No such story ever has been written or ever will be written of our conquest of the Ladrones as that of the Sun’s correspondent, published yesterday morning. It is the picture of a historic scene, in which not a single detail is wanting. This far-away little isle of Guam, so much out of the world that it had not heard of our war with Spain, and mistook the Charleston’s shells for an honorary salute, is now a part of the United States of America, and destined to share in the greatness of a progressive country. The queer Spanish governor, who declined to go upon Captain Glass’s ship because it would be a breach of Spanish regulations, is now our prisoner at Manila. Dieuaide, who wrote the _Sun’s_ story of the Santiago sea-fight, is also distinguished as the author of the first published description of St. Pierre--or, rather, of the ashes that covered it--after that city and all but two persons of its thirty thousand had been buried by the eruption of Mont Pelée. The introductory paragraph of Dieuaide’s article gives an idea of his graphic power: FORT DE FRANCE, MARTINIQUE, May 21--To-day we saw St. Pierre, the ghastliest ghost of the modern centuries. But yesterday the fairest of the fair of the wondrous cities of the storied Antilles, bright, beautiful, glorious, glistening and shimmering in her prism of tropical radiance, an opalescent city in a setting of towering forest and mountain, now a waste of ashen-gray without life, form, color, shape, a drear monotone, a dim blur on the landscape--it seems even more than the contrast between life and death. The dead may live. St. Pierre is not alive, and never will be. Out of shape has come a void. It is the apotheosis of annihilation. To one who sits amid the ruins and gazes the long miles upward over the seamed sides of La Pelée, still thundering her terrible wrath, may come some conception of the future ruin of the worlds. It has been a day of sharp impressions, one cutting into another until the memory-pad of the mind is crossed and crisscrossed like the fissured flanks of La Pelée herself; but most deeply graven of all, paradoxically, is the memory of a dimness, a nothingness, an emptiness, a lack of everything--the gray barrenness unrelieved of what was the rainbow St. Pierre. Mont Pelée, the most awful evidence of natural force to be seen in the world to-day--La Pelée, majestic, terrible, overpowering, has been in evidence from starlight to starlight, but it is the ashen blank that was once the city of the Saint of the Rock that stands out most clearly in the kaleidoscopic maze slipping backward and forward before our eyes. And thus on, without losing interest, for seven solid columns.