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Title: Great Disasters and Horrors in the World's History

Author: Allen Howard Godbey

Release date: February 18, 2016 [eBook #51246]
Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

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GREAT DISASTERS
AND

Horrors in the World’s History.
A GRAPHIC ACCOUNT OF THE NOTABLE CALAMITIES
WHICH HAVE BEFALLEN MANKIND

IN ALL AGES, BOTH UPON LAND AND SEA.
EMBRACING

THE LOUISVILLE TORNADO, FLOODS IN THE SOUTH, CHARLESTON
EARTHQUAKE,
JOHNSTOWN FLOOD, STORM ON THE COAST OF SAMOA, NOTED SHIPWRECKS,
GREAT FLOODS IN CHINA, HOLLAND AND JAPAN, AND OTHER NOTABLE
DISASTERS CAUSED BY STORM, FLOOD AND VOLCANIC ACTION,

AND OF THE LAWS OF THE

NATURAL PHENOMENA THAT PRODUCE
THEM.
COMPRISING

THRILLING TALES OF HEROISM, GREAT DESTRUCTION OF TOWNS, CITIES,
HOMES
AND LIVES, HEART-RENDING SCENES OF AGONY, DREADFUL SUFFERINGS,
MIRACULOUS ESCAPES, DARING ADVENTURES, ETC., ETC.,

TOGETHER WITH

NOBLE RESPONSES OF AID.
TO WHICH IS ADDED

AN ACCOUNT OF METHODS OF
PREDICTION.
By A. H. GODBEY, A.M.,

Author of “Stanley in Africa,” “Light in Darkness,” “Missions and Missionary Heroes,” etc.
———
SUPERBLY ILLUSTRATED WITH 150 ENGRAVINGS.
———
PUBLISHED BY
ROYAL PUBLISHING CO.,
ST. LOUIS, MO.

Copyright.
1890,

W. L. HOLLOWAY.

PREFACE.
Whatever be the ideas of the public upon a glance at the title page of
this work, it is not intended to pander to the morbid desire for the
sensational or horrible, characteristic of weak minds. This volume is not a
literary morgue.
Mankind is constantly astonished by reports of mishaps and disasters of
manifold character, when there is seldom room for astonishment. A large
proportion of the calamities reported from day to day are directly due to the
haste, greed, and heedlessness of man himself, and need no comment.
But there is a large class of disasters, due solely to meteorological or
geological conditions, which surpass all others in magnitude and appalling
destruction. In such cases men insist on prating about “mysterious
visitations,” as though these occurrences were subject to the dominion of no
law. To an examination of such is this book devoted.
When in school, the writer was often struck by the persistence with
which even the most diligent students would call upon the teachers of
physics and chemistry to suspend the recitation and devote the time to
illustrative experiments. Physical Geography was constantly pronounced
“very dry,” because of the scarcity of opportunities for illustration.
The writer has endeavored to present in a form acceptable to the popular
palate the general principles of the storm and earthquake so far as they are
understood: and numerous narratives of great disturbances have been
inserted that a clearer conception of the magnitude of these agencies and
their relative importance may be attained by the reader.
Much care has been spent in “steering between Scylla and Charybdis.”
While it has been designed to avoid merely scientific data, there has been
the equally delicate task of avoiding prolix narration and mere sensational
tales. It is hoped that the result will be useful and interesting.
If the book shall lead the reader to higher views of the reign of
inexorable law in nature, and to a profounder reverence for the Author of
Law and his works, the labor of its compilation will not have been spent in
vain.
A. H. Godbey.

TABLE OF CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
MYTHS OF THE WINDS.
PAGE.
Old Greek fancies—Their modern traces—Man seeking
mysteries—Personifications—The “air-mothers” 17
CHAPTER II.
CONSTANT WINDS.
Comparative climate—Expansive force of heat—
Illustrations—The trade-winds—Effect of the earth’s
rotation—Return currents and calms 26
CHAPTER III.
PERIODIC WINDS.
Modified trade winds—The monsoons—Local winds—
Sea and land breezes—The simoom: its terrible effects—
The khamsin, and similar winds—Moisture in the air: its
effects—Rain and hail—Clouds: their varieties—
Mountain winds 34
CHAPTER IV.
TORNADOES AND CYCLONES.
Unheeded law—Peculiarities of storms—Cyclonic storms
—Theoretical Illustrations—A “cyclone hot-bed"—
Traveling of a cyclone—Its curves in accordance with law
—Features of the cyclone’s path—Great cyclone of
August, 1888—The planetary equinox theory—Objections
to it—Safe predictions—Sun-spots—Mysterious
providences 48
CHAPTER V.
THE LOUISVILLE TORNADO.
Perspective of news—Amusing conceits—Distress at the 65
door—The tornado—Warning of the Signal Service—The
storm strikes Louisville—Its course—Wreck of Falls City

Hall—Rescuing the victims—Fire breaks out—Personal
narratives—At the Union Depot
CHAPTER VI.
INCIDENTS OF THE TORNADO.
The poor to be remembered—Peddlers, publicans and
sinners—The freaks of “Providence"—Deaths in the storm
remarkably few—Wonderful escapes—Explosive effects
of confined air—Strange pranks of the wind—The storm
at Parkland—At Jeffersonville—The mammon worshiper
—Generosity and independence 87
CHAPTER VII.
OTHER TORNADOES.
The tornado in East Kansas—In Southeast Missouri—
Great damage in Illinois—Water-spout at Metropolis—
Many distinct whirlwinds—Effect of forest and prairie
fires—Tornado of Charleston, 1761—Tornadoes at
Natchez, 1840 and 1842—The Marshfield storm, 1880—
Remarkably small loss of life in tornadoes—Tornadoes in
foreign lands 114
CHAPTER VIII.
TROPICAL CYCLONES.
Cyclones on our eastern borders—The Nova Scotia
cyclone—St. Thomas cyclone and earthquake, 1837—
Cyclone of 1867—Barbadoes storm, 1831—Great storm
of 1780—Terrible cyclones and storm waves of India—
Typhoons in the China seas 141
CHAPTER IX.
PERILS OF THE SEA.
Songs of the sea—The ocean always admired—Its
treasures and dangers—Man’s greed a source of disaster—
Criminal disregard of life—Terrible fatalities in leaky
ships—The Arctic seas—The ship Rufus 159
CHAPTER X.
LIFE-SAVING MEASURES.
Great storm of 1703—Humaneness and inhumanity— 179
Diabolical wreckers—Hovellers—Desperate struggles

without a life-boat illustrated by Dickens—The life-boat
invented—Its usefulness—Lighthouses and fog-bells
CHAPTER XI.
GREAT SAMOAN HURRICANE.
Germany and Samoa—Naboth’s vineyard—War breaks
out—The assembled navy—Situation of the harbor—The
hurricane—Fears of the natives—Vessels dragging
anchors—Sudden wreck of the Eber—Magnanimous
natives—The Adler overturned—Struggle of the Nipsic—
Fouled by the Olga, and run ashore—Crew rescued by the
natives—The Vandalia helpless—Bold feat of the Calliope
cheered—Vandalia stranded—Many Drowned—At the
last gasp—The Trenton drifts upon them—Defiance of the
storm—The flag triumphant 195
CHAPTER XII.
ELECTRIC STORMS.
Byron’s fire—Myths of the lightning—Causes of thunder
storms—Strange freaks of the lightning—Numerous
fatalities—Some curious cases—A lightning stroke a
Divine favor—Thunder—Peculiar incidents—Lightning
little to be feared—Foolish precautions—A “dysentery
conductor” wanted—St. Elmo’s fire—Electric halos—
Their part in history—The aurora—Popular myths—
Aurora described 220
CHAPTER XIII.
RAIN, HAIL AND SNOW.
Clouds and cloud shapes—The storm changes national
destinies—Cloud halos—Specter of the Brocken—The
“beautiful rain"—Amount of rainfall—Snow—Its ravages
—Remarkable showers of hail—Prodigies 246
CHAPTER XIV.
FLOODS IN THE SOUTH.
Rivers a universal problem—Character of the Mississippi 261
—Failure of the levee system—The building of levees—
Three great sections—Damage of overflows—Fighting for
the levee—Storm on the river—Scene at a crevasse—The

flood in the rural districts—In the city—Closing a crevasse
—Refugees on the levee—Crooked streams
CHAPTER XV.
THE FLOOD OF 1890.
Floods of other years—Warning of the Signal Service—
The water rising—At Greenville, Mississippi—The fight
for the Morganza line—The waters win—Other crevasses
—Extent of the damage—Objections to levees—Levees
versus outlets—Terrible floods in China—A proposed
outlet—Reflection on present policy 296
CHAPTER XVI.
THE JOHNSTOWN FLOOD.
The dam system of India—American “cheap goods and
haste"—The Little Conemaugh Valley—Heavy rains—
Johnstown flooded—The artificial lake—A poor dam—No
uneasiness—How the water would move—The dam
breaks—Terrible rush of the flood—An engine chased—A
warning whistle—Locomotives hurled about like toys—
Flying for life—Escapes and losses 324
CHAPTER XVII.
INCIDENTS AT JOHNSTOWN.
Suddenness of the flood—It divides—A chaotic scene—
Fire breaks out—Faith of the perishing—Narratives: the
Hulbert House; Rev. D. M. Miller’s story; Mr. Calliver’s
escape; Dr. Beale and family—Morning: the stricken
multitude; Mr. Rose’s narrative; Talmage’s letter; the grief
of the survivors 343
CHAPTER XVIII.
RELIEF MEASURES.
The people in want—Johnstown after the flood—Human
ghouls—Relic hunters—Temporary government—A
dictatorship—Hospitals and morgues—Prompt response of
the public—Aid from various cities—Losses by the flood 367
CHAPTER XIX.
FAMINE AND PESTILENCE.

Signs and omens—Natural causes—Bengal famine of
1866—Relief Measures—Results—Pestilence and
contagion—Black death—Its frequent ravages—Fright—
A romance of Florence 384
CHAPTER XX.
THE VOLCANO.
Erroneous views—Myths—Active principle in volcanoes
—Atmospheric pressure—Rain at eruptions—Lava,
pumice, ashes and tufa—Different phases of action—
Stromboli, the “lighthouse"—Lava bubbles—Thrilling
adventure—Lost!—Theory of a molten earth—Objections
to it—The earth cools slowly—Subsidence and chemical
action—Distribution of volcanoes—Their work and forms 394
CHAPTER XXI.
GREAT ERUPTIONS OF VESUVIUS.
Pompeii long buried—Excavations begun—A hermetically
sealed city—Scenes in the town—Pliny’s story—
Hundreds stifled—Finding the bodies—Subsequent
eruptions—Notable convulsion of 1538—The eruption of
1531, 1737 and 1793—Recent observations 421
CHAPTER XXII.
OTHER GREAT ERUPTIONS.
Destruction of Sodom—Arguments—The pitch lake of 440
Trinidad—Ætna: eruption of 1669—Thousands perish—
Catania destroyed—Other outbreaks—Iceland: Mt. Hecla
—Tremendous eruption of Skaptar Jokul—One-fifth of the
people perish—Millions of cubic yards of lava—
Disturbances in the sea—Jorullo: a mountain made in a
night—Fearful outburst of Sumbawa—Twenty-six people
out of twelve thousand escape—Explosions heard nine
hundred miles—Other Malaysian volcanoes—Geysers—
Terrible eruption of Cosequina—Heard one thousand
miles—Eruptions in South America—Force required to
send out lava—In the Sandwich Islands—Krakatoa: the
greatest eruption in history—A chorus of volcanoes—

Awful destruction—Perceived around the world—
Unparalleled sea wave
CHAPTER XXIII.
EARTHQUAKES.
Myths of the earthquake—Ancient theories—Modern
research—Earthquakes and volcanic agency—Speed of a
shock—The atmospheric theory—Earthquakes at
particular seasons—The “planetary influence” theory—
Character of motions 481
CHAPTER XXIV.
EUROPEAN EARTHQUAKES.
Legends of the flood—Sparta Destroyed—Bura and
Helice engulfed—Numerous convulsions in Asia Minor—
Antioch repeatedly destroyed—North Africa suffers—
Calabrian earthquake of 1693—A tremendous convulsion
in 1783—Immense chasms—People swallowed up—Great
landslides—Terrible catastrophe at Scylla—Ruffians amid
the wreck—The great Lisbon earthquake—Its vast extent
—Awful destruction—Earthquake at Chio—In
Switzerland—In Ischia—Distressing scenes in the ruins—
Disastrous shocks in Spain 496
CHAPTER XXV.
EARTHQUAKES IN THE UNITED STATES AND
ENGLAND.
All nature uneasy—The terrifying character of an
earthquake—Signs and wonders—“El Gran Ruido,” of
Guanajuato—Frequency of earthquakes—Earthquake in
New England, 1638—A second in 1663—Shock of 1727
—Great convulsions of 1755—Damage and great alarm at
Boston—“The end of the world!"—Great disturbance in
the Mississippi Valley, 1811—Strange feats—The
Charleston earthquake—Numerous English earthquakes—
Comparatively small loss of life 535
CHAPTER XXVI.
EARTHQUAKES IN TROPICAL AMERICA.

Shocks in Asia: lack of reliable information—The Andes
region—Great earthquake of Riobamba—Humboldt’s
description—Numerous shocks in Venezuela—
Catastrophe of Caracas—Effect on the survivors—
Frequent convulsions at San Salvador—Total destruction
in 1854—Ruffians on the scene—Sudden disaster of
Mendoza—Touching incidents—Faithful dogs—Shocks in
Peru and gigantic sea wave—Numerous great shocks—
The end of all things—The last man 563
CHAPTER XXVII.
PREDICTION AND PREVENTION.
Futile efforts to control the future—Law neglected for
superstition—Pretentious prophets—Humbugs—Laws of
weather changes—Actions of animals—Methods for
producing rain suggested—Earthquake indicators—A
force beyond control—Possibilities 589
CHAPTER XXVIII.
THE REIGN OF LAW.
Knowledge only from experience—Partial mastery by
faith—Natural law the ruling force—Good and bad results
of faith in the Supernatural—Sin punished—Ignorance
punished—Examples—Man slow to learn—Eternal
wisdom and goodness—Progress, past, present and future 600

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE.
Cave of the Winds 18
The Simoom 40
Forms of Clouds 45
Path of Cyclones 54
Rotation of Storms 56
Water-spouts at Sea 60
Where the Storm entered Louisville 68
Baxter Park, Louisville 71
Falls City Hall 75
At Work in the Wreck 78
Main Street, between Eleventh and Twelfth, Louisville 82
Union Depot, Louisville 85
Eighth and Main, Louisville 90
Corner Main and Clinton, Louisville 94
Looking East from Tenth and Main, Louisville 96
Corner Jefferson and Twelfth, Louisville 99
On Ninth Street, Louisville 102
Ruined Tobacco Warehouses 104
View of Jeffersonville 108
Wall and Front Streets, Jeffersonville 109
Wreck at Jeffersonville 110
Tenth and Main, Louisville 112
Looking West from Tenth and Main, Louisville 115
View of the Residence District, Louisville 118
Ruined Dwellings 121
Path of Tornado, Olney, Ill. 124
Scene at Olney, Ill. 126
Whirlwind from Burnt Prairie 127
Tornado followed by Rain Storm 129
Instantaneous View of Tornado 130

Tornado at Monville 132
Water-spout at Sea 135
Minnesota Tornado 137
Sand-spouts in the Desert 139
Cyclone, Fire and Earthquake, St. Thomas 145
“Drowning with its Terrible Roar” 147
Hurricane in the Tropics 151
Coast of India Submerged by a Storm 156
“He Sinks into Thy Depths” 160
Cast Ashore 163
Wreck of the Minotaur 167
Wrecked on a Rock 171
Castaways on a Raft 173
Sinking of the London 177
Storm on the Shoals, 1703 180
On a Lee Shore 184
Hovellers Relieving a Vessel 187
The Life-boat 190
The Life-boat at Work 193
Bow of the Eber Cast Ashore 201
The Adler on the Reef 204
Samoans Rescuing American Sailors 207
The Calliope Putting to Sea 210
Bow of the Sunken Vandalia 214
After the Storm 218
The Lyse Fiord 221
Ideal Subterranean Storm 225
Harvesters Killed by Lightning 232
Land of the Aurora 243
Field of Waterloo 249
Specter of the Brocken 252
Tropical Flood 264
Making Mats for Levee Fronts 266
Struggle to Hold the Levee 269

A Mountain Torrent 271
“No Time for Prayin’!” 273
Funeral During the Flood 275
Breaking of the Levee 277
Surprised by the Water 279
Not so Romantic as it Looks 282
Telegraphing Under Difficulties 285
Rescuing People 288
Camps on the Levee 290
Waiting for a Steamer 292
The Search Light 293
Scene at High Water 297
Negroes Moving Out 301
Stock Raft 303
Picking Up Refugees 306
Deserted Farmhouse 308
Flood in China 312
Dykes of Holland 316
Relief of Leyden 318
Breaking of the Dykes, Holland 322
Map of Conemaugh Valley 325
The Broken Dam 334
Fleeing Engine 337
Wreck of the Trains 340
Mill Creek 345
At the Stone Bridge 349
Desperate Struggle 354
The Gorge at the Bridge 358
Battle with the Waters 362
Johnstown After the Flood 371
At the Morgue 376
Conemaugh Viaduct 381
At the Summit of Popocatepetl 397
View in Active Crater 401

Crater of Orizaba 405
Eruption of Vesuvius 411
Coral Reefs 418
Destruction of Pompeii 424
Vesuvius in 1737 435
Destruction of Sodom 441
Destruction of Catania 446
Mt. Hecla 450
Jorullo 455
Geyser 457
The Yellowstone Park 462
Cattle in Volcanic Mud 473
Convulsion on the Coast of Sumatra 478
Effect of Earthquake on Masonry 484
The Deluge 497
Ruined Roman Colonnade 500
Antioch 502
Massive Architecture Wrecked, Asia Minor 504
Ruins Near Cairo 506
Ruins Near Nineveh 507
Remains of Ancient Hebrew Masonry 509
Great Earthquake in Calabria 511
Destruction of Messina 513
Disaster of Scylla 515
Lisbon 517
Earthquake at Lisbon 520
Ruined Cathedral 522
Scene at Chio 524
Panic at Casamicciola 529
Earthquake in Andalusia 532
Wreck of the Charleston Earthquake 538
Houses Thrown into Ravine 542
Wreck on King Street, Charleston 544
Scene at Charleston 548

Old State House, Charleston 551
Charleston 554
Wreck of Factory 557
Ruined Dwelling 560
Earthquake in China 564
After the Shock 568
Scene at Caracas 571
Ruins of San Salvador 573
Fright at San Salvador 575
Shock at Lake in Honduras 577
Wreck at Mendoza 579
Great Sea Wave 583
Earthquake in Spain 586

GREAT DISASTERS
AND
HORRORS IN THE WORLD’S HISTORY.

CHAPTER I.

MYTHS OF THE WINDS.

“Gray in his mossy cave Æolus stood
Gazing in reverie at the distant sails,
That skimmed the surface of the glassy deep,
Unvexed by blasts of Eurus’ boisterous whims.
The restless winds in leash about their lord
Full often murmuring, plucked his floating robe,
Or stirred his tangled tresses with their breath,
Impatient at the lack of wilder liberty.”

O sang the bard of the fabled cave of the winds. Thus the old Romans
and Greeks have taught us to think and to speak of the spirits of the air.
Thus the very name of “spirit” was originally identical with “breath” or
“wind.” Those poetic old Hellenes! They contrived to find something
delightfully human in all the phenomena of nature. The woods were
peopled with fauns and dryads. Around the bend of yonder rushy stream, a
wary woodsman found a bathing nymph. Beyond that rock Actæon saw the
chaste Diana sporting in the crystal pool. Here is the spot where baffled
Phœbus found his Daphne changed into a laurel tree.
See you those stately poplars by the side of Italy’s stream? There
Phaëthon’s mourning sisters changed their fleshly robes for those green
spires. From their waving boughs the cry of the kingfisher Alcyone reminds
us that

CAVE OF THE WINDS.

halcyon days may yet be in store for the most unfortunate. The response
hurled back from yonder cliff warns us to drop a tear for the poor nymph
Echo, whose unrequited love caused her to pine away till only a voice was
left. To this day she answers every call, hoping to yet meet her love. That
flaunting yellow flower is sprung from that very Narcissus who was so
handsome he fell in love with himself. Ten thousand egotistic beauties of
later days have not met so happy a fate.
Hark! was that the sea-shell of Triton? Neptune approaches with his
Naiad train. You may see the plunge of his dolphin steeds. And see! what
vision of incomparable loveliness is that? It is Aphrodite, goddess of love—
sprung from the foam of the sea—as fragile as the fleecy mass from whence
she came; as inconstant as the tossing wave on which she dances. How can
love be otherwise, since she is its queen? In the sky above you see the
beautiful Andromeda with the radiant Perseus. There Hercules yet wields
his club and wears his lion-skin. And there—
It is vanished. The disenchantment is complete. Modern civilization has
replaced the nymph with the peasant, and the faun with the brigand. The
pipe of Pan is forever silent. Marsyas is revenged, for Apollo is no more.
Jupiter dethroned Saturn; Jupiter has long since been dethroned. Where are
the hands that penned those beauteous fancies; the bards that sung the deeds
of the gods? Dust and ashes these two thousand years.

Their works live after them. Passing centuries have not improved upon
their lovely phantasies: it may be because they could not. Rome has named
the months of our year: Norway has aided to name the days of our week.
Easter preserves the name of Œstara, Teuton goddess of springtime, of new
life, new light. So the names of the winds remain. Auster, the south wind,
has his memorial in Australia. Zephyr, the gentle west wind, is still a theme
for poet’s song. Rude Boreas, “blustering railer,” will always find a home in
the north. Civilization has not driven him from his domain. Æolus, the
master spirit, most powerful because most delicate and beautiful, still stirs
our wind-harps with his breath. The spirits of the air are as boisterous and
untamed as in the days of Æneas.
And what figures would appeal more strongly to the imagination than
these simple personifications? How can too great importance be attached to
the part the winds perform in the economy of nature? Without them the land
would become a Sahara; the seas would be covered with a London fog. In
the rustle of the breeze, as well as in the roar of hurricane, there is purpose
and energy. The hand that guides one, controls the other. “He holdeth the
wind in his fists.”
In every age man’s imagination has been strongly influenced by the
mysterious or unknown. There is little play for poetic sentiment in the cold
practicality of science. That which is clearly comprehended, loses half its
charm. The botanist carefully plucks to pieces a flower; it is analyzed, and
all its mechanism understood—but it is no longer a flower. The alchemist
has produced the wonderful science of chemistry; but the philosopher’s
stone and the secret of producing gold are forever numbered among the
shadowy myths of the past. The explorer has roamed in countless climes
amid a myriad perils: a thousand treasures has he given to the world: but his
El Dorado and the Fountain of Perpetual Youth have become as a dream in
the night. And thus for aye will phantoms vanish as we grasp. Truth bears a
magic wand at whose touch the unreal dies as a snowflake in a flame. All
time has borne its legends of the risen departed, whose spirits roam the
earth by night; but we have not proved that the dead have done in six
thousand years so much evil as the living in a single day.
So one by one our cherished fables disappear. The steam-engine seems a
thing of life; but we do not find a hidden geni therein. Electricity, one of the
youngest of man’s practical discoveries, has become the most easily
controlled. The bolts of Jove are the prisoners of man. The river is

harnessed to the mill and factory. But the winds roam as free as in the day
of creation “when the morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God
shouted for joy.” Of all the forces of nature the wind and sea are least
beneath control of man. The command “Subdue and have dominion” has
not yet been fully obeyed.
Small wonder, then, that a glamour of mysticism remains about the
storm and its birth. Man finds himself in the presence of a power beyond his
comprehension. Of the various elements of nature, the wind, the sea and the
storm are more than ever the realm of fancy and awe. One often wonders at
many other ancient myths; but there seems nothing surprising in the
Grecian fancy that the winds were the spirit slaves of Æolus; or in the
Arabian thought, that storms were but the battles of wonderful genii, whose
weapons were fire, water, and their own powerful breath. In the crash of the
thunder the Arab heard their terrible strokes. The Northman beheld giants,
contending now with each other, now with the giants of frost or of fire; now
resting a moment in their cavern home—now chasing the clouds like
frightened sheep from their realm of Mistheim. Some day all these powers
would be arrayed in battle with the gods themselves, and Ragnarok, or
universal chaos would follow. God made man in his own image; man has
ever since endeavored to make all things in his own. So have the winds
become personified in every age and land.
Charles Kingsley has given us a beautiful picture of the “air mothers,”
and the part they play in the realm of nature. Compare the ancient with the
modern. We now know the laws and the work of the winds; but we have not
found a better manner of picturing them. They are still the beautiful spirits
of the air; the Peris of the upper deep, thoughtless in life, weeping repentant
tears in the hour of their death.
“Who are these who follow us softly over the moor in the autumn
evening? Their wings brush and rustle in the fir boughs, and they whisper
before and behind us, as if they called gently to each other, like birds
flocking homeward to their nests.
“The woodpecker on the pine stems knows them, and laughs aloud for
joy as they pass. The rooks above the pasture know them, and wheel around
and tumble in their play.
“The brown leaves on the oak-tree know them, and flutter faintly, and
beckon as they pass. In the chattering of the dry leaves there is a meaning,

and a cry of weary things longing for rest.
“ ‘Take us home, take us home, you soft air-mothers, now our fathers,
the sunbeams, are grown dull. Our green summer beauty is all draggled, and
our faces are grown wan and thin; and the buds, the ungrateful children
whom we nourished, thrust us off from our seats. Waft us down, you soft
air-mothers, upon your wings, to the quiet earth, that we may go to our
home, as all things go, and become air and sunlight once again!’
“The bold young fir seeds know them, and rattle impatiently in their
cones. ‘Blow more strongly, blow more fiercely, slow air-mothers, and
shake us from our prisons of dead wood, that we may fly and spur away
northeastward, each on his horny wing. We will dive like arrows through
the heather, and drive our sharp beaks into the soil, and rise again, as green
trees, toward the sunlight, and spread out lusty boughs.’
“They never think, bold fools, of what is coming to bring them low in
the midst of their pride—of the reckless axe which will fell them, and saws
which will shape them into logs, and the trains which will roar and rattle
over them as they lie buried in the gravel of the way, till they are ground
and rattled into powder, and dug up and flung upon the fire, that they too
may return home, like all things, and become air and sunlight once again.
“The air-mothers hear their prayers, and do their bidding: but faintly, for
they themselves are tired and sad, and their garments rent and worn. Ah!
how different were those soft air-mothers, when, invisible to mortal eyes,
they started on their long sky journey, five thousand miles across the sea.
“Out of the blazing caldron which lies between the two New Worlds,
they leaped up, when the great sun called them, in whirls and spouts of
clear hot steam, and rushed to the northward, while the whirling earthball
whirled them east.
“So northeastward they rushed aloft, across the gay West Indian Isles,
having below the glitter of the flying-fish, and the sidelong eyes of cruel
sharks: above the canefields and the plantain gardens, and the cocoanut
groves which fringe the shores: above the rocks which throbbed with
earthquakes, and the peaks of old volcanoes, cinder-strewn: while far
beneath, the ghosts of their dead sisters hurried homeward on the northeast
breeze.
“Wild deeds they did, as they rushed onward, and struggled and fought
among themselves, up and down, and round and backward in the fury of

their blind hot youth. They tired themselves by struggling with each other,
and by tearing the heavy water into waves; and their wings grew clogged
with sea-spray, and soaked more and more with steam.
“At last, the sea grew cold beneath them, and their clear steam sank to
mist; and they saw themselves and each other wrapped in dull, rain-laden
clouds. Then they drew their white cloud garments around them, and veiled
themselves for very shame: and they said, ‘We have been wild and
wayward: and alas, our pure youth is gone. But we will do one good deed,
yet, before we die, and so we shall not have lived in vain. We will glide
onward to the land and weep there, and refresh all things with warm, soft
rain, and make the grass grow, and the buds burst; we will quench the thirst
of man and beast, and wash the soiled world clean.’
“So they are wandering past us, the air-mothers, to weep the leaves into
their graves: to weep the seeds into their seed-beds, and to weep the soil
into the plains: to get the rich earth ready for the winter, and then creep
northward and die there. But will they live again, those chilled air-mothers?
Yes; they must live again. For all things move forever: and not even ghosts
can rest.
“The corpses of their sisters piling on them from above, press them
onward, press them southward toward the sun once more, across the floes,
and round the icebergs—weeping tears of snow and sleet—while men hate
their wild, harsh voices, and shrink before their bitter breath. They know
not that the cold bleak snow-storms, as they hurtle from the black northeast,
bear back the ghosts of the soft air-mothers, as penitents, to their father, the
great sun.
“But as they fly southward warm life thrills them, and they drop their
loads of sleet and snow, and meet their young live sisters from the south,
and greet them with flash and thunderpeal. Men call them the southwest
wind, those air-mothers: and their ghosts, the northeast trade; and value
them, and rightly; because they bear the traders out and back across the
sea.”
So they live, and so they die, those beautiful air-mothers—for life is
evermore fed by death. And in their wayward course they bring the early
and the latter rain: that so long as time shall be, seed-time and harvest and
summer and winter shall not fail. And men love them, and welcome each in
their turn, whether laden with the pure white snow, or the cooling moisture

of the distant sea; for man is a fickle creature, and remains constant to none.
In summer he sings of the Arctic winds; and in winter, he longs for the
breath of the south; for like the air-mothers, his course is ever onward,
seeking that which he has not. Yet, sometimes in his discontent, he would
curse the soft air-mothers: but without them he could not live. But the bard
knows them all, and will sing of their deeds till the sun waxes cold with the
weight of years.

