Kitabı oku: «The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 10, No. 270, August 25, 1827», sayfa 3

The sheriffs inquired if the unfortunates had any thing to impart, or any request to make. Answered in the negative—they added their voices to those of their religious assistants, to assure them of their hopes—that they would find that mercy in another world, which the laws and the interests of their fellow creatures denied them in this.

This language, however suited to the occasion, had been so often addressed to them, that the sufferers received it almost as a matter of course, and made little or no reply, but looking up to heaven, they at least seemed to feel that thither alone could their thoughts be advantageously directed.

They continued sitting on the bench or form to which they had been led. From time to time the sheriffs referred to their watches. The under sheriff, who had been doing the same, now exhibited his timepiece to his superior. It wanted five minutes to eight. Sir Thomas, by a slight inclination of the head, intimated that he comprehended what was intended to be conveyed.

"Had we not better move?" he inquired, addressing himself, in a tone but little above a whisper, to the ordinary.

"I think we had:" the functionary just mentioned rejoined—"the last time you know, we were rather late."

The under sheriff waved his hand for the spectators to stand aside. His gesture was promptly attended to. The sheriffs', holding their wands in their hands, then presented themselves as ready to march in procession. Immediately after them the minister appeared, with his open book; the culprits were next brought forward, and placed immediately behind him. The spectators, who had given way on the sides, prepared to bring up the rear, were admonished by the under sheriff not to press on the sufferers; and strange as it may seem, the intrusive curiosity of some of the party, impressed upon me a belief that this hint was not altogether unnecessary.

(To be concluded in our next.)

FINE ARTS

THE PRESENT STATE OF DUTCH PAINTERS

(To the Editor of the Mirror.)

SIR,—The Dutch painters of the present day differ very materially from the English, not only in their method of manufacturing pictures, but also in their personal appearance. The following is an extract from the private journal of a friend, who has recently been in Holland.

Yours, &c. G.W.N.

"You would be rather surprised on first entering a painting-room here. Your eye is struck with the appearance of a dozen slovenly attired fellows, who are variously engaged, some in beginning pictures, some in finishing, &c. The window, which is remarkably large, and situated so as to command a good prospect from without, admits light sufficient to illuminate the room, or rather shop, which shop is at least fifteen feet long. Casting your eye up towards the ceiling, which is equally lofty with the length of the apartment, you are somewhat at a loss to account for a vast quantity of beams, cordage, pullies, and canvasses, all appearing to have their several uses, and all kept in regular order by a man for that purpose. The canvasses, in truth, are no other than finished pictures, which have been drawn up by the pullies to the beams, for the purposes of drying, &c. The Dutch do not, as the English do, paint one picture on one cloth; no, they have a much more expeditious method. A large piece of canvass is procured, on which the artist commences his labour, and, in a progressive manner, begins and finishes sometimes a dozen pictures at once. In a kind of boudoir, an attendant is employed continually in grinding colours, &c. For my own part, I own I was much amused with the great variety which this curious coup d'oeil presented; but I could not remain long, for the painters, even while they were at work, smoked continually. The Dutch, it should be observed, carry on a considerable traffic in pictures with the Chinese and other eastern nations."

THE NOVELIST.
No. CVIII

CLOUGH NA CUDDY

A Killarney Legend

BY T. CROFTON CROKER, ESQ

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.