rough track with their sticks, down which we prepare to follow. The way
being fearfully steep, and none of the party--even of the thirty--being
able to keep their feet for six paces together, the ladies are taken out
of their litters, and placed, each between two careful persons; while
others of the thirty hold by their skirts, to prevent their falling
forward--a necessary precaution, tending to the immediate and hopeless
dilapidation of their apparel. The rather heavy gentleman is abjured to
leave his litter too, and be escorted in a similar manner; but he
resolves to be brought down as he was brought up, on the principle that
his fifteen bearers are not likely to tumble all at once, and that he is
safer so, than trusting to his own legs.

In this order, we begin the descent; sometimes on foot, sometimes
shuffling on the ice; always proceeding much more quietly and slowly
than on our upward way; and constantly alarmed by the falling among us
of somebody from behind, who endangers the footing of the whole party,
and clings pertinaciously to anybody's ankles. It is impossible for the
litter to be in advance, too, as the track has to be made; and its
appearance behind us, overhead--with some one or other of the bearers
always down, and the rather heavy gentleman with his legs always in the
air--is very threatening and frightful. We have gone on thus, a very
little way, painfully and anxiously, but quite merrily, and regarding it
as a great success--and have all fallen several times, and have all been
stopt, somehow or other, as we were sliding away when Mr. Pickle of
Portici, in the act of remarking on these uncommon circumstances as
quite beyond his experience, stumbles, falls, disengages himself, with
quick presence of mind, from those about him, plunges away head
foremost, and rolls, over and over, down the whole surface of the cone!

Giddy, and bloody, and a mere bundle of rags, is Pickle of Portici when
we reach the place where we dismounted, and where the horses are
waiting; but, thank God, sound in limb! And never are we likely to be
more glad to see a man alive and on his feet, than to see him
now--making light of it too, tho sorely bruised and in great pain. The
boy is brought into the Hermitage on the Mountain, while we are at
supper, with his head tied up; and the man is heard of, some hours
afterward. He, too, is bruised and stunned, but has broken no bones; the
snow having, fortunately, covered all the larg