We started.  It was not a trot, a gallop, or a canter, but a stampede, and made up of all possible or conceivable gaits.  No spurs were necessary.  There was a muleteer to every donkey and a dozen volunteers beside, and they banged the donkeys with their goad sticks, and pricked them with their spikes, and shouted something that sounded like “Sekki-yah!” and kept up a din and a racket that was worse than Bedlam itself.  These rascals were all on foot, but no matter, they were always up to time—­they can outrun and outlast a donkey.  Altogether, ours was a lively and a picturesque procession, and drew crowded audiences to the balconies wherever we went.

Blucher could do nothing at all with his donkey.  The beast scampered zigzag across the road and the others ran into him; he scraped Blucher against carts and the corners of houses; the road was fenced in with high stone walls, and the donkey gave him a polishing first on one side and then on the other, but never once took the middle; he finally came to the house he was born in and darted into the parlor, scraping Blucher off at the doorway.  After remounting, Blucher said to the muleteer, “Now, that’s enough, you know; you go slow hereafter.”

But the fellow knew no English and did not understand, so he simply said, “Sekki-yah!” and the donkey was off again like a shot.  He turned a comer suddenly, and Blucher went over his head.  And, to speak truly, every mule stumbled over the two, and the whole cavalcade was piled up in a heap.  No harm done.  A fall from one of those donkeys is of little more consequence than rolling off a sofa.  The donkeys all stood still after the catastrophe and waited for their dismembered saddles to be patched up and put on by the noisy muleteers.  Blucher was pretty angry and wanted to swear, but every time he opened his mouth his animal did so also and let off a series of brays that drowned all other sounds.

It was fun, scurrying around the breezy hills and through the beautiful canyons.  There was that rare thing, novelty, about it; it was a fresh, new, exhilarating sensation, this donkey riding, and worth a hundred worn and threadbare home pleasures.

The roads were a wonder, and well they might be.  Here was an island with only a handful of people in it—­25,000—­and yet such fine roads do not exist in the United States outside of Central Park.  Everywhere you go, in any direction, you find either a hard, smooth, level thoroughfare, just sprinkled with black lava sand, and bordered with little gutters neatly paved with small smooth pebbles, or compactly paved ones like Broadway.  They talk much of the Russ pavement in New York, and call it a new invention—­yet here they have been using it in this remote little isle of the sea for two hundred years!  Every street in Horta is handsomely paved with the heavy Russ blocks, and the surface is neat and true as a floor—­not marred by holes like Broadway.  And every road