The Purcell Papers, vol 1 | Page 9

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 bonesetter
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