In the afternoon, a crowd of new faces presented themselves to Francis’s observation, while he became quite weary at his friend’s tardiness; but hope still kept up his attention. However, the fast declining sun gave notice of the approach of night, and yet scarcely any of the passers-by had noticed Francis. Some few, perhaps, had returned his salutation, but not one had, as he expected and hoped, embraced him. At length, the day so visibly declined, that the bridge became nearly deserted; for even the beggars went away. A profound melancholy seized the heart of poor Francis, when he found his hopes thus deceived; and giving way to despair, he would have precipitated himself into the Weser, had not the recollection of Meta deterred him. He felt anxious, ere he terminated his days in so tragical a manner, to see her once again as she went to mass, and feast on the contemplation of her features.
He was preparing to quit the bridge, when the beggar with the wooden leg accosted him, for he had in vain puzzled his brain to discover what could possibly have caused the young man to remain on the bridge from morning till night. The poor cripple had waited longer than usual on account of Francis, in order to see when he went; but as he remained longer than he wished, curiosity at length induced him openly to address him, in order to learn what he so ardently desired to know.
“Pray excuse me, worthy sir,” said he: “and permit me to ask you a question.”
Francis, who was by no means in a mood to talk, and who now heard from the mouth of a beggar the words which he had so anxiously expected from a friend, answered him in rather an angry tone: “Well then, what is it you want to know, old man?”
“Sir, you and I were the first persons on this bridge to-day; and here we are still the only remaining two. As for me and my companions, it is pretty clear that we only came to ask alms; but it is equally evident you do not belong to our profession, and yet you have not quitted the bridge the whole day. My dear sir, for the love of God, if it is no secret, tell me, I entreat you, for what purpose you came, and what is the grief that rends your heart?”
“What can it concern you, old dotard, to know where the shoe pinches me, or what afflictions I am labouring under?”
“My good sir, I wish you well: you have twice bestowed your charity on me, which I hope the Almighty will return to you with interest. I could not but observe, however, this evening your countenance no longer looked gay and happy as in the morning; and, believe me, I was sorry to see the change.”
The unaffected interest evinced by the old man pleased Francis. “Well,” replied he, “since you attach so much importance to the knowledge of the reason I have for remaining the whole day here plaguing myself, I will inform you that I came here in search of a friend who appointed to meet me on this bridge, but whom I have expected in vain.”
“With your permission I should say your friend was a rogue, to play the fool with you in this manner. If he had so served me, I should make him feel the weight of my crutch whenever I met him; for if he has been prevented from keeping his word by any unseen obstacle, he ought at least to have sent to you, and not have kept you here on your feet a whole day.”
“And yet I have no reason to complain of his not coming, for he promised me nothing. In fact it was only a dream that I was told I should meet a friend here.”
Francis spoke of it as a dream, because the history of the ghost was too long to relate.
“That alters the case,” replied the old man. “Since you rest your hopes on dreams, I am not astonished at your being deceived. I have also had many dreams in my life; but I was never fool enough to pay attention to them. If I had all the treasures that have been promised me in dreams, I could purchase the whole city of Bremen; but I have never put faith in dreams, and have not taken a single step to prove whether they were true or false; for I know full well, it would be useless trouble; and I am astonished that you should have lost so fine a day, which you might have employed so much more usefully, merely on the strength of a dream, which appears to me so wholly devoid of sense or meaning.”
“The event proves the justness of your remark, old father; and that dreams generally are deceitful. But it is rather more than three months since I had a very circumstantial dream relative to my meeting a friend on this particular day, here on this bridge; and it was so clearly indicated that he should communicate things of the utmost importance, that I thought it worth while to ascertain whether this dream had any foundation in truth.”
“Ah, sir, no one has had clearer dreams than myself; and one of them I shall never forget. I dreamt, several years since, that my good angel stood at the foot of my bed, in the form of a young man, and addressed me as follows:—‘Berthold, listen attentively to my words, and do not lose any part of what I am about to say. A treasure is allotted to you; go and secure it, that you may be enabled to live happily the rest of your days. To-morrow evening, when the sun is setting, take a pick-axe and spade over your shoulder, and go out of the city by the gate leading to Hamburgh; when you arrive facing the convent of St. Nicholas, you will see a garden, the entrance to which is ornamented by two pillars; conceal yourself behind one of these until the moon rises; then push the door hard, and it will yield to your efforts; go without fear into the garden, follow a walk covered by a treillage of vines, and to the left you will see a great apple-tree; place yourself at the foot of the tree, with your face turned towards the moon, and you will perceive at fifteen feet distance, two bushy rose-trees; search between these two shrubs, and at the depth of about six feet you will discover a great flag-stone, which covers the treasure enclosed within an iron chest; and although it is heavy and difficult to handle, do not regret the labour it will occasion you to remove it from the hole where it now is. You will be well rewarded for your pains and trouble, if you look for the key which is under the box.’”
