The Purcell Papers, Volume 3

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THE
PURCELL PAPERS.

BY THE LATE
JOSEPH SHERIDAN LE FANU,
AUTHOR OF 'UNCLE SILAS.'

With a Memoir by
ALFRED PERCEVAL GRAVES

IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. III.

LONDON:
RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON,
Publishers in Ordinary to Her Majesty the Queen.
1880.

Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data

LeFanu, Joseph Sheridan, 1814-1873.

The Purcell papers.

Reprint of the 1880 ed. published by R. Bentley,
London.

I. Title.
PZ3.L518Pu5 [PR4879.L7] 823'.8 71-148813
ISBN 0-404-08880-5

Reprinted from an original copy in the collection of
the University of Chicago Library.

From the edition of 1880, London
First AMS edition published in 1975
Manufactured in the United States of America

International Standard Book Number:
Complete Set: 0-404-08880-5
Volume III: 0-404-08883-X

AMS PRESS INC.
NEW YORK, N. Y. 10003

CONTENTS OF VOL. III.
----

JIM SULIVAN'S ADVENTURES IN THE GREAT SNOW
A CHAPTER IN THE HISTORY OF A TYRONE FAMILY
AN ADVENTURE OF HARDRESS FITZGERALD, A ROYALIST CAPTAIN
'THE QUARE GANDER'
BILLY MALOWNEY'S TASTE OF LOVE AND GLORY

THE PURCELL PAPERS.
----
JIM SULIVAN'S ADVENTURES IN THE GREAT SNOW.

Being a Ninth Extract from the Legacy of the late Francis
Purcell, P.P. of Drumcoolagh.

Jim Sulivan was a dacent,
honest boy as you'd find in the
seven parishes, an' he was a
beautiful singer, an' an illegant dancer
intirely, an' a mighty plisant boy in
himself; but he had the divil's bad luck, for
he married for love, an 'av coorse he niver
had an asy minute afther.

Nell Gorman was the girl he fancied, an'
a beautiful slip of a girl she was, jist twinty
to the minute when he married her. She
was as round an' as complate in all her
shapes as a firkin, you'd think, an' her two
cheeks was as fat an' as red, it id open your
heart to look at them.

But beauty is not the thing all through,
an' as beautiful as she was she had the
divil's tongue, an' the divil's timper, an'
the divil's behaviour all out; an' it was
impossible for him to be in the house with
her for while you'd count tin without havin'
an argymint, an' as sure as she riz an
argymint with him she'd hit him a wipe
iv a skillet or whatever lay next to her
hand.

Well, this wasn't at all plasin' to Jim
Sulivan you may be sure, an' there was
scarce a week that his head wasn't
plasthered up, or his back bint double, or his
nose swelled as big as a pittaty, with the
vilence iv her timper, an' his heart was
scalded everlastin'ly with her tongue; so
he had no pace or quietness in body or soul
at all at all, with the way she was goin'
an.

Well, your honour, one cowld snowin'
evenin' he kim in afther his day's work
regulatin' the men in the farm, an' he sat
down very quite by the fire, for he had
a scrimmidge with her in the mornin', an'
all he wanted was an air iv the fire in pace;
so divil a word he said but dhrew a stool
an' sat down close to the fire. Well, as
soon as the woman saw him,

'Move aff,' says she, 'an' don't be
inthrudin' an the fire,' says she.

Well, he kept never mindin', an' didn't
let an' to hear a word she was sayin', so
she kim over an' she had a spoon in her
hand, an' she took jist the smallest taste
in life iv the boilin' wather out iv the pot,
an' she dhropped it down an his shins, an'
with that he let a roar you'd think the
roof id fly aff iv the house.

'Hould your tongue, you barbarrian,'
says she; 'you'll waken the child,' says
she.

'An' if I done right,' says he, for the
spoonful of boilin' wather riz him entirely,
'I'd take yourself,' says he, 'an' I'd stuff
you into the pot an the fire, an' boil you.'
says he, 'into castor oil,' says he.

'That's purty behavour,' says she; 'it's
fine usage you're givin' me, isn't it?' says
she, gettin' wickeder every minute; 'but
before I'm boiled,' says she, 'thry how you
like THAT,' says she; an', sure enough, before
he had time to put up his guard, she hot
him a rale terrible clink iv the iron spoon
acrass the jaw.

