, for he was more dead than alive), 'an' it's proud I am to see yourhonour to-night,' says he."'Terence,' says the squire, 'you're a respectable man (an' it was thruefor him), an industhrious, sober man, an' an example of inebriety to thewhole parish,' says he."'Thank your honour,' says my father, gettin' courage, 'you were always acivil 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 undher 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 likes ivyou, that I came up--down I mane,' says he--(an' as little as themistake was, my father tuck 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 big liefor him, but he could not help it)."'Well,' says the sperit, 'although I was as sober as most men--at lasteas most gintlemen'--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 I hada 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 wondher 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 oppositemy father; 'it's not my sowl that's annoyin' me most--I'm unasy on myright leg,' says he, 'that I bruck 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 fince that runs along by the glen.)"'I hope,' says my father, 'your honour's not unasy about thekillin' iv him?"'Hould your tongue, ye fool,' said the squire, 'an' I'll tell you whyI'm anasy an 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; 'forI must tell you,' says he, 'the people where I am is ancommonly fond ivcould wather, for there is nothin' betther to be had; an', moreover, theweather is hotter than is altogether plisint,' says he; 'and I'mappinted,' says he, 'to assist in carryin' the wather, an' gets a mightypoor share iv it myself,' says he, 'an' a mighty throublesome, warin' jobit is, I can tell you,' says he; 'for they're all iv them surprisinglydhry, an' dhrinks it as fast as my legs can carry it,' says he; 'but whatkills me intirely,' says he, 'is the wakeness in my leg,' says he, 'an' Iwant you to give it a pull or two to bring it to shape,' says he, 'andthat'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 impitence 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', sohe tuck hould iv the leg, an' he kept 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 tuckthe 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 he spakeav it but seldom. An', as for the squire, that is the sperit, whether itwas that he did not like his liquor, or by rason iv the loss iv his leg,he was never known to walk again."
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