metal; the three new
volcanoes--Bromo, Battok, and Widodaren--casting themselves up from the
blazing crucibles hidden beneath the fire-charged earth. We stand on
the thin and crumbling crust of the globe's most friable surface, a
mere veil concealing fountains of eternal fire, foaming solfataras, and
smoking fumaroles. Circle after circle, the great belt of volcanic
peaks rises around us, visible outlets of incalculable forces, ever
menacing the world with ruin and havoc.

On the steep descent, a few devout pilgrims offer preliminary
sacrifices of food, or flowers, to the _Devas_ of the mountains, laying
the little treasures in oval vaults dug by human hands, before entering
the inner courts of the fiery sanctuary. The yellow Sand Sea, swept by
a moaning wind, sends up whirling eddies, and the dusky haze shimmers
in fantastic outlines, which probably originated the idea of spiritual
presences hovering round the scene. Grey heather and clumps of
cypress-grass dot the wild Sahara with their dry and colourless
monotony, but give place on the southern side to patches of fern and
turf, the scanty pasture of the mountain ponies, herding together until
sickness or accident breaks the ranks, when the hapless sufferer,
deserted by his kind, falls an easy prey to the wild dogs of the
Tengger ranges. A heap of bleaching bones points to some past tragedy,
and terrifies the swerving horses of the native pilgrims. The ascent of
the Bromo is negotiated from the eastern side to the lip of the
gigantic crater. Slanting precipices of lava, their grey flanks scored
with black gullies below the volcanic ash which covers the upper
slopes, rise to the jagged pinnacles bordering the black gulf of
eternal mystery and night. A rickety ladder of bamboo, approached
through a chaos of boulders, mounts to the edge of the profound abyss.
The ladder has been renewed for this Day of Atonement, and worshippers
clad in rainbow hues crowd round the base of the volcano, while the
priests of Siva, in motley robes of brilliant patchwork, adorned with
cabalistic tracery in white, ascend the swaying rungs, bearing their
struggling victims, bleating, crowing, and clucking in mortal terror.
Stalwart arms toss the black goat with accurate aim to an assistant
priest, who passes on his clever "catch" to a third expert in the task
of hoodwinking Siva and depriving him of his lawful prey. Sundry cocks
and hens, evidently toothsome morsels, are then thrown from one p