CHAPTER II.

CONSTANT WINDS.

“Up from the sea I sprang, O voyager,
Ere Aphrodite rose from out its foam.
I am a banned, unresting wanderer,
Doomed o’er the surface of the deep to roam.
Without being aged, o’erwhelmed with days,
The end of being is my only dream.
I trod the earth ere man’s ephemeral race,
And onward flee long as yon sun shall beam,
Ever, forever,
Here, and wherever,
Turneth the earth, must I course forever!”

HE phenomena of climate and seasons are too familiar to need
especial comment or description. They are dependent, in the first
place, upon the annual journey of the earth about the sun, the
inclination of the earth’s axis to its orbit, and the distance of any particular
region in question, from the equator.
But the changes thus constantly made are greatly modified by other
factors. Chief among these agencies are the form and extent of the
continents, their position relative to each other and the water areas, and the
currents of the air and sea.
Men usually identify climate with atmospheric conditions. A warm
atmosphere is for them the whole of a warm climate: it is really but one of
its factors, at most: it is often to be considered as a result, rather than a
cause. On lofty plateaus, or in mountainous regions, the heat is not
oppressive, even in the tropics; but here the moderate temperature is due to
the elevation. France is as far north as Labrador; but there is no similarity
whatever in climatic conditions, as there should be, were climate dependent
only on the heating of the local atmosphere by the rays of the sun. Who
would think of instituting a comparison of sunny Rome or Madrid with the
city of New York? Yet the three are nearly on the same parallel: Rome
furthest north. So there is little resemblance between the warmth of sunny
Florida and the scorching heat of the Sahara: or between the climates in

those portions of our own Pacific and Atlantic coasts that lie between the
same parallels. So we find that though there is a general relation between
the climate of a region and its distance from the equator, there are many
other conditions to be considered. First, let us note atmospheric currents and
disturbances.
“The wind bloweth where it listeth, and no man knoweth whence it
cometh, or whither it goeth.”
“The world do move.” The illustration so full of meaning two thousand
years since has lost much of its force. The truth of yesterday is the error of
to-day. The fact of to-day may be the phantasy of to-morrow. So it has come
to pass that in our day the origin and laws of air currents are believed to be
as well understood as those of any other forces in nature. Yet scientific
theorists are, after all, divided on not a few points.
Two general classes of winds are recognized: the constant, and variable.
Constant winds are those that blow all the year in the same direction. The
beautiful concept of Kingsley, in the preceding chapter, contains the leading
points of our knowledge concerning them.
All the various phenomena of air currents are dependent upon one
unchanging law: that gaseous bodies—and all but two others—always
greatly expand under the influence of heat. There are two noted partial
exceptions: one of these prevents our globe from becoming a complete
iceberg, and is as important as the law itself. Iron expands, till its melting
point; but in its liquid state it occupies less space than when solid. Water
contracts under the influence of cold, until the temperature of 39° is
reached; after that it expands: and when frozen occupies about one-eighth
more space than before. This wise provision of the Creator is second to
none in importance, as regards its influence upon the climate of the earth at
large. Had it been otherwise—did ice sink instead of float, our rivers and
seas would in time become solid masses of ice; for water is so poor a
conductor of heat, that its under-currents warm very slowly. Any one who
plunges into a lake in mid-summer may often find the water warm at the
surface, and of almost icy coldness a short distance beneath. The great Polar
current comes down from Baffin’s Bay, and off the coast of Newfoundland
it plunges beneath the warm, lighter current of the Gulf Stream; but it is not
warmed by it. Registering thermometers detect its icy coldness almost
unchanged in the realms of the tropics, far beneath the surface.

Note some simple illustrations of the expansive force of freezing water.
Every housewife knows that a bottle left full of water will burst when the
water freezes. The same power is shown in the gradual disintegration of
rocks by alternate freezing and thawing. Water freezing in the crevices
bursts off small particles, or even large fragments; so that rocks long
exposed to the weather, crumble more or less. Every one is familiar with the
appearance presented by steep clay-banks, in late winter and early spring, of
ragged masses and fragments ready to fall at any time. Still another instance
of this destructive power is shown in the killing of vegetation by freezing.
Plants are built of myriads of tiny cells. The moisture within freezes and
bursts the cell-walls, destroying the plant life. Certain plants have cells
more elastic than others, which in consequence are not destroyed by
freezing. But as an expanded cell does not readily shrink to its former size,
subsequent freezings, when the cell contains more water than before, may
finally destroy it. So wheat is “winter-killed,” by too frequent freezing. So
globes of steel may be burst by this force.
To show the poor qualities of water as a conductor of heat, take a long
glass tube and fill with water. Then put a piece of ice in one end. The water
at the other end may now be brought to the boiling point by means of the
flame of a lamp, ere the ice at the other end is melted.
Every one is familiar with the fact that heated air rises; but not all
inquire why it does so. Take a foot-ball or bladder and partially inflate it;
then hold it near a hot fire, and it may be swollen almost to bursting. Now,
there is no more air in it than before; and if it be laid in a cold place, it will
shrink to its first inflation. This shows how great is the expansive power of
heat on the atmosphere. The same weight occupying a much larger bulk, we
perceive that heated air is much lighter, and must rise. This, then, is the
cause of what are known as constant winds.
As the earth revolves on its axis, the air is unequally heated, that nearest
the equator becoming the warmest, in consequence of its receiving the most
direct rays. Here, then, the air rises most rapidly; while the cooler air to the
north or south must flow southward or northward to fill the vacuum. Now,
the earth turning on its axis from west to east, whirls the northward and
southward currents to the westward, so that they appear to blow from the
northeast and southeast. The result of this loss of direction is gradual; so
that when first perceptible, they are almost from a due northerly or
southerly direction. As they near the equator, they are more rapid, and turn

more decidedly to the west, never becoming violent, however; rarely
exceeding fifteen to eighteen miles per hour.
It would appear that at the point where these meet each other, or come in
contact with the ascending warm current, there must be a region of calms or
light, variable winds, and occasional tempests. Such, in fact, is the case.
This belt is from two hundred and eighty to four hundred miles in width,
and lies along the thermal equator, or line of greatest average heat. This is
not the same at the earth’s equator, properly so called; for, as the land has
greater capacity for absorbing and retaining heat than the sea, and as most
of the land lies in the northern hemisphere, it is evident the highest mean
temperature must be north of the equator. So this belt of calms must lie in
the same region; and, in fact, in the Atlantic ocean it lies between 3 and 9°
north latitude, and in the Pacific, between 4 and 8°. As the sun travels
northward during the first half of the year, this region of calms shifts
slightly, also, so as to always nearly coincide with belt of the greatest mean
heat.
At first sight, it appears curious that the motion of the earth should
deflect these winds to the west. It would appear that the earth, atmosphere
and all, must revolve as a unit about its axis; else, if the atmosphere lose
time, its speed to the westward should be constantly accelerated, and long
ago should have reached a velocity that would shake the mountains
themselves; while, in fact, there is no variation perceptible.
It should be remembered that at the equator the earth is about twenty-
four thousand miles in circumference; and as one complete revolution is
made every twenty-four hours, a point on the equator is carried eastward at
the rate of one thousand miles an hour. But if a circle be drawn around the
earth parallel to the equator, at some distance from it, it is at once seen that
any object in this circle, having a shorter distance to traverse, is carried
eastward at a slower rate; so that a point only a few yards from either pole
must necessarily advance but a few feet per hour. So then, a body of air
moving from either pole toward the equator, must needs advance very
slowly if the friction of the upper reverse currents and of the surface of the
globe are to have opportunity to overcome its relative inertia and give it the
same velocity as that of any point over which it may pass.
Now, in the case of these constant winds, the inertia is very nearly
overcome, as they start from a circle in which the velocity to the eastward is

about 750 miles per hour. If the inertia were fully overcome, there would be
no perceptible wind; as the velocity is actually but fifteen to eighteen miles
per hour, it appears that the friction encountered actually destroys from
thirteen-fourteenths to fifteen-sixteenths of the inertia. Hence, we find these
constant air currents toward the west are, in reality, the result of the earth
carrying any object on its surface a little more rapidly than the atmosphere
moves; so that these winds are precisely the same in principle as the well-
known fact that when you run rapidly in still air (so-called), it seems that
the wind is blowing directly in your face.
In like manner, it appears that a wind from west to east is merely an air-
current moving a little more rapidly than the earth revolves at that point.
The relative difference between the velocity of air-currents must vary
greatly; for a violent easterly or westerly wind very near the poles may
equal or even exceed the speed of the rotation of that point; while the most
violent tropical storms average between one-twentieth and one-eighth of the
local rotation. The latter is not often exceeded. But whatever the relation of
the respective velocities, it is clear that the velocity of the wind in general
must depend largely on the amount of air abnormally heated, and upon the
rapidity with which it is heated. So men have come to recognize that a
period of unusually oppressive heat forebodes a storm of some sort. But few
regard the unusual warmth as a reason of the storm. They are linked, in the
popular mind, as antecedent and consequent, rather than as cause and effect.
These constant winds near the equator have been named trade-winds,
because of their importance to commerce. Unknown before the first voyage
of Columbus, they filled the minds of his crew with fear that they could
never return home, if the wind blew always in one direction. The same
gentle wind bore Magellan in his voyage around the world, and caused him
to give the name of “Pacific,” or “peaceful,” to the great ocean on our west;
and the same steady breezes made the fortune of many a noble galleon in
the days when Peru was an Ophir, Mexico an El Dorado, and the Philippine
Isles a Tarshish where they took shipping for the distant land of gold.
Owing to the fact that the continents intercept the regular trades by
reason of their elevation and irregular conformation, and also because of
their much greater specific heat, whereby they set in motion many other
local currents, the trades are found to begin only a considerable distance to
the west of the continents. Yet the influence of the trades is sufficient to

make easterly winds the prevailing ones on the great inland plains: as in the
Sahara, Arabia, Southern Siberia, and portions of North and South America.
It is clear that other nearly constant currents must exist to supply the
vacuum that would be otherwise caused by the trades. These are found to
the south and north of the trade belts, and, as might be expected, blow
nearly in the opposite direction, being descending currents; while the trades,
as before stated, are ascending. The column of hot air from the equator
starts toward the poles above the trades, while a polar current sets in toward
the equator; but as the amount of air displaced at the equator is by far the
greatest, much of it can, of course, never reach the poles. On meeting the
polar current, the two partially mingle and descend, forming what is called
the return trade. This blows, most of the year, to the southeast, the
equatorial current prevailing and coming from a region whose easterly
rotation is more rapid. At certain seasons of the year, however, the polar
current prevails to some extent, though not sufficiently to overcome the
eastward trend; so the wind in this belt blows alternately to the southeast
and the northeast.
Between the region of trades and alternating winds is a belt, on either
side of the equator, of calms and variable winds, which shift northward or
southward, parallel to the belt of calms between the trades. These two
zones, however, are much less clearly defined than the great central one,
and are not liable to such extraordinary disturbances.
Such is the great constant wind, with its dependents. So long as the sun
has warmed the earth, it has hurried on its course, subject to unceasing law,
and destined to cease only when the heavens and the earth shall pass away,
and chaos or annihilation shall end the things that be. A Wandering Jew of
the atmosphere, it flies ever onward, bearing the merchant to his port, and
the rain-cloud to the land; ever and anon desolating the isles with its bursts
of fury; then resuming its restless course, like the remorseful Salathiel.

CHAPTER III.

PERIODIC WINDS.

“Earth has each year her resurrection hours
When the spring stirs within her, and the powers
Of life revive; the sleeping zephyrs rouse,
The blushing orchards clothe their naked boughs,
The swallow skims above the lakelet’s verge.
Swift summer speeds with fire in every vein,
And autumn’s glories crimson hill and plain.
Then warmth and life from Nature take their flight,
And winter robes her in a shroud of white,
While mournful Boreas chants her funeral dirge.”

O the seasons tread their ceaseless round in the temperate zones, and to
a certain degree in the colder regions of the earth. But when we
examine the change of seasons in the tropical world, we find a state of
things so different that we are at once led to inquire the reason: and it will
be found primarily in certain periodical winds.
When the sun is north of the equator: that is, while our northern summer
is in progress, India enjoys a steady sea wind from the southwest, which
brings a rainy season to the corresponding coasts of Hindostan and Farther
India. When the sun returns to the south, the winds set in from the opposite
direction, coming down across the great upland plateau of Central Asia,
sometimes called, from its immense height and extent, the “Roof of the
World.” These periodic winds are called monsoons: a corruption of the
Arabic word Moussin, season. They are in reality a modification of the
trade-winds.
A glance at a map will show that the northern half of the great Indian
Ocean is enclosed by land masses as no other large body of water is.
Consequently, while in the southern section the southeast trade is present,
the northeast trade of the northern part is so modified by the surrounding
land areas as to almost entirely lose its distinctive character. Hence, most
tropical regions have, properly speaking, but two seasons: the rainy, and the
dry. As the clouds swept in meet with an intensely heated region, the trade

never chills them sufficiently to produce snow, except in extremely elevated
regions.
This is the direct cause of the monsoons: During the northern summer,
southern Asia, being under the rays of the vertical sun, becomes intensely
heated; and the cooler and denser air of the adjacent ocean, and of southern
Africa, flows towards it, producing the southwest monsoon, which lasts
from April or May to September or October. The time of its beginning and
its close varies in different latitudes, according to the time at which the sun
is vertical in each.
During the southern summer, southern Africa being under the vertical
sun and intensely heated, the cooler air of the surrounding seas, and of
southern Asia, flows towards it. This produces the northeast monsoon,
which lasts from October or November to April. This monsoon is, in fact,
only the regular northeast trade-wind somewhat intensified.
A similar exchange takes place between Asia and Australia, but it is less
marked, owing, perhaps, to the great islands lying between these continents.
The period of transition of the monsoons, in spring and autumn, is
marked by sudden and violent gales, and terrific thunder storms.
Destructive hurricanes, also, are of frequent occurrence. This corresponds
with the period of equinoctial storms in higher latitudes.
There are narrow monsoon belts in the Atlantic, along the coast of Africa
and of Brazil, also on the Pacific coasts of North and South America; but
the phenomena they exhibit are of a much less striking character. On the
African coast, in general, the winds blow from sea to land in summer, from
land to sea in winter; on the Brazilian, the wind is from the northeast in
summer, while in winter the southeast trade resumes its sway. The
monsoons of the Pacific coast of America blow from the northwest and
north during the southern summer; from the southwest and south during the
northern. The regular trade-wind makes itself so strongly felt in northern
Brazil, which is unusually level, that a boat can sail almost as rapidly up the
swift current of the Amazon as it can row down: and Humboldt records that
he found it of great strength at the foot of the eastern slope of the Andes.
Another modification of the northeast trade is found in the Etesian winds
of Greece and the adjacent archipelago. This is a true intermittent trade,
blowing only in the daytime, however, and lasting from July to September.

The cool air of the peninsula rushes toward the extremely heated regions of
the Mediterranean and north Africa.
Somewhat similar are the northers, or blizzards, of our Western States.
By the laws already given, it is seen that northerly winds can prevail in any
region only when some region further south is unusually heated. Now, the
northern portion of America may be roughly compared to a trough. The
cold polar current sets to the southward across the continent, and is turned
to the east by the Rocky Mountain range, giving it a general southeast
course. Hence, when the southern summer is in progress, our prevailing
winds are from the northwest; and when the heated portion of the world is
north of the equator, we have the return trade, giving us as our prevailing
wind that from the southwest. When our return trade is unusually
prolonged, we have a late fall; and if the southern summer is unusually
warm, we have the polar current longer than usual, and a late spring in
consequence. The polar current seldom makes its presence felt beyond the
Texan plains; though occasionally it reaches the Mexican plateau, or sweeps
across the Gulf to the Antilles.
A similar cold wind from Central France toward the Riviera is locally
known as the Mistral. The cold winds from the south, which in crossing the
plains of Patagonia, are turned eastward by the Andes, are called in
Uruguay the pamperos, as their direction causes the popular belief that they
originate in the pampas, or grassy plains. In Malta the cold wind becomes
known as the gregale—in the Adriatic sea it is the tramontana; in Trieste
and Dalmatia it is the bora. In New Zealand the corresponding cold blast
comes from the south, and is known as the buster. When loaded with
drifting snow, as in the blizzard of the United States, the cold wind of the
Yenisei Valley, in Asia, is locally called the purga; in the steppes of Central
Asia it is the bura.
Eastern Asia receives its prevailing cold current from the northwest;
while western Asia and Europe receive their cold wave from the northeast,
there being no range of mountains, as in America, to deflect the current, as
the polar currents are disposed to follow the continents, having their origin
in arctic lands; while for a similar reason the return trades reach their
extremes on the ocean. Hence, lines drawn through the places which
possess the same mean annual temperature reach a higher latitude at sea
than on land.

These are the chief periodical winds of long periods. There is one other
class to be noted: the diurnal land and sea breezes. These occur along all
coasts, whether in the zone of trades or of variable winds; but the
phenomenon is more strongly marked in the tropical regions, and in the
summer of the temperate latitudes, because of the greater difference in the
temperature of land and sea by day and by night.
During the hottest part of the day the air over the land frequently reaches
a temperature of 100° Fahr., and even more, while that over the sea rarely
rises above 80°. During the night the land radiates its heat with such
rapidity that, towards morning, its atmosphere may be from 10° to 15°
colder than that of the sea.
Soon after sunrise, the land being warmer than the sea, a sea breeze sets
in, which increases in force until about three o’clock, when the difference of
temperature is greatest. It then gradually diminishes until about sunset,
when, the temperature of the land and sea having become equal, the
atmosphere is at rest, the calm continuing for an hour or more.
Soon the land becomes cooler than the sea, and a gentle breeze from the
former sets in. It increases in force as the night advances, becoming
strongest a little before morning, when the temperature of the land is
lowest; after which it rapidly dies away, and is succeeded by a calm, to be
soon replaced by the sea breeze.
One other species of variable wind is to be noticed: the hot, dry, dust-
laden blast from desert regions. Such occur more or less periodically, and
are known by different names in different localities.
Tom Moore has told us that “love’s witchery” on the heart is
“Like the wind of the south o’er the summer lute blowing,
That hushed all its music, and withered its frame.”

The reference is to the simoom of Syria and Arabia. One who has not
experienced this wind can have little idea of its oppressiveness. Apt to come
at any hour during the hottest months of the year, with a temperature so
great that a piece of silver exposed to it becomes hot enough to blister the
flesh, and laden with the impalpable dust of the desert, vegetation is
scorched and withered by it, and animals flee from it as from the pestilence.
It may last but a short time: it may endure several days.

At the first indication of its approach, people flee to their houses; doors
and windows are shut and every crevice that could allow any dust to enter is
tightly stuffed: while the wind lasts no one ventures out. Such unfortunate
animals as happen to be overtaken by it have literally to struggle for their
lives. The wind is not steady, but comes in fitful gusts, sometimes differing
as much as 20° in temperature. The streets are deserted; and were they
otherwise, a person could hardly be seen at a few yards distance. Hours
pass: that implacable enemy, the dust, sifts in at unknown chinks. By
degrees it covers everything. Valuable lace and tapestry are nearly ruined.
You put on a skull-cap; yet it penetrates your hair. It finds its way beneath
the garments to the skin, producing distressing dryness and roughness. The
lips parch and crack. The eyes are red and inflamed. You drink as if
famished, and gasp for breath. You are excessively irritable; you reach the
verge of complete nervous prostration. At length the ordeal is over. You
creep into the street, to find your neighbors looking like corpses; some, it
may be, actually dead from nervous exhaustion. Dead birds and animals lie
on the earth. It is a case of the survival of the fittest. You pluck a leaf from a
neighboring tree; it crumbles to dust in your grasp.
Such are the effects of an unusually protracted wind, even when most
favorably situated to encounter it. But if a caravan be overtaken by such in
the desert, happy are they who escape. The camels kneel and thrust their

THE SIMOOM.

noses into the sand, against each other, into a pack of goods—anywhere to
avoid breathing that poisonous blast. The men throw themselves upon the
ground behind the camels, and muffle their heads in their garments. The
storm is at hand; perchance attended by whirling columns of sand. You raise
your head: a thick, dun-colored cloud flies at you; a heat as of red-hot iron,
it seems, holds you in its choking grasp. You find your way to your water
bottle, and drink deeply. The lurid sun turns the sweeping columns of sand
to pillars of fire. Superstitious fear seizes your Arab comrades. Gradually
the storm passes on: the men pick themselves up and endeavor to shake the
irritating dust and sand from out the folds of their clothing, and the party
resumes its way, happy that they are not numbered among the dead whose
bones are bleaching by the way. Tales are not wanting of great caravans
completely overwhelmed by the sandstorms of the desert.
These storms are met with in their greatest severity in Egypt and Arabia.
In Egypt, this wind is called the Khamsin, or fifty, referring to the period of
fifty days—the latter part of April, May, and early June—when they may be
expected. They never blow through the entire season: rarely so long as
fifteen days at a time. In Arabia the simoom may travel from the center of
the peninsula toward any point of the compass; the Khamsin of Egypt
blows from the southwest. Winds of the same character cross the
Mediterranean. In Spain the wind is known as the Solano, or Levanter, or
Leveche: in Sicily and Italy it is the Sirocco. The distressing dryness is
somewhat modified by the journey across the Mediterranean. The same
wind in Syria is called Samiel; and a similar wind which blows from the
Sahara southwest to the Guinea coast is called the Harmattan. In California
a similar dry hot wind blows from the interior toward the coast, during the
hot season, and is called the desert wind. Such occasional hot blasts are
experienced in southeastern Dakota, coming from the “bad lands,” or sandy
and rocky wastes along the upper Missouri river.
All these periodical or varying winds may be very properly, from their
time and character, be called the season winds of the earth, as another
means of distinction from the constant trades: as they in part bring changes
of season, and in part are brought that way.
Into the question of climate and seasons one other element enters, of
especial importance in regard to those disturbances of the regular winds,

which we call storms. That factor is the quantity of moisture in the
atmosphere, and the consequent rainfall or snowfall of a region. Without
this element, the phenomenal disturbances known as tornadoes would
hardly occur: or if they did, there would be greater difficulty in ascertaining
their approach.
Water, in its vapor state, is but three-fifths the weight of the air, and in
consequence rapidly rises. This evaporation, as it is called, goes on at all
times: even when the water is frozen. A very thin sheet of ice, hung in the
open air, will finally disappear, even though the temperature be always
below freezing.
Now, all the phenomena of rain, snow, and hail, that are brought by
different seasons, in different climes, depend upon a single simple law: that
warm air can hold a much greater quantity of vapor than cold air. The
amount of moisture that may be held in suspension at different temperatures
is as follows:
Temperature Weight of vapor Temperature Weight of vapor
of Air. in a cubic foot of Air. in a cubic foot
of saturated air. of saturated air.
20 deg. Fahr. 1.30 grains Troy. 70 deg. Fahr. 8.00 grains Troy.
32 “ “ 2.13 “ “ 80 “ “ 10.95 “ “
50 “ “ 4.09 “ “ 90 “ “ 14.81 “ “
62 “ “ 6.15 “ “ 100 “ “ 19.79 “ “

This gives a second reason why storms of wind and rain closely follow
extremely hot weather.
Now, as the vapor is so much lighter than the air, their mixture must also
be lighter. So any unusual amount of moisture is at once detected by the
barometer, an instrument for measuring the pressure of the atmosphere. If
the air grow moister, and therefore lighter, the barometer falls; a storm is
approaching.
Since cold air can retain but little moisture, if a warm moist current be
chilled, it must lose a part of its vapor, which at once falls to the earth as
rain. If the cold be somewhat greater, the moisture is crystallized into snow.
Greely’s observations at Fort Conger show that, varied as are the forms of
snow crystals, those that fall during any particular storm are invariably of
the same types, even though they may be collected from localities widely
removed from each other. All crystals of snow are hexagonal in plan, but

there is much variety in detail. The laws that produce one variety at one
time, and a second at another, are not yet known.
The subject of hail is a peculiarly perplexing one to the meteorologist.
Hailstones are more or less spherical in form, and are made of alternate
layers of soft opaque ice, and hard clear ice. It is evident that they must
acquire this structure by being whirled about between clouds of different
temperature and density. Some have supposed that they are formed in a
whirlwind, whose axis is horizontal, but for the present we must be content
with Lord Dundreary’s explanation, for “it ith one of thothe thingth which
no fellah can underthtand.”
Raindrops from a great height are larger than those from below, for they
increase as they pass through the vapor-masses. As the warmest currents are
also the highest, it will at once be understood why warm and tropical rains
fall in large drops, while drizzling rains, mists, and fogs are characteristic of
cold regions and cold seasons.
The masses of more or less condensed vapor in the upper air currents are
what are known as clouds. Their various forms and appearance are shown
in the cut on the —— page.
The cirrus and cirro-cumulus clouds are the highest, are mostly in the
altitudes of perpetual frost, and are supposed often to consist of minute ice
crystals. In temperate latitudes they are usually formed in, and move with,
the upper air current, or return-trade from the tropical regions.
The cumulus clouds are characteristic of the tropics, and of the summer
days in middle latitudes, their height depending upon the relative humidity
of the air. They are formed by local ascending currents, which carry a large
amount of vapor into the cooler upper air. There the vapors are condensed,
and are gradually heaped up into those heavy masses of sharply defined
clouds, which look like vast snowy mountains. Their base is horizontal, and
marks the height at which the dew point is reached and condensation
begins.
The accumulation of vapors is often so great that these clouds form a
column several thousand feet high. In this case the difference in the
temperature and the electrical conditions of the upper and lower portions is
such that electrical discharges take place, accompanied by condensation of
a portion of the cloud, forming a thunderstorm.

