THE DEMONSTRATION.
And thus it came to pass that the chief characters of this story found themselves in Ballybay again on its closing day, on exactly the same spot as they were on the day when it opened.
The Land League demonstration was not prepared with any particular care or organization, the Irish people being still, even in the matter of political demonstration, in a state of childish immaturity. It turned out to be better so, for the spontaneous inventiveness of the moment suggested a programme far more dramatic and picturesque than could have occurred to the mind of the most ingenious political stage-manager. The platform had been erected on the spot where the cabin had stood which the son of the Gombeen man had overthrown so many years ago. The field now was laid in grass, which, before the demonstration waved long and green; but as the hours went on and the thousands of feet passed over it, the grass was all crushed and torn. There were half a dozen bands—two of them dressed in the showy uniform which descends from the pictures of Robert Emmet in the dock—and they played continuously and for the most part discordantly. There were also many banners, there was a long procession of men on horseback, and the heads of the horses were covered with green boughs. Green, indeed, was everywhere; there were green banners, green scarves, green neck-ties, and the greater part of the men displayed the green ticket of the Tenant League in their hats. The air of the crowd was in no way serious, the whole affair was rather like a fête than a grave political demonstration. The multitudes, too, had the absence of self-control which characterizes popular demonstrations; their feelings seemed to express themselves without thought or premeditation, speech overflowed rather than fell from their lips. The result was that the cheering was continuous; now it was the arrival of a band; then the erect walk of a sturdy contingent from a distant point; sometimes it was simply the exchange of a look, that, though mute, spoke volumes, between the people in the procession and those on the sidepaths, that brought forth a wild cheer, in short the temper of the crowd was bright and electrical—the mood for unusual ideas and passionate scenes.
The good humor was hearty rather than inventive or articulate, but one man had had the genius to invent a comic device. This was a very wild creature, half beggar, half laborer, the last of a rapidly dying class in Ireland. He had got hold of a wretched nag of whom the knacker had been defrauded for many years and seated on this in fantastic dress he cudgelled it unmercifully, amid screams of laughter, for around its neck was a placard with the words, "Dead Landlordism."
About two o'clock, there was seen making a desperate attempt to penetrate through this teeming, densely-packed, and noisy multitude, a stout figure, with a face ugly, irregular, good-humored. He was dressed in a long and dull-colored and almost shabby ulster. His hat was as rough as if it had been brushed the wrong way, and he wore a suit of tweed that was now very old, but that even in its earliest days would have been scorned by the poorest shopman of the town with any pretensions to respectability, and the trousers were short and painfully bagged at the knees. But the divine light of genius shone from the brown eyes and the ample forehead. The enthusiasm of the multitude now knew no bounds. There was first a strange stillness, then, when the word seemed to have passed with a strange and lightning-like rapidity from mouth to mouth, there burst forth a great cheer, and it was known that Isaac Butt had come.
But even the Irish leader was destined to play a subordinate part in the proceedings of this strange day. It was a local speaker that stirred the hearts of the people to the uttermost, for he told the story of the eviction of the Widow Cunningham, of the death of her husband, the exile of her son, the shame of her daughter.
While he was speaking some one cried, "She'll have her own agin," and then a few of the young fellows disappeared from the platform. In the course of half-an-hour they returned. They ascended the platform, and after a while, and another pause, a strange and audible thrill passed through the multitude; and then there were passed in almost a hoarse whisper the words, "The Widow Cunningham." And she it was; acting on the hint of the speaker, she had been taken from the workhouse; and she was brought back to her old farm again and to the site of her shattered homestead and broken life. The multitude cheered themselves hoarse; hundreds rushed to the platform to seize her by the hand; a few women threw their arms around her neck, and wept and laughed. Finally, the enthusiasm could not be controlled, and, in spite of the entreaties of the political leaders and of the priests, a knot of young men caught the poor old creature up, and carried her around the field in triumph; the crowd everywhere swaying backwards and forwards, divided between the effort to make a way for the strange procession and the desire to catch sight of the old woman. Probably few of the people there could understand the strange effect which this sight had upon them; but their instincts guided them aright in the enthusiasm with which they hailed this visible token of a bad and terrible and irrevocable past.
And how was it with the chief actor in the scene? Five years of life in a workhouse had left no trace of the handsome, long-haired, and passionate woman who had cursed the destroyer of her house and her children with wild vehemence, and had resisted the assault of the Crowbar Brigade with murderous energy. She was now simply a feeble old woman, with scanty grey hair; the light had died out of her eyes; and there was nothing left in them now but weariness and pain; her cheeks were sunk and were dreadfully discolored; in short, she was a poor, feeble, old woman, with broken spirits and dulled brain. The revenge for which she had longed and prayed had come at last; but it had come too late.
She went through the whole scene with curious and unconscious gaze, as of one passing through a waking dream, and the only sign she gave of understanding anything that was going on was that she gave a weak and weary little smile when the people cried out to her enthusiastically, "Bravo, Widow Cunningham!"—a smile as spectral as the state of things of which she was the relic. She was very wearied and almost fainting when she was brought back to the platform; and then she said, in a voice that was a little louder than a whisper, and with a strange wistfulness in her eyes, "I'd like a cup of tay."
But there was no tea to be had, and the thoughtless good-nature of the day helped to precipitate the tragedy which the equally thoughtless enthusiasm had begun. A dozen flasks were produced; a tumbler was taken from the table, and a large quantity of whiskey was poured down her throat. She became feeble, and the rays of intelligence almost disappeared from her face.