A CAMP IN A CRATER. 1847 
in deep gorges and ravines, requiring courage and 
patience to penetrate. 
At last came the perfect day, when the Soufriére 
emerged from the mist that had enveloped it for two 
weeks, and stood out clear against a sky of blue and 
clouds of silver gray. A glorious day was that last 
day in October, with its bright sun illumining the 
mountain, over whose crest were flitting shadows cast 
by fleeing clouds. The good people with whom I had 
rested for a week and more, added to my provisions 
luxuries I could not purchase, such as guava jelly, 
Java-plum wine, limes ayd oranges, and Mr. Evelyn 
and his son rode with me a little way on my journey. 
At first the road was along the shore, beneath cliffs 
and groo-groo palms; we crossed a turbulent river, 
with wide, rocky bed, and soon came to the bed of the 
famous “ dry river,” — the channel worn by that resist- 
less flood of lava when on its way to the sea. It is 
two hundred yards in width, barren of vegetation for 
a mile from the sea, inclosed between high cliffs, 
clothed in verdure, hung with vines, spiny palms, 
tree-ferns — a wonderful hanging garden. There 
are three of these “dry rivers,” where the lava filled 
up the bed of some flowing stream, or excavated an 
immense furrow for itself in its descent; nothing will 
grow in them near the sea, though their banks are 
rank with vegetation. 
We went through a cane-field, and then over an at- 
tractive pasture land, leaving which I commenced the 
ascent. Here, at the foot-hills of the Soufriére, my 
friends left me, and here my friend’s mule (“ Betsey,” 
the best mule on the estate) manifested a desire to 
return also. Vigorously I applied the spur, and she 