'Hould me, some iv ye, or I'll murdher
her,' says he.

'Will you?' says she, an' with that she
hot him another tin times as good as the
first.

'By jabers,' says he, slappin' himself
behind, 'that's the last salute you'll ever
give me,' says he; 'so take my last blessin','
says he, 'you ungovernable baste!' says
he--an' with that he pulled an his hat an'
walked out iv the door.

Well, she never minded a word he said,
for he used to say the same thing all as one
every time she dhrew blood; an' she
had no expectation at all but he'd come
back by the time supper id be ready; but
faix the story didn't go quite so simple this
time, for while he was walkin', lonesome
enough, down the borheen, with his heart
almost broke with the pain, for his shins
an' his jaw was mighty troublesome, av
course, with the thratement he got, who
did he see but Mick Hanlon, his uncle's
sarvint by, ridin' down, quite an asy, an the
ould black horse, with a halter as long as
himself.

'Is that Mr. Soolivan?' says the by.
says he, as soon as he saw him a good
bit aff.

'To be sure it is, ye spalpeen, you,' says
Jim, roarin' out; 'what do you want wid
me this time a-day?' says he.

'Don't you know me?' says the gossoon,
'it's Mick Hanlon that's in it,' says
he.

'Oh, blur an agers, thin, it's welcome
you are, Micky asthore,' says Jim; 'how
is all wid the man an' the woman beyant?'
says he.

'Oh!' says Micky, 'bad enough,' says
he; 'the ould man's jist aff, an' if you don't
hurry like shot,' says he, 'he'll be in glory
before you get there,' says he.

'It's jokin' ye are,' says Jim, sorrowful
enough, for he was mighty partial to his
uncle intirely.

'Oh, not in the smallest taste,' says
Micky; 'the breath was jist out iv him,'
says he, 'when I left the farm. "An'," says
he, "take the ould black horse," says he,
"for he's shure-footed for the road," says
he, "an' bring, Jim Soolivan here," says he,
"for I think I'd die asy af I could see him
onst,' says he.'

'Well,' says Jim, 'will I have time,' says
he, 'to go back to the house, for it would
be a consolation,' says he, 'to tell the bad
news to the woman?' says he.

'It's too late you are already,' says
Micky, 'so come up behind me, for God's
sake,' says he, 'an' don't waste time;' an'
with that he brought the horse up beside
the ditch, an' Jim Soolivan mounted up
behind Micky, an' they rode off; an' tin
good miles it was iv a road, an' at the other
side iv Keeper intirely; an' it was snowin'
so fast that the ould baste could hardly go
an at all at all, an' the two bys an his back
was jist like a snowball all as one, an'
almost fruz an' smothered at the same time,
your honour; an' they wor both mighty
sorrowful intirely, an' their toes almost
dhroppin' aff wid the could.

And when Jim got to the farm his uncle
was gettin' an illegantly, an' he was sittin'
up sthrong an' warm in the bed, an' im-
provin' every minute, an' no signs av dyin'
an him at all at all; so he had all his
throuble for nothin'.

But this wasn't all, for the snow kem
so thick that it was impassible to get along
the roads at all at all; an' faix, instead iv
gettin' betther, next mornin' it was only tin
times worse; so Jim had jist to take it asy,
an' stay wid his uncle antil such times as the
snow id melt.

Well, your honour, the evenin' Jim
Soolivan wint away, whin the dark was closin'
in, Nell Gorman, his wife, beginned to get
mighty anasy in herself whin she didn't see
him comin' back at all; an' she was gettin'
more an' more frightful in herself every
minute till the dark kem an, an' divil a
taste iv her husband was coming at all at
all.

'Oh!' says she, 'there's no use in pur-
tendin', I know he's kilt himself; he has
committed infantycide an himself,' says she,
'like a dissipated bliggard as he always
was,' says she, 'God rest his soul. Oh,
thin, isn't it me an' not you, Jim Soolivan,
that's the unforthunate woman,' says she,
'for ain't I cryin' here, an' isn't he in
heaven, the bliggard,' says she. 'Oh, voh,
voh, it's not at home comfortable with your
wife an' family that you are, Jim Soolivan,'
says she, 'but in the other world, you
aumathaun, in glory wid the saints I hope,' says
she. 'It's I that's the unforthunate famale,'
says she, 'an' not yourself, Jim Soolivan,'
says she.

