The Ghost and the Bone Setter- by Le Fanu

The Ghost and The Bone Setter. 

Excerpted from The Purcell Papers, Vol.1, by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu

Bloggers Note: Joseph Sheridan LeFanu, is to this day, considered one of the greatest authors of ghost stories. What Bram Stoker did for vampires, fellow Irishman Le Fanu did for ghosts   and he did it in the mid 1800’s. He did write about vampires as well and even wrote a novella  about a female vampire, Carmilla, that predates Stoker’s Dracula by 25 years. 
Thanks to the Gutenberg Project for keeping these texts alive!

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

duties of a parish priest in the south of Ireland, I met with the

following document. It is one of many such; for he was a curious and

industrious collector of old local traditions--a commodity in which

the quarter where he resided mightily abounded. The collection and

arrangement of such legends was, as long as I can remember him, his

hobby; but I had never learned that his love of the marvellous and

whimsical had carried him so far as to prompt him to commit the results

of his inquiries to writing, until, in the character of residuary

legatee, his will put me in possession of all his manuscript papers.

To such as may think the composing of such productions as these

inconsistent with the character and habits of a country priest, it is

necessary to observe, that there did exist a race of priests--those of

the old school, a race now nearly extinct--whose education abroad tended

to produce in them tastes more literary than have yet been evinced by

the alumni of Maynooth.

It is perhaps necessary to add that the superstition illustrated by the

following story, namely, that the corpse last buried is obliged,

during his juniority of interment, to supply his brother tenants of

the churchyard in which he lies, with fresh water to allay the burning

thirst of purgatory, is prevalent throughout the south of Ireland.

The writer can vouch for a case in which a respectable and wealthy

farmer, on the borders of Tipperary, in tenderness to the corns of his

departed helpmate, enclosed in her coffin two pair of brogues, a light

and a heavy, the one for dry, the other for sloppy weather; seeking thus

to mitigate the fatigues of her inevitable perambulations in procuring

water and administering it to the thirsty souls of purgatory. Fierce

and desperate conflicts have ensued in the case of two funeral parties

approaching the same churchyard together, each endeavouring to secure to

his own dead priority of sepulture, and a consequent immunity from the

tax levied upon the pedestrian powers of the last-comer. An instance not

long since occurred, in which one of two such parties, through fear of

losing to their deceased friend this inestimable advantage, made their

way to the churchyard by a short cut, and, in violation of one of their

strongest prejudices, actually threw the coffin over the wall, lest time

should be lost in making their entrance through the gate. Innumerable

instances of the same kind might be quoted, all tending to show

how strongly among the peasantry of the south this superstition is

entertained. However, I shall not detain the reader further by any

prefatory remarks, but shall proceed to lay before him the following:

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

Drumcoolagh.

 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 he

was what is termed a well-spoken man, having for a considerable time

instructed the ingenious youth of his native parish in such of the

liberal arts and sciences as he found it convenient to profess--a

circumstance which may account for the occurrence of several big words

in the course of this narrative, more distinguished for euphonious

effect than for correctness of application. I proceed then, without

further preface, to lay before you the wonderful adventures of Terry

Neil.

  

'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 could

tell it better nor crickther than myself, for 'twas my father himself it

happened to, an' many's the time I heerd it out iv his own mouth; an' I

can say, an' I'm proud av that same, my father's word was as incredible

as any squire's oath in the counthry; and so signs an' if a poor man

got 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 a

day's walk; an' there wasn't the likes of him in the counthry round for

nate labourin' an' baan diggin'; and he was mighty handy entirely for

carpenther'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 of

them 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

known in 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 a bit iv a farm in Squire Phelim's ground, just undher the ould

castle, an' a pleasant little spot it was; an' day an' mornin' poor

crathurs not able to put a foot to the ground, with broken arms and

broken legs, id be comin' 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 was customary when Sir Phelim id go anywhere out iv the

country, 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 unplisant

compliment it was for 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 the squire's ould grandfather, as good a gintlenlan--God

be with him--as I heer'd, as ever stood in shoe-leather, used to keep

walkin' about in the middle iv the night, ever sinst he bursted a blood

vessel 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 picthur

was hung up, and to break the bottles and glasses--God be marciful to us

all--an' dthrink all he could come at--an' small blame to him for that

same; and then if any of the family id be comin' in, he id be up again

in his place, looking as quite an' as innocent as if he didn't know

anything about it--the mischievous ould chap.