Francis remained like one stupified at this recital; and certainly would have been unable to conceal his astonishment, if the darkness of the night had not favoured him. The various particulars pointed out by the beggar brought to his recollection a little garden which he had inherited from his father, and which garden was the favourite spot of that good man; but possibly for that very reason it was not held in estimation by the son. Melchior had caused it to be laid out according to his own taste, and his son in the height of his extravagance had sold it at a very low price.
The beggar with his wooden leg was become a very interesting personage to Francis, who perceived that he was the friend alluded to by the ghost in the castle of Rummelsbourg. The first impulse of joy would have led him to embrace the mendicant; but he restrained his feelings, thinking it best not to communicate the result of his intelligence to him.
“Well, my good man,” said he, “what did you when you awoke? did you not attend to the advice given by your good angel!”
“Why should I undertake a hopeless labour? It was only a vague dream; and if my good angel was anxious to appear to me, he might choose a night when I am not sleeping, which occurs but too frequently; but he has not troubled his head much about me; for if he had, I should not have been reduced, as I am now, to his shame, to beg my bread.”
Francis took from his pocket another piece of money, and gave it to the old man, saying, “Take this to procure half a pint of wine, and drink it ere you retire to rest. Your conversation has dispelled my sorrowful thoughts; do not fail to come regularly to this bridge, where I hope we shall meet again.”
The old lame man, not having for a long while made so good a day’s work, overwhelmed Francis with his grateful benedictions. They separated, and each went his way. Francis, whose joy was at its height from the near prospect of his hopes being realised, very speedily reached his lodging in the bye street.
The following day he ran to the purchaser of the little garden, and proposed to re-purchase it. The latter, to whom this property was of no particular value, and who, indeed, began to be tired of it, willingly consented to part with it. They very soon agreed as to the conditions of the purchase, and went immediately to sign the contract: with the money he had found in his bag, as a gift from the lord of Rummelsbourg, Francis paid down half the price: he then procured the necessary tools for digging a hole in the earth, conveyed them to the garden, waited till the moon was up, strictly adhered to the instructions given him by the old beggar, set to work, and without any unlucky adventure he obtained the hidden treasure.
His father, as a precaution against necessity, had buried this money, without any intention to deprive his son of this considerable portion of his inheritance; but dying suddenly, he had carried the secret to his grave, and nothing but a happy combination of circumstances, could have restored this lost treasure to its rightful owner.
The chest, filled with gold pieces, was too heavy for Francis to remove to his lodging without employing some person to assist him; and feeling unwilling to become a topic of general conversation, he preferred concealing it in the summer-house belonging to the garden, and fetching it at several times. On the third day the whole was safely conveyed to his lodging in the back street.
Francis dressed himself in the best possible style, and went to church to request that the priest would substitute for the prayers which had been previously offered up, a thanksgiving for the safe return of a traveller to his native country, after having happily terminated his business. He concealed himself in a corner, where, unseen, he could observe Meta. The sight of her gave him inexpressible delight, especially when he saw the beautiful blush which overspread her cheeks, and the brilliancy of her eyes, when the priest offered up the thanksgiving. A secret meeting took place, as had been formerly arranged: and so much was Meta affected by it, that any indifferent person might have divined the cause. Francis repaired to the Exchange, set up again in business, and in a very short time had enough to do; his fortune each succeeding day becoming better known, his neighbours judged that he had had greater luck than sense in his journey to collect his father’s debts. He hired a large house in the best part of the town, engaged clerks, and continued his business with laudable and indefatigable assiduity: he conducted himself with the utmost propriety and sagacity, and abstained from the foolish extravagances which had formerly been his ruin.