Stratus clouds are most frequently seen in the morning or evening, and
are always low. They are formed by the descent of the higher clouds and
vapors of midday into the lower air as the temperature decreases. They are
more frequent in winter and summer than in the intermediate seasons.
The nimbus cloud is more dense and heavy than the others, which may
all be transformed into the nimbus by

FORMS OF CLOUDS.

a diminution of temperature. It is of a dark-leaden hue, changing into grey.
This is the most common form of cloud in polar latitudes; and, during the
cold season, it is the most frequent of the temperate zones.
If a moist current cross a mountain range, it loses its moisture in the cold
region, and growing narrower as it descends the other slope, presents the
phenomena of a warm dry wind from the mountains. Thus the wind that
brings rain to Norway, gives warm fair weather to Sweden. Of the same
character are the hot winds of Switzerland, called Foëhn winds, and the
Chinook winds which blow from the eastward into Idaho, Washington, and
western Montana. Similar winds occur occasionally in South Africa,
Australia, New Zealand, and Peru. These hot winds must not be confounded
with the hot and poisonous winds from desert regions described before.

Such, in fine, are the noted varying intermittent, or periodic winds.
However uncertain they may appear at first thought, they are obedient to the
same unchanging laws that bind the universe into one harmonious whole.
No doubt the ancients, if they had been acquainted with their office, would
have personified them as the nymphs of the seasons. But, knowing naught
of the wonderful immutable laws that bind them, they could only say to
each,
“We know not whence thou com’st, or whither goest,
When round our homes thy wizard blast thou blowest.”

In eternal law and harmony they found only endless confusion and wild
caprice. Man interpreted nature by man.
Yet they are the angels of the seasons, these air-spirits, sent by an allwise
Providence to bring the rain and the snow, and the sunshine and storm in
their season, to give seed to the sower and bread to the eater; that while man
shall dwell on earth, seedtime and harvest and summer and winter may not
cease. So they wander, clothing the tropics with emerald cloaks of strangest
beauty, and robing the poles with ermine and crystal: painting with
rainbow-tints the autumn leaves, and touching with virgin blush the
orchards in spring; in all things obeying the decree of Him who hath set the
seasons in order and made everything beautiful in its time.

CHAPTER IV.

TORNADOES AND CYCLONES.

“O sad and mournful wind!
From what wild depths of human pain and sorrow
Could’st thou those tones of restless anguish borrow
As of a soul that dreams of no to-morrow,
O sad and mournful wind!

O, thou art fierce and wild!
Thy mighty chariot through the black skies lashing,
The cloud-shapes round the mountain-summits dashing,
The waves of ocean round the wrecked bark crashing—
O, thou art fierce and wild!”

EN find no difficulty in recognizing law and system in the
phenomena that are of constant or frequent recurrence. That which is
most difficult to explain, may pass without a serious thought so long
as it manifests no stupendous or sudden power. The water may wear away
the stone for centuries and its progress be unheeded by those who daily visit
the pool.
So all observe and admire the beauty and order that prevails in the
system of winds hitherto described. Their movements seem so simple and
natural, that people take them as a matter of course. Rather, we should say,
they may be depended upon with such certainty that the laws which they
followed were unheeded for more than six thousand years. Relying on
result, men gave themselves no concern about principle.
But in the sudden storm, the cyclone or tempest that comes sweeping the
land with hardly any warning, flooding and destroying, men find mystery.
And who is not justly awed thereby? What other power so easily and
frequently wrecks and ravages? Who may point out its course or stay its
progress?
And indeed it would seem difficult at first to find any law or system that
controls the motion of the storm. If a rain storm always came from the same
direction; if unusually high winds always blew from the same quarters, just
as the moderate breezes of spring and summer can always be expected from

the same general direction, it would appear that there was much greater
subordination to definite law. But what can be more perplexing than to have
a storm blow violently from one quarter for a time, and after a brief calm to
blow with equal violence the other way? Can such phenomena be explained
by any principles hitherto discovered?
What is a storm? Strictly speaking, it is any marked or unusual
disturbance of the normal atmospheric conditions. There may be excessive
wind: there may be cessation of the customary winds. Two great classes are
found: cyclonic, or low area storms, and anti-cyclonic, or high area storms.
The former may be accompanied by heavy rainfall or snow; the latter is
usually noted for absence of either. It is with the low area storm that we
must deal at present.
This term is used to designate all storms which are marked by low
barometer, and therefore it is clear that such are accompanied and partially
occasioned by an unusual amount of moisture in the atmosphere. The
resultant commotion is usually extensive, the storm centre traveling across
the country; but occasionally the effects are perceptible only for a short
distance, the storm centre either breaking up or ascending to the upper
atmosphere.
By a cyclonic storm is signified a storm characterized by unusually low
barometer, and a wind system blowing spirally inward, as in a genuine
cyclone. They usually affect only the lower strata of the air. Quite
frequently they are broken up by striking low mountain ranges, such as the
Alleghany system: and often pass Mount Washington without making their
presence felt at the signal station on its summit. To what extent they are
influenced by or are due to the upper air currents is therefore unknown,
though not a few of the attendant phenomena indicate that the latter are of
no little importance.
Any one who has observed the waters at the junction of two streams, is
familiar with the appearance of numerous tiny eddies or whirlpools formed
at the point of junction. Such are perceptible also in every rapid stream,
when the current, sheering sharply from a projecting point, is made in a
measure to collide with itself. This is also the principle of the many tiny
whirlwinds seen during the warm summer days: and such are also
observable in winter, if there be snow enough to render their presence in the
air clearly visible. Their results are most readily recognized in snow-drifts,

where the wind meets some special obstruction. It does not often occur that
a high fence is covered with a snow-drift: a great drift will be thrown up by
it, but not against it: and the side next the fence will be curved inward, or
concave. The wind strikes the fence and partially recoils, curving upward to
pass over the fence. The drift is then built up between the wind and the
current recoiling from the fence, and its inner curve shows the direction
pursued by the rebounding current.
Now, when opposing air-currents meet each other on a large scale, the
immense whirlwind that is produced is called a cyclone or tornado. It
follows then, that if we would find any regularity or law in these unusual
disturbances, we must know if there exists any permanent condition of
atmospheric currents that is favorable to their generation.
That such a state exists, we have already learned. The great belts of
calms that we have found between the trade-winds and the return trades and
polar currents, are more appropriately called the zones of equinoctial
storms. We have in them districts of general calms, with winds infringing
upon either side. It is evident then that, as in the case of the fence, whose
recoil-current curves the snow-drift, a whirling current of considerable
magnitude may arise here at any time: hence, violent storms do arise in
these regions more or less at all periods of the year. But we have seen that
these zones of calms move slightly to the north or south with the course of
the sun. It would then appear that at the equinoctial period, when they
return from the mean position toward the extreme northern or southern
limit, there would be opportunity for unusual disturbances, especially since
the heavy rainfall of those periods would unusually affect the temperature
of the atmosphere.
That is precisely what occurs. The equinoxes are marked by storms of
unusual severity, and the influence of the sudden falls of rain is so great that
some eminent men believe them to be nearly the sole factor in the formation
of these storms. In one case they doubtless are. If a very heavy rain be
decidedly local, there is low barometer at that place. Now, if on either side
there be areas of high barometer, the opposing currents flowing toward the
center of low area are sufficient to meet all the conditions necessary for a
cyclonic storm. As the zone of calms is comparatively narrow, it is apparent
that the diameter of the area of any storm, owing to the pressure exerted by
the incoming currents of wind, must be still less. Hence, the cyclone center,
at its time of formation, seldom exceeds one hundred miles in diameter. As

it travels away from the compressing currents that formed it, it is clear that
its centrifugal force must increase; hence, its area increases, and its violence
correspondingly diminishes.
These facts refer to the unusually violent cyclonic storms, properly
known as cyclones. But all low area storms are characterized by the upward
spiral motion, though not strong enough in the case of ordinary summer
rains and thunderstorms to be especially noticed. We shall see, by and by,
how this spiral motion may result without the intervention of any strong
opposing currents.
Why and how a cyclone travels, is a question that at once propounds
itself. Its motion is in accordance with a fixed law, whose operation varies
only as it may be affected by unusual peculiarities in the configuration of
the surface over which it travels. The reason of the motion is not so easy to
explain; neither is it easy to explain why heat expands objects: but its
operation is none the less certain. And so the route pursued by any storm
can be readily indicated in advance. It is not a matter of mere conjecture.
The motion of a cyclone or tornado is in accordance with the same law
that governs the motion of planets around the sun. It can be illustrated in a
very simple manner by the spinning of a top.
Spin a top on a perfectly smooth and level surface. It will be better if the
peg of the top be blunt or round, so that there will be no tendency to settle
steadily into some possible hole or depression.
Now, the instant any degree of steadiness is attained, the top begins to
move in small curves. If it be spun on a marble slab smoothly coated with
fine flour or sand, it can be made to record its motions, which may then be
carefully studied. It will be found that the form of the curve is nearly the
same with every start. It will describe a parabola, pause a moment, then
describe a second, and so on.
The chief peculiarity of this separate curvilinear motion is that its
direction is always in an opposite direction to that of the rotation of the top.
If the top turn from left to right, it will move from right to left, and vice
versa. The same tendency will manifest itself even if the peg of the top be
placed in a slight depression or socket, so that the curve cannot be made.
Then the upper portion of the top will incline to one side, and begin
describing a curve: but, as before, in a direction contrary to the direction of
rotation.

The common toy known as a gyroscope illustrates the last peculiarity
also. It consists of a wheel within a metal frame, which has a peg like a top.
If the wheel be made to revolve rapidly, the whole may be balanced on the
peg: when the frame will begin to slowly revolve in the opposite direction:
and if placed upon a smooth level surface, like the top it will tend to
describe the same course.
Still other illustrations of this principle are even more familiar than the
spinning of a top. Any one who has seen the game of soldiers in a bowling
alley knows that in order to make the ball turn to the left as it moves
forward, it must spin the other way; that is, with the hands of a watch. To
travel or curve to the right, it must spin in the contrary direction. So in our
“great national game,” base-ball, the pitcher curves the ball any way he
pleases merely by following this law. It is not necessary to take into
account, as many do, the return trades, as occasioning the travel of a
whirling storm; and the fact is, that the cyclone frequently travels more
rapidly than the ordinary wind moving in the same direction.
Now, the motion of the planets is similar: rotating in one direction, they
travel in the other. So we find the general law is,
All revolving bodies, left free as to direction, travel in a curve in a
direction opposite to that of their rotation. This curve is usually some form
of conic section: an ellipse, parabola or hyperbola. The planets, and some
comets, move in ellipses. Some comets travel parabolas or hyperbolas. And
the parabola is the customary path of the cyclonic storm. As the cyclone in
the northern hemisphere rotates from right to left, and in the southern from
left to right, their paths must necessarily be in opposite directions, as may
be seen by the accompanying diagram. So in either case, the direction of the
path is always away from the equator.

As far as the United States are concerned, most non-cyclonic storms
originate in the Saskatchewan country, or along the southeastern slope of
the Rocky Mountains. By far the greater number pass over the St. Lawrence
valley. A small number are developed in the Gulf, or in the Pacific: but
these are much affected, often broken up, in crossing the Rocky or
Appalachian systems. The usual course is somewhat north of east; but there
are a few notable exceptions. The immense amount of vapor wafted up the
Mississippi valley induces some low area storms to move southward from
Manitoba into the upper Mississippi valley. In like manner, the excessive
moisture along our north Pacific coast causes occasional storms to move
southward from Alaska to Oregon.
But the course of a cyclonic storm, we have seen, must be different.
The accompanying diagram illustrates the fact that the wind blows from
all directions toward the center of the storm. As the storm revolves, the
wind would come apparently from the south for any one on the eastern edge
of the cyclone of the northern hemisphere. Hence, in the case of a storm of

large diameter, people in Richmond or Washington may often be surprised
by an apparent northeast gale, which reaches them before it strikes New
York or Boston. At the center of the storm is absolute calm. So if a cyclone
pass centrally over any point in the northern hemisphere, a person at that
place will find the wind blowing violently from the southeast: then after an
interval of calm, it will blow with equal violence from the northwest. This
will be the case if the path of the storm has already turned to the northeast,
so that its northeast quarter may be called its front. If on the northwest
course, however, the apparently alternate winds would be from the
northeast and southwest. So one in the path of a southern cyclone would
find the winds proceeding from the same quarters; for though it revolves in
the opposite direction, its front or path is also in the opposite direction; so in
either hemisphere, the southeast or the northeast wind will be the first felt
by one directly in the track of the storm.

ROTATION OF STORMS.

Another result of the path of a cyclone is that the direction of its center
from the stand-point of any observer is readily known. A glance at the
diagram shows at once that if any one within the storm area of a cyclone of
the northern hemisphere stands with his back to the wind, the storm center,
where the barometer is lowest, is invariably on his left: but if he stand with
his back to the wind of a southern cyclone, the storm center is always on his
right. Hence, if a vessel be overtaken by a cyclone, the captain at once may
know how to pass beyond its range, by shaping his course at right angles to
that of the wind. Thus, if in a northern cyclone, he must sail to the right,
supposing his back is to the wind: in the southern hemisphere, he would sail
to the left.
As an example of the expansion of the storm area in its journey, may be
mentioned the West India hurricane of 1839, which had, in the Antilles, a
diameter of three hundred miles, which increased to five hundred at the
Bermudas, and eight hundred on the parallel of 50° north latitude.
To draw again upon the illustration of the spinning top, it will be
observed that the curvilinear motion is extremely slow in comparison with
that of rotation, but increases as the rotation decreases. The same law
applies to the movement of cyclones. The slowest motion forward is usually
near the apex of the curve: and the progress on the ocean is much slower
than on the land. Traveling over the latter, the irregularities of surface act in
the case of the storm just as a rough surface does in the case of the top. The
motion may be accelerated, but its regularity is lessened. So while at sea the
parabolic path of the storm is almost absolutely perfect, but on reaching the
land its motion is more rapid, and less regular, conforming somewhat to the
configuration of the surface.
To illustrate, take the great cyclone of August 16th to 22nd, 1888. This
started off Point Jupiter, Florida, with a rainfall of 2.2 inches in twelve
hours, while the rotary velocity of the wind was sixty miles per hour. Its
path across the Gulf of Mexico was a perfect semi-parabola, curving
northward into western Louisiana; but rapid as was the rotary velocity, three
and a half days were required for the journey across the gulf. Meanwhile, it
was rapidly widening: for within a few hours of its reaching land, its eastern
edge was assailing Mobile, Alabama, with a south wind of fifty-five miles
an hour. Almost at the same time the western half was flooding Memphis
and Vicksburg with an enormous rainfall—almost four inches in twelve
hours, at Memphis. By the morning of August 21st, thirty-six hours after

reaching land, it was central over middle Tennessee and Kentucky; heavy
rains fell over the entire region. But by this time its eastern edge was in
collision with the Appalachian chain; while a heavy local rain at the
northern extremity of that chain created an additional diversion in a new
area of low barometer. So it left the hitherto parabolic route, and shot away
nearly at a tangent along the western Appalachian slope, passing from
Tennessee to Newfoundland in thirty-six hours, thus moving nearly three
times as rapidly as in the Gulf: while its violence, or rotary speed, was
vastly lessened.
This storm was one of the most destructive of the recent cyclones that
have swept our country, doing immense damage to crops, bridges, houses,
herds—in short, everything that can be seriously damaged by wind or flood.
The damage in Louisiana alone was estimated at $500,000. But it was by
no means the most destructive of the West India storms.
An examination of the areas of calms, which are the hot-beds of
cyclones and hurricanes, shows that the region which produces the great
cyclones of the United States lies in the Antilles and Caribbean Sea. In the
Pacific the portion of the calm belt of the Tropic of Cancer causes the
ravages of cyclones or hurricanes originating there to be felt chiefly in
Japan and China. The storms of the Pacific arising in the equatorial calm
belt, are most violent in the East Indies, and the southern peninsulas of
Asia. As these regions are much warmer, and consequently the atmosphere
may hold a much greater quantity of vapor, it follows that cyclones in that
quarter much exceed in violence those of our own land.
Such are the general laws of these terrible disturbances of nature, as
ascertained by years of careful observation. In the United States, our Signal
Service, with well-equipped observatories at important localities, is able to
make these principles of practical use: to detect the incipient storm and
mark out its path, ere it strikes its fiercest blow.
It should be observed, ere leaving this topic, that a few would-be
prophets have maintained that not only great storms, but also earthquakes,
volcanic eruptions, tidal waves, etc., are due to planetary influences.
Observing that the most violent hurricanes occur near the equinoctial
period, they argue that the equinoxes of the planets ought to also disturb the
earth. They ignore the fact that as to our own equinoctial disturbances, the
change in the relative position of the earth and sun is sufficient to produce

change in the location of heated air-currents and consequent storms. They
seek to find in the Equinox Absolute, some strange mysterious magic, some
inexplicable power or Deus ex machina, whose business it is to get up a
disturbance here on earth at every possible opportunity, no matter in what
planet he may be for the nonce located.
But it is difficult to rid any man of his hobby. In the question of the
equinoxes of other planets, their recurrence is of sufficient frequency to
allow the weather-crank full play for his imagination. Two of the major
planets lie within the earth’s orbit, and their more rapid course about

WATER SPOUTS AT SEA.

the sun results in there being an equinox in one or the other of them about
once in each month. So no matter in what month a great storm may occur,
the enthusiast can point out that a neighboring planet is at or near an
equinox.
A careful examination of the equinoxes of the inner planets for a period
of fifteen years shows that the number occurring in the month of April was
22 per cent. above the average occurrence for any month: whence, it would
appear that the disturbances at that period ought to be equally in excess. But
as a matter of fact, storms on the earth are most numerous and violent at the
time of the autumnal equinox—September and October—when no such
departure from the average of equinoxes of the other planets appears.
If planetary influence were the cause of our storms, it would be
reasonable to suppose that disturbances would be greatest when the planets
are nearest to the earth: but the advocates of the theory do not seem to
consider this a factor at all. Nor could the planetary equinox theory account
for the fact that storms of peculiar character always originate in the same
regions. For instance, why do cyclones always originate near the tropics and
move away from the equator? If the planetary equinoxes produce violent
earthquakes, why are they so partial to North America as never in our whole
history to have given us a very serious shaking up? Why is it that of the

hundreds of recorded tornadoes of the past century in the United States,
only one has ever occurred west of Dodge City, Kansas? Clearly the
adherents of the equinoctial theory will have to admit local terrestrial
conditions that modify all their theories: and to make such an admission
will be, in the end, to give up the fight.
The writer knew of a boy who wasted a pound and a half of bird-shot in
trying to kill a small owl. The game was finally secured, and the young
Nimrod discovered a hatful of feathers with the body of a robin—and of no
earthly use.
Attacking the planetary theory is of little more use. But the theory is the
resort of many would-be weather prophets, who needlessly alarm the
ignorant with their gloomy forebodings.
In a country as large as our own, any sort of weather is a very safe
prediction to make for any day in the century, as minor rains and cloudy
seasons and small storms are merely local. Any sort of prediction would be
nearly sure to hit some portion of the country; and one who is so disposed
can easily win a cheap notoriety and gain scores of testimonials as to the
correctness of his predictions. Every unusual catastrophe produces a brood
of these gentry who are eager to make the trial. But those who endeavor to
indicate the exact locality where any great disturbance is to take place, meet
discomfiture with a uniformity that ought to be discouraging. The work of
the Signal Service is as carefully done as may well be: yet its best men
assert that an average of 90 per cent. of correctness in their prognostications
is unusual, because of the extremely small areas covered by local
disturbances. Rainy weather announced for western Missouri may be
correct every time for Kansas City, but be 10 per cent. in error for Nevada,
Missouri. When those whose time is devoted to the weather can not always
be correct, it is useless to listen to charlatans.
A careful study of sun-spots with relation to storms has been made of
late years. The fact is elicited that the spots seem to have a definite
connection with electrical disturbances: but while there are numbers of
coincidences between unusual sun-spots and great storms, the number of
striking exceptions seems equally great. Hence, it can not be fairly inferred
that there is any definite relation between them. And so far as electrical
phenomena on the earth are connected with storms, they always appear as
dependent upon rather than productive of atmospheric currents. Indeed, the

most remarkable electrical disturbances occur at times when no atmospheric
current is prevalent. The most beautiful electrical display, the aurora,
appears when the air is abnormally still and unusually dry. The necessity of
the latter condition accounts for the fact that it is usually observable only in
cold weather and occurs with great frequency and in remarkable brilliancy
in the polar regions. It results from electric currents passing through
extremely rarefied and dry air, and may be produced on a small scale
artificially.
Poe was right when he held that many things remain long secrets by
reason of their very simplicity. Six thousand years steam hissed and fumed
in men’s faces, and tilted the kettle lid, before they learned its expansive
power. Six thousand years the lightning flamed and roared before man
realized it could be made one of his most obedient servants. Six thousand
years he cudgeled his wits to discover the secret of the wind: yet when he
made a fire within his house, he closed the door to prevent unpleasant
draughts of air. And so he continues, constantly endeavoring to find some
strange mystery in the things that are dependent on simplest laws.
There was a time when men stood aghast at small-pox, cholera, yellow
fever, and many similar calamities, and spoke with bated breath of the
“mysterious visitations of providence,” the “scourge of God,” and so on.
When the Turks once besieged a plague-stricken city, a comet appeared in
the sky. The pious inhabitants prayed “O Lord, deliver us from the devil, the
Turk and the comet,” and usually such people believed such plagues were
the judgment of God on them for their sins. Modern science holds that
about the only sin the Lord punishes in that way is the sin of filthy streets,
or back-door cess-pools. When man has once learned the means of control
and prevention, evils lose their mysterious witchery.
On the other hand, let the laws of any force in nature be every so well
understood: yet, so long as they are beyond the control of man, they will
retain for him an eerie uncanny fascination. The pigmy has harnessed the
steam and chained the lightning: but when the storm clouds lower and the
forests moan, the sea roars and the lightning glows, he stands in fear and
awe before a power whose might he but vaguely comprehends. He may
know of the winds, whence and whither bound; but when the Stygian
darkness has passed on, leaving wreck and ruin, want and woe, desolation
and despair, shattered homes and hopes, and bleeding hearts, this
knowledge of law is, for the nonce, forgotten, and the hurricane is

transformed, in his disordered vision, into a demon of wrath, or caprice; or
he speaks, hesitatingly it may be, of the mysterious dispensation of an
inscrutable providence. But in the mighty wind, as in the soughing breeze,
there is only obedience to universal law. But when the Author of law
displays his power, man’s instinct, however unwilling his reason,
acknowledges a God.

CHAPTER V.

THE LOUISVILLE TORNADO.

“At eve along the calm resplendent west
I marked a cloud alive with fairy light,
So warmly pure, so sweetly, richly bright,
It seemed a spirit of ether, floating blest,
In its own happy empire! While possest
With admiration of the marvelous light,
Slowly its hues, opal and chrysolite,
Waned on the shadowy gloaming’s phantom breast.
The cloud became a terror, whose dark womb,
Throbbed with keen lightnings, by destruction hurled,
Red bolt on bolt, while a drear ominous gloom
Enveloped Nature: o’er the startled world—
A deep alarum—burst the thunder boom
And the swift Storm his coal-black wings unfurled!”

HERE is a perspective of news as well as of art, which requires that
such features in a view as are supposed to be nearest to the observer
must be given larger detail. It is a natural consequence of the fact that
a small object near by may conceal from view a mountain in the distance.
So in the news world a dog run over on Washington avenue takes rank
with a wreck in the Indian Ocean. A fight in a neighboring saloon gets ten
inches: a strike in Germany ten lines. Your neighbor’s new barn is a good
item for the county paper whose editor cares nothing for the new bank in
Boston. The Widow Jones gets a puff for whitewashing her fence; the
refitting of the White House gets a line. A million of people who have heard
of George Washington, never heard of Alfred the Great.
Now, not a few will think that there is injustice in this. Doubtless the
tendency of the time is to exaggerate perspective to obtain startling effects.
Caricature is characteristic of the age. And yet, there was never before a
time when so many people took interest in things that lay beyond their own
narrow circle; even if that interest be from mere curiosity.
Sometimes this self-centered condition of humanity has an amusing
aspect: as if one should imagine the earth terminated with his own apparent
horizon. Some South Sea Islanders called the first white men who visited

them, “sky-breakers.” The reason is simple. Dwelling on their little islets,
mere specks in the deep, and in all their myths and legends having no
account of any other race, they supposed themselves to be the only people
in the world. Their sky was a vast wall of blue stones raised by one of their
mythical heroes. It shut in the world and could not be far away, though none
of them had endeavored to reach it. So these strange white creatures were
not of this world; neither were they of the race of the gods; they came from
no one knew where, and had somehow broken through the blue wall that
bounded the world. And white men are in some islands called “sky-
breakers” to this day.
Something of the same spirit is manifested by the Chinese. The devil of
their mythology is white. So our occidental sensibilities received quite a
shock when we learned that we were “foreign devils.” The Japanese more
considerately called us “foreign beasts,” as though uncertain of our status in
the animal kingdom. And to this day our magnificent vessels are gravely
styled “devil ships” by the Chinese.
Such are what might be appropriately styled ludicrous exaggerations of
perspective. And we of the west are similarly so wrapped up in our self-
sufficiency that it hardly occurs to us that we may appear as amusing to
foreigners as they to us. In this respect our charity begins at home. It is the
way of the world.
But there are a thousand occurrences that make us feel that the principle
is just, no matter to what extremes we may foolishly carry it. It comes home
to each with peculiar emphasis in the hour of distress. The famine in Asia
does not weigh upon you so heavily as the death of the woman who starved
in the garret across the street. A fire that burns Chicago is easier forgotten
that the one which destroys the little home that represents the savings of
years of your life. The cholera in India has no such terrors for you as the
diphtheria or scarlet fever in your own village. The Czar of Russia is blown
to pieces in his carriage; but he has no remembrance at the bedside of your
sick friend. Ten thousand dead victims of a distant earthquake are hidden by
the coffin in your own home.
Since the same law applies to the interests of nations, it is not necessary,
in reviewing the work of destructive tempests, to apologize for giving chief
place to the recent Louisville tornado, however insignificant it may appear

in comparison with scores of others that have desolated the earth in days
gone by. The latter shall be noticed in due time.
In the foregoing chapter we have seen that the great cyclones that
occasionally visit us originate in the neighborhood of the Antilles. Of
course, similar conditions may produce smaller storms of the same class in
numerous localities. These small storms whose paths are but a few yards, or
sometimes as much as a mile in diameter, are called, to distinguish them
from the great cyclone of twenty to two hundred miles in diameter, by the
Portuguese title of tornados, or “turning-storms.” Often the broken
character of the country will cause a large gathering storm to break

WHERE THE STORM ENTERED LOUISVILLE.

up into half a dozen or more of the smaller ones, which, in their narrow
paths are as destructive as the cyclone.
It is the unexpected that happens. No one experiences so many surprises,
or has more pet beliefs upset than that oracle of the chimney-corner, the
oldest inhabitant. It was long believed that tornadoes never passed over an
old Indian camp ground. Whatever the popular opinion of savage intellect,
there is marvelous confidence in his instinct. Again, it was thought a
tornado never would pass over a large city. The storm in question
demolished both these “olde wyves’ tales.”
During March 27th, 1890, the Signal Service Department observed a
threatening storm center gather in the southwestern portion of Wyoming,
and start eastward with great rapidity. Notice was promptly given. Railway,

telegraph and electric light officials were warned that on Thursday night a
hurricane would blow with a speed of at least fifty miles an hour. Signal
Service predictions had sometimes failed, and this last one excited no
particular concern. The destroyer came and was gone in two minutes; and
blocks on blocks of Louisville were a ghastly ruin.
The tornado was accompanied by a cloud and tremendous rain. To an
observer at the Falls, the cloud was seen to come up the gap between the
hills which guard the banks of the beautiful Ohio. He described it as
“balloon-shaped, twisting an attenuated tail to the earth. It emitted a
constant fusillade of lightning, and seemed to be composed of a lurid,
snake-like mass of electric currents, whose light would sometimes be
extinguished for a few moments, making an almost intolerable darkness. It
was accompanied by a fearful roar, like that of a thousand trains crossing
the big bridge at once. It could be seen to strike Louisville, and then with
incredible rapidity it leaped the river, churning it into white foam as it went
toward the Indiana shore.”
The streets of Louisville parallel to the river are named; those at right
angles are numbered from east to west. The section visited may be
described as a rectangle a mile square, bounded on the west by Eighteenth
street, on the east by Seventh, on the south by Broadway, and on the north
by the Ohio river. It comprehends the business portion of the city. Through
this district the cyclone swept diagonally from southwest to northeast,
crossing the river and leaving the city at the foot of Seventh street. The
business houses or residences of perhaps 10,000 people lay in its path.
Two days after the storm, when there had been time for a calm survey, its
track is thus described by a correspondent of the Associated Press:
“It first descended upon the beautiful little suburb of Parkland, southwest
of the city, destroying many private residences. The loss of life was
inconsiderable at this initial point, however. Rushing onward toward the
northwest it lifted for a moment above the trees and housetops, and
descended again a mile further on at Maple and Eighteenth streets. From
this on its pathway is clearly marked. At no time did the base of the funnel
touch the ground, and one hundred feet higher in the air, it would have
passed by without doing comparatively much damage.
“The ruins as they now are often show the first, and even the second and
third stories of buildings still intact, with the roofs and higher stories swept

away except in places where the debris from the upper floors crushed in the
lower, and brought the walls down to the ground in total collapse. From
Maple and Eighteenth streets it went northward one block, then west at an
angle another block; and then curving to the northeast as far as Magazine
and

BAXTER PARK, LOUISVILLE.

