67. CHAPTER LXVII.
HOW ST. PATRICK ENCOUNTERED ST. MICHAEL, AND WHAT
ENSUED.
As Redbud entered the outer room, the talkers suddenly became
silent, and ran to the windows.
The procession has returned:—the pageant has retraced its
steps:—the swaying, shouting, battle-breathing rout has made
the northern end of the town hideous, and comes back to make
the portion already passed over still more hideous.
Hitherto the revellers have had a clear sweep—an unobstructed
highway. They have gone on in power and glory, conquering
where there was no enemy, defying where there was no adversary.
But this all changes suddenly, and a great shout roars up
from a hundred mouths.
Another drum is heard; mutterings from the southern end of
the town respond.
The followers of the maligned and desecrated Michael are in
battle array—the Dutch are out to protect their saint, and meet
the Irish world in arms.
They come on in a tumultuous mass: they sway, they bend,
they leap, they shout. The other half of Pandemonium has
turned out, and surrounding ears are deafened by the demoniac
chorus.
In costume they are not dissimilar to their enemies—in rotundity
they are superior, however, if not in brawn. Every
other warrior holds his pipe between his teeth, and all brandish
nondescript weapons, like their enemies, the Irish.
And as the great crowd draws near, the crowning peculiarity
of the pageant is revealed to wondering eyes.
The Dutch will have their defiant masquerade no less than
their enemies: the Irish parade St. Michael in derision: their's
be it to show the world an effigy of St. Patrick.
Borne, like St. Michael, on a platform raised above the universal
bead in proud pre-ominence behold the great St. Patrick, and
his wife Sheeley!
St. Patrick is tall and gaunt, from his contest with the serpents
of the emerald isle. He wears a flowing robe, which
nevertheless permits his slender, manly legs to come out and be
visible. He boasts a shovel hat, adorned with a gigantic spring of
shamrock: he sits upon the chest in which, if historical tradition
truly speaks, the great boa constrictor of Killarney was shut
up and sunk into the waters of the lake. Around his neck is a
string of Irish potatoes—in his hand a shillelah.
Beside him sits his wife Sheeley, rotund and ruddy, with a
coronet of potatoes, a necklace of potatoes, a breastpin of potatoes—and
lastly, an apron full of potatoes. She herself resembled
indeed a gigantic potatoe, and philologians might have conjectured
that her very name was no more than a corruption of
the adjective mealy.
The noble saint and his wife came on thus far above the roaring
crowd, and as they draw nearer, lo! the saint and Sheeley
are revealed.
The saint is personated by the heroic Mr. Jinks—his wife is
represented by Mistress O'Calligan!
This is the grand revenge of Mr. Jinks—this is the sweet morsel
which he has rolled beneath his tongue for days—this is the
refinement of torture he has mixed for the love-sick O'Brallaghan,
who personates the opposing Michael.
As the adversaries see their opponents, they roar—as they
catch sight of their patron saints thus raised aloft derisively, they
thunder. The glove is thrown, the die is cast—in an instant
they are met in deadly battle.
Would that our acquaintance with the historie muse were
sufficiently intimate to enable us to invoke her aid on this occasion.
But she is far away, thinking of treaties and protocols,
and “eventualities” far in the orient, brooding o'er lost Sebastopol.
The reader therefore must be content with hasty words.
The first item of the battle worthy to be described, is the
downward movement of the noble saints from their high position.
Once in the melee, clutching at their enemies, the combatants
become oblivious of saintly affairs. The shoulders of the platform
bearers bend—the platforms tumble—St. Patrick grapples
with St. Michael, who smashes his pewter beer-pot down upon
the shamrock.
The shamrock rises—wild and overwhelmed with terror, recreant
to Ireland, and quailing before Michael, who has stumbled
over Sheeley.
Mr. Jinks retreats through the press before O'Brallaghan,
who pursues him with horrible ferocity, breathing vengeance, and
on fire with rage.
O'Brallaghan grasps Jinks' robe—the robe is torn from his
back, and O'Brallaghan falls backwards: then rises, still overwhelmed
with rage.
Jinks suddenly sees a chance of escape—he has intrusted
Fodder to a boy, who rides now in the middle of the press.
He tears the urchin from the saddle, seizes a club, and leaping
upon Fodder's back, brandishes his weapon, and cheers on his
men to victory.
But accidents will happen even to heroes. Mr. Jinks is not a
great rider—it is his sole weak point. Fodder receiving a blow
behind, starts forward—then stops, kicking up violently.
The forward movement causes the shoulders of Mr. Jinks to
fly down on the animal's back, the legs of Mr. Jinks to rise into
the air. The backward movement of the donkey's heels interposes
at this moment to knock Mr. Jinks back to his former
position.
But his feet are out of the stirrups, he cannot keep his seat;
and suddenly he feels a hand upon his leg—his enemy glares on
him; he is whirled down to the earth, and O'Brallaghan has
caught his prey.
The stormy combat, with its cries, and shouts, and blows,
and imprecations, closes over them, and all seems lost for
Jinks.
Not so. When fate seems to lower darkest, sunlight comes.
O'Brallaghan has brought his stalwart fist down on Mr.
Jinks' nose but once, has scarcely caused the “gory blood”
of that gentleman to spout forth from the natural orifices,
when a vigorous female hand is laid upon his collar, and he
turns.
It is Mistress O'Calligan Sheeley come to the rescue of her
husband.
O'Brallaghan is pulled from Jinks—that hero rises, and
attempts to flee.
He rushes into the arms of another lady, who, in passing near
the crowd, has been caught up like a leaf and buried in the combat—Miss
Sallianna.
But fate is again adverse, though impartial. Mr. Jinks and
O'Brallaghan are felled simultaneously by mighty blows, and the
rout closes over them.
As they fall, a swaying motion in the crowd is felt—the
authorities have arrived—the worn-out combatants draw off,
sullenly, and the dead and wounded only are left upon the
field.
The crowd retires—they have had their fight, and broken
numerous heads. They have vindicated the honor of their
Saints—to-morrow they are friends and neighbors again.
One beautiful and touching scene is left for aftertimes—one
picture which even the historic muse might have paused near,
and admired.
Two lovely dames contend for the privilege of holding a
bloody warrior's head, whose nose is injured.
It is Mr. Jinks, Miss Judith, and Miss Sallianna.