An' this way she kep' an till mornin',
cryin' and lamintin; an' wid the first light
she called up all the sarvint bys, an' she
tould them to go out an' to sarch every inch
iv ground to find the corpse, 'for I'm sure,'
says she, 'it's not to go hide himself he
would,' says she.

Well, they went as well as they could,
rummagin' through the snow, antil, at last,
what should they come to, sure enough, but
the corpse of a poor thravelling man, that
fell over the quarry the night before by
rason of the snow and some liquor he had,
maybe; but, at any rate, he was as dead as a
herrin', an' his face was knocked all to pieces
jist like an over-boiled pitaty, glory be to
God; an' divil a taste iv a nose or a chin, or
a hill or a hollow from one end av his face
to the other but was all as flat as a pancake.
An' he was about Jim Soolivan's size,
an' dhressed out exactly the same, wid a
ridin' coat an' new corderhoys; so they
carried him home, an' they were all as sure as
daylight it was Jim Soolivan himself, an'
they were wondhering he'd do sich a
dirty turn as to go kill himself for
spite.

Well, your honour, they waked him as
well as they could, with what neighbours
they could git togither, but by rason iv the
snow, there wasn't enough gothered to make
much divarsion; however it was a plisint
wake enough, an' the churchyard an' the
priest bein' convanient, as soon as the
youngsthers had their bit iv fun and divarsion
out iv the corpse, they burried it without
a great dale iv throuble; an' about three
days afther the berrin, ould Jim Mallowney,
from th'other side iv the little hill, her own
cousin by the mother's side--he had a snug
bit iv a farm an' a house close by, by the
same token--kem walkin' in to see how she
was in her health, an' he dhrew a chair, an'
he sot down an' beginned to convarse her
about one thing an' another, antil he got
her quite an' asy into middlin' good
humour, an' as soon as he seen it was
time:

'I'm wondherin', says he, 'Nell Gorman,
sich a handsome, likely girl, id be thinkin'
iv nothin' but lamintin' an' the likes,' says
he, 'an' lingerin' away her days without
any consolation, or gettin' a husband,' says
he.

'Oh,' says she, 'isn't it only three days
since I burried the poor man,' says she, 'an'
isn't it rather soon to be talkin iv marryin'
agin?'

'Divil a taste,' says he, 'three days is jist
the time to a minute for cryin' afther a husband,
an' there's no occasion in life to be
keepin' it up,' says he; 'an' besides all that,'
says he, 'Shrovetide is almost over, an' if
you don't be sturrin' yourself an' lookin'
about you, you'll be late,' says he, 'for this
year at any rate, an' that's twelve months
lost; an' who's to look afther the farm all
that time,' says he, 'an' to keep the men to
their work?' says he.

'It's thrue for you, Jim Mallowney,' says
she, 'but I'm afeard the neighbours will be
all talkin' about it,' says she.

'Divil's cure to the word,' says he.

'An' who would you advise?' says she.

'Young Andy Curtis is the boy,' says
he.

'He's a likely boy in himself,' says she.

'An' as handy a gossoon as is out,'
says he.

'Well, thin, Jim Mallowney,' says she,
'here's my hand, an' you may be talkin'
to Andy Curtis, an' if he's willin' I'm
agreeble--is that enough?' says she.

So with that he made off with himself
straight to Andy Curtis; an' before three days
more was past, the weddin' kem an, an'
Nell Gorman an' Andy Curtis was married
as complate as possible; an' if the wake
was plisint the weddin' was tin times as
agreeble, an' all the neighbours that could
make their way to it was there, an' there
was three fiddlers an' lots iv pipers, an'
ould Connor Shamus[1] the piper himself
was in it--by the same token it was the
last weddin' he ever played music at, for
the next mornin', whin he was goin' home,
bein' mighty hearty an' plisint in himself,
he was smothered in the snow, undher the
ould castle; an' by my sowl he was a sore
loss to the bys an' girls twenty miles round,
for he was the illigantest piper, barrin' the
liquor alone, that ever worked a bellas.