The re-establishment of Francis’s fortune formed the general topic of conversation. Every one was astonished at the success of his foreign voyage: but in proportion to the spreading fame of his riches, did Meta’s tranquillity and happiness diminish; for it appeared that the silent lover was now in a condition to declare himself, and yet he remained dumb, and only manifested his love by the usual rencontre on coming out of church; and even this species of rendezvous became less frequent, which appeared to evince a diminution of his affection.
Poor Meta’s heart was now torn by jealousy; for she imagined that the inconstant Francis was offering up his vows to some other beauty. She had experienced secret transports of delight on learning the change of fortune of the man she loved, not from interested motives and the wish to participate in his better fortune herself, but from affection to her mother, who, since the failure of the match with the rich brewer, absolutely seemed to despair of every enjoying happiness or comfort in this world. When she thought Francis faithless, she wished that the prayers put up for him in the church had not been heard, and that his journey had not been attended with such success; for had he been reduced to means merely sufficient to procure the necessaries of life, in all probability he would have shared them with her.
Mother Bridget failed not to perceive her daughter’s uneasiness, and easily guessed the cause; for she had heard of her old neighbour’s surprising return, and she knew he was now considered an industrious, intelligent merchant: therefore she thought if his love for her daughter was what it ought to be, he would not be thus tardy in declaring it; for she well knew Meta’s sentiments towards him. However, feeling anxious to avoid the probability of wounding her daughter’s feelings, she avoided mentioning the subject to her; but the latter, no longer able to confine her grief to her own bosom, disclosed it to her mother, and confided the whole to her.
Mother Bridget did not reproach her daughter for her past conduct, but employed all her eloquence to console her, and entreat her to bear up with courage under the loss of all her hopes. “You must resign him,” said she: “you scorned at the happiness which presented itself to your acceptance, therefore you must now endeavour to be resigned at its departure. Experience has taught me that those hopes which appear to be the best founded are frequently the most delusive; follow my example, and never again deliver up your heart. Do not reckon on any amelioration of your condition, and you will be contented with your lot. Honour this spinning-wheel, which produces the means of your subsistence, and then fortune and riches will be immaterial to you: you may do without them.”
Thus saying, mother Bridget turned the wheel round with redoubled velocity, in order to make up for the time lost in conversation. She spoke nothing but the truth to her daughter; for, since the opportunity was gone by when she hoped it was possible to have regained her lost comforts, she had in such a manner simplified her present wants and projects of future life, that it was not in the power of destiny to produce any considerable derangement in them. But as yet Meta was not so great a philosopher; so that her mother’s exhortations, consolations, and doctrines, produced a precisely different effect on her from what they were intended. Meta looked on herself as the destroyer of the flattering hopes her mother had entertained. Although she did not formally accept the offer of marriage proposed to her, and even then could not have reckoned on possessing beyond the common necessaries of life; yet, since she had heard the tidings of the great fortune obtained by the man of her heart, her views had become enlarged, and she anticipated with pleasure that by her choice she might realise her mother’s wishes.
Now, however, this golden dream had vanished: Francis would not come again; and, indeed, they even began to talk of an alliance about to take place between him and a very rich young lady of Anvers. The news was a death-blow to poor Meta: she vowed she would banish him from her thoughts; but still she shed very many tears.
Contrary, however, to her vow, she was one day thinking of the faithless one; for whenever she filled her spinning-wheel, she thought of the following distich, which her mother had frequently repeated to her to encourage her in her work.—
“Spin the thread well, spin, spin it
more,
For see your intended is now at the door.”
Some one did in reality knock gently at the door: and mother Bridget went to see who it was. Francis entered, attired as for the celebration of a wedding. Surprise for a while suspended mother Bridget’s faculties of speech. Meta blushed deeply, and trembling, arose from her seat, but was equally unable with her mother to say a word. Francis was the only one of the three who could speak; and he candidly declared his love, and demanded of Bridget the hand of her daughter. The good mother ever attentive to forms, asked eight days to consider the matter, although the tears of joy which she shed, plainly evinced her ready and prompt acquiescence; but Francis, all impatience, would hear of no delay: finding which, she, conformable to her duty as a mother, willing to satisfy Francis’s ardour, adopted a midway, and left the decision to her daughter. The latter, obeying the dictates of her own heart, placed herself by the side of the object of her tenderest affection; and Francis, transported with joy, thanked her with a kiss.
