University of Virginia Library

53. CHAPTER LIII.
PROJECTS OF REVENGE, INVOLVING HISTORICAL DETAILS.

The companions looked at each other and shook their heads;
Mr. Jinks threateningly, Ralph doubtfully. That gentleman
seemed to be dubious of his freind's ability to prepare a revenge
suitable to the deserts of O'Brallaghan, who had sold his favorite
coat.

Mr. Jinks, however, looked like a man certain of victory.

“Revenge, sir,” said Mr. Jinks, “is of two descriptions. There
is the straight-forward, simple, vulgar hitting at a man, or caning
him; and the quiet, artistic arrangement of a drama,
which comes out right, sir, without fuss, or other exterior
effusion.”

And after this masterly distinction, Mr. Jinks raised his head,
and regarded Ralph with pride and complacency.

“Yes, said the young man; “what you say is very true, my
boy; go on—go on.”

“Genius is shown, sir, in the manner of doing it—”

“Yes.”

“Of working on the materials around you.”

“True; that is the test of genius; you are right. Now explain
your idea.”

“Well, sir,” said Mr. Jinks, “that is easy. In this town,
wherein we reside—I refer to Winchester—there are two prom
inent classes, besides the English-Virginia people.”

“Are there?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell me—you mean—”

“The natives of the Emerald Isle, and those from the land of
sour krout,” said Mr. Jinks, with elegant paraphrase.

“You mean Dutch and Irish?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well; I understand that. Let me repeat: in the town
of Winchester there are two classes, besides the natives—Dutch
and Irish. Is that right? I never was very quick.”

“Just right.”

“Well, tell me about them, and how your revenge is concerned
with them. Tell me all about them. Dutch and Irish!—I know
nothing of them.”

“I will, sir,—I will tell you,” said Mr. Jinks, gulping down
one-fourth of his glass of rum; “and, I think, by the time I have
developed my idea, you will agree with me that the revenge I
have chalked out, sir, is worthy of an inventive talent higher
than my own.”

“No, no,” said Ralph, in a tone of remonstrance, “you know
there could be none.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Jinks, modestly, “I know myself, sir—I
have very little merits, but there are those who are superior to
me in that point.”

Which seemed to mean that the quality of invention was the
sole failing in Mr. Jinks' intellect—all his other mental gifts
being undoubtedly superior to similar gifts in humanity at large.

“Well, we won't interchange compliments, my dear fellow,”
replied Ralph, puffing at his pipe; “go on and explain about the
Dutch and Irish—I repeat, that I absolutely know nothing of
them.”

Mr. Jinks sipped his rum, and after a moment's silence, commenced.

“You must know,” he said, “that for some reason which I

cannot explain, there is a quarrel between these people which
has lasted a very long time, and it runs to a great height—”

“Indeed!”

“Yes; and on certain days there is a feeling which can only
be characterized by the assertion that the opposite parties desire
to suffuse the streets and public places with each other's gory
blood!”

“No, no!” said Ralph; “is it possible!”

“Yes, sir, it is more—it is true,” said Mr. Jinks, with dignity.

“I myself have been present on such occasions; and the amount
of national feeling displayed is—is—worse than mouldy cloth,”
observed Mr. Jinks, at a loss for a simile, and driven, as he,
however, very seldom was, to his profession for an illustration.

“I wonder at that,” said Ralph; “as bad as mouldy cloth?
I never would have thought it!”

“Nevertheless it's true—dooms true,” said Mr. Jinks; “and
there are particular days when the rage of the parties comes up
in one opprobrious concentrated mass!”

This phrase was borrowed from Miss Sallianna. Mr. Jinks,
like other great men, was not above borrowing without giving
the proper credit.

“On St. Patrick's day,” he continued, “the Dutch turn out in
a body—”

“One moment, my dear fellow; I don't like to interrupt you,
but this St. Patrick you speak of—he was the great saint of
Ireland, was he not?”

“Good—continue; on St. Patrick's day—”

“The Dutch assemble and parade a figure—you understand,
either of wood or a man—a figure representing St. Patrick—”

“Possible!”

“Yes; and round his neck they place a string of Irish potatoes,
like a necklace—”

“A necklace! what an idea. Not pearls or corals—potatoes!”

And Ralph laughed with an expression of innocent surprise,
which was only adopted on great occasions.

“Yes,” said Mr. Jinks, “of potatoes; and you may imagine
what a sight it is—the saint dressed up in that way.”

“Really! it must be side-splitting.”

“It is productive of much gory sport,” said Mr. Jinks.

“Ah!” said Ralph, “I should think so. Gory is the very
word.”

“Besides this they have another figure—”

“The Dutch have?”

“Yes.”

“What is it?”

“It is a woman, sir—”

“No—no,” said Ralph.

“It is, sir,” replied Mr. Jinks, with resolute adherence to his
original declaration,—“it is Saint Patrick's wife, Sheeley—”

“Oh, no!” cried Ralph.

“Yes; and she is supplied with a huge apron full of—what
do you think?”

“Indulgences?” said Ralph.

“No, sir!”

“What then?”

“Potatoes again.”

“Potatoes! Sheeley with her apron full of—”

“Excellent Irish potatoes.”

