soul than Father Cuddy; he sung a good song, he told a good story, and
had a jolly, comfortable-looking paunch of his own, that was a credit
to any refectory table. He was distinguished above all the rest by the
name of “the fat father.” Now there are many that will take huff at a
name; but Father Cuddy had no nonsense of that kind about him; he
laughed at it—and well able he was to laugh, for his mouth nearly
reached from one ear to the other: his might, in truth, be called an
open countenance. As his paunch was no disgrace to his food, neither
was his nose to his drink. ’Tis a doubt to me if there were not more
carbuncles upon it than ever were seen at the bottom of the lake,
which is said to be full of them. His eyes had a right merry twinkle
in them, like moonshine dancing on the water; and his cheeks had the
roundness and crimson glow of ripe arbutus berries.
“He ate, and drank, and prayed, and slept.—What then?
He ate, and drank, and prayed, and slept again!”
Such was the tenor of his simple life: but when he prayed a certain
drowsiness would come upon him, which, it must be confessed, never
occurred when a well-filled “blackjack” stood before him. Hence his
prayers were short and his draughts were long. The world loved him,
and he saw no good reason why he should not in return love its venison
and usquebaugh. But, as times went, he must have been a pious man, or
else what befell him never would have happened.
Spiritual affairs—for it was respecting the importation of a tun of
wine into the island monastery—demanded the presence of one of the
brotherhood of Innisfallen at the abbey of Irelagh, now called
Mucruss. The superintendence of this important matter was committed to
Father Cuddy, who felt too deeply interested in the future welfare of
any community of which he was a member, to neglect or delay such
mission. With the morning’s light he was seen guiding his shallop
across the crimson waters of the lake towards the peninsula of
Mucruss; and having moored his little bark in safety beneath the
shelter of a wave-worn rock, he advanced with becoming dignity towards
the abbey.
The stillness of the bright and balmy hour was broken by the heavy
footsteps of the zealous father. At the sound the startled deer,
shaking the dew from their sides, sprung up from their lair, and as
they bounded off—“Hah!” exclaimed Cuddy, “what a noble haunch goes
there!—how delicious it would look smoking upon a goodly platter!”
As he proceeded, the mountain-bee hummed his tune of gladness around
the holy man, save when he buried in the foxglove bell, or revelling
upon a fragrant bunch of thyme; and even then the little voice
murmured out happiness in low and broken tones of voluptuous delight.
Father Cuddy derived no small comfort from the sound, for it presaged
a good metheglin season, and metheglin he regarded, if well
manufactured, to be no bad liquor, particularly when there was no
stint of usquebaugh in the brewing.
Arrived within the abbey garth, he was received with due respect by
the brethren of Irelagh, and arrangements for the embarkation of the
wine were completed to his entire satisfaction. “Welcome, Father
Cuddy,” said the prior: “grace be on you.”
“Grace before meat, then,” said Cuddy, “for a long walk always makes
me hungry, and I am certain I have not walked less than half a mile
this morning, to say nothing of crossing the water.”
A pasty of choice flavour felt the truth of this assertion, as
regarded Father Cuddy’s appetite. After such consoling repast, it
would have been a reflection on monastic hospitality to depart without
partaking of the grace-cup; moreover, Father Cuddy had a particular
respect for the antiquity of that custom. He liked the taste of the
grace-cup well:—he tried another,—it was no less excellent; and when
he had swallowed the third he found his heart expand, and put forth
its fibres, willing to embrace all mankind. Surely, then, there is
Christian love and charity in wine!
I said he sung a good song. Now though psalms are good songs, and in
accordance with his vocation, I did not mean to imply that he was a
mere psalm-singer. It was well known to the brethren, that wherever
Father Cuddy was, mirth and melody were with him; mirth in his eye and
melody on his tongue; and these, from experience, are equally well
known to be thirsty commodities; but he took good care never to let
them run dry. To please the brotherhood, whose excellent wine pleased
him, he sung, and as “_in vino veritas_” his song will well become
this veritable history.
CANTAT MONACHUS.
I.
Hoc erat in votis,
Et bene sufficerit totis
Si dum porto sacculum
Bonum esset ubique jentaculum!
Et si parvis
In arvis
Nullam
Invenero pullam,
Ovum gentiliter preæbebit recens
Puella decens.
