"Here, then, clap that running noose round you, and give us notice when to bowse away."

The doctor did as he was bid, but not venturing far enough from the circumference before giving the word, the first yeo-heave-o took him off his feet with a swing that nearly brought him in contact with the opposite side, and had also the disagreeable effect of placing him for a moment in the immediate vicinity of his foe. His alarm, however, if great, and expressed with proportionate vigour, was of short duration; and after a few vibrations, that rapidly diminished with the diminishing length of the pendulum, we succeeded in once more raising his ruddy face to the aperture. A short and energetic struggle at the edge, and Dr. Danks had once more visited the upper air,-his clothes, and especially the sitting part, daubed with brown dust, and his hat damaged to a very considerable extent, and his whole man in a state of the most interesting confusion. Dawson prescribed brandy, a brush, and a breakfast. The first part of the prescription was administered on the spot, and we adjourned to the albergo for the remainder. Even these, however, had not the full effect of at once restoring our worthy friend, and his air was still discomposed and nervous when we mounted our mules for the purpose of resuming our journey.

As we sallied out of Sciacca, on our road to Girgenti, our attention was attracted by a small shop a little way beyond the gate, in which a young lad was manufacturing a jar on the potter's wheel-an operation which, in the hands of a skilful workman, is one of the prettiest applications of centrifugal force conceivable. Several jars, ready for the oven, stood beside him. The ware is of a white clay, and when finished, is, I understood, light and porous. It was pretty to see the jar tapering from its narrow base, and swelling out into the most graceful proportions, as the greater pressure of his foot gave increased velocity to the wheel, while he regulated its thickness and smoothed its surface with two small sticks-the whole done so regularly and with so little trouble, that it seemed as if the vase grew under his hands like a flower on its stem. Sciacca, it appears, is still, as of old, famous for its potteries, and the interest of the matter was increased by the doctor reminding us that Carcinus, the father of Agathocles, was a potter of Thermæ.

"It gives one a sensation," he said, handing a few grani to the operator, who had very civilly explained to us the mode of forming the different parts of his ware, "to find the same trade the staple of the same spot when so many hundred years have passed away. It is a relic of past ages as perfect in its kind as the streets of Pompeii. I don't know that it is not more so. Brick and mortar and lava pavements are stable in their kind, but the customs and manners, the fashions and the trades of a people are such evanescent quantities, that stability in them gives us an additional surprise. Yet in those countries especially where their government allows no speculation, and their half-civilised state has not progressed so far as to offer opportunity for enterprise, these relics meet us at every turn. Yon lout makes his jars on the spot where Carcinus made his before him, in material and form probably the same. Sciacca keeps up the fame of the Thermæ Selinuntiæ."

"Well, I don't feel the interest of that at all," said Dawson. “I suppose they continue to make white jars at Sciacca, because they get good pipe-clay, just as Newcastle will always be famous for coals, unless electricity should succeed in giving us light, heat, and locomotives without them."

"Pooh!" said the doctor, putting spurs to his mule.

The country between Sciacca and our breakfasting-place, Monte Allegro, was generally uninteresting, the road winding among rough uncultivated knolls, the spaces between which sometimes widened out into narrow plains, presenting everywhere the same traces of a rich fertility unimproved. A few flocks of goats in the distance formed the only evidence that the treasures of the soil were not utterly wasted on the desert air, and at the same time reminded us of the warning of Domenico, that unless we procured some milk on the way, we were not likely to get any at Monte Allegro. A flock about half a mile south of our track presented the desired opportunity, and lots being cast, in the usual and primitive mode of pitch and toss, to ascertain on whom the onus should fall, Igins was armed with the milk-flask, and despatched on his foraging expedition. His mule, a splendid fellow, started off willingly on the journey, but after a gallop of about twenty yards, finding his former companions were not accompanying him, he made a dead stop, and shook his head with an air that menaced mischief in case efforts should be made to force him to proceed. Igins, however, was one of those amiable politicians of the rational school, who think that, to make people do right, it is enough to convince them they shouldn't do wrong, and that a little gentle persuasion is sufficient, even with a mule. He consequently contented himself with turning the head of his quadruped, as nearly as he could, in the necessary direction, accompanied with a " Soho-go on, poor fellow." Zingaro, however, for that was his name, after another preliminary shake of his head, commenced a rapid retrograde progress, a style of proceeding which, whatever it may say for the animal's disregard of consequences, produces, I have always found, especially in rough ground, rather uneasy anticipations in the rider. We at last thought it necessary, after Zingaro had come once or twice to his haunches, to ride forward and join him, when he gave evidence, by a sharp exulting whinny, of his being appeased. We resolved, therefore, to ride across together, and desiring Domenico to await our return, set off at a smart trot, which, partly from the emulation of the riders and partly from that of the animals they bestrode, rapidly ripened into a gallop. Away first went the doctor, bounding in his saddle to a height that rendered his safe return into it a kind of miracle, repeated about a hundred and twenty times a minute. Away went Igins, his curls streaming in the wind, while he held mane and reins grasped in a bunch with both his hands -away went myself, in considerable perturbation at the breakneck nature of the ground over which we swept, while Dawson brought up the rear, his merry laugh ringing above the tramp of our mules, as their hoofs clattered along over the stony sod. It was, as "Bell's Life" would say, a moment of intense interest. Principe, on which the doctor was mounted, was neck and neck with Zingaro. They neared the winning-post, that is, the goatherd, who stood in amaze

