Johnson’s horse is named Maccaroni; mine has no name; he had one once, but has long ago worn it out. I am at a loss to know what to name him. I can not conscientiously call him Baalbek, for he is not a “magnificent” ruin. But I can with perfect propriety, and without a sacrifice of principle, call him Pompeii, “an ancient ruin.” He looks as if he might have been in the doomed city on that fatal day, and as if he has not yet recovered from the ill effects of that day’s experience. His teeth are out, his mane is gone, he has no tail. His backbone is so much in the shape of a razor blade, that it has split the saddle wide open, fore and aft. The two parts are roped together, and carelessly thrown across the skeleton. This protects me somewhat, and I would be moderately comfortable if the saddle did not hang too far to the starboard side. Albeit I have great respect for that horse—his age demands it. No horse can go higher than the foot of the cone—the cup. Here dismounting, I am at once accosted by a swarm of Italians who want to assist me up the cone. It takes four of these swarthy athletes to carry one pilgrim up. They put him in a “portantina,” a kind of chair made for the purpose. The four men, taking this chair on their shoulders, begin the ascent, stopping quite frequently to rest. Other assistants have straps or ropes, which they put around the pilgrim just below the arms; then two men, each holding one end of the rope, walk in front and thus draw their victim up. Many Italians earn a livelihood in this way. I do not avail myself of their proffered help—I can not bear to impose on good nature. Yes, I go alone, but I frankly confess it is hard work. The ascent is very steep. In my schoolboy days I climbed many trees, tall, smooth bodied and limbless, after young squirrels, grapes and chestnuts. Since then I have climbed many mountains. I have climbed the Rocky Mountains. I have climbed mountains in Mexico, in Virginia, West Virginia, Maine, New Hampshire, Vermont and Canada. I have climbed mountains in England, Ireland, Scotland and Wales; in Germany and France, in Switzerland and Italy, in Austria and Hungary, in Servia and Roumania, in Bulgaria and Slavonia, in Greece, Russia and Asia Minor, in Palestine, Syria and Arabia. I have climbed the Pyramids of Egypt. But I have never climbed anything that wearied me as does the ascent of Vesuvius. It is like climbing a mountain of shot. I sink at each step half leg deep in charcoal and ashes. I frequently stumble and fall. It is uphill business. I am walking on snow and sniffing the mountain breeze, yet the perspiration rolls off of me like rain—a light shower of course.