The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 10, No. 270, August 25, 1827

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.

MY COMMON-PLACE BOOK.

No. XX

CEREMONY OF A GIRL TAKING THE VEIL

The convent of the Esperanza enclosed within its gloomy walls one of the fairest forms that nature ever moulded. Her name was Claudia; she had just completed her sixteenth year, and now shone forth in all the bloom of health and beauty. Her full black eyes, and her long dark hair, which, partly concealed by her religious dress of a pensioner, escaped in flowing ringlets over her snowy shoulders, embellishing a countenance whence beamed such harmony of features and enchanting delicacy of expression, as indicated the purity and peace that reigned within. The Esperanza soon became my favourite spot, and I felt convinced nature never formed this angel to be immured within the walls of a convent; nor would she have been destined to pass the remainder of her life in its obscure recesses, but for the unnatural avarice of her parents—a custom still too prevalent, to secure the wealth of a family to one branch.

During my stay in this town, I had an opportunity of witnessing the ceremony of a girl taking the habit of a nun. After mass, the grate of the chapel of the Esperanza was thrown open, and there appeared all the holy sisters dressed in black. The girl alone who was about to take the habit was in white; and, in front of all the others, knelt down before a table, on which was placed the cross. The abbate, from the outside, now addressed her in a long extempore charge, in which he pointed out the duties of the situation she was about to enter, and forcibly set forth the advantages of it; while he painted, in the strongest and most seducing colours, the superior happiness of renouncing the profane world, and of passing her time in a quiet and religious way, alone devoted to the service of her Maker. She was not more than twenty years of age, and, during the whole ceremony, her countenance, which was pleasing, bore the evident marks of inward satisfaction and holy veneration. The nuns, who before had been standing round the chapel, each holding a burning taper, now tenderly embraced their intended sister, and placed the crown of virginity upon her temples, when an anathema, was with great solemnity, pronounced against all who should attempt to make her break her vows. The impressive ceremony which thus excludes youth and beauty in a cloister, closes with the solemn notes of the organ, accompanied by the harmonious voices of the nuns as they conduct their new sister to her lonely cell.

This awful solemnity wears a supernatural grandeur. The gloom of the chapel is faintly relieved by the tapers of the sisters; the vaulted roof is just discernible in a pale blue light, rendered terrific by the splendour of the altar blazing with a hundred illuminated torches; while the lofty peals of the deep-toned organ, swell round the echoing cloisters with "Il cantar che nell' anima si sente;" and the "rapt senses are confounded in idolatrous wonder."

Peninsular Sketches.

THE LATIN AND GREEK LANGUAGES

It is supposed by many that the only object in learning the Latin and Greek languages is, that the learner may be able to translate them, and to understand the authors who have written in those languages, with as much facility as he can understand those who write in his own. If this were really the only object, then every plan for expediting the acquisition would be received with grateful approbation. Yet if this were the sole object, how superfluous to the greater number of learners the labour of the acquisition, for there is not a single idea expressed by the ancients and yet to be found, which has not been translated in our own language. The end of learning these languages then must be something beyond, and if this farther object be not considered, the education must be defective.

Scargill's Essays.

TO THE MOON, IN VIEW OF THE SEA

There is a blush upon thy face to-night
Which sheds around a luxury of light!
Wherefore, oh, Moon, art thou so brightly fair!
Would'st thou some new Endymion ensnare?
Each sparkling wave, as it receives thy rays,
Seems quivering and thrilling at thy gaze;
And gently murmurs, whilst the God below
Feels through his frame the universal glow,
And heaves his breast majestical for thee!
Cease, cease, to look on us so lovingly,