'ment at their furious career. It was the turn of a die which would be first, when Igins's hat, which had been wavering some time before, and for which he had not a hand to spare, finally gave way; it fell on Zingaro's croupe, he sprang forward, startled by its coming in contact with his heels, and Igins won with a rush like Chifney's.

How far indeed he would have carried his triumph, or Zingaro would have carried him, is a very doubtful matter, had not the same spirit of sociality which at first induced the mule to refuse to journey without a companion, induced him also to pull up when he found himself alone in his glory, some fifty yards a-head, the doctor having succeeded in stopping Principe, after running comparatively a short distance. Igins slowly returned, panting, perhaps with triumph, and bearing his honours so meekly that one would have almost thought he did not look upon them as honours at all.

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We apprised the goatherd, a stout youngster of about eighteen, in rough sandals and a shaggy capote" of sheepskin, of what we wanted. He immediately, with great alacrity, selected a goat, and filled our bottle in a twinkling.

The doctor thanked him, as he deposited it in his capacious pocket, and offered him a carline.

To our great amazement, for it was the first time we had met with such an instance of self-denial south of the Alps, the poor fellow coloured up, even through the bronze on his cheek, and with the air of a gentleman, for he did it simply and unaffectedly, bowed, as he replied, "Grazie, no, signor."

"Eh, perche, no; amico mio, pigliatelo."

"Siete forestieri," he replied, bashfully, in his best Italian. "Well ?"

"E voglio farvi un complimento-permittetemi."

"There was no reply to this, and the doctor, putting his carlino in his pocket, bethought himself for a moment. He then, producing a small clasp-knife, which had evidently seen some service, requested the young Sicilian to accept of it, not as payment, but as a little memorial of the forestieri. The feelings of the person he addressed were, however, too sensitive even for this; and though he had not many words, he sufficiently expressed his idea that fee or reward in any shape would make a mere bargain and sale of what he meant as an act of kindness to strangers, by repeating his original formula— Voglio farvi un complimento-permittetemi."

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After some inquiries, therefore, about his flock, by which he seemed gratified, we parted with a hearty shake of the hand, and many a buon giorno and buon viaggio repeated and re-repeated as we receded from the spot.

"A Sicilian refuse money!" grumbled the doctor, as we wound towards the place where Domenico awaited us. "I don't understand it." "The young

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Why, it's as plain as a pike-staff," said Dawson. lion has not tasted blood. It's a bit of pastoral, for which Sicily was once so famous; by the way, another specimen of manners and customs, descending like the making of pots and pans. One carline fairly pocketed as the produce of a bottle of milk, and his

"auri

sacra fames" would become an absolute bulimy that nothing would satiate. He would be in a week as bad as the young ten-year-old DownEaster, whom a passing traveller asked how the people in that country lived. 6 Why, replied young precocity, when strangers come we skin 'em, and when they don't come, we skin one another.' "Out upon ye, ye scoffer," said the doctor, “ blunderbuss of an old Joe "Manton, doctor ?"

coming with your

"No-Miller, Dick; to try and demolish the only specimen of real hospitality I have seen these six months. You don't deserve a drop of the milk that amiable young savage bestowed upon you. And here, by the way, is Monte Allegro before us."

"Which is the lion and which is the dog, doctor? for, methinks, I see two Monti Allegri."

"One of them seems Penseroso rather. Domenico, what is that place up yonder that looks so desolate ?”

