I noticed a little boy lift the poor head to place it easier.
I saw no one whom I could imagine was a nurse. The kindness and
tenderness of the beggar nurses in the sick wards of the workhouse at
Ballymena struck me forcibly. The absence of anything of the kind struck
me forcibly in Manor Hamilton.
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.