[1] Literally, Cornelius James--the last name
employed as a patronymic. Connor is commonly used.
Corney, pronounced Kurny, is just as much used in
the South, as the short name for Cornelius.

Well, a week passed over smart enough,
an' Nell an' her new husband was mighty
well continted with one another, for it was
too soon for her to begin to regulate him
the way she used with poor Jim Soolivan,
so they wor comfortable enough; but this
was too good to last, for the thaw kem an,
an' you may be sure Jim Soolivan didn't
lose a minute's time as soon as the heavy
dhrift iv snow was melted enough between
him and home to let him pass, for he didn't
hear a word iv news from home sinst he
lift it, by rason that no one, good nor bad,
could thravel at all, with the way the snow
was dhrifted.

So one night, when Nell Gorman an' her
new husband, Andy Curtis, was snug an'
warm in bed, an' fast asleep, an' everything
quite, who should come to the door,
sure enough, but Jim Soolivan himself,
an' he beginned flakin' the door wid a big
blackthorn stick he had, an' roarin' out like
the divil to open the door, for he had a
dhrop taken.

'What the divil's the matther?' says
Andy Curtis, wakenin' out iv his sleep.

'Who's batin' the door?' says Nell;
'what's all the noise for?' says she.

'Who's in it?' says Andy.

'It's me,' says Jim.

'Who are you?' says Andy; 'what's
your name?'

'Jim Soolivan,' says he.

'By jabers, you lie,' says Andy.

'Wait till I get at you,' says Jim, hittin'
the door a lick iv the wattle you'd hear half
a mile off.

'It's him, sure enough,' says Nell; 'I
know his speech; it's his wandherin' sowl
that can't get rest, the crass o' Christ betune
us an' harm.'

'Let me in,' says Jim, 'or I'll dhrive the
door in a top iv yis.'

'Jim Soolivan--Jim Soolivan,' says Nell,
sittin' up in the bed, an' gropin' for a quart
bottle iv holy wather she used to hang by
the back iv the bed, 'don't come in, darlin'
--there's holy wather here,' says she; 'but
tell me from where you are is there
anything that's throublin' your poor sinful
sowl?' says she. 'An' tell me how many
masses 'ill make you asy, an' by this crass,
I'll buy you as many as you want,' says she.

'I don't know what the divil you mane,'
says Jim.

'Go back,' says she, 'go back to glory,
for God's sake,' says she.

'Divil's cure to the bit iv me 'ill go back
to glory, or anywhere else,' says he, 'this
blessed night; so open the door at onst'
an' let me in,' says he.

'The Lord forbid,' says she.

'By jabers, you'd betther,' says he, 'or
it 'ill be the worse for you,' says he; an'
wid that he fell to wallopin' the door till
he was fairly tired, an' Andy an' his wife
crassin' themselves an' sayin' their prayers
for the bare life all the time.

'Jim Soolivan,' says she, as soon as he
was done, 'go back, for God's sake, an'
don't be freakenin' me an' your poor fatherless
childhren,' says she.

'Why, you bosthoon, you,' says Jim,
'won't you let your husband in,' says he,
'to his own house?' says he.

'You WOR my husband, sure enough,'
says she, 'but it's well you know, Jim
Soolivan, you're not my husband NOW,' says
she.

'You're as dhrunk as can be consaved,
says Jim.

'Go back, in God's name, pacibly to
your grave,' says Nell.

'By my sowl, it's to my grave you'll
sind me, sure enough,' says he, 'you hard-
hearted bain', for I'm jist aff wid the cowld,'
says he.

'Jim Sulivan,' says she, 'it's in your
dacent coffin you should be, you unforthunate
sperit,' says she; 'what is it's
annoyin' your sowl, in the wide world, at
all?' says she; 'hadn't you everything
complate?' says she, 'the oil, an' the wake,
an' the berrin'?' says she.

