36 
A GIRA THROUGH SICILY. 
but it was not till we came in sight of it at a distance of forty 
miles that we could ascertain any thing satisfactory. In fact, 
nobody that we asked knew any thing about Mount Etna, or 
had ever heard of such a mountain—at least under that 
name. Some thought it must be in Italy, and others declared 
there was no such mountain. Our conductor knew it when 
he saw it, but he could not tell us two hours before when we 
would see it. 
At two o’clock we sallied forth, duly mounted and capar¬ 
isoned. The animal upon which I rode was intended for a 
horse, I believe, but it bore very little resemblance to that 
noble animal. Had any body offered to bet me ten dollars 
that it wouldn’t drop before I got half way to San Nicolosi, 
I would have taken him up. Hosinante was nothing to com¬ 
pare with the bony, shaggy, sway-backed old charger that 
bore me out of the gates of Catania. 
Immediately after leaving the suburbs of the town, the 
ascent commences, and it continues, more or less, the entire 
distance of twenty-three miles to the summit of the mountain. 
The road as far as San Nicolosi is tolerably good—the first 
part of it, to the fountain, being a public highway to the 
principal villages back of Catania. The devastating effects 
of the volcanic eruptions are visible every where on the road¬ 
side, and even below Catania the face of the country is black¬ 
ened with masses of the lava. The foundations of the villages 
along the sea shore for miles, the walls around the fields, the 
lanes and terraced grounds, are all formed of volcanic depos¬ 
its, and give a dreary aspect to the whole country; hundreds 
of villages lie buried beneath the desolating streams that 
have poured from the crater in times past; vineyards and 
olive groves, castles, villas, works of art, thousands of men, 
women, and children, lie mouldering under those fierce floods 
of ashes and lava. Other towns and villages have sprung 
up on the ruins ; thousands of living beings dwell in the 
same places, and look up every day with careless indifference 
at the smoking crater; vineyards and olive groves are nour¬ 
ished from the bones of the dead. What matters it ? No¬ 
body believes there will be another eruption in his lifetime; 
