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!"