One day a poor mendicant came in at dinner hour, and stood as if to solicit alms.  It is customary in Ireland, when any person of that description appears during meal times, to make him wait until the meal is over, after which he is supplied with the fragments.  No sooner had the boccagh—­as a certain class of beggars is termed—­advanced past the jamb, than he was desired to sit until the dinner should be concluded.  In the mean time, with the tact of an adept in his calling, he began to ingratiate himself with Larry and his wife; and after sounding the simple couple upon their private history, he discovered that want of children was the occasion of their unhappiness.

“Well good people,” said the pilgrim, after listening to a dismal story on the subject, “don’t be cast down, sure, whether or not.  There’s a Holy Well that I can direct yez to in the county—.  Any one, wid trust in the Saint that’s over it, who’ll make a pilgrimage to it on the Patthern day, won’t be the worse for it.  When you go there,” he added, “jist turn to a Lucky Stone that’s at the side of the well, say a Rosary before it, and at the end of every dicken (decade) kiss it once, ache of you.  Then you’re to go round the well nine times, upon your bare knees, sayin’ your Pathers and Avers all the time.  When that’s over, lave a ribbon or a bit of your dress behind you, or somethin’ by way of an offerin’, thin go into a tent an’ refresh yourselves, an’ for that matther, take a dance or two; come home, live happily, an’ trust to the holy saint for the rest.”

A gleam of newly awakened hope might be discovered lurking in the eyes of this simple pair, who felt that natural yearning of the, heart incident to such as are without offspring.

They looked forward with deep anxiety to the anniversary of the Patron Saint; and when it arrived, none certainly who attended it, felt a more absorbing interest in the success of the pilgrimage than they did.

The days on which these pilgrimages are performed at such places are called Pattern or Patron days.  The journey to holy wells or holy lakes is termed a Pilgrimage, or more commonly a Station.  It is sometimes enjoined by the priest, as an act of penance; and sometimes undertaken voluntarily, as a devotional, work of great merit in the sight of God.  The crowds in many places amount to from five hundred to a thousand, and often to two, three, four, or five thousand people.

These Stations have, for the most part, been placed in situations remarkable for wild and savage grandeur, or for soft, exquisite, and generally solitary beauty.  They may be found on the high and rugged mountain top; or sunk in the bottom of some still and lonely glen, far removed from the ceaseless din of the world.  Immediately beside them, or close in their vicinity, stand the ruins of probably a picturesque old abbey, or perhaps a modern chapel.  The appearance of these gray, ivy-covered walls is strongly calculated to stir up in the minds of the people the memory of bygone times, when their religion, with its imposing solemnities, was the religion of the land.  It is for this reason, probably, that patrons are countenanced; for if there be not a political object in keeping them up, it is beyond human ingenuity to conceive how either religion or morals can be improved by debauchery, drunkenness, and bloodshed.