'Och, by the hoky,' says Jim, 'it's too
long I'm makin' a fool iv mysilf, gostherin'
wid you outside iv my own door,' says
he, 'for it's plain to be seen,' says he,
'you don't know what your're sayin', an'
no one ELSE knows what you mane, you
unforthunate fool,' says he; 'so, onst for
all, open the door quietly,' says he, 'or,
by my sowkins, I'll not lave a splinther
together,' says he.

Well, whin Nell an' Andy seen he was
getting vexed, they beginned to bawl out
their prayers, with the fright, as if the life
was lavin' them; an' the more he bate the
door, the louder they prayed, until at last
Jim was fairly tired out.

'Bad luck to you,' says he; 'for
a rale divil av a woman,' says he. I
'can't get any advantage av you, any
way; but wait till I get hould iv you,
that's all,' says he. An' he turned aff from
the door, an' wint round to the cow-house,
an' settled himself as well as he could, in
the sthraw; an' he was tired enough wid
the thravellin' he had in the day-time, an'
a good dale bothered with what liquor he
had taken; so he was purty sure of sleepin'
wherever he thrun himself.

But, by my sowl, it wasn't the same way
with the man an' the woman in the house--
for divil a wink iv sleep, good or bad, could
they get at all, wid the fright iv the sperit,
as they supposed; an' with the first light
they sint a little gossoon, as fast as he
could wag, straight off, like a shot, to the
priest, an' to desire him, for the love o'
God, to come to them an the minute, an'
to bring, if it was plasin' to his raverence,
all the little things he had for sayin' mass,
an' savin' sowls, an' banishin' sperits, an'
freakenin' the divil, an' the likes iv that.
An' it wasn't long till his raverence kem
down, sure enough, on the ould grey mare,
wid the little mass-boy behind him, an' the
prayer-books an' Bibles, an' all the other
mystarious articles that was wantin', along
wid him; an' as soon as he kem in, 'God
save all here,' says he.

'God save ye, kindly, your raverence,'
says they.

'An' what's gone wrong wid ye?' says
he; 'ye must be very bad,' says he,'
entirely, to disturb my devotions,' says he,
'this way, jist at breakfast-time,' says
he.

'By my sowkins,' says Nell, 'it's bad
enough we are, your raverence,' says she,
'for it's poor Jim's sperit,' says she; 'God
rest his sowl, wherever it is,' says she, 'that
was wandherin' up an' down, opossite the
door all night,' says she, 'in the way it
was no use at all, thryin' to get a wink iv
sleep,' says she.

'It's to lay it, you want me, I suppose,'
says the priest.

'If your raverence 'id do that same, it
'id be plasin' to us,' says Andy.

'It'll be rather expinsive,' says the
priest.

'We'll not differ about the price, your
raverence,' says Andy.

'Did the sperit stop long?' says the
priest.

'Most part iv the night,' says Nell,
'the Lord be merciful to us all!' says
she.

'That'll make it more costly than I
thought,' says he. 'An' did it make much
noise?' says he.

'By my sowl, it's it that did,' says
Andy; 'leatherin' the door wid sticks and
stones,' says he, 'antil I fairly thought
every minute,' says he, 'the ould boords
id smash, an' the sperit id be in an top
iv us--God bless us,' says he.

'Phiew!' says the priest; 'it'll cost a
power iv money.'

'Well, your raverence,' says Andy, 'take
whatever you like,' says he; 'only make
sure it won't annoy us any more,' says
he.

'Oh! by my sowkins,' says the priest,
'it'll be the quarest ghost in the siven
parishes,' says he, 'if it has the courage to
come back,' says he, 'afther what I'll do
this mornin', plase God,' says he; 'so we'll
say twelve pounds; an' God knows it's
chape enough,' says he, 'considherin' all
the sarcumstances,' says he.