Manu nec dabis invitâ
Flos vallium harum,
Decus puellarum,
Candida Marguerita!
THE FRIAR’S SONG.
I.
My vows I can never fulfil,
Until
I have breakfasted, one way or other;
And I freely protest,
That I never can rest
‘Till I borrow or beg
An egg,
Unless I can come at the ould hen, its mother.
But Maggy, my dear,
While you’re here,
I don’t fear
To want eggs that have just been laid newly;
For och! you’re a pearl
Of a girl,
And you’re called so in _Latin_ most truly.
II.
Me hora jucunda cœnæ
Dilectat bene,
Et rerum sine dubio grandium
Maxima est prandium:
Sed mihi crede,
In hâc æde,
Multo magis gaudeo,
Cum gallicantum audio,
In sinu tuo
Videns ova duo.
Oh semper me tractes ita!
Panibus de hordeo factis,
Et copiâ lactis,
Candida Margarita!
III.
There is most to my mind something that is still upper
Than supper,
Though it must be admitted I feel no way thinner
After dinner:
But soon as I hear the cock crow
In the morning,
That eggs you are bringing full surely I know,
By that warning,
While your buttermilk helps me to float
Down my throat
Those sweet cakes made of oat.
I don’t envy an earl,
Sweet girl,
Och, ’tis you are a beautiful pearl.
Such was his song. Father Cuddy smacked his lips at the recollection
of Margery’s delicious fried eggs, which always imparted a peculiar
relish to his liquor. The very idea provoked Cuddy to raise the cup to
his mouth, and with one hearty pull thereat he finished its contents.
This is, and ever was a censorious world, often construing what is
only a fair allowance into an excess: but I scorn to reckon up any
man’s drink, like an unrelenting host; therefore, I cannot tell how
many brimming draughts of wine, bedecked with _the venerable Bead_,
Father Cuddy emptied into his “soul-case,” so he figuratively termed
the body.
His respect for the goodly company of the monks of Irelagh detained
him until their adjournment to vespers, when he set forward on his
return to Innisfallen. Whether his mind was occupied in philosophic
contemplation or wrapped in pious musings, I cannot declare, but the
honest father wandered on in a different direction from that in which
his shallop lay. Far be it from me to insinuate that the good liquor,
which he had so commended caused him to forget his road, or that his
track was irregular and unsteady. Oh no!—he carried his drink
bravely, as became a decent man and a good Christian; yet somehow, he
thought he could distinguish two moons. “Bless my eyes,” said Father
Cuddy, “every thing is changing now-a-days!—the very stars are not in
the same places they used to be; I think _Camceachta_ (the Plough) is
driving on at a rate I never saw it before to-night; but I suppose the
driver is drunk, for there are blackguards every where.”
Cuddy had scarcely uttered these words, when he saw, or fancied he
saw, the form of a young woman, who, holding up a bottle, beckoned him
towards her. The night was extremely beautiful, and the white dress of
the girl floated gracefully in the moonlight, as with gay step she
tripped on before the worthy father, archly looking back upon him over
her shoulder.
“Ah, Margery, merry Margery!” cried Cuddy, “you tempting little rogue!
‘Flos vallium harum,
Decus puellarum,
Candida Margarita.’
“I see you, I see you and the bottle! let me but catch you, Candida
Margarita!” and on he followed, panting and smiling, after this
alluring apparition.
At length his feet grew weary, and his breath failed, which obliged
him to give up the chase; yet such was his piety, that unwilling to
rest in any attitude but that of prayer, down dropped Father Cuddy on
his knees. Sleep, as usual, stole upon his devotions; and the morning
was far advanced, when he awoke from dreams, in which tables groaned
beneath their load of viands, and wine poured itself free and
sparkling as the mountain spring.
Rubbing his eyes, he looked about him, and the more he looked the more
he wondered at the alteration which appeared in the face of the
country. “Bless my soul and body!” said the good father, “I saw the
stars changing last night, but here is a change!” Doubting his senses,
he looked again. The hills bore the same majestic outline as on the
preceding day, and the lake spread itself beneath his view in the same
tranquil beauty, and studded with the same number of islands; but
every smaller feature in the landscape was strangely altered. What had
been naked rocks were now clothed with holly and arbutus. Whole woods
had disappeared, and waste places had become cultivated fields; and,
to complete the work of enchantment, the very season itself seemed
changed. In the rosy dawn of a summer’s morning he had left the
monastery of Innisfallen, and he now felt in every sight and sound the
dreariness of winter. The hard ground was covered with withered
leaves; icicles depended from leafless branches; he heard the sweet
low note of the robin, who familiarly approached him; and he felt his
fingers numbed from the nipping frost. Father Cuddy found it rather
difficult to account for such sudden transformations, and to convince
himself it was not the illusion of a dream, he was about to rise, when
lo! he discovered that both his knees were buried at least six inches
in the solid stone; for, notwithstanding all these changes, he had
never altered his devout position.