Thirteenth streets. A quick change to the north is perceptible here, and
after traveling in that direction two blocks, another turn to the west. An
acute angle was then made, the line turning from Fifteenth street northeast
to Thirteenth street again; thence, due east to Tenth street, and north a block
to Market street. At Thirteenth and Jefferson streets it swept through Baxter
Park, doing great damage, and a block eastward destroyed St. John’s
Episcopal Church, in the rectory of which the Rev. S. E. Barnwell and his
little son were crushed and burned to death, the rest of the family escaping.
“St. John’s Church is in the street immediately in the rear of the ill-fated
Falls City Hall. The eccentric monster went on eastward past the Falls City
Hall without touching it, and then, as if suddenly recollecting, it swept
around the block and started westward on the south side of Market street.
Had the change of direction been made a trifle sooner or later Falls City
Hall would have escaped, and the dead been numbered within thirty or forty
at the most.

“As if satisfied with the work accomplished, it turned north again and
struck Main street. This thoroughfare is the principal business street in the
city. It runs parallel with the river from east to west, and but a block south
of it. It is lined with wholesale houses, and was the solidest part of the city
in point of architecture.
“The tornado reached Main street at Twelfth, and then shaped its course
directly east down the middle of the broad street, sweeping away the solid
stores and warehouses on both sides. From Twelfth to Seventh streets on
Main it is a wholesaling district, and it was practically untenanted at that
hour. Had the storm come in the daytime and taken the same direction,
hundreds who were at their houses and escaped unhurt would have been
killed.
“At Seventh street and Main the buildings change in their character. The
big Louisville Hotel is on Main between Sixth and Seventh, and east of the
hotel are restaurants, saloons and other hotels which contained thousands of
people at that hour. The tornado chased down Main street, carrying
everything before it, passing Eleventh street, Tenth, Ninth, Eighth, and
Seventh. A block further and the Louisville Hotel, with its hundreds of
tenants, would have been reached. The escape of the hotel is the strangest
incident of all. Adjoining it on the west, from whence the storm came, was a
three-story building used as a saloon on the first floor, and occupied in the
upper stories as sleeping apartments for the hotel servants. This three-story
building, right under the east wall of the hotel, was totally demolished and
not a timber left a dozen feet higher than the ground. Its inmates were
killed. The great hotel shook from roof to cellar with the force of the shock,
but it was spared.
“The storm veered at the sharpest kind of an angle to the north again,
crossed Main street, and struck for the river, taking in the Union Depot on
the way. Strange to say, although the depot was totally demolished, only
one person was killed there. At the point where the tornado crossed the
river, between New Albany and Jeffersonville, it is supposed several small
crafts were sunk.
“Reaching the opposite bank of the river, the storm turned to the east
again and took off a bite from Jeffersonville. It went along Front street for a
few blocks, damaging buildings, but causing no loss of life. Then it took to
the river and struck the Kentucky shore about four miles east of where it

left it, and outside of the city of Louisville. At this exact spot is located the
Louisville pumping works, which supplies the whole city with water.
“The pumping works were destroyed, and the city is now threatened
with a water famine in consequence. The next heard of the peculiar course
taken by the tornado is from Eminence, Ky., about forty miles east of
Louisville, which was badly damaged by the storm. The intervening country
may have suffered somewhat, but no other towns were visited, and from
Eminence the destroyer probably took a final leave of the earth’s surface
and passed on to the Atlantic Coast at a higher and less dangerous altitude.”
This outline seems to show how easily the course of a storm is modified
by the irregularities of surface, even when the obstacles are such as it can
overcome. It is seen that the course of a small storm over broken country,
little resembles the steady curve of the storm in the open sea. Ever and
anon, the obstacles below momentarily break the regular current, which is
as often renewed in a moment by the powerful upward suction in the upper
air. This is the phenomenon known as “jumping,” which may be repeated
till the widening of the center leaves the storm too weak to promptly restore
the current at the ground, and the danger from the tornado is over. Some of
the apparent eccentricities in the city, are doubtless due to the fact that
occasional buildings were strong enough to resist; and leaving such at slight
variations in its course, made it present the appearance of doubling on its
track.
So many blocks of buildings, great and small, in an instant violently
hurled to pieces, would seem to infer with certainty the death of nearly all
the occupants. That only about a hundred should have been killed outright,
was therefore a matter of astonishment no less than of gratitude. The terror
and anguish of the first moments or hours could not, however, be measured
by the actual calamity to human life. Members of households suddenly
separated from each other in the darkness, could only fear the worst.

LOUISVILLE TORNADO—FALLS CITY HALL.

Their startled imagination saw the missing one dead or dying under the
huge piles of fallen buildings. There were excited cries and calls and
wailing of the living; a mad rush and frantic tugging at the ruins, from
beneath which were sometimes heard shrieks for help or groans of the
dying. To add to the universal terror, fires broke out in many places,
threatening imprisoned wretches with a fate more horrible than the crush of
falling walls, or timbers, bricks or iron, hurtling through the air. Before help
could reach them the flames took hold on some and hushed their cries
forever. Fortunately, the fire-alarm connections were left intact, and as
alarm after alarm was sent, there was a dashing of the engines to the rescue,
and the whole fire-department was presently engaged in extinguishing the
flames, or recovering the living and the dead. Hospitals and morgues were
suddenly improvised in sheds or shops, where the wounded were cared for,
or the dead were deposited to await the recognition or claim of the living.
Falls City Hall was the theatre of the principal loss of life. It was a brick
building fronting on Market between Eleventh and Twelfth. The ground-
floor had long been used as a market, and contained forty or fifty stalls of
gardeners and butchers. These stalls were closed and the keepers were
absent at the hour of the disaster. In front on the second floor were three
small rooms, one of them utilized as an office, the other two as toilet rooms.
Behind these was a large hall, and in the rear of this still another hall, in
which a young lady, her father, brother and sister being present, was
teaching a dancing school. There might have been sixty-five persons in this

room, though one witness says twenty-eight. In one of the small rooms
seven men, constituting the Executive Committee of the Roman Knights,
was holding a business meeting. In another room a band of musicians,
fifteen in number, were going through a rehearsal. Some decorators were at
work in the large hall, preparing it for some coming occasion. On the third
floor were assembled the Jewel Lodge No. 2 of the Knights and Ladies of
Honor, with an attendance of a hundred or more. In an adjoining hall the
Humboldt Lodge No. 146 of I. O. O. F. with seventeen members was in
session. The whole number of people in the building must have been nearly
or quite two hundred. In an instant the fearful wrench of the cyclone had
twisted the building into fragments, and tumbled it in shapeless ruin upon
the inmates.
Ten minutes after the collapse might have been seen a frantic multitude
hastily gathering from all quarters, among them many women clutching
vainly with their fingers at the slate roof, and madly tearing at the wreck
beneath which the imprisoned and wounded were crying for help. Presently,
fire broke out, but it was happily extinguished. The work of rescue was now
organized and speedily set in motion, but an hour elapsed before the first
victim was extricated. This was a lady, found sitting upright with bruised
head and broken arm. She told of her vain effort to escape, and of the
position in which she had last seen her companions. Meanwhile, some were
digging in the center of the debris in answer to a voice which grew fainter
and fainter until it was hushed forever. The work of rescue was now shifted
to the other end of the pile.
James Hassen was foremost among the workers, and on reaching the hall
room of the Knights and Ladies, he took from the ruins the first body,
which proved to be that of his wife, and who expired in his arms. He gently
laid his dead wife aside, and hurried again to aid in recovering the rest.
Presently, ten women were reached, clasped in each others arms—all dead
but one. The dancing room was

AT WORK IN THE WRECK.

reached. One lady was taken out fatally hurt, and one after another her three
children, unconscious, but destined to recover. While her husband was
urging the rescue of his fourth child, still somewhere beneath the ruins, an
under-current of air having been admitted, the fire again broke out with
startling fierceness, and the furious heat compelled a suspension of the
work. The groans of the imprisoned were now changed to fearful shrieks,
while the watchers, helpless to render aid, screamed and ran wildly about
with anxiety and horror. Three or four lines of hose were turned upon the
flames, and they were subdued; but an hour, in which probably many a life
went out, had been lost from the work. By twelve o’clock many dead and
wounded had been removed from the ruins. The dead were largely in the
majority. Many of these exhibited no outward wounds, and had been
apparently suffocated by gas escaping from broken pipes.
But the reader may be spared further details of the recovery at Falls City
Hall. Suffice it to say, that two days were required to remove the wreck and
demonstrate the precise extent of the calamity. On this spot, about eighty
persons had lost their lives.
The narratives of some of the survivors will serve to show that while the
tornado comes without warning, the heaviest wind is not just at first: and a
cool head may sometimes profit by the interval to escape. Sailors have a

saying that the “tail” of a gale is strongest. A young man who was taken
from the wreck of the hall says:
“I was dancing when a flash of lightning, followed by a crash, made me
think that the lightning had struck some part of the rear of the building. The
next moment, the big doors that enter into the big hall in front flew open. I
continued dancing, and cried to some of the boys to close the doors. They
did so, and were bolting them, when they were again forced open with such
force as to knock down everybody around them. Then the window sashes
were blown in, and the building commenced rocking. I saw that the house
was about to fall, and I hallooed: ‘The walls will go next.’ I ran to the
dressing-room, and I think most of the girls followed me. I got under a table
and held fast to the legs, thinking that I might be saved in that way. Then
the walls began crumbling, and the lights went out, and the floor descended
like an elevator. The crash stunned me for a moment, but finally a flash of
lightning showed me a hole in the debris, through which I might have
crawled had not my leg been pinioned between some timbers. There were
people all around me, and they were crying for help; but there was no one
to aid us. I tugged and strained, but I could not get loose. Finally, I heard
my father’s voice, and answered him; and directly he crawled down the
hole. It took him three-quarters of an hour to extricate me, and then we both
crawled out. If there had been help at once, we might have saved others, as
I knew about where they all were, but they were more or less hurt.”
That less than half of those in the building should have been killed is a
matter of wonder. The manner of individual escapes can only be inferred
from one or two more which we subjoin.
One of the lady members of the lodge of the Knights and Ladies of
Honor relates:
“I went to attend the lodge meeting and when all were present the
calamity came. There must have been about seventy-five people in the room
at the time of the tornado. Hone of them were able to get out before the
building fell in. The first intimation we had of what was coming was the
flash of lightning and the beating of hail against the windows. The wind
howled, and I heard a fearful roaring noise. The people became frightened,
and hurriedly gathered their wraps together. All were fearful of impending
danger.

“Just at this moment I saw a round hole blown through the wall,
immediately above one of the windows. The gas went out and then I saw
another large round hole appear in the roof. Through this I saw the lightning
play with awful grandeur. This natural light was all that relieved the gloom
and darkness. I heard one of the trustees of the lodge call out to all the
people to go out quickly and in a body. He cried out not to rush, as some
one would be killed if they did. Then I knew no more until I became
conscious, and found that I was partially imbedded in bricks and timbers. I
felt blood running down my neck and became aware that I had been struck
on the head by a brick or timber. I extricated myself, and by the flashes of
lightning made my way over the terrible mass of debris and dead bodies
toward the front. I saw a man making his way down the pile of bricks to the
street, and I followed. When I reached the sidewalk I was aided to a
neighboring store by a lodge trustee. I don’t know how he made his way
out. I heard cries for help as I came out, but I had barely strength to move,
and could not help the others.”
A thrilling experience was that of another member of the same lodge.
His estimate of the attendance, larger than the foregoing, is yet materially
exceeded by others. He says:
“The first intimations of danger we had were two distinct rockings of the
building, about which time a dormer window in the lodge room was blown
from its casings, and immediately after the plastering began to drop from
the ceiling. A wild rush was made for the ante-room, which carried me with
it, and I had just reached the door when

MAIN STREET, BETWEEN ELEVENTH AND TWELFTH, LOUISVILLE.

the entire floor gave way, and we were precipitated to the basement, blinded
and almost suffocated by a cloud of dust, and crushed and jammed by
falling timbers. In some way the doorframe fell with me and maintained an
upright position when it stopped, and I was enabled to extricate myself from
the debris and make an exit to the street through an adjoining house, whose
doors I kicked in. Meanwhile, the shrieks and groans of those still
imprisoned by the wreck formed a chorus that, in connection with the
howling of the storm, made my very heart sick. I was, so far as hasty
examination went, comparatively uninjured, and at once returned over the
ruins with several men to the rear of the place and extinguished a fire that
had begun to blaze fiercely. By this time the rain was falling in torrents, and
it was difficult for those who had gathered from the neighborhood, or who
had been as lucky as I was to escape with life, to tell where to begin the
work of rescue.
“The vivid lightning flashes only gave momentary views of the position
of the ruins, and blinded everybody. Among those whom I saw and
recognized as having escaped from Jewel lodge I can name only the
treasurer, who was covered with dust, drenched with rain and well-nigh
distracted by the probable fate of her aged father, who had attended the
lodge meeting with her and who was still in the ruins. The entire building
collapsed in front and rear, and of the east and west side walls nothing was
standing above the second story.

“So far as I could judge when I had succeeded in escaping, there were
less than a dozen, all told, who got out unhurt; and the cries for help and
groans that issued from the broken and twisted heap was proof that scores
were still there, unable to escape.”
The Union Depot was utterly demolished. An officer of the Louisville
Southern Road relates the story:
“Quite a crowd of people were present waiting for trains. Mr. Woodard,
of the Monon Railroad, was near me, and I had been talking to him. The
wind was blowing strong, and seemed to increase in power. We heard a dull
moaning in the distance, and the glass in the windows of the depot was
shattered, although the first puff was merely the advance guard of the
tornado. The people became alarmed. One man started to rush into the
ticket office, but the ticket-seller pushed him back. Mr. Woodard and I also
started for the ticket office. Just at this moment the tornado, like a clap of
thunder, struck the depot.
“The building gave way and tumbled in upon us. I was just at the door of
the ticket office when it went down. I fell, and a man standing near me fell
across me. A heavy girder fell on top of him. Mr. Woodard was only a few
feet away. I never lost consciousness. I spoke to Mr. Woodard and he
replied. We both thought we could get out alive if the depot did not catch
fire. I knew that there had been stoves with fire burning in them in the depot
before the tornado struck it, and I expected the flames to break out at every
moment.
“I spoke to the man who was lying across me and told him that he must
manage to squeeze from under the girder. I thought that if he was off me I
could manage to get out. After many desperate efforts he managed to get
from under the girder, but in doing so his bowels were torn so terribly that
the doctors do not think he can recover. He was a brakeman, who had come
here to be a witness in some case. I do not remember his name.
“After the brakeman got off me, I was able to use my strength. Then I
got out, and so did Mr. Woodard. I was under the wreck just thirty-five
minutes. I was slightly bruised in the arm and leg, but that amounts to
nothing.”

UNION DEPOT, LOUISVILLE.

Though forty or fifty persons were in the depot at the time, only one, a
restaurant boy, was killed; Twenty-one passenger coaches were more or less
wrecked. On following days the impression of the ruins upon the beholder
was peculiarly gloomy. Instead of the stir of life, the brilliancy of electric
lights, the scream of whistles and the rumbling of trains, there was a
scattered wreck, and comparative silence. A few chickens, liberated from
their coop, crept at dusk to roost on a timber, and in subdued tones seemed
to be discussing with each other the mournful situation.

CHAPTER VI

INCIDENTS OF THE TORNADO.

“O cold and savage wind!
It racks my soul to hear the wild lamenting
Of wounded hearts whose grief knows no relenting,
Can not their woe e’er sway thee to repenting?
O cold and savage wind!

O melancholy wind!
Hast thou no requiem for the dead and dying?
Art thou some fierce despairing spirit sighing
O’er a lost Paradise behind thee lying?
O melancholy wind!”

OO frequently in the confusion of great disasters the woes of the
poorer classes are forgotten in the attention given to their more
opulent neighbors. There is only too often good cause given for a
slight modification of Shylock’s speech, “Hath not a Jew eyes?” etc. There
is no sadder record than that so frequently given in a single line: “Dead—a
woman, name unknown.” What fearful heart-aches often end in the Potter’s
field!
Adjoining the Louisville Hotel was a saloon and cigar store, the rooms
over which were occupied by the hotel laundry girls. These were hurled into
the cellar, and so tightly wedged that death could not have been long
delayed. One was found sitting upright, the pallor of death on her face, and
agony in every feature. Another lay upon her back, with hands outstretched
above her head, as though she tried to thrust destruction back. A third was
sitting, dead; while near by another lay upon her face, as though refusing to
behold that which she could not shun.
“Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,
If memory o’er their tomb no trophies raise,
Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.”

Poor laundry girls! Let their dead dust be mentioned with reverence. Had
they been spoiled daughters of wealth and fashion, press reporters would

have waxed eloquent of their birth, their history, their beauty, their
accomplishments, their heritage. We should have heard in detail the names
of their wealthy and mourning friends, and of their impressive obsequies.
Magnificent monuments would have risen to mark their sleeping dust.
These five laundry girls were taken up tenderly, and two or three days later,
together borne without pomp to humble graves. But is not honest industry
in useful avocation toiling for bread a more royal thing than silks and
diamonds, bedizzening frivolity and idleness? Is there not in America many
a haughty heiress, less worthy of our tears, than these?
“Let not ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys and destiny obscure;”

and when we say, Peace to their ashes! will not the reader add a fervent
Amen!
On Seventeenth street was a pathetic sight. One blackened and charred
wall stood swaying in the wind. Just over the door was a sign—“Plain
Sewing.” An old woman had been the sole tenant. Here, any day for years
past, it may be,
“With fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread:—
Stitch—Stitch—Stitch,
In poverty, hunger and dirt,
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch,
She sang the song of the shirt.”

Her charred body was dug from beneath the ruins. Tragic end of a life of
poverty and toil! But when we reflect on the lot of many another sewing
woman, who still survives, we may, with Solomon, feel inclined to “praise
the dead who are already dead, more than the living who are yet alive.”
About Thirteenth and Walnut dwelt a peddler with wife and child. He
knocked a hole in the side wall of his wrecked home, and dragged out his
little family over a seemingly impassable pile of debris. Then he thought of
another woman and two helpless children imprisoned up stairs. He rushed
to their rescue, and dragged them out just in time to save them from the
flames, which two minutes later were licking up all that would burn.

Society must think more of its lonely toilers; even of its peddlers and
publicans and sinners. It was the keeper of a brothel in Memphis, who,
during the awful yellow-fever visitation, turned her house into a hospital,
and ministered to the suffering till she fell a victim herself. Jesus was
looking at some very nice people when he said, “The publicans and the
harlots go into the kingdom of God before you.” To those good people, such
a thing would be one of the “mysteries of Providence.”
“Mysteries of Providence” are continually ferreted out on such
occasions. Reporters, to whom everything that can be written is news,
gather up a hundred items and give them to the public; often grouping items
in a manner that is strikingly grotesque. There is no grimmer humor than
the apparently matter-of-fact statement that during a great Italian
earthquake, wherein lofty cathedrals were shaken to pieces and hundreds of
people killed, statues of the Virgin escaped uninjured. Sober-minded people
are prone to wonder what is the relative value of a human life and a graven
image. One might, if such things were of constant occurrence, consider
them as meant by Providence as a very sarcastic punishment for the
violation of the second commandment.

EIGHTH AND MAIN STREETS, LOUISVILLE.

It is related that at the time of the massacre of St. Bartholomew, a
Romish captain secured a number of fugitives, among whom he felt
satisfied there were some good Catholics. Not being able to distinguish
them readily, he referred the perplexing case to a fanatical priest. The
response came promptly: “Kill all; the Lord will know his own!”
Interpreters of the inscrutable ways of Providence might find such the
only solution for many particulars of the storm. The pious but superstitious
folk who believe that all such visitations are for the sins of a people, instead
of the result of laws that send the rain alike upon the just and the unjust,
might find some perplexity in conning the following cases.
On the next street back of Falls City Hall stood the St. John’s Episcopal
Church. The rector, with his little four-year-old boy, was in the study. The
rectory and the church were completely destroyed, and the rector and his
child were killed. In an adjoining building, ten or eleven men were playing
cards. The house was demolished, but not one of the players was seriously
hurt. The preacher perished; the idlers were saved—herein is food for
reflection.
Tierney’s saloon was on Eleventh, between Main and Market. The ice-
box saved him and four other men from being crushed. They crowded
beside it, and crawled out uninjured. The pastor and the useful laundry girls
perished; the saloon-keeper and his patrons survived.
The Catholic buildings at Seventeenth and Broadway were Father
Desney’s residence, the Sisters’ Home, the Church of the Sacred Heart, and
the parochial school. All these were wrecked by the wind, and Sister Pius
was killed. There is a story that, amid utter ruin, the image of the Virgin was
left standing, untouched by harm. Let the devout remember that a saloon-
keeper obtained an equal deliverance.
Elmer Barnes and several others ran into Eckerle’s saloon, 1001 West
Market, and securely closed the door. The building fell with a crash, and the
men were buried in the ruins. Barnes and Eckerle were overwhelmed by the
falling bricks and timber. Eckerle was fearfully injured; Barnes was drawn
from the ruins, and died a few hours afterward. The other men were only
slightly hurt. If we have had occasion to mention the destruction of one
church and of several saloons, it is probably only because saloons are more
numerous than churches.

At a grocery store at the corner of Sixteenth and Magazine streets the
owner and five others were standing at the bar in the back part of the store.
A dreadful roaring sound was heard, and the house rocked back and forth.
The owner’s wife and children screamed and ran out the back way. Almost
instantly the rear wall of the building fell. The six men rushed to escape by
the front door, but the wind closed it with such force that it could not be
opened. The floor beneath gave way, and three men were dropped into the
cellar and pinned among the ruins. The other three escaped through a side
window. Instantly a fire kindled and took hold on the imprisoned men.
Their cries were awful, while their escaped companions witnesssed the
horrible cremation and were powerless to render aid.
We record but a few of the multitude of deaths, experiences, incidents
and escapes. Doubtless, there is many an untold tale—something of
personal interest connected with almost every one of the hundreds of
buildings partially or wholly wrecked. The press at first exaggerated, and
perhaps finally minimized the loss of life. There is reason to think that not
all the names of the dead were given to the public, while subsequently
several died of their wounds. To the list of those who were killed outright,
or died in a few hours, better information might have added several names,
and possibly subtracted or corrected others.
The public may find in the press reports lists of the dead and numerous
records of persons injured or killed by the fallings of walls, or by flying
missiles; but these, after all, must be regarded as exceptions. There can be
no very correct estimate of the number of people who were in the down-
town district at the time of the accident. Yet, it would be safe to say only a
very small portion of those in the path of the storm suffered any injury.
That a storm of such magnitude and fury should have swept through the
heart of a city of 200,000 people, to destroy outright no more than five or
six score lives, may excite our wonder. The most obvious reason of the low
mortality will be found in the hour and place of the principal visitation. The
place was the business part of the city, and the hour between eight and nine
P.M., when the wholesale houses and the streets in their vicinity were
comparatively deserted. Another fact is also to be noted. The cyclone seems
to have reached the ground scarcely at any point at all. Its principal fury
was probably expended in the region above the housetops. The roofs and
tops of walls were removed; the damage below resulted principally from
their fall. Humbler buildings sheltering human lives were sometimes

crushed by the fall of the upper portion of the wall of some contiguous
building; as notably, in the case of the house occupied by the laundry girls,
and which was smashed by the fall of the wall from the top story of the
Louisville Hotel; or the case of a colored family whose house was crushed
by the wall of the Falls City Hall. But in any case of cyclonic visitation

CORNER MAIN AND CLINTON STREETS, LOUISVILLE.

the escapes will probably amaze us more than the deaths; for when it will
seem that nothing living could have escaped, the majority will not only
probably be found alive, but absolutely unhurt. Of numerous cases, a few
specimens will suffice:
Peter Speth and family were seated in the parlor when the cyclone
arrived. The family huddled together in the hall, doubtless to avail
themselves of the protection of the side walls not far apart. The walls of the
second story fell in with a crash. The building and furniture were destroyed,
but the family escaped without injury.
Eleven men were in a barber shop at 1803 Broadway. The roof was
blown off; the walls fell in, but all the men escaped through the windows
without a scratch.
At 329 Eleventh street, on the upper floor of a two-story brick, a lady lay
at the point of death; watched by her son and daughter. She begged them to

flee for their lives, but they refused to forsake her. The roof was stripped
clean off, but the devoted children with their mother escaped injury.
In one cottage on Chapel street dwelt a family of five. At once all were
in the house, when the storm demolished it, and four escaped unhurt.
Major Galt, of the Louisville and Nashville Road, lived in a two-story
brick. He apprehended no danger till the walls fell. His wife was buried
under a pile of bricks. Her husband with difficulty extricated her, and
carried her unconscious to the house of a neighbor. Save for the shock, she
was not seriously hurt.
Now, were such cases the exception—had not such instances happened
in a hundred other places similarly visited—there would certainly be cause
for perplexity. But the phenomena of the Louisville storm tend only to
establish the truth of a fact long suspected: that the most

LOOKING EAST FROM TENTH AND MAIN, LOUISVILLE.

destructive effects of a tornado are not always attributable to the direct force
of the wind. A number of interesting incidents of the Louisville storm will
serve to illustrate a now clearly established fact.
Mrs. Fitzpatrick and her family were in a two-story brick, 1433
Seventeenth street. They were all in an upper room and could not get out.
The walls fell outward, while the floor still remained in its place. They
climbed down unhurt.

