The children in this workhouse were pretty numerous. They demanded
something from me with the air of little footpads. The women were little
better. I was told, pretty imperatively, to look in my pockets. One
woman rushed after me half way up stairs as if she would compel a gift.
Coming back with my throat full of feelings, I was directed to a little
desk behind the door, where lay the book for visitors: I was shown the
place where remarks were to be entered. I wrote my name standing, as
there was no other way provided. I was hardly fit to write cool remarks.
The locked doors, the nurses conspicuous by their absence, the
importunate beggars, the absent matron, the whole establishment was far
below anything of the kind I had yet seen in Ireland. One woman had made
her appearance from some unexpected place, and explained to me with
floury hands, that if she were not baking she would herself show me
through the house.
I think it is hard for struggling poverty to go down so far as to take
shelter in the workhouse. It must be like the bitterness of death. I
cannot imagine the feeling of any human beings when the big door clashes
on them, the key turns, and they find themselves an inmate of the
workhouse at Manor Hamilton. I do not wonder that the creatures starving
outside preferred to suffer rather than go in. When I returned to the
entrance the master had been joined by some others who were helping him
to do nothing. He asked me over his shoulder what I thought of the
house. I answered that it was a fine building, and walked down the
avenue, wishing I was able to speak in a cool manner and to tell him
what I thought of the house and of his management of the same.
Left Manor Hamilton on the long car for Sligo. The long car is the
unworthy successor of the defunct mail coach of blessed memory. It is an
exaggerated jaunting car arranged on the wheels and axles of a lumber
waggon and it is drawn by a span sometimes; in this case, by four
horses. A female was waving her hands and shouting incoherent blessings
after us as we started. It might be for me or it might be for the land
agent, who sat on the same side. I smiled by way of willingness to
accept it, for it is better to have a blessing slung after one than a
curse or a big stone.
Our road skirted Benbo (the hill of cattle), sacred now to rabbits and
hares and any other small game that can shelter on its bald sides. Up
hill and down hill, between hills and around hills, mountains of every
shape and degree of bareness and baldness looking down at us over one
another's shoulders as we drove along. An ambitious little peasant clung
on behind with his hands, his little bare feet thudding on the smooth
road and over the loose layer of sharp stones that lay edge upwards in
places. He thought he was taking a ride. We passed small fields of
reclaimed bog, where ragged men were planting potatoes in narrow ridges.
We passed the brown fields where nothing will be planted; passed the
small donkeys with their big loads; passed green meadows on a small
scale; in places here and there, passed the houses, dark, damp and
unwholesome, where these people live.
After we had rumbled on for some miles, enjoying blinks of cold
sunshine, enduring heavy scudding showers, the landscape began to soften
considerably. The grass grew green instead of olive, and trees clustered
along the road. Umbrageous sycamores, claiming kindred with our maples,
began to stand along the road singly and in clusters. We were still in a
valley bounded by mountains, but the hill-sides waved with dark green
and light green foliage, where the fir stretched upward tall plumes and
the larch shook downward tasseled streamers. The green of the fields
became greener and richer, the dark sterile moss-covered mountains
retreated and frowned at us from the distance; we were leaving the
hungry hills of north Leitrim for the pleasant valleys that lie smiling
around Sligo.
The trees grew larger, the sycamores massed together in their full
leafiness, bringing visions of a sugar bush in the time of leaves; they
were mingled with the delicious green of the newly-leaved beech. The
round-headed chestnuts, with their clustered leaves, were covered with
tall spikes of blossom like the tapers on an overgrown Christmas tree.
The ash and oak are shaking out their leaves tardily; the orchards are
white with the bridal bloom of May. The fields are flocked with myriads
of happy eyed daisies, the ditch backs glowing with golden blossoms. My
eyes make me wealthy with looking at beauty.
We are nearing the town, for the woodland wealth is enclosed behind high
walls. Grand houses peep from among the branches; trim lodges, ivy-
garnished, sit at the gates, glimpses of gardens are seen, all the
wealth of leafage and blossoming that fertility spreads over the land
when spring breathes is here. In a glow of sunshine after the rain -
smiles after tears - we enter Sligo.
We draw up in the open street, everyone alights from our elevation as
they can. No one takes notice of any other by way of help. Each gets off
and goes his several way. The land agent, who has sat in high-bred
silence all the way, pays his fare and goes off on the car that awaits
him. The rest disperse. I pay my fare. The driver asks to be remembered.
I mentally wonder what for. I paid a porter to place my bag on the car.
I got up as I could, I scramble down as I may.