Cuddy was now wide awake, and felt, when he got up, his joints sadly
cramped, which it was only natural they should be, considering the
hard texture of the stone, and the depth his knees had sunk into it.
But the great difficulty was to explain how, in one night, summer had
become winter, whole woods had been cut down, and well-grown trees had
sprouted up. The miracle, nothing else could he conclude it to be,
urged him to hasten his return to Innisfallen, where he might learn
some explanation of these marvellous events.
Seeing a boat moored within reach of the shore, he delayed not, in the
midst of such wonders, to seek his own bark, but, seizing the oars,
pulled stoutly towards the island; and here new wonders awaited him.
Father Cuddy waddled, as fast as cramped limbs could carry his rotund
corporation, to the gate of the monastery, where he loudly demanded
admittance.
“Holloa! whence come you, master monk, and what’s your business?”
demanded a stranger who occupied the porter’s place.
“Business!—my business!” repeated the confounded Cuddy,—“why, do you
not know me? Has the wine arrived safely?”
“Hence, fellow!” said the porter’s representative, in a surly tone;
“nor think to impose on me with your monkish tales.”
“Fellow!” exclaimed the father: “mercy upon us, that I should be so
spoken to at the gate of my own house!—Scoundrel!” cried Cuddy,
raising his voice, “do you not see my garb—my holy garb?”
“Ay, fellow,” replied he of the keys—“the garb of laziness and filthy
debauchery, which has been expelled from out these walls. Know you
not, idle knave, of the suppression of this nest of superstition, and
that the abbey lands and possessions were granted in August last to
Master Robert Collam, by our Lady Elizabeth, sovereign queen of
England, and paragon of all beauty—whom God preserve!”
“Queen of England!” said Cuddy; “there never was a sovereign queen of
England—this is but a piece with the rest. I saw how it was going
with the stars last night—the world’s turned upside down. But surely
this is Innisfallen island, and I am the Father Cuddy who yesterday
morning went over to the abbey of Irelagh, respecting the tun of wine.
Do you not know me now?”
“Know you!—how should I know you?” said the keeper of the abbey.
“Yet, true it is, that I have heard my grandmother, whose mother
remembered the man, often speak of the fat Father Cuddy of
Innisfallen, who made a profane and godless ballad in praise of fresh
eggs, of which he and his vile crew knew more than they did of the
word of God; and who, being drunk, it is said, tumbled into the lake
one night, and was drowned; but that must have been a hundred, ay,
more than a hundred years since.”
“’Twas I who composed that song in praise of Margery’s fresh eggs,
which is no profane and godless ballad—no other Father Cuddy than
myself ever belonged to Innisfallen,” earnestly exclaimed the holy
man. “A hundred years!—what was your great-grandmother’s name?”
“She was a Mahony of Dunlow—Margaret ni Mahony; and my grandmother—”
“What! merry Margery of Dunlow your great-grandmother!” shouted Cuddy.
“St. Brandon help me!—the wicked wench, with that tempting
bottle!—why, ’twas only last night—a hundred years!—your
great-grandmother, said you?—There has, indeed, been a strange torpor
over me; I must have slept all this time!”
That Father Cuddy had done so, I think is sufficiently proved by the
changes which occurred during his nap. A reformation, and a serious
one it was for him, had taken place. Pretty Margery’s fresh eggs were
no longer to be had in Innisfallen; and with a heart as heavy as his
footsteps, the worthy man directed his course towards Dingle, where he
embarked in a vessel on the point of sailing for Malaga. The rich wine
of that place had of old impressed him with a high respect for its
monastic establishments, in one of which he quietly wore out the
remainder of his days.