Well, there wasn't a second word to
the bargain; so they paid him the money
down, an' he sot the table doun like an
althar, before the door, an' he settled it out
vid all the things he had wid him; an'
he lit a bit iv a holy candle, an' he scathered
his holy wather right an' left; an' he took
up a big book, an' he wint an readin'
for half an hour, good; an' whin he kem
to the end, he tuck hould iv his little bell,
and he beginned to ring it for the bare
life; an', by my sowl, he rung it so well,
that he wakened Jim Sulivan in the cow-
house, where he was sleepin', an' up he
jumped, widout a minute's delay, an' med
right for the house, where all the family,
an' the priest, an' the little mass-boy was
assimbled, layin' the ghost; an' as soon
as his raverence seen him comin' in at the
door, wid the fair fright, he flung the bell
at his head, an' hot him sich a lick iv it
in the forehead, that he sthretched him on
the floor; but fain; he didn't wait to ax
any questions, but he cut round the table
as if the divil was afther him, an' out at the
door, an' didn't stop even as much as to
mount an his mare, but leathered away
down the borheen as fast as his legs could
carry him, though the mud was up to his
knees, savin' your presence.

Well, by the time Jim kem to himself,
the family persaved the mistake, an' Andy
wint home, lavin' Nell to make the explanation.
An' as soon as Jim heerd it all, he
said he was quite contint to lave her to
Andy, entirely; but the priest would not
hear iv it; an' he jist med him marry his
wife over again, an' a merry weddin' it
was, an' a fine collection for his raverence.
An' Andy was there along wid the rest,
an' the priest put a small pinnance upon
him, for bein' in too great a hurry to marry
a widdy.

An' bad luck to the word he'd allow
anyone to say an the business, ever after,
at all, at all; so, av coorse, no one offinded
his raverence, by spakin' iv the twelve
pounds he got for layin' the sperit.

An' the neighbours wor all mighty
well plased, to be sure, for gettin' all the
divarsion of a wake, an' two weddin's for
nothin'

A CHAPTER IN THE HISTORY OF A TYRONE FAMILY

Being a Tenth Extract from the Legacy of the late Francis
Purcell, P.P. of Drumcoolagh.

INTRODUCTION.

In the following narrative, I have
endeavoured to give as nearly
as possible the ipsissima verba
of the valued friend from whom I received
it, conscious that any aberration from HER
mode of telling the tale of her own life
would at once impair its accuracy and its
effect.

Would that, with her words, I could
also bring before you her animated gesture,
her expressive countenance, the solemn and
thrilling air and accent with which she
related the dark passages in her strange
story; and, above all, that I could
communicate the impressive consciousness that
the narrator had seen with her own eyes,
and personally acted in the scenes which
she described; these accompaniments, taken
with the additional circumstance that she
who told the tale was one far too deeply
and sadly impressed with religious principle
to misrepresent or fabricate what she
repeated as fact, gave to the tale a depth
of interest which the events recorded could
hardly, themselves, have produced.

I became acquainted with the lady from
whose lips I heard this narrative nearly
twenty years since, and the story struck
my fancy so much that I committed it to
paper while it was still fresh in my mind;
and should its perusal afford you entertainment
for a listless half hour, my labour
shall not have been bestowed in vain.

I find that I have taken the story down
as she told it, in the first person, and
perhaps this is as it should be.

She began as follows:

My maiden name was Richardson,[1] the
designation of a family of some distinction
in the county of Tyrone. I was the
younger of two daughters, and we were
the only children. There was a difference
in our ages of nearly six years, so that I
did not, in my childhood, enjoy that close
companionship which sisterhood, in other
circumstances, necessarily involves; and
while I was still a child, my sister was
married.

[1] I have carefully altered the names as they appear
in the original MSS., for the reader will see that some
of the circumstances recorded are not of a kind to
reflect honour upon those involved in them; and as
many are still living, in every way honoured and
honourable, who stand in close relation to the principal actors
in this drama, the reader will see the necessity of the
course which we have adopted.

The person upon whom she bestowed
her hand was a Mr. Carew, a gentleman
of property and consideration in the north
of England.

I remember well the eventful day of the
wedding; the thronging carriages, the noisy
menials, the loud laughter, the merry faces,
and the gay dresses. Such sights were
then new to me, and harmonised ill with
the sorrowful feelings with which I
regarded the event which was to separate
me, as it turned out, for ever from a sister
whose tenderness alone had hitherto more
than supplied all that I wanted in my
mother's affection.

The day soon arrived which was to
remove the happy couple from Ashtown
House. The carriage stood at the hall-
door, and my poor sister kissed me again
and again, telling me that I should see
her soon.

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