James Smith (colored) lived with his wife and seven children in
Congress Alley, in the rear of Falls City Hall. Himself, his wife and three
children were crushed beneath the mass of bricks and timbers; the
remaining four children were taken out more dead than alive. Yet, the house
was not in the least moved from its place. The building was crushed by the
wall of the hall, which fell outward. Similar was the fate of the laundry
girls. The house in which they were was crushed by the top of the wall of
the Louisville Hotel, which fell outward, toward the wind.
The colored Odd Fellows were holding a meeting in their hall at
Thirteenth and Walnut. The two upper stories were blown entirely down.
Several large circular holes were blown through the brick walls; one of
these in the side away from the storm. Several received more or less injury,
but not one was fatally hurt.
At 1315 Eighteenth street, was a magnificent new brick cottage. The
roof remained, but in the west wall were made “six holes, round as a dollar,
and large enough to admit a flour barrel.” It is added that the missing bricks
were nowhere to be found.
Finally, take the experience of a grocer on West Market street:
“I was inside of my store, and my clerk was there, too. Standing on the
pavement outside were policeman Harlow, a man named Charles Taylor,
who said he lived in Jeffersonville, a negro whose name I do not know, and
Carl Rice, an eight-year-old boy who lived with his parents in the rooms
above my store. When the wind grew high and the hail began to pelt, Mr.
Harlow attempted to open the front door of the store, which was closed, to
come inside for shelter. At that moment the tornado came in all its fury. No
one who was not in it can conceive of its terrific force. The suction from
without, as the full force came, was so great that it was impossible to get the
front door open. My clerk at work on it on the inside and Mr. Harlow on the
outside, were as powerless against the wind as babies would have been in
attempting to move a stone wall.
“But their efforts were not of long duration. The tornado forced its way
in the rear of the upper stories of my building, and with impetuosity
unequaled forged through the apartments against the front wall. This wall
popped out and fell to the pavement below, upon those standing there,
burying them in the debris. The front is entirely gone, as you see. Mr.
Harlow and the little boy Carl Rice, were close up to the front door, and

only a small portion of the wall struck them. Taylor and the negro were out
on the pavement further, and they fared worse. Taylor’s leg was broken at
the ankle, and he was internally injured. The negro had a hole knocked in
his skull larger than a silver dollar, and was used up generally. Mr. Harlow
was bruised, but fortunately has no bones broken, and is not dangerously
hurt. The little boy’s head was pretty badly cut and bruised, but he is not in
a serious condition.”
Now, in all of these cases is noticeable the same peculiar feature of walls
falling outward, sometimes even against the wind: or of holes being burst in
walls, the bricks being

CORNER JEFFERSON AND TWELFTH STREETS, LOUISVILLE.

thrown so far that they could not be found, or distinguished from those of
other houses. This might seem inexplicable—that the windward walls often
fall outward. But it must be remembered that all storms with a wind system
blowing spirally upward and inward are characterized by low barometer,
signifying a diminution in atmospheric pressure at the storm center; and the
lower the barometer, the more violent the storm. Now, it is clear that if a
storm advance slowly, and be widely diffused, the air in the regions through
which it moves has time to accommodate itself gradually to the change, and
expanding slowly to equalize the pressure in all directions, its rarefaction is

not perceptible to the ordinary observer: and the denser air within a
dwelling expands so gradually that all the surplus can escape through
chinks and crevices, if the doors and windows be closed.
But the narrow-path tornado comes so rapidly as to produce little
atmospheric change beforehand; while directly at its center the barometer
may stand as much as two inches lower than in the surrounding region.
Now, a fall of two inches means, in round numbers, a lessening of pressure
of one pound to every square inch, or one hundred and forty-four pounds to
the square foot. As the air normally presses equally in all directions, the
passage of a storm of this sort may mean a sudden change from fifteen
pounds pressure to the inch on each side of a wall, to fifteen pounds on the
inside and fourteen only on the outside. When such a sudden change is
brought to bear on every square inch of the interior of a house, it necessarily
amounts to an explosion.
Suppose that in the case of the door which the men were unable to open,
that the pressure had been as great as one pound to the inch. Then an
ordinary seven-by-three door would be held in place by a force of a ton and
a half. This same power has been observed to burst the weather-boarding
from frame houses, leaving the frame and inner surfaces intact.
The reader will wonder why, in such cases, the windows do not burst
out, leaving the walls unhurt. This often occurs. But very great pressure
would evidently act just as does powder in a blast: the rock is rent ere the
tamping is torn out, though the latter has far less resistive power; while very
violent explosives do not even need any tamping in order to utilize their
force.
It would seem, then, that a house with open doors and windows has a
better chance of weathering a tornado, whether in respect to direct impact of
wind, or to the expansive force of air within, than a house which is shut up.
Here, again, quite a number of instances can be adduced of houses caught
suddenly thus by tornadoes and escaping unhurt, while houses upon either
side were demolished.
But that the direct force of the wind on the Louisville occasion was very
great is abundantly evidenced. Numerous are the apparently curious freaks
that were noticed. A city paper, four days after the storm, contained the
following:

“There are hundreds of the most interesting and miraculous incidents
connected with the tornado, showing the queerest sort of freaks of the wind.
A block of iron casting, weighing over one hundred and fifty pounds, was
blown into the second story of the Chesapeake, Ohio and Southern Railway
building, near the Union Depot. Nobody knows where it came from, and the
nearest building from which it could have come is nearly one hundred yards
away. Great sheets of tin roofing were dropped upon Dr. Barry’s farm near
Turner’s Station, forty miles from the city, on the Short Line. In the ruins of
a house on West Main street a clock was found clinging to the wall. It was a
large

ON NINTH STREET, LOUISVILLE.
s

office clock, but no one in the vicinity had ever seen it before, and no one
knows where it came from. It was badly broken, but the hands still pointed
to 8:20 P.M. A large slab of marble was found in a residence on West
Madison street which was never there before. It will weigh over one
hundred pounds. At Baird’s drug store on Market above Ninth, two bird
cages with the birds were blown in through the skylight. The cages were not
injured, and the birds are as full of song as ever. When the building
occupied by Brand & Bethel, the tobacco men of Green street, went to
pieces, a portion of the frame-work dropped through the roof of a little

cottage just east of the factory. It consisted of a heavy timber, to which were
mortised four upright pieces of timber. When this came through the cottage
the family were sitting around the table in the dining-room, and the four
uprights simply pinned them in but did not hurt them in the least. It was one
of the most wonderful escapes yet heard of.”
To the unexperienced reader some of these items seem almost
apocryphal. But when it is remembered that a tallow candle may be shot
through a deal board, or that an ox may be killed by a putty-ball fired from
a gun, or that a revolver loaded with water instead of ball is a deadly
weapon, it will not seem preposterous that a cage may be hurled through a
skylight without seriously discommoding the birds. The writer has seen soft
pine shingles driven endwise through oak boards an inch thick by a
Missouri tornado. Other similar cases might be given.
The carrying of objects to a distance depends as much on the upward
current as the horizontal motion. One of the simplest illustrations of the
inevitable spiral course that an upward or downward current pursues may
be seen in the ordinary wash-bowl with hole in the bottom. As soon as the
plug is drawn and the water commences to

RUINED TOBACCO WAREHOUSES.

pour out, it begins to assume a spiral course; and, long before the water is
out, there is a circular hole in the fluid, reaching to the bottom of the basin.
This last illustrates also that the air is rarest at the center of the storm.
Pouring liquids through a funnel will show the same spiral tendency. So an
object borne away by a tornado rises in curves much like those of a hawk or
eagle in flying.
Other peculiar feats of the wind were noticed. Some persons caught by
the storm, had no especial trouble in keeping on their feet; while others
were knocked about severely. One man was killed by having his throat cut
by a piece of flying glass. A frame house, standing near the corner of
Eighteenth and Maple, was shot full of holes by flying bricks from another
house a hundred yards away. A lady standing in the doorway was picked up
by the wind and hurled against a telegraph pole at a distance of sixty feet.
Another lady and her nephew, at the first shock rushed into the street. They
were caught up by the wind and hurled some distance against a fence. They
were found unconscious and both badly hurt.
A frame house on Sixteenth street looked as if it had suffered
bombardment. Holes were cut in the weather-boarding by planks evidently
driven through the air endwise, and pieces several feet long had penetrated
and stuck hard and fast.
The building of the Louisville City Railway at Twelfth and Jefferson
streets was scooped through the middle, while the ends were left standing.
This was, perhaps, due to the explosive force of the air within, which burst
out the weaker portions. In a building of any considerable length, the points
most easily overthrown by lateral pressure would naturally be found in the
middle portions of the longer walls.
At a stone-yard on Walnut, between Thirteenth and Fourteenth, the
immense iron “traveler,” with its locomotive—the whole weighing many
tons—mounted on an elevated track and used for transferring immense
blocks of stone from one side of the yard to the other, was blown into the
street and smashed to pieces, while close by, three small brick buildings and
one frame were left unharmed. Such cases show how the larger obstacles
cause the storm to somewhat overleap the smaller ones, producing the
“jumping” motion mentioned before. The narrow path of the storm may be
judged from the fact that no small portion of the good people of Louisville

were not aware of the ruinous tempest till they read of its deeds in the
morning papers.
The total damage done to property is estimated at $2,000,000. Much the
heaviest loss was among the great tobacco warehouses.
There has been some discussion as to whether any sort of buildings are
safe in a storm: but so long as the most violent tropical cyclones leave many
houses unhurt after a protracted gale, there is little fear that the walls of our
large buildings may not readily be made massive enough to withstand any
atmospheric storms.
The chief damage done to business houses was along Main, Jefferson
and Walnut streets; the damage to dwellings being greatest along Broadway.
The havoc on all the crossings in the limits of the tornado was remarkable.
It was observed that the buildings on the north sides of the streets
parallel to the river suffered most. These more nearly faced the advancing
storm, while the open street in front of them gave the wind an increased
advantage. This will be better comprehended if the reader will recollect that
the tornado of the northern hemisphere rotates in a direction contrary to the
hands of a watch. So in the case of one moving eastward or northeastward,
the wind on the front edge is blowing directly northward or northwestward.
So the current, slightly broken in passing through a block, regains its
strength somewhat in slanting across the next street, and assaults the next
block with renewed force.
Louisville, though the principal sufferer by the storm, was not the first.
The tornado formed some distance to the southwest of the city, and on its
devastating march toward Louisville mowed clean a wide swath through the
woods, and fell upon the beautiful suburb of Parkland. The Mayor’s two-
story brick residence parted with its roof at the first shock. The Mayor’s
wife was up-stairs in bed, ill of pneumonia. Her husband and another man
seized the bed and carried her into the yard. Scarcely was this accomplished
when the full force of the storm prostrated the building.
It may be noticed in this connection, that the most destructive wind is
never in the first shock, the parting gust being usually the most damaging.
Doubtless this is because the expansion of the atmosphere within the house
at the moment the center of calm passes over it weakens the building to
such an extent that the rear of the tornado, striking the house from the
opposite direction, readily overthrows it. No such peculiarity is observable

in a forest. The trees, containing no vast quantities of air, are usually felled
by the first stroke, if at all.
The track of the storm through Parkland was one-eighth of a mile wide.
From the rate at which it spread, it is clear it could be but short-lived.
Within its path, it was more destructive in Parkland than in Louisville. The
frame school-house was lifted from its foundation, carried a few feet away,
and then torn to fragments. The Daisy Line depot was totally demolished.
The Masonic Temple parted with its upper story. Thirteen houses in the
village were completely wrecked, and several others more or less damaged.
It will be remembered that in Louisville the upper stories suffered most: but
here the storm was fresh, and almost every building struck was razed to the
ground. The total damage was about $20,000.

VIEW AT JEFFERSONVILLE.

Passing through Louisville and crossing the river, the cyclone struck
Jeffersonville, on the Indiana side. Here, upwards of eighty houses were
seriously damaged, and quite a number totally destroyed. Two days later,

the press gave the loss at $500,000—probably a great exaggeration, as the
particulars given did not tally at all with the general statement. Singularly
enough, not a life was lost, and only one or two persons were materially
injured.

CORNER WALL AND FRONT STREETS, JEFFERSONVILLE.

The damage was mostly to roofs and top-stories, and the people were
doubtless indoors and below. This, however, does not account for the
deliverance of a number of persons in buildings which were completely
destroyed. Possibly some of these may be accounted for by sudden
explosions of buildings, such as has been noticed heretofore. The fragments
would be much more apt to injure persons just outside than those within.
The largely increased percentage of damage done to roofs and upper stories
only shows how rapidly the storm was weakening. It could not go very
much farther with its devastation. The old Orphans’ Home was wrecked;
one old lady injured; a pastor’s house demolished, while two men in the
upper story in some mysterious way escaped unhurt. At the foot of Front
street, a shanty occupied by a man with wife and three children was lifted
bodily and thrown into the river. The family would have been drowned had
not some car-works employes rescued them, at the peril of their own lives.
A number of guests, and some who came for shelter, were in a house at the
corner of First and Spring streets. The shock of the tornado was followed by

a hail of bricks and tumbling walls, but no one of the entire assembly was
seriously hurt.

WRECK AT JEFFERSONVILLE.

The average American worships no god but Mammon. He may go to
church and bow his head to Jehovah, but it is Mammon who keeps his
heart. Between his devout amens he is thinking of the main chance. He can
be converted and made religious; it is a great deal harder to make him
honest. He is willing to sing the praises of the Lord, but he doesn’t like to
foot the bills. Amid the sorrow and bereavement of a stricken city, the
American was true to himself. Those who had lost house and friends, were
asked to pay ten dollars for a carriage in which to follow the corpse to the
grave. As about thirty victims of the storm were buried on Sunday, it may
be inferred that the carriages in each procession were none too numerous. A
sad sight was that of the four laundry girls, and the chamber-maid, all being

borne together to their long home. Hardly less impressive was the burial at
half-hour intervals of ten members of the I. O. O. F., killed in Falls City
Hall. It was a profitable day for undertakers.
Nor did the officers of the Louisville and Southern Railroad forget their
interests. They had for some time been desirous of regaining possession of
their property controlled by the Monon Route. This they did in the
confusion, dismay and darkness, immediately following the storm.
The writer does not wish to do any injustice to his people. Such items
present but one side of the American’s character. He is a strange mixture of
grasping greed and warm-hearted generosity. The latter is an inborn trait;
the former in-drilled. We live in a rushing age. We are no more in a hurry
about being rich than we are about a score of other things. Haste is a
national characteristic.
Further, our people are brought up with peculiar ideas of success in life.
Everything is reduced to a basis of cold cash. A man may be learned,
talented, industrious; but all these things are counted for naught if he is not
also wealthy. So our young people are brought up to think that money-
making is the one business of life; and as a result the business world is full
of those who resort to sharp practice and questionable methods, merely
because they have been taught to subordinate honor and equity to gain-
getting. Yet, the warm sympathies and native generosity of our people are
continually coming to the front, in a way that, in view of the other traits, is
sometimes amusingly inconsistent. Men who will haggle almost

LOUISVILLE TORNADO—CORNER TENTH AND MAIN STREETS.

about the price of a pin, or make their living by wild or fraudulent
speculation; nay, even professional gamblers, or worse characters, are
prompt in responding to the wail of a distressed city or state. After all, we
are brethren. Yet, our good and bad qualities are so thoroughly mingled that
we must continually rob Peter to pay Paul.
The American has another prominent trait—independence. He does not
accept aid, as such, when he feels he can do without it: nor does he wait for
demands of help, when he hears of great misfortunes that have befallen his
fellow countrymen. Leigh Hunt once asked a very ragged and forlorn
Irishman, “Why don’t you ask for alms?” “Alms, is it? Sure and isn’t it
begging I am with every bone of my body?” The average American is
generally quick to recognize a case that speaks for itself. To Louisville, in
the hour of her calamity, came tenders of help from many quarters, and
these offers would have been greatly multiplied, had not the citizens
declined the proffered assistance. They felt that the resources of the city
were equal to the necessity. They were grateful, but self-reliant.

CHAPTER VII.

OTHER TORNADOES.

“From the dark earth impervious vapors rise,
Increase the darkness and involve the skies.
At once the rushing winds, with roaring sound,
Burst from th’ Æolian caves and rend the ground;
With equal rage their airy quarrel try,
And win by turns the kingdom of the sky.
But with a thicker night black Auster shrouds
The heavens, and drives on heaps the rolling clouds,
From whose dark womb a rattling tempest pours,
Which the cold north congeals to haily showers.
From pole to pole the thunder roars aloud,
And broken lightnings flash from every cloud.
Now smokes with showers the misty mountain ground,
And floated fields lie undistinguished ’round.
Where late was dust, now rapid torrents play—
Rush through the mounds, and bear the dams away.
Old limbs of trees, from crackling forests torn,
Are whirled in air, and on the winds are borne.”

casual glance at the papers during the last days of March would have
satisfied any one that the storm which passed over the country was
anything but insignificant. So far, we have given only the story of a
single neighborhood; while a score of others suffered more or less. A brief
account of some of these will be of interest, and will give us a far better
idea of the character of great storms and tornadoes.
The farthest point west touched by a tornado on that memorable day was
a strip near the line between Missouri and Kansas, some fifty or sixty miles
south of Kansas City. Here, a small tornado made its appearance about five
o’clock in the afternoon, demolishing some fences and

LOOKING WEST FROM TENTH AND MAIN, LOUISVILLE.

barns, and breaking down a few trees: but, so far as known, no one was
hurt. Meanwhile, the main storm had passed eastward much earlier in the
afternoon.
Shortly after the storm reached St. Louis, violent cyclonic movements
were excited in southeast Missouri, upwards of a hundred miles away. At 3
P.M. the little town of Bloomsdale was struck, and five houses were instantly
prostrated. The occupants of four of them were, at the time, in the Catholic
church, and the family who occupied the fifth escaped unhurt. Two sides of
their house were blown away; while one side was blown inward, and would
have crushed them but for chairs and tables which sustained its weight. The
church suffered the loss of its steeple, and was otherwise damaged. A stable
containing seven horses was blown away, and not one of the horses was
injured.
A cloud gathered, and a cyclone seemed to form at, or over, Charleston.
It followed the Cairo branch of the Iron Mountain Road eastward. Four
miles from Charleston it struck the flag-station known as Hough’s, having
on the way demolished one or two farm-houses, and made havoc of the
forest. The little hamlet of Hough’s was razed from the earth, not a house
being left intact. One dwelling was blown two hundred feet across the
railway track and smashed. The owner, his wife and son were killed, and
another son was badly injured. The three-year-old baby was taken up

unharmed. Another family lived near by in a log house. It was blown away,
and they were left sitting on the floor, wondering.
Such a case as this is by no means rare. It is one of the many freaks of
the wind not easily understood. In the great cyclone of forty or fifty miles in
diameter, the wind comes in gusts or waves, and such effects might be
readily understood; but in the case of the tornado, of at most but a few
Hundred yards in diameter, its passage is too rapid for those in its path to
learn definitely whether it be uniform or not.
Other peculiar feats were noticed at Hough’s. A girl seventeen years old
was blown one hundred and fifty yards into a pond, but was rescued in time
to save her from drowning; and it is said that a man and woman were blown
across a sixty-acre wheat field, and picked up insensible. The further
statement that the bark was peeled clean from the trees, though seemingly
most incredible of all, is very probably true; for the writer has a vivid
recollection of precisely the same phenomenon on the theater of the
Marshfield cyclone in southwest Missouri. In that instance the bark was
peeled from hundreds of hickory saplings, almost from the roots to their
topmost twigs. This effect was inconceivable from any cause that could be
thought of. It was done by missiles flying through the air, or the trees were
bent over and threshed against the ground, or there was some unknown
force prevalent in the storm, similar, perhaps, to that which shatters the bark
or body of a thunder-smitten oak. To an observer on the ground the first two
suppositions seemed to be excluded. Is this peculiar power of the tornado to
be sought, like that of Keely’s Motor, in some occult force?
From Hough’s Station the tornado may have bounded above the tree-
tops and descended again a few miles further on at Bird’s Point, opposite to
Cairo, Illinois. Anyhow, a tornado struck the former place at 4:35 P.M. It was
first seen above the trees, it showed a yellowish cast, and had the usual
funnel shape. About three hundred yards from the town it came to the
ground and commenced its work of destruction. Eight or ten houses were
blown to pieces, or badly damaged; a roof was carried two hundred feet into
the air; a yearling calf was thrown forty

VIEW IN THE RESIDENCE DISTRICT, LOUISVILLE.

feet into a big ditch filled with, water, and—nobody was hurt.
At Cape Girardeau, on the Mississippi, fifty miles above Bird’s Point,
there was a tremendous hail, which broke thousands of windows, and a gale
lasting far into the night, with damage to timber, fences, and buildings.
Illinois suffered far worse than Missouri. The southern part of the state
fared badly; and the further south, the worse. The storm which struck St.
Louis at 3 P.M., was, a few minutes later, giving the Illinois towns on the
other side a lively experience. Edwardsville, O’Fallon and Centerville
received a heavy gale. At Coulterville, buildings, barns, and orchards
suffered severely, and several persons were injured. Sparta was struck about
3:15 P.M. From the second story of the public school building, observers
watched the approach of the storm. Two black clouds from opposite
quarters of the heavens came together, as by attraction, and mingled with a
rotary motion. The tornado passed within a mile of the town on the
northeast, and mowed a swath through the heavy timber. No such rain, hail
and wind, mingled with fire, had ever been seen before. Many barns were
destroyed; several houses were blown to pieces; three or four persons were
seriously hurt. A traveling man was whisked out of his buggy by the wind,
carried some distance, and sustained severe injuries; the horses were thrown
down, and the buggy was completely wrecked.
At Grand Tower, on the Mississippi, forty miles above Cape Girardeau,
there was a terrific tornado at 4:30 P.M. It came from the west, and swept
houses, trees, trains—everything, in its course. Its track is described as one

of “extreme desolation.” Four or five persons, at least, were killed, and as
many injured. Twenty-seven dwelling-houses were completely demolished,
and a great many others unroofed, or otherwise damaged.
At Murphysboro, Illinois, many windows were broken by the great hail;
while there came an unverified report of fifteen or more persons killed
about Shiloh, and to the north of Campbell Hill. South of Murphysboro,
several houses were blown down; two children were killed.
At Centralia, two and one-fourth inches of rain fell in twenty minutes,
changing later into snow. Farm buildings west of town suffered
considerable damage.
At Carbondale, the dreaded funnel appeared, and two blocks of houses
were unroofed.
Five miles southwest of Xenia, many out-buildings were blown down
and several houses destroyed. A school-house on the prairie was blown
away, and one of the sills carried nearly a quarter of a mile.
In the southern part of Union county, seven miles southwest of Anna, a
tornado swept a track about half a mile wide and four miles long, over the
richest farms, destroying stock, orchards, forests and houses. One or two
persons were fatally hurt. At Mt. Pleasant, twelve miles east of Anna, there
was extensive destruction of property.
At Braidwood, a number of houses and out-buildings were blown away;
trees were torn up, several persons severely injured, and two or three
children are said to have “disappeared.” The writer remembers an instance
that occurred some years ago, when a fourteen-year-old boy was carried
five miles and dropped into a stream: but such a case does not occur in this
country once in many years. One of the freaks told of the wind at
Braidwood is, that it rolled a man in the road and whisked a watch out of
his pocket. It does not appear that any funnel-shaped cloud was seen here.
At Cairo, out of a fleet of shanty-boats, thirteen were destroyed, and an
old cripple was drowned.
The storm struck Nashville (Ill.) at 4 P.M. The rain,

RUINED DWELLINGS.

changing to furious hail, fell so fast that one could scarcely see ten feet. The
wind blew with terrific force. The Prohibition Tabernacle and a two-story
brick cooper shop went down. Beginning six miles southeast on Little
Prairie, the damage was fearful, and ranged through a sweep, to the
northeast, of twenty miles. Not less than thirty houses were destroyed, and
twice that number badly damaged. Of numerous casualties, one or two will
illustrate the force of the wind at this place: One family of seven were
sitting in their house as the storm drew near. Two of the little girls
becoming frightened, ran out, when the wind caught them up, carried them
across a field a quarter of a mile wide, and dropped them uninjured, save
from violent pelting of the hail. As the remaining members of the family
were in the act of forsaking the house, it fell, and all were more or less hurt.
This case would seem to indicate a lack of uniformity in the strength of
the wind; it being powerful enough at one point to carry away children,
while the house, only a few feet away at most, was still standing. One or
two other cases of persons being carried a considerable distance were
reported from Nashville.
All such instances show the powerful upward current of the tornado; for
wind of greater horizontal velocity is often observed, which produces no
such effects. To the uplifting force must be in some degree attributed the
fact that in many cases only roofs or upper stories are damaged. This same
force is responsible for not a few showers of objects that do not pertain to
the upper air: such as the occasionally reported showers of fish and frogs.

A tornado swept up Bay Bottom in Pope county, accompanied by “rain
and hail in floods and volleys.” A partial report shows a school-house
dashed against a bluff a hundred feet away and reduced to kindling-wood. A
number of residences were destroyed, and several persons were killed.
In all the cases hitherto noted, the tornado, when seen, is reported as
about one-eighth of a mile wide. The next one on the list, while powerful, is
much smaller.
The southwest part of Olney was devastated by a cyclone at 5:35 P.M. Its
track was about a hundred yards wide and a mile long. It shattered or
destroyed the homes of, perhaps, five hundred people. Strange to relate,
only two or three persons were badly hurt. John Bourrell was voted the
wisest man. His house was blown to atoms; but he and his wife were safe in
their “cyclone cellar,” and absorbing much comfort from a $600 cyclone
policy on their building.
But the climax of ruin for Illinois was reached at Metropolis, a town of
4,000 people, situated on the Ohio River, thirty-eight miles above Cairo,
and eleven miles below Paducah. A greenish tinge of the approaching cloud
was the only unusual portent. “Suddenly there came from the southwest a
rolling, apparently born of the union of two clouds, which met in mid-air,
and in a moment swooped down into the Ohio river, now at flood-tide, and
on lifting, there followed it a column of water, estimated all the way from
fifty to two hundred feet in height.” This curious phenomenon swept
onward, striking the river front like the hammer of a Cyclop. In an instant,
down went a large number of buildings, including principal business
houses, and the finest residences of the city. A few persons were seriously
hurt, and two or three were killed. Of course, there were wonderful escapes.
One gentleman had a numerous array of little children; the house was swept
from over the family, and not a soul was hurt. In the country the devastation
was even more appalling. Residences, out-buildings, churches, even grave-
stones were wiped from the face of the earth.
A relief committee was organized. In their dispatch of two days later,
addressed to the St. Louis Republic newspaper, and praying for help, they
say: “Hundreds of homes, the result of a life of labor, have been swept away
in less time than it takes to record it. All kinds of property have been
destroyed. The damage is estimated at over $200,000.”

PATH OF TORNADO—OLNEY, ILL.

Such is a partial list of the more important casualties of the great storm.
Space is lacking to give detail to all the minor visitations and incidents.
Such storms only attract the attention of the public when some thickly-
settled region is visited. Numerous hamlets and small towns might be
named, of which nothing but the bare fact that a tornado passed through is
recorded. The rural districts are, of course, far more frequently swept; but
the narrowness and short path of the tornado preclude its doing much
damage among them.
Now, we have noticed a dozen different localities, all experiencing much
the same sort of storms. The unthinking person might deem all this
devastation the work of a single storm. Such is the case: but a distinction
must be made between the storm itself, and the tornadoes produced by it.
That there were various tornadoes entirely distinct, or independent of each
other, the reader may clearly perceive, by examining the foregoing pages. It
will be noticed that in several cases the tornado was seen to form near the
spot devastated; and further may be noted the hours at which the
whirlwinds appeared. For instance, the one which passed near
Shawneetown, Missouri, came later than most of those in Illinois; yet all

moved toward the northeast. A brief review of the main storm will be of
interest, and show how the various tornadoes were produced.
It has already been stated that the storm originated somewhere about the
southwest corner of Wyoming. Here, as early as Wednesday morning, the
Signal Service observed an area of very low barometer. It moved rapidly
eastward, with a trend toward the south, passing in the vicinity of Denver,
Kansas City, and St. Louis, thence northeast through the central part of
Indiana to Lake Erie. The central path of the storm was a violent and
progressive movement of the air, doing in its passage trifling damage in
some localities. The cyclonic movements which did the principal mischief,
were all to the south of the storm center, and were local and violent motions
of the air about an axis, while yet there was a progressive movement from
southwest to northeast.
Now, these lesser whirlwinds are produced in exactly the same way as
the great cyclones of many miles in diameter, which we have already seen
do not originate on land often, because of the irregularities of surface that
hinder. But the local currents of wind, in meeting, produce the whirling
motion. Compare with the moving of a current of water. Every river forms
eddies along the bank, which move a short distance down and toward the
main current, and then break up. Consider the great area of low barometer
moving eastward, and it will be seen that the local tornadoes, suddenly
forming and moving but a few miles, are simply eddies on its edge. It is
easy to watch these produced on a small scale; for nature’s principles are
the same in small and great: when we have mastered the atom, we have
mastered the whole object.

