Above all the islands in the Lakes of Killarney, give me Innisfallen--
"sweet Innisfallen," as the melodious Moore calls it. It is in truth a
fairy isle, although I have no fairy story to tell you about it; and if I
had, these are such unbelieving times, and people of late have grown so
sceptical, that they only smile at my stories and doubt them.
However, none will doubt that a monastery once stood upon Innisfallen
island, for its ruins may still be seen; neither, that within its walls
dwelt certain pious and learned persons called monks. A very pleasant set
of fellows they were, I make not the smallest doubt; and I am sure of
this, that they had a very pleasant spot to enjoy themselves in after
dinner--the proper time, believe me, and I am no bad judge of such
matters, for the enjoyment of a fine prospect.
Out of all the monks you could not pick a better fellow nor a merrier soul
than Father Cuddy; he sang 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 question 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 eat, and drank, and prayed, and slept--what then?
He eat, 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 "black jack" stood before him. Hence his prayers were
short, and his draughts were long. The world loved him, and he saw no
reason why he should not in return love its venison and its usquebaugh.
But, as times went, he must have been a pious man, or else what befel 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 Trelagh, now called Muckruss. 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 Muckruss, 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, sprang 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 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 considered, if well manufactured, to be no bad
liquor, particularly when there was no stint or 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 have departed 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, as 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.
"O, 'tis eggs are a treat
When so while and so sweet
From under the manger they're taken;
And by fair Margery,
Och! 'tis she's full of glee,
They are fried with fat rashers of bacon.
"Just like daisies all spread
O'er a broad sunny mead
In the sun-beams so beauteously shining,
Are fried eggs, well displayed
On a dish, when we've laid
The cloth, and are thinking of dining."
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 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 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, had
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, "everything 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 everywhere."
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--'_Et a
Margery bella--Quae festiva puella_.' I see you--I see you and the
bottle!--let me but catch you, Margery _bella_." 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 dropt 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 alterations 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 was
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 by 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
arise, 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. 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?--"
"Aye, 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
Collan, 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 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 fried eggs, of which he and his vile crew knew
more than they did of the word of God, and who, being drunk, it was said,
tumbled into the lake one night and was drowned; but that must have been a
hundred, aye, more than a hundred years since."
"'Twas I who composed that song, in praise of Margery's fried 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?
Mercy on us, there has 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. Eggs fried by the pretty Margery were no
longer to be had in Innisfallen, and, with 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 remnant 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; and Spillane,
the bugle man, will be able to point it out to them, as he did to me--
_Literary Souvenir_.
* * * * *