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.
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