as we advanced, that an odd
traveller would fall in upon the way: so that before we had gone many
miles farther, the fatigue of the journey was much lessened by the
society of the pilgrims. These were now collected into little groups, of
from three to a dozen, each, with the exception of myself and one or
two others of a decenter cast, having the staff and bag. The chat and
anecdotes were, upon the whole, very amusing; but although there was a
great variety of feature, character, and costume among so many, as
must always be the case where people of different lives, habits, and
pursuits, are brought together; still I could perceive that there was a
shade of strange ruminating abstraction apparent on all. I could observe
the cheerful narrator relapse into a temporary gloom, or a fit of
desultory reflection, as some train of thought would suddenly rise
in his mind. I could sometimes perceive a shade of pain; perhaps of
anguish, darken the countenance of another, as if a bitter recollection
was awakened; yet this often changed, by an unexpected transition, to
a gleam of joy and satisfaction, as if a quick sense or hope of relief
flashed across his heart.

When we came near Petigo, the field for observation was much enlarged.
The road was then literally alive with pilgrims, and reminded me, as far
as numbers were concerned, of the multitudes that flocked to market on
a fair-day. Petigo is a snug little town, three or four miles from the
lake, where the pilgrims all sleep on the night before the commencement
of their stations. When we were about five or six miles from it, the
road presented a singular variety of grouping. There were men and
women of all ages, from the sprouting devotee of twelve, to the hoary,
tottering pilgrim of eighty, creeping along, bent over his staff, to
perform this soul-saving work, and die.

Such is the reverence in which this celebrated place is held, that as
we drew near it, I remarked the conversation to become slack; every face
put on an appearance of solemnity and thoughtfulness, and no man was
inclined to relish the conversation of his neighbor or to speak himself.
The very women were silent. Even the lassitude of the journey was
unfelt, and the unfledged pilgrim, as he looked up in his father's or
mother's face, would catch the serious and severe expression he saw
there, and trot silently on, forgetting that he was fatigued.

For my part, I felt the spirit of the scene strongly, yet, perhap