282 CAMPS IN THE CARIBBEES. 
tion, combine to produce a feeling of revulsion. But 
viewed from a vessel lying in the harbor, sufficiently 
remote to hide its incongruous elements, St. Pierre 
again appears charming, picturesque. 
Aside from the hills which embrace the town and 
come down to the sea in bold spurs, forming an arc 
with a chord three miles in length, there is the noble 
Montagne Pelée, above four thousand feet in height, 
amass of dark green with jagged outline, cleft into 
ravines and black gorges, down which run rivers in- 
numerable, gushing from the internal fountains of 
this great volcano. 
The streets are narrow but well-flagged, and every 
few squares is a fountain; and adown the gutters 
through them all run swift streams, carrying to the sea 
the refuse of the city. St. Pierre is the commercial 
port of the island, and there are many stores filled 
with the wines and wares of France. There area fine 
cathedral; a theatre of large capacity, to which for 
three months each winter a troupe from Paris draws 
crowded houses; a bishop’s palace and governor’s 
residence, with large and handsome barracks for 
the troops. 
Landing, I went, as a matter of course, to the con- 
sulate, where a picture of an eagle, grasping the red 
man’s arrows, and digging his claws into a prostrate 
shield, smiled serenely above an open doorway. The 
consul, a Massachusetts man, extended to me a warm 
welcome. He had been in the naval service, retir- 
ing wounded, and being connected with influential 
politicians, had secured this mission to Martinique. 
It is well known with what liberal hand our government 
rewards its wounded heroes, giving the more importu- 
