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
head, in proud pre-eminence 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 sprig 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 historic 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.