'Well, your honour, as I was sayin', one time the family up at the

castle was stayin' in Dublin for a week or two; and so, as usual, some

of the tinants had to sit up in the castle, and the third night it kem

to 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 be

to God," says he, "serenadin' through the house, an' doin' all sorts iv

mischief?" However, there was no gettin' aff, and so he put a bould

face on it, an' he went up at nightfall with a bottle of pottieen, and

another 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 holy

wather he sprinkled on himself, it wasn't long till he had to swally a

cup iv the pottieen, to keep the cowld out iv his heart. It was the ould

steward, Lawrence Connor, that opened the door--and he an' my father wor

always very great. So when he seen who it was, an' my father tould him

how it was his turn to watch in the castle, he offered to sit up along

with him; and you may be sure my father 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's picthur was hung in the parlour.

'"No fire can be lit in the hall," says Lawrence, "for there's an ould

jackdaw's nest in the chimney."

'"Oh thin," says my father, "let us stop in the kitchen, for it's very

unproper 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 ould

custom 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 so

down they both wint to the kitchen, until the fire id be lit in the

parlour--an' that same wasn't long doin'.

'Well, your honour, they soon wint up again, an' sat down mighty

comfortable by the parlour fire, and they beginned to talk, an' to

smoke, an' to dhrink a small taste iv the pottieen; and, moreover, they

had a good rousin' fire o' bogwood and turf, to warm their shins over.

'Well, sir, as I was sayin' they kep' convarsin' and smokin' together

most agreeable, until Lawrence beginn'd to get sleepy, as was but

nathural for him, for he was an ould sarvint man, and was used to a

great 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 o' the tibacky smoke, that's makin' them

wather," says he. "So don't you mind other people's business," says

he, stiff enough, for he had a mighty high stomach av his own (rest his

sowl), "and go on," says he, "with your story, for I'm listenin'," says

he, shuttin' down his eyes.

'Well, when my father seen spakin' was no use, he went on with his

story. By the same token, it was the story of Jim Soolivan and his ould

goat he was tellin'--an' a plisant story it is--an' there was so much

divarsion in it, that it was enough to waken a dormouse, let alone to

pervint 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 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 the

hoorsness came an him, an' before he kem to the end of his story Larry

O'Connor beginned to snore like a bagpipes.

'"Oh, blur an' agres," says my father, "isn't this a hard case," says

he, "that ould villain, lettin' on to be my friend, and to go asleep

this way, an' us both in the very room with a sperit," says he. "The

crass o' Christ about us!" says he; and with that he was goin' to shake

Lawrence to waken him, but he just remimbered if he roused him, that

he'd surely go off to his bed, an' lave him complately alone, an' that

id be by far worse.

'"Oh thin," says my father, "I'll not disturb the poor boy. It id be

neither friendly nor good-nathured," says he, "to tormint him while he

is 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 was

all 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 Larry

there. Maybe," says he, "if I thried I could go asleep;" an' with that

he pulled a big arm-chair close beside Lawrence, an' settled himself in

it as well as he could.

'But there was one quare thing I forgot to tell you. He couldn't

help, in spite av himself, lookin' now an' thin at the picthur, an' he

immediately 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 luck

was with me the day I kem into this unforthunate place," says he. "But

any way there's no use in bein' freckened now," says he; "for if I am to

die, I may as well parspire undaunted," says he.

'Well, your honour, he thried to keep himself quite an' asy, an' he

thought two or three times he might have wint asleep, but for the way

the storm was groanin' and creakin' through the great heavy branches

outside, an' whistlin' through the ould chimleys iv the castle. Well,

afther one great roarin' blast iv the wind, you'd think the walls iv the

castle 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 was

a July evenin'. Well, your honour, it wasn't stopped blowin' for

three minnites, before he thought he hard a sort iv a noise over the

chimley-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 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 beginned

to do anything out iv the way, he stopped for a while to listen wor they

both asleep; an' as soon as he thought all was quite, he put out his

hand and tuk hould iv the whisky bottle, an dhrank at laste a pint iv

it. Well, your honour, when he tuk his turn out iv it, he settled it

back 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 solid

as if he never done the likes at all. An' whinever he went apast my

father, he thought he felt a great scent of brimstone, an' it was that

that freckened him entirely; for he knew it was brimstone that was

burned in hell, savin' your presence. At any rate, he often heerd it

from Father Murphy, an' he had a right to know what belonged to it--he's

dead since, God rest him. Well, your honour, 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 tuk the breath clane out iv him; an' with that

he tuk such a fit iv coughin', that it al-a-most shuk him out iv the

chair he was sittin' in.