SCENE AT OLNEY, ILL.

Let one observe a great fire in a forest or prairie. On the outskirts of
newly burned areas, when the air has been rarefied by heat, may be seen
sudden and violent movements about a point, as though there was a spirit in
the wind. In a moment it has lifted the ashes and scorched

WHIRLWIND FROM BURNT PRAIRIE.

stalks, and whatever light matters were in its way, and circling, perhaps,
wider and stronger for a time, has borne them onward and upward toward
the heavens, where at length its force was dissipated, and it mingled with
the surrounding air. Similar movements were excited along the southern
limits of the storm area, which we are describing; and hence, not one
cyclone, but more properly speaking, a multitude of little cyclones—
tornadoes independent of each other, but dependent on the main current, or
great eastward traveling storm center—swept through points in Illinois,
Missouri, Tennessee and Kentucky; all rushing toward the line of the lowest
barometrical depression, the actual and advancing storm center. Not since
the Signal Service had been established had the barometer at St. Louis stood
so low as 28.46, which, reduced to sea-level, means 29.08. Toward this
region of rarefied air—this partial vacuum—the cyclonic movements from
the south rushed with inconceivable fury, and as the nucleus of the storm
was rapidly moving eastward, the cyclonic movements were turned from a
north to a northeast course. All these varied movements simply result from
the effort of a disturbed atmosphere to restore an equilibrium.
The illustration of the fire used above also affords a good example of the
way rotation may result from rising air. Any one who has watched a great

fire in calm weather knows that sparks and smoke do not rise straight up,
but in spirals and whirls, the warmer centers rising faster, just as the middle
of a stream flows faster than the edge.
But the powerful winds and the damage done were not all the work of
the marginal whirlwinds. A storm center moving so rapidly must necessarily
have carried a steady high wind. Leaving Wyoming, by Wednesday evening
the storm was in the middle of Colorado; on Wednesday night, it moved
well into Kansas; on Thursday, it crossed States of Missouri and Illinois,
and Thursday night it was passing over Indiana.
The climax of energy was apparently not attained until the storm reached
Illinois. In Missouri, more or less damage was done to fences and buildings,
from Sedalia to St. Louis. At the former place, a roof or two was blown off,
and the teachers in one of the schools were so alarmed that they dismissed
the children. Jefferson City, sixty miles further on, made a record of
damaged roofs and shattered windows. At St. Louis, there was a deluge of
rain at three o’clock in the afternoon, lasting a half hour; and the wind blew
with fury during the evening and greater part of the night. It drove in and
smashed some plate-glass windows, blew off an occasional roof, and from
the top of the corner of St. Patrick’s School, hurled to the sidewalk a stone
weighing, probably, four hundred pounds.
The story of the Louisville tornado serves to well illustrate all the
peculiar features of the local whirlwinds produced by great storms. They
seldom travel more than thirty miles; usually much less. Sometimes as large
as two miles in diameter, they seldom exceed five hundred yards; and one
of but fifty yards in diameter may be powerful enough to wreck a house.
Often it is possible to trace the path of a tornado through the forest a
century or more after its passage; for the reason that trees once destroyed
are usually replaced by different varieties. But the tornado usually
originates in the open country, though after its formation it may sweep
through heavy timber.

TORNADO FOLLOWED BY RAIN STORM.

So far as loss of life is concerned, the tornado is much more to be feared
than lightning. About two thousand people have been killed in this country
within ten years by these rotary storms. Yet, all over the land, people put up
rods that are expensive, and often worse than useless, as a precaution
against lightning, when a small “cyclone cellar” could be dug that would be
far more useful, and less expensive. While intense electrical displays
accompany the tornado, there is no authentic record of lightning striking
during one; and as will be seen in another place, the amount of electricity
present seems to be rather an effect than a cause: for rapid motion of gases
may be made to produce powerful electric currents.
While the tornado is justly feared in this country, yet, as a destructive
agent, it is far surpassed by a number of

Instantaneous View of a Tornado.

others whose ravages are less dreaded. It would be comparatively easy to
show, we think, that more persons have been killed in one way or another
by railways in ten years past than by tornadoes.
The one that has been so carefully examined must not be considered as
the worst our country has known. An examination of records of the past
century will show a number that were more destructive to life and property.
Doubtless, an account of some of these would interest the reader. Place is
given to a few.
The tornado has been observed, to some extent, in this country for more
than a century: but only when our central states were well peopled did it
attract very great attention. It is not common in the eastern states, and but
one has ever been recorded west of Dodge City, Kansas. It is not unknown
in Europe, though far less common than with us, having been noticed a few
times in France. In general, it is so rare that a tornado that passed through
Monville in 1845 attracted such attention as to be noticed in French text-
books on physics. To the American, there is nothing unusual in the conduct
of this storm.
Perhaps the earliest detail of a storm of this sort among us is that of a
double one in South Carolina, on the afternoon of May 2, 1761:
“The tornado crossed the Ashley River and swooped down upon the
shipping at Rebellion Wharf with such fury as to threaten the destruction of

the entire fleet. From the city, it was seen coming at first rapidly toward
Wappo Creek, like a column of smoke, with a very irregular and tumultuous
movement. The quantity of vapor which composed this column, and its
prodigious velocity, produced such intense commotion that it agitated
Ashley River to its depths and left the channel bare. The ebb and flow made
the shipping float off to a great distance. When it struck the river, it made a
noise like continuous thunder; its diameter, at that moment, was estimated
at fifteen hundred feet, and its height, as seen at Charleston,

TORNADO AT MONVILLE.

at twenty-five degrees. It was met at White Point by another whirlwind,
which descended Cooper River, but was not equal to the first. When they
came together, the commotion in the air was much greater still; the foam
and the vapor seemed to be thrown to the height of forty degrees, while the
clouds that hurried from all directions toward that point seemed to rush
thither and whirl about at one and the same time, with incredible velocity.
The meteor then darted on the shipping in the roadstead, and reached them
in three minutes, although the distance was nearly six miles. Out of forty-
five vessels, five were sunk on the spot; the state ship, Dolphin, and eleven
others were dismasted. The damage, estimated at more than £200,000, was
done in a moment, and even the vessels that sank were swallowed up so

rapidly that the people who were below had scarcely time to scramble up on
deck. The whirlwind of Cooper River changed the course of the one that
came from Wappo Creek, which, had it not been for that, would, proceeding
in the same direction, have swept away the city of Charleston before it like
so much straw.
“This terrible column was first perceived about noon, at more than fifty
miles southwest of the roads. It destroyed everything in its way, making a
complete avenue when it passed through the woods. The loss of the five
ships was so sudden that it is not known whether it was the weight of the
column of wind, or the mass of water driven upon them that made them go
down.”
The tornado occasionally originates at sea and whirls up a heavy column
of water for a few feet, which, meeting the dark funnel from above, presents
the appearance of a pillar of water reaching the clouds. Not a few ignorant
people once imagined that all rain originated from the water thus sucked up.
These columns, or “water-spouts,” are generally a few feet in diameter, and
may sometimes be broken by firing a cannon-ball through them. They are
not ordinarily considered dangerous: but there are some exceptions, and it is
not improbable that many a ship that left port, never to be heard of again,
has been overwhelmed by some gigantic water-spout.
Of the most destructive tornadoes in the United States, Mississippi
records the two leading ones. The first came on May 7, 1840, and Natchez
was the principal sufferer, though other portions of Adams county were
swept. The day began warm and cloudy, with the wind south, veering to
east. At 2:15 P.M., the sky became a lurid yellow; the storm striking the river
six or seven miles below the city, did not reach it until 2 P.M. The rush of the
wind did not last five minutes, and the destructive blast only a few seconds.
Houses were burst outward; three hundred and seventeen persons were
killed in the city and on the river. Sheet tin was carried twenty miles, and
windows thirty miles. One hundred and nine persons were badly injured,
and property to the value of $1,260,000 destroyed. Most of the deaths
resulted from drowning; two steamers and sixty flatboats were sunk, while
the city was flooded with nine inches of rain. Enormous hail-stones fell. A
desk fastened with three locks, was blown open by the explosive force of
the expanding air within. Another curious freak of this expansive power
occurred in a tornado at New Brunswick. A towel hanging on the wall was
found apparently blown nearly through it. The expanding air had driven the

towel in a large crevice which opened in the wall behind it; and the crevice
closed as the storm passed on, holding the towel to puzzle the
neighborhood.
The next great tornado visited Natchez, June 16, 1842, and killed five
hundred people.
Next to these, in destruction of life, is the famous

WATER-SPOUT AT SEA.

Marshfield tornado of April, 1880, in which one hundred and one
persons were killed, and six hundred injured. The town of Marshfield was
literally wiped off the earth. This tornado is notable for its unusually wide
path, and the large area traversed. Four counties were swept; and though the
country was sparsely settled and comparatively little improved, yet the
damage to property was estimated at more than $1,000,000. Gen. Greely, of
the Signal Service, pronounces it one of the most remarkable in the history
of the United States. It formed at the junction of two streams, a few miles
southwest of Marshfield; and, like the South Carolina tornado of 1761,
owed its immense power to the union of two lesser storms that had traveled
down the valleys of the respective streams. Such a tornado passing over a
great city would equal the earthquake in disastrous effects. Perhaps a better
idea of its power may be gathered from a comparison with the New Haven

storm of 1878, which killed but thirty-four people and destroyed $2,000,000
worth of property—as much as the recent storm at Louisville. The
remarkable feature about every tornado—the very small destruction of life
—may be better understood when it is stated that, excluding the two
Natchez tornadoes, where the number of houses wrecked is not known, and
the Louisville storm, the twenty most destructive tornadoes in the United
States have killed six hundred and thirteen people, and destroyed over three
thousand houses. This brings us to the peculiar fact that but one person is
killed in every five houses. As the average house may be counted as
containing four persons, it appears that the chances that any single
individual in a wrecked house will not be killed, are nineteen to one. While
the mathematical calculation may be encouraging, yet few will care to take
the risk of a tornado, even though the odds be vastly in their favor. People
place little dependence in arithmetic as a life preserver. The recent
Louisville storm presents a high average, as about fifty of the victims were
taken from a single building. The lowest average is shown by the tornado
that struck Camden, New Jersey, August 3d, 1885, when five hundred
houses were destroyed, and but six persons killed: one for every eighty-
three houses. In general, there seems to be a prevalence of a one to ten rate:
but a storm in a city usually vastly increases the death rate by reason of the
number of brick houses, which, when wrecked, fall much more compactly
than frame buildings.

MINNESOTA TORNADO, FORMING LATERAL SPURS.

The greatest destruction of property has been in Ohio, where the
aggregate now amounts to about $9,000,000. Next is Minnesota with
$7,000,000, and Missouri and Mississippi with about $4,000,000 each.
Missouri is first in respect to loss of life, and Mississippi next. The months
most liable to tornadoes are May, April, June, and July, in order; and the
time of day the hottest; that is, from 3 to 5 P.M.
These data suffice to show the peculiar acts of the tornado in our land.
There is one case of a great storm attended by tornadoes on its southeast
border, that is even more noteworthy than the great one so minutely detailed
in the preceding pages. A storm center passing over a wider region, on
February 9, 1884, produced, after ten o’clock that day, over sixty tornadoes
in Mississippi, Alabama, Georgia, South Carolina, Kentucky and Tennessee,
and North Carolina. Over ten thousand buildings were destroyed, eight
hundred people killed, and twenty-five hundred wounded. The damage
done by any single one was small, while the aggregate was fearful.
The tornado is occasionally seen in Europe: but in the few instances
recorded, it has been much smaller, and moved much slower than the same
sort of storm in America, though quite as powerful within the territory
traversed. One that was very formidable, was observed near Boulogne, in
1822. It moved about irregularly for an hour, tearing holes in the ground,
snapping off trees, and twisting down houses; yet, it was not twenty-five

feet in diameter. Another one in 1872, swept through a little town in Italy,
and was so powerful as to twist iron balcony railings together like so many
skeins of thread. Several persons were killed.
In some portions of the Sahara and of Arabia, very numerous small
whirlwinds accompany desert storms, whirling up the fine sand in dense
columns, presenting the appearance of clouds in a region where clouds are
unknown. So many writhing columns, swaying like dancing serpents,
present a peculiarly terrifying aspect to the superstitious Arab, who has only
too good reason to fear them. Strange tales of their destructiveness are rife.
It is said that the army of Cambyses was overwhelmed by one of these
desert storms. This story must, however, be taken “with a grain of salt.” But
there is no doubt that a sand storm is quite as dangerous as a Dakota
blizzard.

SAND SPOUTS IN THE DESERT.

In tropical regions the tornado or “land-spout,” as many Europeans call
it, gives place to the great cyclone. Still, it appears occasionally. One which
swept the suburbs of Calcutta, in 1838, was but a few yards in diameter; but
in its march of sixteen miles, it killed two hundred and fifteen persons,
wounded two hundred and thirty-three, and destroyed one thousand two
hundred and forty-five houses: thus displaying quite as great power as any

tornado observed in our own land. The speed of rotation was so great that a
bamboo cane was driven through a mud wall five feet thick, faced on both
sides with brick; as great penetrative power as is usually given to a six-
pound cannon-ball.

CHAPTER VIII.

TROPICAL CYCLONES.

“The Storm is on his way!
With a lightning sword and a thunder shout,
And his robe on the night-wind floating out,
The Storm is on his way!

The Storm is on his way!
He smites, and the death-swept valleys groan,
The ocean writhes, and the forests moan,—
The Storm is on his way!”

HE preceding pages show only the destructive power of the small
tornadoes of our land. We are fortunate in that the great cyclone is,
comparatively, a rare visitor among us. A moment’s consideration of
this ravager, as he appears in the tropics, will show how trifling are the
storms that have swept over our own land. A few examples will convince
the most skeptical.
Of the great cyclones which have traversed our country in recent times,
we may mention the hurricane of October 21-24, 1878. Gen. Greeley says:
“It first damaged buildings and sank vessels at Havana. It entered the
United States near Wilmington, N. C., and moving due north, passed over
Washington and eastern Pennsylvania, after which it curved eastward, and
crossing New England, left the coast near Portland, Maine. In Philadelphia,
over seven hundred substantial buildings were totally destroyed, or
seriously damaged, bridges injured, twenty-two vessels sunk, several
persons injured, and eight killed, entailing a loss variously estimated from
one to two millions of dollars. Other loss of life and great damage by
freshets and winds occurred elsewhere in Pennsylvania. A large number of
steamers, ships and coasting vessels were dismantled, wrecked or sunk
along the New Jersey, Virginia and North Carolina coasts, entailing loss of
life and enormous pecuniary damage. The wind reached seventy-two miles
per hour at Philadelphia, and eighty-eight along the coast.” Another cyclone
the next year ruined one hundred large vessels and two hundred yachts and

smacks. Another, in 1881, destroyed four hundred persons along the
Carolina coasts, and damaged property to the extent of $1,600,000.
But these are exceeded by the great Nova Scotia cyclone of 1873. The
property damage alone is estimated at nearly $5,000,000. The Signal
Service report says that “one thousand and thirty-two ships, of which four
hundred and thirty-five were small fishing schooners, are known to have
been destroyed during the 24th and 25th of August, in the neighborhood of
the Gulf of St. Lawrence and the Atlantic shores of Nova Scotia, Cape
Breton and New Foundland. On the other hand, over one hundred and
ninety vessels were destroyed by this hurricane in its passage over the
ocean before it reached Nova Scotia, making a grand total of at least one
thousand two hundred and twenty-three vessels destroyed within a few days
by its power. Two hundred and twenty-three lives are definitely reported to
be lost, and the moderate estimate of the numerous cases in which whole
crews have been lost swells this number to nearly five hundred; and if to
this is added the loss of life on land, and the loss in the earlier history of the
cyclone, the grand total amounts to at least six hundred lives.”
Had the famed Shah Jehan ever visited the West Indies, it is probable
that he might have pronounced many of its lovely islets fit rivals for that
beautiful creation of his fancy, which bore above the gateway:
“If there be Paradise upon the earth,
This it is, this it is, this it is.”

Among the loveliest groups are the beautiful Virgin Isles, and loveliest
of these is the famed island of St. Thomas. A lofty mountain girdles the
island, leaving an opening between two hills into a wide oval harbor, while
the pretty little town lies around the inner side of the port, sloping up the
mountain behind, the queen of a vast natural amphitheater. Such a fine
harbor has rendered St. Thomas almost the mistress of West Indian
commerce; and one would not suspect, in looking at the sunny slopes and
green-clad ranges around the azure harbor, that in this region is the
birthplace of the Storm King. Yet, not a spot on earth has been more
frequently visited by great cyclones.
One of the most notable of its visitations during this century occurred
August 2, 1837. The barometer fell rapidly during the forenoon, and by
noon the storm began. In a short time it increased to a tremendous gale. At

about three o’clock, the wind suddenly ceased. In a few moments it blew
from the other direction, roaring and rolling black clouds before it, raising
up immense sea-waves, covering the island with intense gloom. Six hours it
blew, ever increasing. Tiles and slates whizzed through the air, to be
shattered on the rocks or driven into timbers: great trees were whirled
about, often dashing away houses that seemed about to weather the storm,
while the terrible roar of the wind was such that even the crash of the
thunder could hardly be distinguished. One authority tells us that the great
guns at the fort were blown through the air and tossed about the beach like
chaff! This must be taken with allowance. It is more probable that the great
guns on the beach were washed up from the wrecks of some old pirate
vessels or ships of war.
About 10 P.M. there was a slight cessation of the storm, and the people
were congratulating themselves that the worst was over, when there came a
violent earthquake, which laid in ruins almost everything that was left. The
wreck took fire in two or three places: at once the hurricane began with
renewed vigor: and ere the wretched people had fully comprehended the
magnitude of the calamity, the whole ruined town was a sea of flame.
Buffeted by the wind, blinded by the smoke and the pelting spray whirled
up from the raging sea, the people ran for the slopes of the hills: the light of
the funeral pyre of their hopes and labors rendering the gloom more
horrible, and seeming to rival the gleams of Tartarus.
Day broke at last. The storm was gone. The earthquake staggered the
miserable folk no longer. The warm and brilliant sun of the West Indies
smiled upon the scene. “The whole country round was strewn with large
trees, uprooted or snapped off, and all plantations were destroyed. In the
town the fire was dying out, and it was only here and there that the ruins
were still smoking. The hurricane had swept away nearly all the wooden
houses; those which had been lightly placed upon beams, just above the
soil, being carried off as they stood, while the larger ones, which had
resisted the hurricane, were overturned in an instant by the earthquake. The
whole town was strewn with wrecks that told of the violence of the
catastrophe. The port, so gay and animated the day before, was dreary and
deserted, a few masts here and there emerging from the water: while all
along the shore, and even upon the slope of the hills, were scattered
wreckage and corpses of sailors.”
While we have noticed only the destruction wrought at

CYCLONE, FIRE AND EARTHQUAKE AT ST.
THOMAS.

St. Thomas, this storm was general throughout the Antilles. In the
Bahamas, it was less violent, they lying on the outskirts of the storm.
Millions of dollars worth of property—merchandise, vegetation, houses,
and vessels—were destroyed, and thousands of lives lost.
Thirty years later, St. Thomas again suffered from the combined forces
of storm and earthquake; and the damage was greater, because the
earthquake, with its sea-wave, came a few days after the storm, as the work
of restoration was well under way, and so involved a second prostration of
the resources of the people. Moreover, the town had grown considerably in
thirty years, and there was much more valuable property to damage. Fifteen
large steamers and many smaller vessels were driven on the shore by the
storm: while the sea-wave, a few days later, found the port again filled with
vessels of different nations. It overleaped the sentinel hills at the entrance of

the bay, and swept with tremendous force upon the city, drowning with its
terrible roar, the despairing cry of the sailors; then suddenly retired with the
wreck of the city to its dark abyss. The batteries of heavy guns at the
entrance of the harbor were swept away. A few injured vessels wallowed on
the waves, but most had been swallowed up and left no trace behind.
While there is always deep sympathy for those who suffer such
calamities, yet it must remain of the type bestowed upon sufferers in Arctic
expeditions. The character of the climate is well known, and the whole
matter resolves itself into a question of the risk one is willing to run. There
is no blind chance in control of these movements. The cyclone frequents
only certain regions, and its habit and power is understood. While we pity
the sufferers, we can not assert that the scourge is mysterious or
unaccountable, any more than we find mystery in the fact of eternal snow in
the Polar world.

“DROWNING, WITH ITS TERRIBLE ROAR, THE
DESPAIRING CRY OF THE SAILORS.”

But there have been storms in the West Indies far more destructive than
either of these, or both together. One of the most noted of the century is the
famous Barbadoes storm of 1831, which an eye-witness thus describes:
“On the morning of the 10th of August, the sun arose without a cloud; at
10 A.M. a breeze that had been blowing, died away; towards 2 P.M. the heat
became oppressive; at 5 P.M. thick clouds appeared in the north, rain fell,
and was succeeded by a sudden stillness and a dismal blackness all around
except towards the zenith, where there was an obscure circle of imperfect
light. Till 10:30 P.M., however, there was no sign of change; then lightning
appeared in the north, and very unusual fluctuations of the thermometer
were observed. All this time the storm was only approaching.
“After midnight the continued flashing of the lightning was awfully
grand, and a gale blew fiercely from the north and northeast, but at 1 A.M.,
on the 11th of August, the tempestuous rage of the wind increased as the
storm suddenly shifted and burst from the northwest and immediate points.
The upper regions were illuminated by incessant lightning, but the
quivering sheet of blaze was surpassed in brilliancy by the darts of electric
fire which exploded in every direction. At a little after 2 A.M. the astounding
roar of the hurricane can not be described by language.
“About three o’clock the wind abated and the lightning ceased for a few
moments at a time, when the blackness in which the town was enveloped
was inexpressibly awful. Fiery meteors were presently seen falling from the
heavens; one in particular of a globular form and a deep-red hue, was
observed by the writer to descend perpendicularly from a vast height. On
approaching the earth it assumed a dazzling whiteness and an elongated
form, and on reaching the ground splashed around in the same manner as
melted metal would have done, and was instantly extinct.” (It is evident that
the coincidence on this occasion with the day on which the earth is known
to pass through the August belt of meteors, rendered the effect of this great
storm at Barbadoes more striking. It is not safe to assert that there was any
relation between the phenomena.) “A few minutes after, the deafening noise
of the wind sank to a solemn murmur, or rather a distant roar; and the
lightning which from midnight had flashed and darted forkedly with but
few momentary intermissions, now for nearly half a minute played
frightfully between the clouds and the earth with novel and surprising

action. The vast body of vapor appeared to touch the houses, and issued
downward flaming blazes, which were nimbly returned from the earth
upward.
“The moment after this singular alteration of lightning the hurricane
again burst forth from the western points with violence prodigious beyond
description, hurling before it thousands of missiles, the fragments of every
unsheltered structure of human art. The strongest houses were caused to
vibrate from their foundations, and the surface of the very earth trembled as
the destroyer raged over it. No thunder was at any time distinctly heard. The
horrible roar and yelling of the wind; the noise of the ocean, whose frightful
waves threatened the town with the destruction of all that the other elements
might spare; the clattering of tiles, the falling of floors, and walls, and the
combination of a thousand other sounds, formed a hideous and appalling
din.
“About 5 A.M. the storm abated; at six o’clock the wind was at south, at
seven o’clock, southeast, at eight o’clock, east-southeast; and at nine
o’clock, the weather was clear.
“The view from the summit of the cathedral tower, a few hours later, was
frightfully grand. The whole face of the country was laid waste; no sign of
vegetation was apparent, except here and there small patches of sickly
green. The surface of the ground appeared as if fire had run through the
land, scorching and burning up the productions of the earth. The few
remaining trees, stripped of their boughs and foliage, wore a cold and
wintry aspect; and the numerous seats in the environs of Bridgetown,
formerly concealed among thick groves, were now exposed and in ruins.”
One peculiarity noticeable, was that in some places trees, timbers, and
many other objects, presented a scorched appearance, as though subjected
to intense heat. The reason of this is not clear, as unusual heat was not
perceptible after the beginning of the storm by any one. It may be that this
was produced by unusual quantities of electricity escaping through
imperfect conductors, for we learn, from other phenomena, that during this
storm there was an unusual state of electrical tension in the atmosphere.
Sparks occasionally leaped from the heads of persons out of doors. Vast
numbers of trees that were not blown down, speedily died: and it has been
suggested that an excess of electricity killed them.

The total loss in this storm is not definitely known. Some further idea of
its fearful violence may be gathered from the fact that at the north end of
Barbadoes, the waves broke over a cliff seventy feet high, and the saltwater
spray was carried inland in such quantities as to kill all the fresh-water fish
in ponds far in the interior. As for the tremendous roar of the wind, the
commanding officer of the thirty-sixth regiment sought protection by
getting under the arch of a lower window outside his house. He did not hear
the roof and upper story of the house fall, and only found it out by the dust
caused by the fall.
Far more destructive was the great hurricane of 1780.

HURRICANE IN THE TROPICS.

The French and English were at war. Admiral George Rodney was in the
West Indies with an English fleet in several divisions. The French had sent a
convoy of five thousand troops to Martinique. The storm was of immense
width, extending from Trinidad, on the extreme southwest, to Antigua. The
evening of October 9th was red and lowering. By ten o’clock next morning,
the wind was high, and by one o’clock, vessels in the harbors were dragging
their anchors. The water was driven on shore with such force at Barbadoes,
that it was four feet deep in the Government House. The family took refuge
under the cannon, only to find that they were moved about by the wind. By
morning not a building in town was standing; every tree was either blown
away, or stripped of branches and leaves.
The sunny islands were suddenly become as bleak and bare as a Siberian
steppe.
As to the loss, ten thousand perished at Martinique; six thousand at Santa
Lucia; four thousand five hundred at St. Eustatia; three thousand five
hundred at Barbadoes. Scores of smaller islands were devastated, but the
loss in detail is not known. Of the British fleet, the greater part was
destroyed; only one vessel out of nineteen at St. Eustatia survived. A score
of other ships of war and numerous transports were sunk. Of the French
convoy, with five thousand troops, the governor wrote laconically that it

“had disappeared.” Several English vessels at Barbadoes were carried far in
shore and converted into dwellings. Doubtless, fifty thousand would hardly
be too great an estimate of the total loss of life in this storm. In a similar
one in 1813, the hurricane drove back the Gulf Stream, piling up the water
thirty feet deep in the Gulf of Mexico. The ship Ledbury Snow, endeavored
to ride out the storm, and when it was over, found herself high and dry. She
had let go her anchor among the tree-tops of Elliot’s Key. The Barbadoes
region suffered another severe gale in 1782, when the prizes captured by
Admiral Rodney were sunk, a number of merchant vessels and two English
war-ships foundered, and three thousand lives were lost at sea alone.
The temperate zone has its occasional hurricanes, though they are by no
means as powerful or as frequent as those of the tropics. It is stated that in
the year 944, one thousand five hundred houses were destroyed by a
tempest in London. In the year 1090, it is recorded that a violent storm
overturned six hundred and six houses in London alone.
Terrible as is the destruction of the cyclone in the western world, its fury
here can not give a fair idea of the awful havoc it makes in Oriental regions.
All through the Malay archipelago, along the coasts of China, Japan, the
Phillipines, Hindostan, and Farther India, the ravages of the Storm King
have been appalling, far exceeding even the terrible hurricanes of the West
Indies.
Hindostan affords peculiar facilities for destructiveness of cyclones.
Both its great rivers flow, for the latter part of their course, through low
alluvial plains, and their deltas extend into the ocean directly toward the
region of monsoons; so that a hurricane may send a great tidal wave up the
river: while the low rich plains for miles around are but few feet above tide-
water, and teem with a population attracted by the amazing fertility. So a
sudden great storm may totally submerge, without any warning, hundreds of
square miles of these fertile tracts, with all their inhabitants. Even when the
sea-wave is not added to the horrors of the storm, the losses are fearful. A
cyclone at Calcutta in 1867, destroyed thirty thousand houses, wrecked or
sunk six hundred ships and smaller vessels in the river, and killed ten
thousand persons in the city alone. When to this is added the havoc
committed by the storm—one hundred miles wide—in the rural districts, as
it traveled on toward the foot-hills, it is clear that every reader may be
devoutly thankful that such terrible visitants are altogether unknown in our
land.

