Pierre, the principal city of the French island of Martinique, in
the West Indies, lies for the length of about a mile along the island
coast, with high cliffs hemming it in, its houses climbing the slope,
tier upon tier. At one place where a river breaks through the cliffs,
the city creeps further up towards the mountains. As seen from the bay,
its appearance is picturesque and charming, with the soft tints of its
tiles, the grey of its walls, the clumps of verdure in its midst,
and the wall of green in the rear. Seen from its streets this beauty
disappears, and the chief attraction of the town is gone.
Back from the three miles of hills which sweep in an arc round the town,
is the noble Montagne Pelee lying several miles to the north of the
city, a mass of dark rock some four thousand feet high, with jagged
outline, and cleft with gorges and ravines, down which flow numerous
streams, gushing from the crater lake of the great volcano.
Though known to be a volcano, it was looked upon as practically extinct,
though as late as August, 1856, it had been in eruption. No lava at that
time came from its crater, but it hurled out great quantities of ashes
and mud, with strong sulphurous odor. Then it went to rest again, and
slept till 1902.
The people had long ceased to fear it. No one expected that grand old
Mount Pelee, the slumbering (so it was thought) tranquil old hill, would
ever spurt forth fire and death. This was entirely unlooked for. Mont
Pelee was regarded by the natives as a sort of protector; they had an
almost superstitious affection for it.
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