The tents stood at a short distance from the scene of devotion at the well, but not so far as to prevent the spectator from both seeing and hearing what went on in each.  Around the well, on bare knees, moved a body of people thickly wedged together, some praying, some screaming, some excoriating their neighbors’ shins, and others dragging them out of their way by the hair of the head.  Exclamations of pain from the sick or lame, thumping oaths in Irish, recriminations in broken English, and prayers in bog Latin, all rose at once to the ears of the patron saint, who, we are inclined to think—­could he have heard or seen his worshippers—­would have disclaimed them altogether.

“For the sake of the Holy Virgin, keep your sharp elbows out o’ my ribs.”

“My blessin’ an you, young man, an’ don’t be lanin’ an me, i’ you plase!”

“Damnho sherry orth a rogarah ruah!* what do you mane?  Is it my back you’re brakin’?”

     * Eternal perdition on you, you red rogue.

“Hell pershue you, you ould sinner, can’t you keep the spike of your crutch out o’ my stomach!  If you love me tell me so; but, by the livin’ farmer, I’ll take no such hints as that!”

“I’m a pilgrim, an’ don’t brake my leg upon the rock, an’ my blessin’ an you!”

“Oh, murdher sheery! my poor child’ll be smothered!”

“My heart’s curse an you! is it the ould cripple you’re trampin’ over?”

“Here, Barny, blood alive, give this purty young girl a lift, your sowl, or she’ll soon be undhermost!”

     “’Och, ‘twas on a Christmas mornin’
     That Jeroosillim was born in
     The Holy Land’——­’

“Oh, my neck’s broke!—­the curse——­Oh!  I’m kilt fairly, so I am!  The curse o’ Cromwell an you, an’ hould away—­

     ‘The Holy Land adornin’
     All by the Baltic Say. 
     The angels on a Station,
     Wor takin’ raycrayation,
     All in deep meditation,
     All by the’——­

contints o’ the book if you don’t hould away, I say agin, an’ let me go on wid my rann it’ll be worse force for you!—­

     ‘Wor takin’ raycraytion,
     All by the Baltic Say!”

“Help the ould woman there.”

“Queen o’ Patriots pray for us!—­St. Abraham——­go to the divil, you bosthoon; is it crushin’ my sore leg you are?—­St. Abraham pray for us!  St. Isinglass, pray for us!  St. Jonathan,——­musha, I wisht you wor in America, honest man, instid o’ twistin’ my arm like a gad f—­ St. Jonathan, pray for us; Holy Nineveh, look down upon us wid compression an’ resolution this day.  Blessed Jerooslim, throw down compuncture an’ meditation upon us Chrystyeens assembled here afore you to offer up our sins!  Oh, grant us, blessed Catasthrophy, the holy virtues of Timptation an’ Solitude, through the improvement an’ accommodation of St. Kolumbdyl!  To him I offer up this button, a bit o’ the waistband o’ my own breeches, an’ a taste of my wife’s petticoat, in remimbrance of us having made this holy Station; an’ may they rise up in glory to prove it for us at the last day!  Amin!”