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?”