Whenever a station occurs in Ireland, a crowd of mendicants and other
strolling impostors seldom fail to attend it; on this occasion, at
least, they did not. The day, though frosty, was fine; and the door was
surrounded by a train of this description, including both sexes, some
sitting on stones, some on stools, with their blankets rolled up under
them; and others, more ostensibly devout, on their knees, hard at
prayer; which, lest their piety might escape notice, our readers may be
assured, they did not offer up in silence. On one side you might observe
a sturdy fellow, with a pair of tattered urchins secured to his back
by a sheet or blanket pinned across his breast with a long iron skewer,
their heads just visible at his shoulders, munching a thick piece of
wheaten bread, and the father on his knees, with a a huge wooden cross
in hand, repeating _padareens_, and occasionally throwing a jolly eye
towards the door, or through the; window, opposite which he knelt,
into the kitchen, as often as any peculiar stir or commotion led him to
suppose that breakfast, the loadstar of his devotion, was about to be
produced.