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.