“Would anybody have imagined such a desecration!”

“They do it, sir; and having thus laughed at the Irish, the
Dutch go parading through the streets; and in consequence—”

“The Irish—?”

“Yes—”

“Make bloody noses and cracked crowns, and pass them current,
too?” asked Ralph, quoting from Shakspeare.

“Yes, exactly,” said Mr. Jinks; “and the day on which this

takes place—Saint Patrick's day—is generally submerged in
gore!”

Ralph remained for a moment overcome with horror at this
dreadful picture.

“Jinks,” he said, at last.

“Sir?” said Mr. Jinks.

“I fear you are too military and bloody for me. My nerves
will not stand these awful pictures!”

And Ralph shuddered; or perhaps chuckled.

“That is only half of the subject,” Mr. Jinks said, displaying
much gratification at the deep impression produced upon the
feelings of his companion; “the Irish, on St. Michael's day—
the patron saint of the Dutch, you know—”

“Yes.”

“The Irish take their revenge.”

And at the word revenge, Mr. Jinks' brows were corrugated
into a dreadful frown.

Ralph looked curious.

“How?” he said; “I should think the Dutch had exhausted
the power and capacity of invention. St. Patrick, with a necklace
of potatoes, and his wife Sheeley, with an apron full of the
same vegetables, is surely enough for one day—”

“Yes, for St. Patrick's day, but not for St. Michael's,” said
Mr. Jinks, with a faint attempt at a witticism.

“Good!” cried Ralph; “you are a wit, Jinks; but proceed.
On St. Michael's day—the patron saint of the Dutch—”

“On that day, sir, the Irish retort upon the Dutch by parading
an image—wooden or alive—of St. Michael—”

“No!”

“An image,” continued Mr. Jinks, not heeding this interruption,
“which resembles St. Michael—that is, a hogshead.”

“Yes,” laughed Ralph, “I understand how a Dutch saint—”

“Is fat; that is natural, sir. They dress him in six pair of
pantaloons, which I have heretofore, I am ashamed to say,
fabricated,”—Mr. Jinks frowned here,—“then they hang around
his neck a rope of sour krout—”

“No, no!” cried Ralph.

“And so parade him,” continued Mr. Jinks.

Ralph remained silent again, as though overwhelmed by this
picture.

“The consequence is, that the Irish feel themselves insulted,”
Mr. Jinks went on, “and they attack the Dutch, and then the
whole street—”

“Is suffused in gory blood, is it not?” said Ralph, inquiringly.

“It is, sir,” said Mr. Jinks; “and I have known the six
pair of pantaloons, made by my own hands, to be torn to
tatters.”

“Possible!”

“Yes, sir!” said Mr. Jinks, irate at the recollection of those
old scenes—he had been compelled to mend the torn pantaloons
more than once—“yes, sir, and the wretches have proceeded
even to shooting and cutting, which is worthy of them, sir! On
some days, the Dutch and the Irish parade their images together,
and then St. Patrick and St. Michael are brought face to face;
and you may understand how disgraceful a mob they have—
a mob, sir, which, as a military man. I long to mow with iron
cannons!”

And after this dreadful simile, Mr. Jinks remained silent.
Ralph also held his peace for some moments; then he said:

“But your revenge; how is that connected, my dear fellow,
with the contentions of Dutch and Irish?”

Mr. Jinks frowned.

“Thus, sir,” he said; “I will explain.”

“Do; I understand you to say that these customs of the two

parties were the materials upon which your genius would work.
How can you—”

“Listen, sir,” said Mr. Jinks.

“I'm all ears,” returned Ralph.

“Three days from this time,” said Mr. Jinks, “these people
have determined to have a great parade, and each of them, the
Dutch and Irish, to exhibit the images of the Saints—”

“Yes—ah?” said Ralph.

“It is fixed for the time I mention; and now, sir, a few
words will explain how, without damage to myself, or endangering
my person—considerations which I have no right to neglect—
my revenge on the hound, O'Brallaghan, will come out right!
Listen, while I tell about it; then, sir, judge if the revenge is
likely to be nice and good!”

And Mr. Jinks scowled, and gulped down some rum. He
then paused a moment, stared the fire-place out of countenance,
and scowled again. He then opened his lips to speak.

But just as he uttered the first words of his explanation, a
knock was heard at the door, which arrested him.

Ralph rose and opened it.

A negro handed him a note, with the information, that
the bearer thereof was waiting below, and would like to see
him.

Ralph opened the letter, and found some money therein, which,
with the signature, explained all.

“Jinks, my boy,” he said, laughing, “we must defer your explanation;
come and go down. The Governor has sent me a
note, and Tom is waiting. Let us descend.

Mr. Jinks acquiesced.

They accordingly went down stairs, and issued forth.

At the door of the tavern was standing a negro, who, at sight
of Ralph, respectfully removed his cap with one hand, while
the other arm leaned on the neck of a donkey about three feet

high, which had borne the stalwart fellow, as such animals
only can.

The negro gave Mr. Ralph a message, in addition to the
letter, of no consequence to our history, and received one in
return.

He then bowed again, and was going to mount and ride away,
when Ralph said, “Stop, Tom!”

Tom accordingly stopped.