ribbon of tropical sky above; and no street is absolutely level;
nearly all of them climb hills, descend into hollows, curve,
twist, describe sudden angles. There is everywhere a loud murmur
of running water,--pouring through the deep gutters contrived
between the paved thoroughfare and the absurd little sidewalks,
varying in width from one to three feet. The architecture is
quite old: it is seventeenth century, probably; and it reminds
one a great deal of that characterizing the antiquated French
quarter of New Orleans. All the tints, the forms, the vistas,
would seem to have been especially selected or designed for
aquarelle studies,--just to please the whim of some extravagant
artist. The windows are frameless openings without glass; some
have iron bars; all have heavy wooden shutters with movable
slats, through which light and air can enter as through Venetian
blinds. These are usually painted green or bright bluish-gray.

So steep are the streets descending to the harbor,--by flights
of old mossy stone steps,--that looking down them to the azure
water you have the sensation of gazing from a cliff. From
certain openings in the main street--the Rue Victor Hugo--you
can get something like a bird's-eye view of the harbor with its
shipping. The roofs of the street below are under your feet, and
other streets are rising behind you to meet the mountain roads.
They climb at a very steep angle, occasionally breaking into
stairs of lava rock, all grass-tufted and moss-lined.

[Illustration: LA PLACE BERTIN (THE SUGAR LANDING), ST. PIERRE,
MARTINIQUE.]

The town has an aspect of great solidity: it is a creation of