The two lovers then entertained themselves with talking over the delights of the time when they so well communicated their sentiments by signs. Francis had great difficulty in tearing himself away from Meta, and such “converse sweet,” but he had an important duty to fulfil.
He directed his steps towards the bridge over the Weser, where he hoped to find his old friend with the wooden leg, whom he had by no means forgotten, although he had delayed making the promised visit. The latter instantly recognised Francis; and no sooner saw him at the foot of the bridge, than he came to meet him, and showed evident marks of pleasure at the sight of him. “Can you, my friend,” said Francis to him, after returning his salutation, “come with me into the new town and execute a commission? you will be well rewarded for your trouble.”
“Why not?—with my wooden leg I walk about just as well as other people; and, indeed, have an advantage over them, for it is never fatigued. I beg you, however, my good sir, to have the kindness to wait till the man with the grey greatcoat arrives.”
“What has this man with the grey great-coat to do with you?”
“He every day comes as evening approaches and gives me a demi-florin; I know not from whom. It is not, indeed, always proper to learn all things; so I do not breathe a word. I am sometimes tempted to believe, that it is the devil who is anxious to buy my soul; but it matters little, I have not consented to the bargain, therefore it cannot be valid.”
“I verily believe that grey surtout has some malice in his head: so follow me; and you shall have a quarter-florin over and above the bargain.”
Francis conducted the old man to a distant corner, near the ramparts of the city, stopped before a newly-built house, and knocked at the door. As soon as the door was opened, he thus addressed the old beggar:—“You have procured a very agreeable evening for me in the course of my life; it is but just, therefore, that I should shed some comfort and joy over your declining days. This house and every thing appertaining thereto belongs to you. The kitchen and cellar are both well stocked; there is a person to take care of you, and every day at dinner you will find a quarter-florin under your plate. It is now time for you to know that the man in the grey surtout is my servant, whom I every day sent with my alms till this house was ready to receive you. You may, if you please, consider me as your guardian angel, since your good angel did not acquit himself uprightly in return for your gratitude.”
Saying this, he made the old man go into the house, where the latter found every thing he could possibly desire or want. The table was spread; and the old man was so much astonished at his unexpected good fortune, that he thought it must be a dream; for he could in no way imagine why a rich man should feel so much interest for a miserable beggar. Francis having again assured him that every thing he saw was his own, a torrent of tears expressed his thanks; and before he could sufficiently recover to express his gratitude by words, Francis had vanished.
The following day, mother Bridget’s house was filled with merchants and shopkeepers of all descriptions, whom Francis had sent to Meta, in order that she might purchase and get ready every thing she required for her appearance in the world with suitable éclat. Three weeks afterwards he conducted her to the altar. The splendour of the wedding far exceeded that of the King of Hops. Mother Bridget enjoyed the satisfaction of adorning her daughter’s forehead with the nuptial crown, and thereby obtained the accomplishment of all her desires, and was recompensed for her virtuous and active life. She witnessed her daughter’s happiness with delight, and proved the very best of grandmothers to her daughter’s children.
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 stones and doubt them.
However none will doubt that a monastery stood once 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 least 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 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 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 ‘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 befell him never would have happened.
Spiritual affairs—for it was respecting the importation of a tun of wine into the inland monastery—demanded the presence of one of the brotherhood of Innisfallen at the abbey of Irelagh, now called Muckruss. The superintendence of this important matter was confided 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 a 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 at the sound, for it presaged a good metheglin season; and metheglin he considered no bad liquor, particularly when there was no stint of usquebaugh in the brewing.
Arrived within the abbey gate, 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, I give it.
O ’tis eggs are a treat
When so white 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 caused 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 on 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 respects 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, 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 changed now-a-days!—the very stars are not in the same places they used to be;—I think Camcéachta (the plough) is driving on at a rate I never saw it before to-night, but 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—Quæ 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 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 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;—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 see my garb—my holy garb?”
“Ay, fellow,” replied he of the keys, “the garb of laziness and filthy debauchery, which has long been expelled from out these walls. Know you not, lazy 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—ay, 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 indubitable evidence of the fact: and Spillane, the bugle man, will be able to point it out to them, as he did to me.
THE END.
MILNER AND SOWERBY, PRINTERS, HALIFAX.
[64] An open field, in which, to satisfy the doubts of the nobles, the Emperor Frederic II., her son, was born.