Terrible as this storm was, there was a greater one on the 5th of October,
1864. About one hundred ships were lost; and over sixty thousand persons
perished; forty-three thousand in Calcutta alone. It was accompanied by a
“bore” on the Hooghly, the water rising thirty feet, which is ten feet higher
than the highest spring tides; whole towns were nearly destroyed. It
indicated its approach for several days, and Capt. Watson, of the Clarence,
seeing the barometer falling, knew a cyclone was approaching, and saved
his ship by steering out of its range.
Compare this with the storms of our own land, that thrill the country
with horror if but one hundred people are killed, and remember that the
cyclone of India destroyed six hundred lives where one was destroyed in
this region. Compare with the most terrible storms recorded in the West
Indies, and the latter must yield.
Coringa, on the Coromandel coast, has been several times desolated by
these terrible storm waves. In December, 1789, three immense rollers came
ashore during a single storm; the town was destroyed; the neighboring
country inundated. Ships were torn from their anchorage and thrown high
on the land: twenty thousand people were lost; and the heaps of sand and
mud rendered search for bodies and property useless.
In May, 1833, the region at the mouth of the Hooghly was inundated by
a cyclone. Three hundred villages and fifty thousand people were destroyed.
In June, 1822, Burisal and Backergunge, at the mouth of the Ganges, were
overwhelmed, and fifty thousand persons drowned.
But Hindostan has far greater horrors to report. A terrible flood in 1887
was driven by the cyclone over the Ganges delta. The victims numbered
many thousands: exact figures not at hand. But in 1876, a cyclone swept the
Backergunge district, and rolled in a storm wave over the eastern edge of
the fertile delta, covering it with from ten to fifty feet of water. When the
storm had subsided, it was found that more than one hundred thousand
people had perished!
Finally, a great cyclone in 1737, October 11-12, swept the Ganges delta
with a wave thirty feet deep on the land. Three hundred thousand people
perished in this storm! The mind can not grasp the appalling magnitude of
such a disaster.
These cases are the most destructive cyclones on record, and in each
case the destruction is due largely to the character of the region traversed,

though the winds of Bengal are not surpassed in violence by those of any
country in the world. Were the harbor an open seaport, instead of a large
river, no ship could live through such a storm.
Other regions in the east suffer much from tempests. The whole Malay
archipelago, with the Moluccas and Philippines, are visited quite as
frequently as the coasts of Hindostan. A cyclone that swept the Philippine
Islands, November 6, 1885, destroyed ten thousand people, and millions of
dollars worth of property.
The same character of storms is frequently met with in the Japan and
China seas, where it is known as the “typhoon,” our Anglicised spelling of
the Chinese title, “tei-fun.” With one example of the power of this storm,
this chapter must close. In the narrative of Commander Hall, of the British
Navy, is found this description of a typhoon that occurred at Hong Kong,
July 21-22, 1841:
“For days previously large black clouds appeared to

COAST OF INDIA SUBMERGED BY A STORM.

settle on the hills on either side; the atmosphere was extremely sultry and
oppressive, and the most vivid lightning shot incessantly along the dense
threatening clouds, and looked more brilliant, because the phenomena were
most remarkable at night; while during the day, the threatening appearances
were moderated considerably, and sometimes almost entirely disappeared.
The vibrations of the mercury in the barometer were constant and rapid, and
though it occasionally rose, still the improvement was only temporary; a
storm was therefore confidently predicted. Between seven and eight o’clock
in the morning, the wind was blowing very hard from the northward, or
directly upon the shores of Hong Kong, and continued to increase in heavy
squalls hour after hour. Ships were beginning to drive, and the work of
destruction had commenced on every side; the Chinese junks and boats
were blown about in all directions, and one of them was seen to founder
with all hands on board. The fine basin of Hong Kong was gradually
covered with scattered wrecks of the war of elements; planks, spars, broken
boats, and human beings clinging hopelessly for succor to every treacherous

log, were tossed about on every side; the wind howled and tore everything
away before it, literally sweeping the face of the waters. From half-past ten
to half-past two the hurricane was at its highest, the barometer at this time
having descended to 28.50. The air was filled with spray and salt, so that it
was impossible to see anything that was not close at hand; the wind roared
and howled fearfully, so that it was impossible to hear a word that was said.
Ships were now drifting foul of each other in all directions, masts were
being cut away, and from the strength of the wind forcing the sea high upon
the shore, several ships were driven high and dry. The Chinese were all
distracted, imploring their gods in vain for help; such an awful scene of
destruction and ruin is rarely witnessed, and almost every one was so busy
in thinking of his own safety, as to be unable to render assistance to any one
else. Hundreds of Chinese were drowned, and occasionally a whole family,
children and all, floated past the ships, clinging in apparent apathy (perhaps
under the influence of opium) to the last remnants of their shattered boats,
which soon tumbled to pieces and left them to their fate. On the 26th
another typhoon occurred, but not so severe as the first.”
The storm at sea presents a class of peculiar dangers and a variety of
thrilling experiences, such as the landsman never knows. The stories of
great shipwrecks and other purely naval disasters form some of the most
interesting narratives in history: and doubtless the reader will be pleased to
notice in detail the perils of the deep, and to learn of the precautions taken
and the means in common use for averting, as far as possible, the disastrous
results of the tempest. Certainly, the brave tars who peril their lives on the
ocean to bring us the luxuries of a foreign land deserve especial attention,
and no apology need be given for devoting a portion of this volume to the
story of their perils and daring.

CHAPTER IX.

PERILS OF THE SEA.

“Daughter, the night was made for sleep;
Why dost thou moan, why dost thou weep?
Wherefore thy mournful vigil keep?
Daughter, daughter, my daughter!”

“Mother, to me the night wind cries.
Cold on the sands thy lover lies,
With none to close his glazed eyes;
Nello, Nello, my Nello!”

HE Storm at Sea! From the days of David to the present, the poet and
the novelist have taxed their energies to portray the perils of those
who go down into the deep in ships. The ravages of the hurricane on
shore are confined largely to those portions of the world unknown to the
ancients; but the treacherous deep has been sung in every age. We may
hardly choose which of the myriad wrecks to describe. St. Paul’s perilous
voyage to Rome is familiar wherever the gospel is preached; Jonah has
furnished a comparison for the unlucky for centuries; Virgil has sung of the
perils of exiled Æneas in his search for a foreign home.
The sea has dangers peculiarly its own, and likewise charms possessed
by nothing else in nature. Every one may have heard of the little earnest
woman who at her first sight of the ocean sighed: “Ah—at last here is
something there is enough of!” The sailor knows the ocean’s every mood,
and may sing with Barry Cornwall:

“HE SINKS INTO THY DEPTHS, WITH BUBBLING GROAN,
WITHOUT A GRAVE, UNKNELLED, UNCOFFINED, AND UNKNOWN.”

“I love, oh, how I love to ride,
On the fierce, foaming, bursting
When every mad wave drowns the moon,
Or whistles aloft his tempest tune,
And tells how goeth the world below,
And why the sou’west blasts do blow!”

Or if his mind be better adapted for homelier ditties, he may hum:
“The wind it blew a hurricane, the sea was mountains rollin’,
When Barney Buntlin’ turned his quid, and said to Billy Bowlin’:
‘A strong sou’wester’s blowin’, Billy; don’t you hear it roar now?
How I pity all unhappy folks as lives upon the shore now!’ ”

Or if becalmed, and forced for days to lie beneath a scorching tropical
sun,

“As idly as a painted ship
Upon a painted ocean,”

the inevitable dreariness of the wide waste of scarcely heaving water will
oppress the mind till the sailor may murmur:
“So lonely ’twas that God himself
Scarce seemed there to be.”

It is beyond dispute that the sea has been one of the most important
factors in civilizations ancient and modern. Greece was no longer supreme
in power when her naval supremacy was gone; Rome was not mistress of
the world till she became mistress of the Mediterranean. Not a single great
system of civilization has originated in districts far inland. The great centers
—Greece, Rome, Asia Minor, Egypt, Spain, England—all that have wielded
unusual power—are sea-coasts, peninsulas or islands. The Jew became
prominent as a trader from the day Jewish vessels sailed from Tarshish. To
some extent, these facts must be considered as results of position only,
however powerful the tendencies or traits of any particular stock.
It is not merely as a highway for commerce and ready
intercommunication that the seas have enriched mankind. The submarine
world presents views as strange and weirdly beautiful as the ancient myths
of nymphs and naiads.
“Deep in the wave lies a coral grove,
Where the purple mullet and goldfish rove;
Where the seaflower spreads its leaves of blue,
That never were wet with falling dew;
But in bright and changeful beauty, shine
Far down in the green and glassy brine.”

And thousands of the human race depend entirely upon the products of
the sea for a livelihood. The fish taken as food would be an enormous item
in any year: but the billows that surge over the deep conceal far more
treasure than these.
“Full many a gem of purest ray serene,
The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear.”

All our pearls, nearly all our amber, sponges, and as beautiful and
delicate as spun glass, corals of infinite number and variety—all these, and

more, we must obtain from the depths of the sea. Yet, while eagerness for
gain leads men to brave countless perils to obtain these treasures, thousands
of sad hearts will deem them dearly bought, and recall the more precious
treasures of the deep.
“Yet more! the billows and the depths have more!
High hearts and brave are gathered to thy breast!
They hear not now the booming waters roar;
The battle thunders will not break their rest.
Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave!
Give back the true and brave!

“Give back the lost and lovely! those for whom
The place was kept at board and hearth so long,
The prayer went up through midnight’s breathless gloom,
And the vain yearning woke ’midst festive song!
Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers or throne—
But all is not thine own.

“To thee the love of woman hath gone down;
Dark flow the tides o’er manhood’s noble head,
Or youth’s bright locks, and beauty’s flowery crown;
Yet must thou hear a voice—Restore the dead!
Earth shall reclaim her precious things from thee!
Restore the dead, thou sea!”

CAST ASHORE.

Like the atmosphere, the ocean has its great constant currents, which
play an important part in the economy of nature. These flow steadily on,
one beneath another, and are little affected by atmospheric disturbances.
The presence of submarine currents is often shown by icebergs moving
steadily onward against a surface current and moderate wind. But there is
nothing in the sea, so far as known, that corresponds to the variable winds
or local currents of the atmosphere: for as water is so much heavier than air,
its equilibrium is not so easily disturbed by unusual heating: and moreover,
it does not expand under the influence of heat to an extent in the least
approaching the expansion of the air. Hence, its currents are steady and
slow-moving, and, however much they affect climate and winds by the
heating or cooling of the air above them, they offer no obstacle worthy of
note to the sailor. The latter must then fear only the power of the storm: and
were submarine vessels readily constructed and navigated, the storm would
lose its terrors: for
“When the wrathful spirit of storms,
Has made the top of the wave his own,
And when the ship from his fury flies,
When the myriad voices of ocean roar,
When the wind-god frowns in the murky skies,
And demons are waiting the wreck on shore,
Then far below in the peaceful sea,
The purple mullet and goldfish rove,
Where the waters murmur tranquilly,
Through the bending twigs of the coral grove.”

It should be said, however, that the sea and storm are not responsible for
all the disasters at sea. For years the greatest losses of life and property
were due to the greed of conscienceless owners, who sent rotten tubs to sea,
fearfully overloaded and heavily insured, certain to make a good profit
whether they perished or no. As for the sailors, they were not worth
considering: there were plenty to be obtained. Human life is the cheapest
commodity in any market. By a liberal spending of this currency men
become Alexanders or Cæsars, or Sullas, or Marii: henceforth they are
“Great.”
These abuses were especially prevalent in England, the greatest of
maritime powers; nor were they corrected till Mr. Samuel Plimsoll, in 1870,
began a series of earnest efforts to have a systematic inspection organized.
He made a startling arraignment of the atrocious methods of the land-

sharks. He wrote, in 1873, “No means are neglected by Parliament to
provide for the safety of life ashore; and yet, as I said before, you may build
a ship in any way you please, you may use timber utterly unfit, you may use
it in quantity utterly inadequate, but no one has any authority to interfere
with you.
“You may even buy an old ship two hundred and fifty tons burden by
auction for £50, sold to be broken up, because extremely old and rotten; she
had a narrow escape on her last voyage, and had suffered so severely that
she was quite unfit to go to sea again without more being spent in repairs
upon her than she would be worth when done. Instead of breaking up this
old ship, bought for 4s. per ton (the cost of a new ship being from £10 to
£14 per ton), as was expected, you may give her a coat of paint—she is too
rotten for caulking—and to the dismay of her late owners, you may prepare
to send her to sea. You may be remonstrated with, in the strongest terms,
against doing so, even to being told that if you persist, and the men are lost,
you deserve to be tried for manslaughter.
“You may engage men in another port, and they, having signed articles
without seeing the ship, you may send them to the port where the ship lies
in the custody of a mariner. You may then (after re-christening the ship,
which ought not to be allowed), if you have managed to insure her heavily,
load her until the main deck is within two feet of the water amidships, and
send her to sea. Nobody can prevent you. Nay, more, if the men become
riotous, you may arrest them without a magistrate’s warrant, and take them
to prison, and the magistrates, who have no choice (they have not to make,
but only to administer the law), will commit them to prison for twelve
weeks with hard labor; or better still for you, you may send a policeman on
board to overawe the mutineers, and induce them to do their duty! And
then, if the ship is lost with all hands, you will gain a large sum of money
and you will be asked no questions, as no inquiry will ever be held over
those unfortunate men, unless (which has only happened once, I think),
some member of the House asks for inquiry.
“The river policeman who in one case threatened a refractory crew with
imprisonment, and urged them to do their duty (!) told me afterwards (when
they were all drowned) that he and his colleagues at the river-side station
had spoken to each other about the ship being dreadfully overloaded as she
passed their station on the river, before he went on board to urge duty (!)

and that he then, when he saw me, ’rued badly that he had not locked ’em
up without talk, as then they wouldn’t have been drowned.’ ”
He also found that some ship-builders put together mere floating coffins,
using “devils,” or dummy bolts, or bolt-heads without any shaft, to present
the appearance of a staunchly built vessel. The old shell would founder in
the first strong breeze. Hundreds of examples came in his way of entire
crews lost in these hulks. What such losses meant to the poor dependent
families at home we may imagine, but may not readily portray.
Another prolific source of disaster was the neglect to supply captains
with the proper charts. There are notable instances of great vessels so lost.
One ship and cargo, value $350,000, was lost near Boulogne, because the
captain’s chart had not the lights properly marked on it.
The great steamer Deutschland, having a large number

WRECK OF THE MINOTAUR.

of German emigrants on board, ran on an unmarked shoal near the mouth of
the Thames, December 30, 1875, and was lost. The vessel was fourteen
hours on the shoal in the winter storm, ere her signals of distress were
perceived. Fifty-seven of her passengers had been lost in the heavy sea ere
help reached her.

Ship after ship has left her port, never to be heard of again, whose crews
might have still been in peace and comfort with their families, had the
owners had the least trace of humanity, or regard for simple justice. A single
example will illustrate.
In a hovel, Plimsoll found a young wife, scrubbing for a living, trying to
support herself and three children. “She had a loving husband but very
lately, but the owner of the ship on which he served, the S——n, was a very
needy man, who insured her for £3,000 more than she had cost him. So if
she sank he would gain all this. Well, one voyage she was loaded under the
owner’s personal superintendence; she was loaded so deeply that the
dockmaster pointed her out to a friend as she left the dock, and said
emphatically, ‘That ship will never reach her destination.’ She never did, for
she was lost with all hands—twenty men and boys.”
Under the owner’s personal superintendence! Could cool calculating
villany go any further? Yet this is but one out of many scores!
Yet, despite the apparent frequency of complaints from those who
suffered most by these practices, the abuses had grown up so gradually that
the masses of the people had come to accept them as almost a necessary
concomitant of naval matters. While holding out stoutly for the difference
of a penny more or less in wages, there was no effort at concerted action for
better treatment. Men accustomed to risking their lives daily came to look
upon the matter as of no great consequence. Only the worst possible vessels
were very seriously objected to; and these usually had little difficulty in
obtaining crews of men long out of employment, who would accept any risk
rather than remain a burden to their friends and families, however the latter
might object to the proceeding. So thousands went to a watery grave.
Official records of the period showed that one-half the losses at sea were
the result of sending out rotten hulks. Yet, when reforms were suggested,
the promoters were frequently told that if such things did not properly
regulate themselves as a matter of political economy, there was no use
striving for a change. Cool weighing of human life against gold!
Even in staunch ships the accommodations provided for the sailors were
of the meanest sort. Men might wade to their bunks through water, or be
packed in a filthy forecastle like herrings; they were fed on “salt horse” and
moldy biscuit; they might rot with scurvy—if the ship got to port with her
cargo, it made little difference how the crew fared.

Our own ships and the Russian and French vessels the investigator found
far superior in treatment of the sailor: and the majority of English owners
did well by their crews; but Plimsoll’s efforts induced great improvement.
Compulsory survey and no overloading were his main remedies for the
prevention of the terrible loss of life in the mercantile marine. He cites two
cases of great firms—the first engaged in the coal carrying, and the second
in the guano trade—who do not permit overloading, and the first, in fifteen
years had not, out of a large fleet of steamers, lost a single vessel, although
they made from fifty to seventy double trips per year. The second case
deserves particular mention. About the year 1860, the firm of Anthony
Gibbs & Co., of London, took a contract from the Peruvian Government to
charter and load ships from the Chincha Islands with guano, and as many as
three or four hundred ships left those islands annually for different parts of
the world. At first they were allowed to load and proceed to sea without
inspection or surveying, and were permitted to load as deeply as the masters
thought fit. What was the result? Accidents and losses were reported every
few days, and many of their ships foundered at sea, some with all hands on
board. When the head of the house at Lima, Peru, introduced proper
surveying before loading, to discover what repairs were needed, etc.,
allowing no overloading, and not permitting the ships to go to sea without
full inspection of her pumps and gear, a sudden and wonderful change took
place, and for years after not one of these ships foundered at sea.
There is no sadder record than that which has been made of many a
gallant vessel, sailing with the best prospects—“Missing,” or “Never heard
of.” Occasionally the mysterious fate of some of these vessels has been
revealed by the picking up of sealed bottles containing brief records of the
disastrous end of the missing ships. But such cases are rare in comparison
with the vast majority of the disasters; for the greatest peril to a vessel in a
storm is the vicinity of a reef or shoal. In the open sea there is comparative
safety, even in a considerable gale, for good seamen; but a shoal or rocky
coast may be fatal to the vessel striking, even though the wind be but
moderate. So nearly all disasters occur along shore; and the time is past in
which it is possible for a vessel to be lost on an unknown or uninhabited
coast. Hence, soon or late, the lot of nearly every vessel is known.
Occasionally a vessel has been abandoned as unseaworthy or
unmanageable, and has surprised those abandoning her by drifting around

for months in the path of other vessels and occasionally fouling with some
of them, to their serious injury.

WRECKED ON A ROCK.

The polar seas present peculiar perils to the navigator. Almost every one
has heard of the ill-fated Franklin expedition, even though others may not
be familiar. The attempts to find a northwest passage have long ceased, it
being indisputable that it is useless though found. The great expeditions of
later years have been equipped purely from a scientific standpoint. No
conceivable benefit to commerce can result therefrom.
But the vast majority of fatalities in the polar seas have not been among
the great exploring expeditions, any more than the majority of disasters in
warmer climes are among first-class passenger steamers. The world over, it
is the coasting vessels, the fishing smacks, the second and third-class
freighters that swell the lists of losses at sea. And in the polar seas the most
numerous disasters are among the whaling and sealing vessels, which visit
the regions season after season. Many a vessel has been crushed like an
egg-shell amid the enormous masses of ice. Often a vessel seemingly
hopelessly imprisoned has been abandoned by the crew, only to be freed by

some caprice of the winds and picked up by some other crew. And again
there have been instances of vessels seen resting in masses of ice far above
the water, raised by continual tilting and piling of ice-cakes beneath.
Sometimes a vessel has floated about thus for a considerable period.
Comparatively speaking, losses of life have been small in proportion to the
dangers and property losses. Where so many vessels are in the same region
at a time, the crew of a crushed ship can generally reach another vessel
without great difficulty. But years ago, when the whaling fleet was smaller,
and steam had not been called to the seaman’s aid, the peril of life was
greater; and many is the vessel that sailed away never to be heard of again.
One of the best stories illustrating this class of dangers is that of the
whaleship Rufus. A whaling vessel in 1774 found an abandoned ship; and
on boarding her, found the crew scattered about in the postures assumed
when they first yielded to the fatal sleep. The tale, in verse worth

CASTAWAYS ON A RAFT.

remembering, but seldom or never seen, was told many years ago by an
unknown author. The distinctness and simplicity of the style render the
poem worth preserving, aside from the interest of the story.
THE SHIP RUFUS.

Sing not, my Muse, of brightening fields
Of ether, fair displayed,
Of whispering bowers, where Zephyr yields
His fragrance to the glade

But haste thee to the frozen throne,
The starry blue domain
Where Winter, monarch dread and lone,
Asserts his iron reign.

Now Europe’s northern cape recedes,
And Iceland’s utmost shore;
The sailor turns his face and heeds
Those viewless forms no more.

For mountains, distant yet, but bright,
Edging the arctic tide,
’Neath spiry flames of dancing light,
At masthead are descried.

For see! in glittering points, the coast
Divides; the mountain chain,
On waves afar in silence tossed,
Trembles athwart the main.

Anon, the mariner looks forth,
And scans with cheerless brow,—
Borne onward by the angry North,
An arctic navy now.

“How shall the good ship Rufus speed?
How live?” the master cried;—
“God send us help in time of need,"—
“Amen!” the crew replied.

Each ice-built crag and snowy cliff
Chases the foaming spray;
And, ’mid those moving Alps, the skiff
Must find her destined way.

Her destined way?—Her destined fate!
Now drops the needful gale;
The waves become a glassy plate;
The bark forbears to sail.

Prisoned of God; by mountains pent,—
Fuel and food consumed;—
Ask not of me the dire event,
Nor why they thus were doomed.
..........
Again, borne forth by waves and wind,

Men spread a venturous sail,
’Mid rocks of massy ice to find
The scarce less massy whale.

The optic tube now aids the eye,
And scans the distant sea:
A distant speck they now descry;
A speck—what can it be?

“What can it be?” inquire the men—
“An iceberg, or a sail?”
As yet the crew inquire in vain,
And doubt must yet prevail.

Yes, doubt prevails, and strengthens still,
Though fast the object nears.
“Sure ’tis no sail which at the will
Of winds and billows steers!”

Fancy still limns out forms uncouth,
Yet scarce herself persuades;
But fancy now gives place to truth
More startling than her shades.

A dreary hull, with shattered mast,
And sails of strangest guise,
And cordage fluttering in the blast,
Now meets their wondering eyes.

The bark they hail;—in many a groan
The bellowing shrouds reply;
But bellowing shrouds respond alone;—
No voice returns the cry.

Strange!—for, as near with curious haste
They ply, and glance within,
Lo! at the cabin window placed,
A form is dimly seen.

They mount the floating ruin now—
Her deck is overlaid
Man’s height in crusted ice and snow,
Which shows no human tread.

To find the hatch beneath the drift,
They all their efforts lend,—
Its frozen planks at length they lift,
And fearfully descend.

Now pause they at the cabin door;—
Now enter, as they will;—
Its quiet inmate, as before,

Sits unconcerned and still.

With pen in hand, and half reclined,
Like those in thoughtful moods;
To noises deaf, to visions blind,
He cares not who intrudes.

No!—for a filmy mold invests
His long untroubled brow;—
His eyeballs green sought not his guests,
Nor can he turn them now.

SINKING OF THE LONDON.

A crumbling page before him lay,
Which told the unspoken woe;—
“Our cabin fire went out to-day—
Food spent five days ago;—

“Locked in the ice three weeks,—our crew
All dead,—all hope is o’er;—
Ship Rufus—1762—
One hour, and I’m no more!”

Now horror on the souls sunk down—
On all who viewed the scene;
Twelve arctic winters then had flown,
Since this a corpse had been!

Twelve years on polar surges tossed,
By northern blasts conveyed—
Destroyed—preserved, by iron frost,
Her crew were statues made.

Perchance this fate-directed prow
Had crossed ’neath cloudless skies
The pole, which jealous Nature now
Shuts out from human eyes.

Perchance the dreamed of Northern Way
This guileless keel had plowed,
While billows with the helm did play,
And wild winds trimmed the shroud.

Say when, Stern Spirits of the North,
They found their watery grave?
Or do ye still in awful mirth,
Toss them from wave to wave?

CHAPTER X.

LIFE-SAVING MEASURES.

“ ‘O father, I hear the church-bells ring,
O say, what may it be?’
’Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast,’
And he steered for the open sea.

‘O father, I hear the sound of guns,
O say, what may it be?’
‘Some ship in distress that can not live
In such an angry sea.’

‘O father, I see a gleaming light,
O say, what may it be?’
But the father answered not a word,
For a frozen corpse was he.
..........
At daybreak, on the bleak sea beach,
A fisherman stood aghast,
To see the form of a maiden fair,
Lashed close to a drifting mast.

The salt sea was frozen on her breast,
The salt tears in her eyes.
And he saw her hair, like the brown seaweed,
On the billows fall and rise.”

NE of the most destructive storms on record, and certainly the most
terrible ever known on the whole English coast is the great storm of
1703. It is the only storm which has ever been made the subject of a
Parliamentary memorial. It raged for a week over nearly the whole of
England. Scores of vessels were driven on shore and perished. At Bristol,
the in-driven sea filled the merchants’ cellars, destroying sugar, tobacco,
and other produce, to the value of hundreds of thousands of dollars. Eighty
people were drowned in the river and adjacent

STORM ON THE SHOALS, 1703.

marshes; fifteen thousand sheep were drowned by the overflow or backing
up of the Severn. At London, the river was filled with vessels, the crews of
which were nearly all on shore. The storm tore them from their moorings,
and drove them into a bight on the opposite side of the stream. It was a
strange sight they presented after the storm. Defoe says that “there lay, by
the best account he could take, few less than seven hundred sail of ships,
some very great ones, between Shadwell and Limehouse inclusive; the
posture is not to be imagined but by them that saw it; some vessels lay
heeling off with the bow of another ship over her waist, and the stern of
another upon her forecastle; the boltsprits of some drove into the cabin
windows of others; some lay with their sterns tossed up so high that the tide
flowed into their forecastles before they could come to rights; some lay so
leaning upon others that the undermost vessels would sink before the other
could float; the number of masts, boltsprits and yards split and broke, the
staving the heads and sterns and carved work, the tearing and destruction of
rigging, and the squeezing of boats to pieces between the ships, is not to be
reckoned; but there was hardly a vessel to be seen that had not suffered
some damage or other in one or all of these articles.”
In the city itself, the streets were covered with tiles, slates, bricks, and
fallen chimneys. Common tiles rose to nearly six times their usual price.

