I explained to him that for the moment my sole ambition was to find a place where I could see well, and above all hear well. My friend at once told me to follow him; pushing through the crowd like a boar, hustling every one that stood in his way, and in five minutes I find myself on the platform, two steps from the president, and quite close to a window; a very advantageous position, because, first of all, I could get a little air, and secondly, if the tumult became too serious, a small jump of seven or eight feet would enable me to gain a small side lane; and this I determined to do, if necessary, without the least hesitation, for it would be too stupid to allow myself to be knocked down by a Nationalist, wounded by a student, or simply led off to the station by a policeman, all for the honour of “Ould Ireland,” although my martyrdom could not help her in any way.
When I had once formed my plan of campaign, I began to look about me. There was evidently electricity in the air. The hall could hold about three or four hundred people; a hundred-and-fifty or two hundred were crowded in a small gallery above the door, yet formidable pressure still took place from time to time, and on each occasion a fresh stream of people penetrated into the hall, and the new arrivals pushed forward against those who had entered before them. It was intensely hot, and already a good many present had taken off their coats. In order to pass the time they yelled out a patriotic song, commencing with God Save Ireland, which was accompanied from the street by an orchestra composed of five or six fifes and as many drums.
A few minutes later, a grey-haired gentleman rose quite near to me and advanced to the front of the platform, where he was joined by a short, deformed man with long hair. I don’t know where he came from. Instantly there was a great silence, and the former bowed to the assembly.
“Gentlemen,” said he, “seconded by my friend, Mr. Shackleton,”—Mr. Shackleton—that was the little hunchback—bowed, in his turn, so low that his hump appeared higher than his head. The applause was enthusiastic. Evidently this is an important personage. He is the second hunchback I have seen in the Land League. Mr. Biggar, like Æsop, had only one hump; this man has two, like Punch. The tall speaker is called Mr. Alfred Webb. He continued:
“Seconded by my friend Abraham Shackleton, and in the name of the Protestant Home Rule Association I wish to ask your support for our candidate, Sir Thomas Esmonde, Baronet, who already represents the electoral division of South Dublin.”
This declaration was received with a tremendous noise. Every one stood up, hats flew into the air, or were waved at the end of enormous blackthorn sticks that are here called shillalahs, mouths opened like ovens, and gave vent to hurrahs that made the hall shake. The voters in the gallery thumped with all their force on the wooden balustrade, making it resound like a drum. My eyes were fixed on a short man, standing in front of me; he shouted and gesticulated so violently that I expected he would be seized with an epileptic fit. After a moment he evidently broke something in his throat, for with a despairing gesture he indicated that his voice would not come again, and, red as a tomato, he sank upon a bench to recover his strength.
The same accident probably happened to several others, for comparative silence ensued. Unfortunately, some one took advantage of it to cry: “Boys! Three cheers for the Grand Old Man!”
The “Grand Old Man” is Mr. Gladstone. Some years ago they called him “the old scoundrel.” Now he is called the “Grand Old Man” but the usual pronunciation is not sufficiently emphatic. It must be pronounced very slowly: g-r-r-r-r-and, with four or five r’s, ôld with three circumflex accents on the ô, and two on mân. Any other pronunciation lacks respect.
The quite novel idea of cheering “the Grand Old Man” made every one recover his strength. One gentleman in the gallery gave the signal by attempting to demolish the balustrade with his shillalah and the nine hurrahs broke out like a peal of thunder. Their enthusiasm was so great that when it ended one voice cried, “Once more,” and they recommenced.