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had such a dream often - skimming over the white ice, like
a cannon-ball. Almost at the same moment, there is a cry
from behind; and a man who has carried a light basket of
spare cloaks on his head, comes rolling past, at the same
frightful speed, closely followed by a boy. At this climax
of the chapter of accidents, the remaining eight-and-twenty
vociferate to that degree, that a pack of wolves would be
music to them!

Giddy, and bloody, and a mere bundle of rags, is
Pickle of Portici when we reach the place where we dis-
mounted, 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, though 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 afterwards. He too is
bruised and stunned, but has broken no bones; the snow
having, fortunately, covered all the larger blocks of rock
and stone, and rendered them harmless.

After a cheerful meat, and a good rest before a blaz-
ing fire, we again take horse, and continue our descent
to Salvatore's house - very slowly, by reason of our
bruised friend being hardly able to keep the saddle, or
endure the pain of motion. Though it is so late at night,
or early in the morning, all the people of the village are
waiting about the little stableyard when we arrive, and
looking up the road by which we are expected. Our ap-

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