'"Ho, ho!" says the squire, stoppin' short about two steps aff, and

turnin' round facin' my father, "is it you that's in it?--an' how's all

with you, Terry Neil?"

'"At your honour's sarvice," says my father (as well as the fright id

let him, for he was more dead than alive), "an' it's proud I am to see

your honour to-night," says he.

'"Terence," says the squire, "you're a respectable man" (an' it was

thrue for him), "an industhrious, sober man, an' an example of inebriety

to the whole parish," says he.

'"Thank your honour," says my father, gettin' courage, "you were always

a civil spoken gintleman, God rest your honour."

'"REST my honour?" says the sperit (fairly gettin' red in the face with

the madness), "Rest my honour?" says he. "Why, you ignorant spalpeen,"

says he, "you mane, niggarly ignoramush," says he, "where did you lave

your 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 likes

iv you," says he, stampin' his foot an the flure, that you'd think the

boords 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's

not to be listenin' to your gosther, nor convarsin' with the likes

iv you, that I came UP--down I mane," says he--(an' as little as the

mistake was, my father tuk notice iv it). "Listen to me now, Terence

Neil," says he: "I was always a good masther to Pathrick Neil, your

grandfather," says he.

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

'"And, moreover, I think I was always a sober, riglar gintleman," says

the squire.

'"That's your name, sure enough," says my father (though it was a big

lie for him, but he could not help it).

'"Well," says the sperit, "although I was as sober as most men--at laste

as most gintlemin," says he; "an' though I was at different pariods a

most 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

had a right to expect," says he.

'"An' more's the pity," says my father. "Maybe your honour id wish to

have a word with Father Murphy?"

'"Hould your tongue, you misherable bliggard," says the squire; "it's

not iv my sowl I'm thinkin'--an' I wondther you'd have the impitence to

talk 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 to

the likes," says he. "It's not my sowl," says he, sittin' down opossite

my father; "it's not my sowl that's annoyin' me most--I'm unasy on my

right leg," says he, "that I bruk at Glenvarloch cover the day I killed

black Barney."

'My father found out afther, it was a favourite horse that fell undher

him, afther leapin' the big fence that runs along by the glin.

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

him?"

'"Hould your tongue, ye fool," said the squire, "an' I'll tell you why

I'm unasy on my leg," says he. "In the place, where I spend most iv my

time," says he, "except the little leisure I have for lookin' about me

here," says he, "I have to walk a great dale more than I was ever used

to," 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 ancommonly

fond 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' gets

a 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 them

surprisinly 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 my

leg," says he, "an' I want you to give it a pull or two to bring it to

shape," 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 handle

the sperit at all), "I wouldn't have the impidence to do the likes to

your honour," says he; "it's only to poor crathurs like myself I'd do it

to," 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 you

don't, by the immortial powers I'll not lave a bone in your carcish I'll

not 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 the

sweat, 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 the

bottle, "to keep up my courage," says he, lettin' an to be very wake in

himself intirely. But, as cute as he was, he was out here, for he tuk

the wrong one. "Here's to your good health, Terence," says he; "an' now

pull like the very divil." An' with that he lifted the bottle of holy

wather, but it was hardly to his mouth, whin he let a screech out, you'd

think the room id fairly split with it, an' made one chuck that sent the

leg clane aff his body in my father's hands. Down wint the squire over

the 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 was

shinin' 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 the

socket an' tight in his hand, pintin' up to the ceilin', an' ould Larry

fast asleep, an' snorin' as loud as ever. My father wint that mornin' to

Father Murphy, an' from that to the day of his death, he never neglected

confission nor mass, an' what he tould was betther believed that he

spake 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 loss

iv his leg, he was never known to walk agin.'