The stone impressed with the mark of Father Cuddy’s knees may be seen
to this day. Should any incredulous persons doubt my story, I request
them to go to Killarney, where Clough na Cuddy—so is the stone
called—remains in Lord Kenmare’s park, an indisputable evidence of
the fact. Spillane, the bugle-man, will be able to point it out to
them, as he did so to me; and here is my sketch by which they may
identify it.
THE GIANT’S STAIRS.
XL.
On the road between Passage and Cork there is an old mansion called
Ronayne’s Court. It may be easily known from the stack of chimneys and
the gable ends, which are to be seen, look at it which way you will.
Here it was that Maurice Ronayne and his wife Margaret Gould kept
house, as may be learned to this day from the great old chimney-piece,
on which is carved their arms. They were a mighty worthy couple, and
had but one son, who was called Philip, after no less a person than
the king of Spain.
Immediately on his smelling the cold air of this world the child
sneezed; and it was naturally taken to be a good sign of having a
clear head; but the subsequent rapidity of his learning was truly
amazing; for on the very first day a primer was put into his hand, he
tore out the A, B, C page and destroyed it, as a thing quite beneath
his notice. No wonder then that both father and mother were proud of
their heir, who gave such indisputable proofs of genius, or, as they
call it in that part of the world, “_genus_.”
One morning, however, Master Phil, who was then just seven years old,
was missing, and no one could tell what had become of him: servants
were sent in all directions to seek him, on horseback and on foot; but
they returned without any tidings of the boy, whose disappearance
altogether was most unaccountable. A large reward was offered, but it
produced them no intelligence, and years rolled away without Mr. and
Mrs. Ronayne having obtained any satisfactory account of the fate of
their lost child.
There lived, at this time, near Carigaline, one Robert Kelly, a
blacksmith by trade. He was what is termed a handy man, and his
abilities were held in much estimation by the lads and the lasses of
the neighbourhood: for, independent of shoeing horses which he did to
great perfection, and making plough-irons, he interpreted dreams for
the young women, sung Arthur O’Bradley at their weddings, and was so
good-natured a fellow at a christening, that he was gossip to half the
country round.
Now it happened that Robin had a dream himself, and young Philip
Ronayne appeared to him in it at the dead hour of the night. Robin
thought he saw the boy mounted upon a beautiful white horse, and that
he told him how he was made a page to the giant Mahon Mac Mahon, who
had carried him off, and who held his court in the hard heart of the
rock. “The seven years—my time of service,—are clean out, Robin,”
said he, “and if you release me this night, I will be the making of
you for ever after.”
“And how will I know,” said Robin—cunning enough, even in his
sleep—“but this is all a dream?”
“Take that,” said the boy, “for a token”—and at the word the white
horse struck out with one of his hind legs, and gave poor Robin such a
kick in the forehead, that thinking he was a dead man, he roared as
loud as he could after his brains, and woke up calling a thousand
murders. He found himself in bed, but he had the mark of the blow, the
regular print of a horse-shoe upon his forehead as red as blood; and
Robin Kelly, who never before found himself puzzled at the dream of
any other person, did not know what to think of his own.
Robin was well acquainted with the Giant’s Stairs, as, indeed, who is
not that knows the harbour? They consist of great masses of rock,
which, piled one above another, rise like a flight of steps, from very
deep water, against the bold cliff of Carrigmahon. Nor are they badly
suited for stairs to those who have legs of sufficient length to
stride over a moderate-sized house, or to enable them to clear the
space of a mile in a hop, step, and jump. Both these feats the giant
Mac Mahon was said to have performed in the days of Finnian glory; and
the common tradition of the country placed his dwelling within the
cliff up whose side the stairs led.
Such was the impression which the dream made on Robin, that he
determined to put its truth to the test. It occurred to him, however,
before setting out on this adventure, that a plough-iron may be no bad
companion, as, from experience, he knew it was an excellent knock-down
argument, having, on more occasions than one, settled a little
disagreement very quietly: so, putting one on his shoulder, off he
marched in the cool of the evening through Glaun a Thowk (the Hawk’s
Glen) to Monkstown. Here an old gossip of his (Tom Clancey by name)
lived, who, on hearing Robin’s dream, promised him the use of his
skiff, and moreover offered to assist in rowing it to the Giant’s
Stairs.
