50 
A GIRA THROUGH SICILY. 
I had attempted to lead them down hill, and they invariably 
insisted upon going up ; I had bought mules at three hundred 
dollars, that looked well on the morning of the purchase, 
but found they could not go by night, in consequence of be¬ 
ing foundered ; in sober truth, my talent did not lie in the 
navigation or management of mules ; so I walked. A walk 
down Mount Etna includes a slide of about a mile from the 
edge of the crater, which I must tell you about. 
Commencing near the crater is a steep bank of ashes and 
cinders, extending nearly to the Casa Inglesa, by which the 
trip is made with a locomotive speed quite delightful. Peep¬ 
ing over the brink of the precipice, you enter into a calcula¬ 
tion as to the probability of having your limbs dislocated, in 
case you should strike some unseen rock; and about the time 
you become satisfied that a leg or an arm must be sacrificed, 
there rises a dust some hundred yards below, and you see a 
large dark body bouncing down like a man of India rubber, 
scattering cinders and ashes before it, and yelling like a demon. 
Away it goes, rising and jumping and tossing, till it looks like 
a great black bird hopping down into the gulf of lava below, 
dwindling as it goes, till you see nothing but a dark speck. 
Then down dashes another and another, and you see that it 
must be old Pedro leading the way, and the stragglers fol¬ 
lowing. Committing yourself to Providence, you draw a long 
breath and jump over too ; and then, Per Baccho , how you 
go ; up to your ankles in cinders, ten feet every jump ! The 
wind whistles through your hair ; you half shut your eyes to 
keep out the dust that has been raised by the guides ; you 
shout like a drunken man, without knowing why, Hurra ! 
glorious ! splendid traveling this ! hold me somebody ! stop 
me, Pedro ! by Jupiter there goes my hat ! I knew it couldn’t 
stay on ! for heaven’s sake belay me ! It is no use, nobody 
will belay you ! There you go, faster and faster at every 
jump, till you don’t know which end will come out first. 
Now you bet ten to one that your feet will win the race; 
now a hidden mass of lava brings them up with a sudden 
jerk, and you’d lay heavy odds on the end of your nose—yes, 
the nose must win ; you feel the premonitory jar as it nears 
