In the instance I allude to, I had entered the first lobby in one of the houses of a most miserable street, where I saw a woman "rocking" in the manner the lower class of Irish express silent agony of feeling. Her body moved back and forward in that peculiar motion which told to my heart she was in misery; and entering the room in silent respect for her suffering, I forgot to knock or make any noise to attract attention. In a moment a figure darted from the side of a bed behind the door, and having caught up something as it passed between me and the entrance, he, for I then saw my assailant was a man, brandished the "miserable remains" of a kitchen poker before my face, and demanded, "What did I want, and how da-ar I come there to throuble thim with my curosity?" And what right had I to pry into their miseries, unless to relieve them? I confess my object in visiting St. Giles's then, had not arisen from so pure a motive, and I felt the justice of his demand—The miseries of the heart are sacred amongst the rich: why should they not be equally so amongst the poor? Nature has made original feeling alike in all; but the poor feel more deeply; for the rich suffer in heart midst countless luxuries and efforts from others to wean them from their sufferings, while the poor suffer midst numberless privations, and almost utter loneliness. Why then should I have "throubled thim with my curosity?"
But I made my peace, with little effort too; and then, for the first time, saw a dead body lying on the bed from whence the man had come, "waking," in the Irish fashion of the lower orders. It was a child of about seven years old. Its last resting place on earth was dressed with flowers, and the mother's hand had evidently done the most within its feeble power to give honour to the dead. Rising, she with her apron rubbed the chair she had been sitting on, and placed it for me; thus offering, in her simple way, the double respect of tendering her own seat, and seeking to make it more fit for my reception by dusting it.
I need not repeat all the tale of misery, the cause of their suffering then, was apparent. "She was their last Colleen—th' uther craturs wur at home with the Granny," and "he had cum to thry his forthin in Inglind; an' bad forthin it was. But the Lord's will be done, fur the little darlint was happy, any how—an' sure they had more av thim at home—an' why should she be mopin' an' cryin' her eyes out for her Colleen, that was gone to God!"
Thus the poor creature reasoned as she cried and blamed herself for crying; for miserable as she was, she evidently felt that she should be thankful for the other blessings that were left her. Do we all feel thus? Yet, at the moment that she did so, I believe there was not a morsel of food within reach of her means, and that her last penny had been spent to deck with flowers the death-bed of her child.
It is needless for me to describe the general miseries of "St. Giles,"—now no more. Its wretched habitations have yielded their place to palaces; its dreaded locality lives but in recollection; and its inhabitants have gone forth—Whither? Perhaps to greater wretchedness. Aye, almost surely! The misery of St. Giles's has ceased, mayhap to make misery double elsewhere; but, thank God! there no longer exists in London a special spot upon which the ban is placed of Irish residence being tantamount to crime.
Years and years have since gone by, and many a time the story of "the two dreadful Irishmen" has risen to my mind, as I have read paragraph after paragraph in the English papers, telling of some direful thing which had occurred and was wrapped in mystery, but concluding after the following fashion:—
"Highway Robbery—(Particulars). There is no clue whatever to discover the parties who committed this atrocious act—but two Irish labourers who live in the neighbourhood are, it is supposed, the delinquents!"
"Burglary at —— (Particulars). The parties who committed this robbery acted in the most daring manner. The country is now filled with Irish harvest labourers!"
"Footpad.—A daring attempt was made by a most desperate-looking man to rob a farmer some days since—(further particulars) after a great struggle he got off. He is supposed to be an Irishman!"