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Why that, 'ccellenza," replied Domenico, "is old Monte Allegro. You see it is rather a tough climb to get up. Zingaro there, and there's not a better mule from Palermo to Syracuse, would have been puzzled with it. However, the good folks of Monte Allegro went on, one year after another, coming down to their work in the morning, and having the comfort of a good climb to get back to their roosts at night. Their fathers and grandfathers had done so, and it came natural to them to do the same. So they might have gone on till this day, but for one old gentleman who had got grasso, 'ccellenza, very fat and stout indeed. Now he could get along pretty well on level ground, but the climb up among the clouds yonder puzzled him extremely; so as he got older and older, and fatter and fatter, he began to think one day, when he had got about half way to the top and stopped to rest himself, whether there was any necessity for him to go up at all, only to come down again in the morning. So you see he lay awake all that night, thinking and thinking; and at last he thought all of a sudden, that if his house were at the bottom of the hill in place of at the top, he would be saved two journeys in the day. So he mentioned this to all his neighbours who were fat and old like himself, and they too thought and thought about it, and at last they thought the old gentleman was in the right. So, after debating it backwards and forwards for long enough, they resolved, men and women, young and old, to save themselves the trouble of climbing the hill by living at the bottom of it. So here they are— giù giù-in Monte Allegro Nuovo, where vostra eccellenza is going to breakfast. Some of the old folks, however, say to this day that times have never gone well since they left the old walls up yonder."

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"Hard

By Jove, and they're in the right," said the doctor. must have been their hearts as the nether millstone, or the conscience of a political economist, who could leave their old household gods up yonder beside their desolate hearths. Did you ever, Lamprey, in your life, see anything inanimate have the same appearance of feeling its own desolation? The old gray walls unroofed, but still sharp in their outline, are not worn enough for ruins. There are present

human sympathies yet lingering about them, and I don't wonder at their giving a twitch to the hearts of those who used to cross, after a day's toil, their now lonely thresholds. If I had been one of them I wouldn't have changed to this dull plain, from yon eagle's eyrie, had it been twice as high."

"Not if you had been twice as fat ?" suggested Igins.

"Not if I had been as fat as a prize ox. But, ecco, here we are at the albergo. Come, Domenico, off with the creels and on with the kettle. I shall sacrifice to my household gods, and breakfast on tea and bread and butter, this morning, like an Englishman and a gentleman."

While breakfast was preparing, the doctor sate on the stone bench before the door, with his left ancle laid over his right knee, while he rubbed the stocking up and down with a slow and equable motion. His hat was well pulled over his eyes, and from its pent-house shade he gazed, with an intense leaden expression of eye, up at the curious collection of walls and gables that clustered, like swallows' nests, on and around the peak above. His left hand held his ass-skin tablets, to which he applied, at long intervals, the pencil which he held between his teeth. From all these symptoms, and his scratching his head occasionally with great vehemence, we inferred he was perpetrating modern poetry.

We partially roused him from his reverie by the announcement of breakfast, which had been set out al fresco in the porch of the albergo, in a style of the most pastoral simplicity. The brown bread was supported by the pot of butter now beginning to acquire a certain haut-gout, the agreeableness of which was a matter of taste, and our tin teapot was flanked by our tin teacups, (which, by the way, gave a peculiar Cornish flavour to the beverage.) Our salon à manger commanded a full view of the scene of the doctor's inspiration, and he chose a seat that placed it en face. His lips still moved like those of the Sibyl, and, wrapped in his subject, he perpetrated extravagances that would have been strong evidence on a commission of lunacy, sugaring the teapot, pouring the tea over the loaf, and buttering the top of the sugar canister. At last, after a few more references to the ass-skin tablets, he closed them, and thrust the pencil into its receptacle with the air of a man who has got something off his mind. The leadenness of his eye passed away, and it brightened into its wonted intelligence, as it fell upon a plate of fresh eggs which Domenico had prudently brought from Sciacca, packed in the provender for his mules. So, depositing his handiwork in his pocket, he began in earnest the great business of life, which is, after all, "a matter o' wittles."

Instantly there arose from his audience a varied tumult, produced by the application of knife-handles to the deal table, accompanied by cries of Read! read!" uttered with a vigour which, considering the smallness of our numbers, was not unworthy of a debate on a Sabbath Observance Bill in the House of Commons.

The doctor looked at us for a second with a quizzical kind of conscious amazement, and resumed his breakfast; but the cries thereupon redoubled, even as they do in the house aforesaid when the Speaker