The Last of the Foresters Part 96

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 pa.s.sed over still more hideous.

Hitherto the revellers have had a clear sweep--an un.o.bstructed 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 ma.s.s: 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 s.h.i.+llelah.

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 ap.r.o.n 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 n.o.ble 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 n.o.ble 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 pa.s.sing 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 b.l.o.o.d.y warrior's head, whose nose is injured.

It is Mr. Jinks, Miss Judith, and Miss Sallianna.

CHAPTER LXVIII.

THE END OF THE CHAIN.

We are conscious that the description of the great battle just given is but a poor and lame delineation, and we can only plead defective powers in that department of art--the treatment of battle-pieces.

We cannot describe the appearance of the battle-field after the combat, any more than the contest.

Wounded and crack-crowned, groaning and muttering heroes dragging themselves away--this is the resume which we find it in our power alone to give.