harbor, to cast anchor before the village of Choi-seul. It lies
on a ledge above the beach and under high hills: we land through
a surf, running the boat high up on soft yellowish sand. A
delicious saline scent of sea-weed.

It is disappointing, the village: it is merely one cross of
brief streets, lined with blackening wooden dwellings there are
no buildings worth looking at, except the queer old French
church, steep-roofed and bristling with points that look like
extinguishers. Over broad reaches of lava rock a shallow river
flows by the village to the sea, gurgling under shadows of
tamarind foliage. It passes beside the market-place--a market-
place without stalls, benches, sheds, or pavements: meats,
fruits, and vegetables are simply fastened to the trees. Women
are washing and naked children bathing in the stream; they are
bronze-skinned, a fine dark color with a faint tint of red in
it.... There is little else to look at: steep wooded hills cut
off the view towards the interior.

But over the verge of the sea there is something strange growing
visible, looming up like a beautiful yellow cloud. It is an island,
so lofty, so luminous, so phantom-like, that it seems a vision of
the Island of the Seven Cities. It is only the form of St. Vincent,
bathed in vapory gold by the sun.

... Evening at La Soufrière: still another semicircular bay in
a hollow of green hills. Glens hold bluish shadows ows. The
color of the heights is very tender; but there are long streaks
and patches of dark green, marking watercourses and very abrupt
surfaces. From the western side immense shadows are pitched