DENNIS.
My leave of absence flew swiftly by, and I had again to bid my
friends farewell, and return to my regiment. When I arrived, I found
my comrade Dennis, along with some others, standing in full marching
order, with his arms carried, and his face within a few inches of the
barrack wall, in which position he was sentenced to remain during
three successive days, from sunrise to sunset, for being absent when
the roll was called at tattoo. This was a new invented punishment,
intended as a mild substitute for flogging, but in my opinion more
severe and injurious to the health. Our moral physicians seem to
consider bodily pain as the grand panacea for all errors of the
mind. It is strange how precedent or prejudice should guide men of
information on these points; it proceeds either from indolence, which
prevents them thinking at all, or their passions are so much stronger
than their reason, that they act contrary to their better judgment.
The latter is the most common of the two.
The fault of poor Dennis, had it been inquired into, did not deserve
the severe punishment with which it was visited. His sweetheart,
Peggy Doyle, had been seized with typhus fever, which was at that
time prevalent. The common people in Ireland have a dread of fever
almost incredible. The nearest relations of the sick will often
refuse to visit them, and many times the suffering individual is
almost totally deserted, unless there be some devoted wife, child,
or mother, whose affection is stronger than the fear of death. Poor
Peggy had caught the infection from a family, one of the girls of
whom was her particular friend; the whole of the family, consisting
of five individuals, were unfortunately ill at the same time, and
Peggy, finding that no one would attend them, heedless of all selfish
considerations, had given up her place to become their nurse. The
father and a little boy died, but the two girls and the mother became
convalescent. During this time she had been often assisted by Dennis,
who shared cheerfully with her in the labour and danger to which her
disinterested benevolence had exposed her. While they were ill, she
had remained perfectly healthy, but the disease was working in her
blood, and her friends were scarcely able to crawl about, when their
kind nurse was stretched on the bed from which they had just risen,
with every symptom of the disorder more aggravated than that from
which they had recovered.
This was a heart-breaking business to poor Dennis; every moment he
could spare he was at her bedside, and the night on which he had been
absent from roll-calling, she was so ill, that, in his anxiety for
her, he had forgot the hour of tattoo, and the reports were given
in before he reached the barrack. I exerted the little influence I
possessed to get Dennis forgiven, and was successful, and to prevent
any misunderstanding, I got leave for myself and him for the night.
When this point was gained, I accompanied him to see poor Peggy, but
being insensible, she did not know me; she did not rave, but there
was a deadly stupor in her eye. Poor Dennis was affected to the
heart, but he endeavoured to bear it with fortitude. The girls were
still too weak to endure the fatigue, and were in bed, but the mother
sat beside us. It was evident that life was now fast ebbing—her eye
became more glazed, the livid circle round her mouth became deeper,
and her respiration more laborious. We had been sitting in silence
for some time, watching the progress of dissolution, when we were
startled by the melancholy and lengthened howl of a dog, outside the
door. I cannot, need not, attempt to describe the effect it had upon
us.
‘Ah! that’s a sure sign,’ said the old woman, when she recovered
herself, ‘the poor child will soon be gone.’
I am not very superstitious, and I strove to dispel the emotion I
felt by going to discover the dog. I found him seated on the street
opposite the door, with his face turned towards it. He was well known
to the regiment, for he frequented the barrack-square, and whenever
the bugles sounded, he emitted the same kind of howl he had done
that night. The knowledge of this in a measure quieted my mind, but
I could not altogether rid myself of the strange impression created
by the incident. Having returned to Peggy’s bedside, I found her much
worse; the death-rattle was in her throat, and a long and distressing
moan every two or three minutes, told how dreadful was the struggle.
The old woman awakened her daughters. ‘Rise, my dear girls,’ said
she, ‘and pray for the soul of her who is losing her life for your
sakes.’
By the time they got up she was in the agonies of death.
‘Fall down on your knees, my childer,’ said she, ‘and pray to God to
smooth her way to heaven.’
We sunk down with one accord by the bedside, and while they offered
up their fervent prayers, her soul winged its way to a world where
her benevolent deeds would be appreciated and rewarded. Poor Dennis
had held her hand in his for some time before she died, and he did
not relinquish it, until the old woman came over to him and said,
‘O Dennis, astore, she is gone!’ when he started to his feet, and
gazing intensely on the corpse for a few minutes, he stooped down and
imprinted a last kiss on her cold and livid lips, which but a few
days before had glowed in all the vermilion of health; then turning
about, he sat down in a corner of the room without saying a word.
After a pause of an hour, during which they were busily employed in
offering up prayers for the soul of the deceased,—‘Come, my dear,’
said the mother to the elder girl, ‘we may as well get her laid out
while she is warm, for I believe she hasn’t much to travel.[18] Boys,
you had better go home and try and get some rest.’