After a supper which was of the best, they embarked. It was a
beautiful still night, and the little boat glided swiftly along. The
regular dip of the oars, the distant song of the sailor, and sometimes
the voice of a belated traveller at the ferry of Carrigaloe, alone
broke the quietness of the land and sea and sky. The tide was in their
favour, and in a few minutes Robin and his gossip rested on their oars
in the dark shadow of the Giant’s Stairs. Robin looked anxiously for
the entrance to the Giant’s Palace, which, it was said, may be found
by any one seeking it at midnight; but no such entrance could he see.
His impatience had hurried him there before that time, and after
waiting a considerable space in a state of suspense not to be
described, Robin, with pure vexation, could not help exclaiming to his
companion, “’Tis a pair of fools we are, Tom Clancey, for coming here
at all on the strength of a dream.”
“And whose doing is it,” said Tom, “but your own?”
At the moment he spoke they perceived a faint glimmering light to
proceed from the cliff, which gradually increased until a porch big
enough for a king’s palace unfolded itself almost on a level with the
water. They pulled the skiff directly towards the opening, and Robin
Kelly, seizing his plough-iron, boldly entered with a strong hand and
a stout heart. Wild and strange was that entrance; the whole of which
appeared formed of grim and grotesque faces, blending so strangely
each with the other that it was impossible to define any: the chin of
one formed the nose of another: what appeared to be a fixed and stern
eye, if dwelt upon, changed to a gaping mouth; and the lines of the
lofty forehead grew into a majestic and flowing beard. The more Robin
allowed himself to contemplate the forms around him, the more terrific
they became; and the stony expression of this crowd of faces assumed a
savage ferocity as his imagination converted feature after feature
into a different shape and character. Losing the twilight in which
these indefinite forms were visible, he advanced through a dark and
devious passage, whilst a deep and rumbling noise sounded as if the
rock was about to close upon him and swallow him up alive for ever.
Now, indeed, poor Robin felt afraid.
“Robin, Robin,” said he, “if you were a fool for coming here, what in
the name of fortune are you now?” But, as before, he had scarcely
spoken, when he saw a small light twinkling through the darkness of
the distance, like a star in the midnight sky. To retreat was out of
the question; for so many turnings and windings were in the passage,
that he considered he had but little chance of making his way back. He
therefore proceeded towards the bit of light, and came at last into a
spacious chamber, from the roof of which hung the solitary lamp that
had guided him. Emerging from such profound gloom, the single lamp
afforded Robin abundant light to discover several gigantic figures
seated round a massive stone table as if in serious deliberation, but
no word disturbed the breathless silence which prevailed. At the head
of this table sat Mahon Mac Mahon himself, whose majestic beard had
taken root, and in the course of ages grown into the stone slab. He
was the first who perceived Robin; and instantly starting up, drew his
long beard from out the huge lump of rock in such haste and with so
sudden a jerk, that it was shattered into a thousand pieces.
“What seek you?” he demanded in a voice of thunder.
“I come,” answered Robin, with as much boldness as he could put
on—for his heart was almost fainting within him—“I come,” said he,
“to claim Philip Ronayne, whose time of service is out this night.”
“And who sent you here?” said the giant.
“’Twas of my own accord I came,” said Robin.
“Then you must single him out from among my pages,” said the giant;
“and if you fix on the wrong one your life is the forfeit. Follow me.”
He led Robin into a hall of vast extent and filled with lights; along
either side of which were rows of beautiful children all apparently
seven years old, and none beyond that age, dressed in green, and every
one exactly dressed alike.
“Here,” said Mahon, “you are free to take Philip Ronayne, if you will;
but, remember, I give but one choice.”
Robin was sadly perplexed; for there were hundreds upon hundreds of
children; and he had no very clear recollection of the boy he sought.
But he walked along the hall, by the side of Mahon, as if nothing was
the matter, although his great iron dress clanked fearfully at every
step, sounding louder than Robin’s own sledge battering on his anvil.
They had nearly reached the end of the hall without speaking, when
Robin, seeing that the only means he had was to make friends with the
giant, determined to try what effect a few soft words might have upon
him.
“’Tis a fine wholesome appearance the poor children carry,” remarked
Robin, “although they have been here so long shut out from the fresh
air and the blessed light of heaven. ’Tis tenderly your honour must
have reared them!”
“Ay,” said the giant, “that is true for you; so give me your hand; for
you are, I believe, a very honest fellow for a blacksmith.”