singular character, as well as of its lethargic influence, from its continuity; for it still—­still rung lowly and supernaturally on my ear.  Perhaps the deep, wavy prolongation of the bass of a large cathedral bell, or that low, continuous sound, which is distinct from its higher and louder intonations, would give a faint notion of it, yet only a faint one; for the body of hoarse monotony here was immense.  Indeed, such a noise had something so powerfully lulling, that human nature, even excited by the terrible suggestions of superstitious fear, was scarcely able to withstand it.

Now the poor pilgrims forget, that this strong disposition to sleep arises from the weariness produced by their long journeys—­by the exhausting penance of the station, performed without giving them time to rest—­by the other still more natural consequence of not giving them time to sleep—­by the drowsy darkness of the chapel—­and by the heaviness caught from the low peculiar murmur of the pilgrims, which would of itself overcome the lightest spirit.  I was here but a very short time when I began to doze, and just as my chin was sinking placidly on my breast, and the words of an Ave Maria dying upon my lips, I felt the charm all at once broken by a well-meant rap upon the occiput, conferred through the instrumentality of a little angry-looking squat urchin of sixty years, and a remarkably good black-thorn cudgel, with which he was engaged in thwacking the heads of such sinners, as, not having the dread of insanity and the regulations of the place before their eyes, were inclined to sleep.  I declare the knock I received told to such a purpose on my head, that nothing occurred during the pilgrimage that vexed me so much.

After all, I really slept the better half of the night; yet so indescribably powerful was the apprehension of derangement, that my hypocritical tongue wagged aloud at the prayers, during these furtive naps.  Nay, I not only slept but dreamed.  I experienced also that singular state of being, in which, while the senses are accessible to the influence of surrounding objects, the process of thought is suspended, the man seems to enjoy an inverted existence, in which the soul sleeps, and the body remains awake and susceptible of external impressions.  I once thought I was washing myself in the lake, and that the dashing noise of its waters rang in my ears:  I also fancied myself at home in conversation with my friends; yet, in neither case, did I altogether forget where I was.  Still in struggling to bring my mind back, so paramount was the dread of awaking deranged should I fall asleep, that these occasional visions—­associating themselves with this terror—­and this again broken in upon by the hoarse murmurs about me, throwing their dark shades on every object that passed my imagination, the force of reason being too vague at the moment; these occasional visions I say, and this jumbling together of broken images and disjointed thoughts,