Dennis was for guard next day, and could not accompany me; but when I
returned I found the old woman and her daughters, weak as they were,
had not been idle. The bed on which Peggy had lain was removed and
burnt, the walls of both apartments white-washed with lime, and the
floor strewed with mint and lavender. On the room door, which had
been unhinged for the purpose, and placed resting on two chairs, was
stretched the dead body, covered with a white sheet all but the face,
which now wore a composed smile. Three candles lighted were placed
at her head, ornamented with cut paper. Though the morning had been
stormy, the younger girl had gone out and collected such flowers as
the season afforded,—the snowdrop, the primrose, and the evergreen,
and strewed them on the corpse.
The same dread that prevented the neighbours from visiting her in her
sickness, restrained them from attending her wake; but it was so much
the better—none but true hearts mourned over her—no tears were shed
but those of affection—there was no boisterous or disgraceful mirth,
such as I have witnessed on similar occasions. A few neighbours,
more friendly than others, ventured into the outer apartment, and
remained during the night; but the old woman and the two girls sat
alternately, and sometimes together, at the head of the corpse—and
apostrophizing the inanimate clay, they ran over every endearing
quality that she possessed, adverted to the happy moments they had
passed in her company, and with the tears trickling over their
cheeks, chaunted the plaintive airs which she was partial to, and had
often joined them in singing.
There was something in the scene so impressive and solemn, and in
the simple tribute of affection to the remains of their friend so
touching, that it was impossible to witness it without the heart
whispering ‘it is good to be here.’ Having gone out for a few minutes
to warm myself at the fire where the neighbours were sitting, I
overheard one of the women repeating an irregular rhyme.
‘What is the meaning of that?’ said I.
‘It’s a rhyme,’ replied she, ‘that a poor innocent who frequented
this used to repeat, and we happened to be talking about her.’
I expressed a wish to hear something concerning her; and in a
detached and irregular manner she told me the following story:—
Molly Kelly was the daughter of a small farmer in an adjoining
county. She had been seduced by a young man of the same neighbourhood
under promise of marriage, which he delayed to fulfil so long, that
Mary, finding herself in a situation she could not long conceal,
disclosed the secret to her mother. Knowing that her father was of
a stern, unforgiving temper, she endeavoured to keep it from his
knowledge, but it was soon found necessary to tell even him. In his
first transports of rage, he threatened to take her life, and her
mother was obliged to conceal her from his fury; she endeavoured to
excite his pity for the unfortunate girl, but all she could get him
to do was to restrain his anger until he saw whether the young man
would marry her, who was accordingly sent for, but he refused in
the most insulting terms. This was communicated by the heart-broken
mother to Mary, who at the same time warned her of her father’s
anger, and advised her to go to a relation’s house at some distance,
until he could be brought to forgive her; this Mary at first refused
to do, but her mother urged her departure, and she at length
consented.
Having reached her friend’s house, she remained there until within
a few days of the delivery of her child, when she left it without
giving any intimation, and wandered as far as her precarious
situation permitted. She was seized with the pains of labour in a
cottage where she had gone in to rest herself, and was delivered
of a daughter before she left it. The people were kind to her, and
administered every thing to her comfort their circumstances admitted;
but poor Mary’s distress of mind enhanced her danger; she was seized
with violent inflammation and became delirious. The disorder,
however, at length subsided, and she gradually recovered her health,
but her reason was gone for ever.
Her situation was taken notice of by some kind-hearted people, and
they meditated taking the child from her; but she was so harmless,
and so fond of the babe, grew so uneasy and even frantic when any one
attempted to take it, and besides had so much natural nourishment for
it, that they allowed it to remain with her.
For nearly a twelvemonth she roved about from one place to another
subsisting on charity, when the child caught the small-pox; at
first she did not seem to understand that it was sick, but when the
disorder came to a height, she felt uneasy at seeing the pustules
which covered its skin, and one day she carried the poor infant to a
stream and endeavoured to wash them off with a wisp of straw. Some
person passing discovered her thus employed, and interfered to save
the child, but it was too late,—it had expired in her hands; and she
would not part with it until it was forcibly taken from her to be
buried.
From this time the disorder of her mind assumed a different
character. She would not enter a house, but slept about old walls
or barns, and mourned continually for her child. Some one thought
of giving her a large doll by the way of quieting her mind, and the
experiment was so far successful; she lavished the same fondness on
it, dressed it, and nursed it, as if it had been a living child; but
she still avoided going into the houses, unless when the weather was
very severe; then she would seek some favourite house, and chaunt
over the rhyme at the door, that I heard the woman repeat on my
coming out of the room:—
‘Open the door to pretty Polly, for this is a cold winter night;
It rains, it hails, it blows, and the elements give no light.’
Her petition was never in vain, for they were all fond of poor Molly;
but her constitution could not long withstand the constant exposure
to the weather; her health gradually gave way, and one morning the
wretched victim of seduction and parental cruelty was found dead by
the side of a ditch.
FOOTNOTES:
[18] It is generally believed among the common people of this part of
Ireland, that when the soul leaves its earthly tenement, the first
thing it does is to travel over every spot of ground that the body
did while living; during which time the tie between it and its mortal
remains is not entirely severed; and for that reason they will not
touch the body for a certain time after life is extinct.