we proceeded to the waters of the lake, in which we washed our face and hands, repeating prayers during the ablution.  This to me was the most impressive and agreeable part of the whole station.  The night, while we were in bed, or rather in torture, had become quite stormy, and the waves of the lake beat against the shore with the violence of an agitated sea.  There was just sufficient moon to make the “darkness visible,” and to show the black clouds drifting with rapid confusion, in broken masses, over our heads.  This, joined to the tossing of the billows against the shore—­the dark silent groups that came, like shadows, stooping for a moment over the surface of the waters, and retreating again in a manner which the severity of the night rendered necessarily quick, raising thereby in the mind the idea of gliding spirits—­then the preconceived desolation of the surrounding scenery—­the indistinct shadowy chain of dreary mountains which, faintly relieved by the lurid sky, hemmed in the lake—­the silence of the forms, contrasted with the tumult of the elements about us—­the loneliness of the place—­its isolation and remoteness from the habitations of men—­all this put together, joined to the feeling of deep devotion in which I was wrapped, had really a sublime effect upon me.  Upon the generality of those who were there, blind to the natural beauty and effect of the hour and the place, and viewing it only through the medium of superstitious awe, it was indeed calculated to produce the notion of something not belonging to the circumstance and reality of human life.

From this scene we passed to one, which, though not characterized by its dark, awful beauty, was scarcely inferior to it in effect.  It was called the “Prison,” and it is necessary to observe here, that every pilgrim must pass twenty-four hours in this place, kneeling, without food or sleep, although one meal of bread and warm water, and whatever sleep he could get in Petigo with seven in a bed, were his allowance of food and sleep during the twenty-four hours previous.  I must here beg the good reader’s attention for a moment, with, reference to our penance in the “Prison.”  Let us consider how the nature of this pilgrimage:  it must be performed on foot, no matter what the distance of residence (allowing for voyages)—­the condition of life—­the age or the sex of the pilgrim may be.  Individuals from France, from America, England, and Scotland, visit it—­as voluntary devotees, or to perform an act of penance for some great crime, or perhaps to atone for a bad life in general.  It is performed, too, in the dead heat of summer, when labor is slack, and the lower orders have sufficient leisure to undertake it; and, I may add, when travelling on foot is most fatiguing; they arrive, therefore, without a single exception, blown and jaded almost to death.  The first thing they do, notwithstanding this, is to commence the fresh rigors of the station, which occupies them several hours.  This consists in what I have already