Numbers of people were killed by crumbling roofs or falling houses. In
Gloucester, six hundred great trees were prostrated in a space of five acres.
The Bishop of Bath and Wells, and his wife, were among the more noted
dead. The total loss of life has been estimated at from eight to thirty
thousand. The former is Defoe’s, but as he only counts those of which he
obtained direct personal information, this estimate is certainly too low.
A single item of this storm will give some idea of the peculiar dangers
once incurred by shipwrecked sailors. Mr. Whymper writes, “The
townspeople of Deal, in particular, were blamed for their inhumanity in
leaving many to their fate who could have been rescued. Boatmen went off
to the sands for booty, some of whom would not listen to poor wretches
who might have been saved. Many unfortunate shipwrecked persons could
be seen, by the aid of glasses, walking on the Goodwin Sands in despairing
postures, knowing that they would, as Defoe puts it, ‘be washed into
another world’ at the reflux of the tide. The mayor of Deal, Mr. Thomas
Powell, asked the Custom House officers to take out their boats and
endeavor to save the lives of some of these unfortunates, but they utterly
refused. The mayor then offered, from his own pocket, five shillings a head
for all saved, and a number of fishermen and others volunteered, and
succeeded in bringing two hundred persons on shore, who would have been
lost in a half an hour afterwards. The Queen’s agent for sick and wounded
seamen would not furnish a penny for their lodging or food, and the good
mayor supplied all of them with what they required. Several died, and he
was compelled to bury all of them at his own expense; he furnished a large
number with money to pay their way to London. He received no thanks
from the Government of the day, but some long time after was reimbursed
the large sums he had expended.”
One not versed in the tales of the past might be astounded at such
inhumanity; yet the case cited is comparatively a mild one. People
acquainted with the history of pirates and buccaneers know that coasts
everywhere were once more or less infested with land-sharks, more
merciless than any shark of the deep, who enriched themselves by the
misfortunes of others: and drowning sailors would be disregarded in the
race for plunder. Yet this is but a shadow of the fearful tragedies often
enacted.
Picture a richly laden vessel, homeward bound, with scores of eager
anxious hearts on board, and other scores in port eagerly waiting them. The

captain smiles thoughtfully, as he murmurs, “We shall be at home to-
morrow!” The mother with child in arms repeats, as she thinks of the
waiting husband, “We shall be home to-morrow!” The bronzed wanderer,
returning after years of adventure, wonders if his boyhood’s home is
changed, as he thinks, “I shall be home to-morrow!”
There is but the faintest indication of storm. On shore, cruel, sinister
faces scan the sky and the distant ship as the twilight settles down, and
whisper together, and scowl as they recall past disappointments. They will
take care that they are not disappointed again. Their grizzled old leader will
see to that.
Night gathers apace. The storm bursts—the ship is far off shore, and in
safe quarters. It is time to act. “Now, in the pitchy darkness of the night,
with bowed head, and faltering steps battling against the storm, the old man
leads a white horse along the edge of the cliff. To the tip of the horse’s tail a
lantern is tied, and the light sways with the movement of the horse, and in
its movements seems not unlike the masthead light of a vessel rocked by the
motion of the sea. A whisper has gone through the village of a chance of
something happening during the night, and most of the men and many of
the women are on the alert, lurking in the caves beneath the cliff, or
sheltered behind jutting pieces of rock.
“The vessel makes in steadily for the land; the captain grows uneasy, and
fears running into danger; he will put the vessel round, and try and battle his
way out to sea.
“The look-out man reports a dim light ahead. What kind? and whither
away? He can make out that it is a ship’s light, for it is in motion. Yes, she
must be a vessel standing on in the same course as that which they are on.

ON A LEE SHORE.

It is all safe, then; the captain will stand in a little longer; when suddenly,
in the lull of the storm, a hoarse murmur is heard—surely the sound of the
sea beating upon rocks! Yes! look! a white gleam upon the water! Breakers
ahead! breakers ahead! Oh, a very knell of doom! The cry rings through the
ship, ‘Down, down with the helm—round her to!’ Too late, too late! A
crash, a shudder from stem to stern of the stout ship, the shriek of many
voices in their agony, green seas sweeping over the vessel, and soon broken
timbers, bales of cargo, and lifeless bodies scattered along the beach, while
the shattered remnant of the hull is torn still further to pieces with each
insweep of the mighty seas as they roll it to and fro among the rocks.
Fearful and crafty the smile that darkened the face of the willing murderer
who was leading the horse with the false light as he heard the crash of the
vessel and the shrieks of the drowning crew! Fearful the smile that
darkened the faces of the men and women waiting on the beach as they
came out from their places, ready to struggle and fight among themselves
for any spoil that might come ashore! A homeward-bound ship from the

Indies! Great good fortune—rich spoil! Bale after bale is seized upon by the
wreckers, and dragged high upon the beach out of the way of the surf. But,
see! a sailor clinging to a bit of broken mast! With his last conscious effort
he gains a footing on the shore, staggers forward, and falls. Is he alive? Not
now! Why did that fearful old woman kneel upon his chest and cover his
mouth with her cloak? Dead men tell no tales—claim no property!”
No fiction of the fancy, this! Only the last great day will ever reveal how
many souls have perished at the hands of those who should have succored
them. Think of a man and his wife reaching the shore after an exhausting
struggle; the man leaving his wife in a sheltered nook while he goes in
search of human habitations, and returning after a few moments to find his
wife, a plundered, naked corpse! And yet, such practices were tolerably
common, even within the range of a century past!
In striking contrast with the heartless wreckers are those known on the
British coast as “hovellers.” These put out to sea in stormy weather to
ascertain if vessels in the offing are in need of anything, or are otherwise
crippled: and many a ship have they saved from wreck by their timely aid.
It appears strange that, among a people so dependent upon the sea as the
English, no regularly organized methods of diminishing the losses by wreck
existed till within the present century. Yet such is the fact. A hundred years
ago, there was no boat that could safely venture in a heavy sea; and if,
perchance, some humane people wished to succor a vessel in distress, few
were the means and terrible the risks. The graphic pen of Dickens, in this
abridged narrative, will illustrate the case. The scene is Yarmouth, England:
“In the difficulty of hearing anything but wind and waves, and in the
crowd, and the unspeakable confusion, and my first breathless efforts to
stand against the weather, I was so confused that I looked out to sea for the
wreck, and saw nothing but the foaming heads of the great waves. A half-
dressed boatman, standing next me, pointed with his bare arm (a tattooed
arrow on it, pointing in the same direction) to the left. Then, O great
Heaven, I saw it, close in upon us!
“One mast was broken off short, six or eight feet from the deck, and lay
over the side, entangled in a maze of sail and rigging; and all that ruin, as
the ship rolled and beat—which she did without a moment’s pause, and
with a violence quite inconceivable—beat the side as if it would stave it in.
Some efforts were even then being made to cut this portion of the wreck

away; for, as the ship, which was broadside on, turned towards us in her
rolling, I plainly descried her people at work with axes, especially one
active figure with long curling hair, conspicuous among the rest.
“But a great cry, which was audible even above the wind

HOVELLERS RELIEVING A VESSEL.

and water, rose from the shore at this moment; the sea, sweeping over the
rolling wreck, made a clean breach, and carried men, spars, casks, planks,
bulwarks—heaps of such toys—into the boiling surge. The second mast
was yet standing, with the rags of a rent sail, and a wild confusion of broken
cordage flapping to and fro. The ship had struck once, the same boatman
hoarsely said in my ear, and then lifted in and struck again.
“As he spoke, there was another great cry of pity from the beach; four
men arose with the wreck out of the deep, clinging to the rigging of the
remaining mast; uppermost, the active figure with the curling hair. There
was a bell on board; and, as the ship rolled and dashed, like a desperate
creature driven mad, now showing us the whole sweep of her deck, as she
turned on her beam-ends towards the shore, now, nothing but her keel, as
she sprung wildly over and turned towards the sea, the bell rang; and its
sound, the knell of those unhappy men, was borne towards us on the wind.

“Again, we lost her, and again she rose. Two men were gone. The agony
on shore increased. Men groaned and clasped their hands, women shrieked
and turned away their faces. Some ran wildly up and down along the beach,
crying for help where no help could be. I found myself one of these,
frantically imploring a knot of sailors whom I knew, not to let those two lost
creatures perish before our eyes, when I noticed that some new sensation
moved the people on the beach, and saw them part, and Ham come breaking
through them to the front.
“I ran to him, held him back with both arms and implored the men with
whom I had been speaking not to listen to him, not to do murder, not to let
him stir from off that sand! Another cry arose on shore, and, looking to the
wreck, we saw the cruel sail, with blow on blow, beat off the lower of the
two men, and fly up in triumph round the active figure left alone upon the
mast.
“Against such a sight, and against such determination as that of the
calmly desperate man, I might as hopefully have entreated the wind. ‘Mas’r
Davy,’ he said, cheerily grasping me by both hands, ‘if my time is come, ’tis
come. If ’tain’t, I’ll bide it. Lord above bless you, and bless all! Mates,
make me ready! I’m a-going off!’
“I don’t know what I answered, or what they rejoined; but I saw a hurry
on the beach, and men running with ropes from a capstan that was there,
and penetrating into a circle of figures that hid him from me. Then I saw
him standing alone, in a seaman’s frock and trousers, a rope in his hand, or
slung to his wrist; another round his body, and several of the best men,
holding, at a little distance, to the latter, which he laid out himself, slack
upon the shore, at his feet.
“Ham watched the sea, standing alone, with the silence of suspended
breath behind him, and the storm before, until there was a great retiring
wave, when, with a backward glance at those who held the rope which was
made fast round his body, he dashed in after it, and, in a moment was
buffeting with the water. Now, he made for the wreck, rising with the hills,
falling with the valleys, lost beneath the rugged foam, borne in towards the
shore, borne on towards the ship, striving hard and valiantly.
“The distance was nothing, but the power of the sea and wind made the
strife deadly. At length, he neared the wreck. He was so near that with one
more of his vigorous strokes he would be clinging to it—when a high,

green, vast hill-side of water, moving on, shoreward, from beyond the ship,
he seemed to leap up into it with a mighty bound, and the ship was gone!
“On running to the spot where they were hauling in,

THE LIFE-BOAT.

I saw some eddying fragments in the sea, as if a mere cask had been
broken. Consternation was in every face. They drew him to my very feet—
insensible—dead—beaten to death by the great wave; and his generous
heart was stilled forever.”
Such things weighed heavily upon the humanely disposed; and when a
century ago Mr. Greathead, who had a great heart, stood at Newcastle-on-
Tyne, and saw man after man drop from a great wreck into a raging sea
without the possibility of rescue, he set himself to work upon the problem
of the life-boat. Noticing that the half of a circular wooden bowl invariably
turned concave side upward, when thrown in the water, it occurred to him at
once that a boat with a curved instead of straight keel would always right
itself. Wouldhave, at the same time was advocating padding the boat
heavily with cork: and the first life-boat was constructed from these ideas.
A year or two later, a minister in the Orkneys suggested that all boats could
be made self-righting by fixing an empty water-tight cask in either end. So
the idea of air-chambers developed: and later the curved keel was made of

iron, to aid in ballasting the craft: so that the modern life-boat, with curved
iron keel, cork padding, air chambers, and tubes to permit water to flow out,
cannot be sunk, or made to float bottom up. The men may sometimes be
washed out of it, or a side stove in, but the boat will always be found right
side up.
Strange as it may appear, though the first life-boat, with its crudities,
saved hundreds of lives within a few years, the Government took no steps
to institute a general system or life-saving service. To the average
American, this seems striking; but governments a century ago were more
concerned about the success in war than about the welfare of the masses;
they studied destruction of life more than its preservation: and if perchance,
some ruler affected peculiar concern for the welfare of “the State,” it was
generally the case that the definition of Louis XIV was applicable; “The
State—that’s me!”
But Sir William Hillary and Thomas Wilson made earnest appeals to
Parliament for the establishment of a national life-saving institution; and
Hillary added the more effective argument of many deeds of personal
daring in the venturous work. Between 1821-1846, no fewer than one
hundred and forty-four wrecks occurred on the Isle of Man, and “one
hundred and seventy-two lives were lost; while the destruction of property
was estimated at a quarter of a million. In 1825, when the City of Glasgow
steamer was stranded in Douglas Bay, Sir William Hillary assisted in saving
the lives of sixty-two persons; and in the same year eleven men from the
brig Leopard, and nine from the sloop Fancy, which became a total wreck.
In 1827-32, Sir William, accompanied by his son, saved many other lives;
but his greatest success was on the 20th of November, 1830, when he saved
in the life-boat twenty-two men, the whole of the crew of the mail steamer
St. George, which became a total wreck on St. Mary’s Rock. On this
occasion he was washed overboard among the wreck, with three other
persons, and was saved with great difficulty, having had six of his ribs
fractured.”
So the British institution arose, small at first, but mighty in its work
since. Ten years after, in 1850, it was reorganized, and improved life-boats
secured. The importance of the work may be imagined when we record that
from 1852 to 1871, the wrecks on British coasts alone averaged one
thousand four hundred and forty-six per annum! When we add the work of

our own life-saving service, and the service of life-boats in many other
lands, we may realize how inestimable is the value of such an institution.

THE LIFE-BOAT AT WORK.

Among the earlier measures to prevent loss of life are fog-bells, fog-
horns, and lighthouses, to warn the sailor of dangerous shoals. In earlier
days, wreckers sometimes silenced the fog-bell. Southey has given us a
ballad upon the poetic justice said to have been meted out to a famous
pirate who removed the bell placed by the abbot of Arberbrothok upon the
Inchcape Rock, off the Scottish coast. One year later, with a rich booty, the
pirate nears home once more,
“They hear no sound, the swell is strong;
Though the wind hath fallen they drift along,
Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock,—
‘Oh, Christ! it is the Inchcape Rock!’

Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair;
He curst himself in his despair;
The waves rush in on every side,
The ship is sinking beneath the tide.”

With this notice of the extent to which man may be responsible for
disasters, the subject must be dismissed. Ere leaving the topic of storms, the
reader shall know of one of the most notable naval disasters of the century,
which will illustrate the difficulty with which even powerful war ships face
high winds at sea.

CHAPTER XI.

GREAT SAMOAN HURRICANE.

“Roll on, thou deep and dark-blue Ocean, roll!
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain.
Man marks the earth with ruin: his control
Stops with thy shores: upon the watery plain
The wrecks are all thy deed; nor doth remain
A shadow of man’s ravage, save his own,
When for a moment, like a drop of rain,
He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan,
Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown.”

URING the fall of 1888, no little interest centered in one of the little
inland groups of the Pacific. In 1887, German officers in the Samoan
group conceived that the king, Malietoa, was so prejudiced toward
their interests that he should be deposed. So without much ceremony they
laid hands upon and carried him into exile, placing him on an island some
thousands of miles distant.
There seems no reason to doubt that Germany’s ultimate design was to
formally occupy the islands. It is the old story of the civilized man’s
dealings with the savage; of the man who has ten talents, obtaining the
property of the man with one.
Methods have changed somewhat, however, since the day when our
pilgrim fathers kindly relieved the Red man of such encumbrances as he
had in the way of real estate, and established quit-claim deeds and perfect
titles in their flint-lock muskets. It is not now considered “good form,” as it
was in the days of olden Spanish America, to declare one’s self Marquis of
this or Duke de that, with several thousands of Indians as slaves or
tributaries, without consulting them. The modern method is that of the
European guide who attaches himself to your person willy-nilly, in order
that he rifle your pockets as the need of his divers imaginary services. It is a
less expensive method, and none the less sure. So the colonizers of our day
kindly establish a “protectorate” over Naboth’s vineyard. Naboth, however,

fully understands the process, as some civilized races have found to their
cost.
The Samoans were in high dudgeon at the action of Germany: and when
the foreigners coolly proceeded, without consulting the wishes of the
natives, to select and establish a new king, whom they thought would be
favorable to their own interests, open hostility resulted.
The Samoans had no way to bring back their former king, Malietoa; but
they promptly deposed the creature of the Germans, Tamasese, and chose
instead Mataafa, a relative and personal representative of their exiled king.
The few American residents and frequenters of the islands approved this,
deeming the act of the Germans one of unjustifiable aggression.
Civil war resulted. At the outset, Tamasese’s strong personal following,
and the fear of German interference, gave him a very large party. But in the
half-dozen fierce battles that were fought he was decidedly worsted, and,
forced to flee from the capital, Apia, he shut himself up in a native fortress
eight miles distant.
The Germans had in the meantime actively espoused his cause, and went
so far as to bombard several native villages. Still they did not come into
direct personal collision with the natives until December, 1888. A body of
Germans landed a few miles from Apia, and assaulted Mataafa’s forces.
The island blood was up. The battle was stubbornly contested. The
Germans were utterly routed and driven back to their vessels with a loss of
fifty killed and wounded.
This is precisely the sort of pretext a “protecting” power desires. In great
indignation at the pesky people who had failed to allow themselves to be
thrashed, the Germans formally declared war, and began a series of high-
handed seizures and aggressions. The interests of other nations in Samoa
were endangered. There was but one American man-of-war in the harbor.
As soon as the War Department learned of the state of affairs,
reinforcements were sent out, and it seemed highly probable that a collision
between America and Germany might be precipitated at any moment. Thus,
there were collected in the harbor the American warship Trenton, the flag-
ship of Rear-Admiral Kimberly, and one of the largest vessels in the navy,
N. H. Farquhar, Commander: the Nipsic, Commander D. W. Mullan; and
the Vandalia, Commander C. M. Schoonmaker. The Germans were
represented by the warship Olga, and the cruisers Eber and Adler. England

had sent the man-of-war Calliope. In addition, there were in the harbor ten
or twelve schooners and trading vessels. Such was the force assembled at
Apia, March 15, 1889.
The news does not travel rapidly from that portion of the world. During
the spring a report reached America that the looked-for collision between
the assembled forces had occurred, and that the Nipsic had been sunk by the
Olga. There was much suppressed excitement; but as the report was not
officially confirmed, this soon ceased.
No one was prepared for the actual occurrence, or the magnitude of the
calamity.
The town of Apia, the Samoan capital, lies around a small circular bay.
Across the mouth of the harbor, two miles in width, extends a coral reef,
which is visible at low water. A break in the reef a quarter of a mile in width
forms the entrance to the harbor. Only a small portion of the latter is
available for anchorage, as the eastern part is quite shallow, and on the west
the bay has a small fringing reef well out from the shore. It will be seen that
the crowded condition of the harbor rendered it peculiarly perilous. The war
vessels were anchored in the deep water, the Eber and Nipsic being nearest
the shore. The schooners and lighter craft were in the shoal water next to
the fringing reef on the west side of the harbor.
The town is composed of cottages, built after the native pattern: low, of
elastic materials, and bound well together; so that the low houses, swaying
easily with the wind, are not so easily blown away as structures of stiffer
and more pretentious build. The American consulate, facing the harbor, lies
about the center of the town, with a long strip of sandy beach before it.
For some weeks the weather had been gloomy and capricious. The time
of the vernal equinox was at hand, and a low area storm of unusual violence
might be expected at any time. During the afternoon of March 15, the wind
began to increase: the war ships lowered their topmasts and secured their
spars; one or two prepared storm-sails for emergencies. The anchors were
all out, and steam was raised lest the anchors should not hold.
The wind increased steadily, blowing from the same quarter
continuously. Though the only recorded observations are at this one point,
its proximity to the equator, the steadiness of the wind and the length of
time it blew indicate a cyclonic tempest of unusual violence.

By 11 P.M. the wind was a strong gale: not too strong in the harbor for
small boats, however; for the crews of nearly all the schooners, divining
what was coming, put out their spare anchors and went ashore, leaving the
vessels to their fate. Mayhap the anchors would hold; but on their lives they
would take no risks.
An hour later immense rollers were coming in from the ocean, finding
the coral reef only a partial check. Ordinarily a reef insures a harbor from
the force of the waves, and leaves only the direct fury of the winds to be
encountered. But the reef at Apia is a lower barrier than such harbors
usually possess, and may not be seen at high tide.
At midnight, rain was falling. The wind still increased. The vessels were
pitching fearfully. At this time the Eber, nearest the shore, began dragging
her anchors, and was compelled to aid them with her engines. At one
o’clock the Vandalia, also, was compelled to use her engines. Should the
wind increase, their case was truly desperate.
The rain poured in torrents; fiercer grew the gale. By three o’clock every
vessel in the harbor was dragging her anchors. There might be a collision,
or a wreck, at any time. Every able-bodied man was required, that any
emergency might be met. Neither officer nor private could think of sleep.
Those on shore realized the peril of the situation. Accustomed to heavy
gales, the natives slept soundly for a time in their low huts. At length, the
crash of falling trees and the tearing away of roofs began to be heard in the
storm. Little knots of people crept about in the darkness, seeking shelter
from the tempest. Sand and pebbles, gathered up from the beach, were
hurled by the wind with cutting force. The tide was rising, and the gale
brought it into the streets, a hundred feet above the usual high water mark.
The spray from the dashing surf sprang high in the air, and beat into the
windows of houses nearest the shore. It was a memorable night.
Long before dawn the natives were huddled in little groups about the
shore, gazing at the shifting lights of the tossing vessels. Their houses were
being wrecked, their crops and trees destroyed, but they themselves were
measurably safe. But those in the harbor!
There was little need of conversation; and, indeed, did one wish to speak
to his neighbor, he was compelled to shout in his ear. As each peered into
his fellow’s face in the uncertain light, he saw the shadow of a terrible fear
and a desperate resolve that spoke plainer than any words. Explanations

were useless; that tacit understanding was enough. For the time, thrones,
principalities, feuds and hostilities were forgotten. The followers of
Tamasese and Mataafa were shoulder to shoulder. No longer was there
thought of the foeman who had exiled their chief and bombarded their
villages. Out in that seething caldron were scores of human beings, battling
for life with wind and wave. That was enough.
As the day drew near, the white men on the shore began to join the little
groups of natives. Through the gloom could be seen the lights of the
plunging ships, and ever and anon there came on the gale the sound of
shouted orders, like a distant echo. The wavering of the lights showed that,
despite steam and anchor, the vessels were slowly dragging about, crossing
and re-crossing each others’ paths. The breathless watchers on the beach
listened for the crash of collision that would be the death-knell of scores of
gallant marines. Some shielded their faces with bits of tile, and endeavored
to distinguish the position of the respective ships. Less hopeful than the
whites, the natives saw no chance of escape. Which vessel would strike
first? Would any be saved?

BOW OF THE EBER, CAST ASHORE.

Between five and six o’clock, it began to grow light. The position of the
vessels was completely altered. Forced from their moorings, they were

drifting toward the inner reef. Each contended stubbornly with the storm.
Volumes of black smoke poured from the furnaces of the quivering hulls. A
number of the sailing vessels were already on the reef. Fragments of
wreckage began to be tossed ashore. The Trenton and Vandalia, being
farthest out in the harbor, were scarcely visible through the mist and spray.
The large iron hulls were tossed about like corks. Wave after wave dashed
over their decks. The men swarmed about the masts and the lower rigging,
clinging to anything they could grasp. The Eber, Adler and Nipsic were
within a few yards of each other and close on the fatal reef. Each vessel
seemed as though endowed with a life of its own. They struggled like wild
creatures; as the stag might struggle in the clutch of a panther.
The Eber slowly retreated toward the reef, contesting every inch.
Suddenly she paused, recovered, and dashed forward into the teeth of the
furious storm.
It was her last desperate sally. The current bore her to the right. In a
moment she collided with the Nipsic, her bow carrying away a boat and
several feet of the post-quarter rail. Falling back, she fouled with the Olga,
and her rudder was carried away. This left her helpless. Swinging broadside
to the wind, she lay a few moments rolling heavily in the trough of the sea.
Over her deck the surf foamed and roared.
At length, a gigantic wave lifted her up and hurled her with awful force
upon the reef. Striking fairly on her keel, she heeled over toward the sea.
No further trace of her was seen. Every timber must have been shattered.
Doubtless more of her crew were crushed than were drowned.
The horror-stricken natives, accustomed to the sea from infancy, dashed
into the surf, struggling with death for the lives of their late oppressors.
They were but savages; they knew no better.
For a few moments, not a hand was raised from the site of the wreck. At
length, a few faintly struggling forms appeared in the surf. They were
grasped by eager hands, and safely reached the shore. Another was seen
clinging to the piling of a small wharf, beaten half senseless by the furious
waves. He was drawn ashore. It was a handsome boyish-faced lieutenant,
the sole surviving officer. Out of a total force of seventy-six men and
officers on the Eber, five only were saved. The young lieutenant was the
officer of the watch at the time of the wreck. The others were all below, and

must have been crushed to death. This occurred about six o’clock in the
morning.
Finding no other survivors, those on shore turned to the remaining
vessels once more. Their position had changed again. The situation rapidly
grew more perilous.
The Adler had fouled with the Olga, and was close on the reef, some two
hundred yards from where the Eber struck, and like it, was approaching the
shore broadside on. The suspense was prolonged and painful. For nearly
half an hour she lay thus swept by the waves.
Finally, a huge roller tossed her on top of the reef and turned her over on
her side, throwing those on deck into the water. They struggled to regain the
vessel; those who succeeded clung to guns, tackling, spars and masts; but
twenty were drowned. The vessel lay with her keel to the sea and nearly her
entire hull out of water; so those who clung to the rigging were fairly
protected.
During the day the natives succeeded in getting a line to the wreck, and a
number of the sailors escaped. But the line parted while some were still on
the vessel, and could not be replaced. The remainder of the crew clung to
the wreck through all that terrible day and night, and were finally gotten off
when at the verge of exhaustion.
While the Adler was drifting toward the reef, the Nipsic was battling
with fearful odds. Facing the wind, she was

THE ADLER ON THE REEF.

nevertheless dragging her three anchors, and receding toward the reef.
But her chief danger lay in another source. The gigantic Olga, which had
crippled the two vessels already wrecked, threatened to crush her also.
While the Nipsic endeavored by skillful use of steam and rudder to avoid
the Olga, a little schooner, the Lily, fell in her way and was cut down in an
instant. There were but three men on board; two of whom succeeded in
reaching the Olga.
Just then it occurred to the commander of the Nipsic to reinforce the
anchors by attaching a hawser to one of the heavy eight-inch rifles and
casting it overboard. Ere this was accomplished the Olga struck her a
terrible blow directly amidships. Her smoke-stack was overturned and fell
on the deck with a terrible crash. One of her boats was carried away and the
rail splintered. No one at first knew the extent of the damage. The
frightened crew clambered into the rigging, thinking the ship was sinking.
The lumbering smoke-stack dashed from side to side with the roll of the
ship.
It was a frightful moment. Only a few yards away the Eber had
disappeared. The Nipsic had swung around and was rapidly nearing the
spot. Only promptness and most skillful management saved her officers and
crew from the fate of the Eber.
Captain Mullane was on the bridge at the time, and took in the situation
in an instant. With the smoke-stack gone it would be impossible to keep up

steam; without steam the reef could not be avoided. At once the smoke-
stack was chocked to prevent its rolling about the deck, and orders were
given to beach the ship while a small head of steam was still available. Two
hundred yards away lay the sandy beach before the American consulate.
A great throng awaited anxiously the result of this manœuvre. The
vessel’s course was parallel to the terrible reef, and but a few feet from it.
Her crew were gathered about the bow, and those on shore recognized many
a familiar face or personal friend in the driving spray, on whom they might
be looking for the last time. One or two of the crew had been on shore
during the night, and now stood watching the fate of their comrades.
Barely escaping the reef, the steamer plunged into the sand a few yards
from the shore, and swung around diagonally to the storm. The breakers
dashed furiously upon her stern, and it seemed as though she would be
beaten to pieces in an instant. Those who escaped must do so at once.
Five sailors dashed into a boat; but the falls did not work properly, and
one end of the boat dropped. The men fell into the sea and were drowned.
The surgeon and five sick men were placed in another boat: no sooner
launched than capsized. But the natives had formed a chain by grasping
each others hands; and dashing into surf where a white man would have
perished at once, they seized the men and passed them to the shore. Several
of those on the Nipsic took advantage of the opportunity and sprang
overboard. But two of these were lost.
Meanwhile, all those remaining on board had crowded into the
forecastle. The natives in the surf, under the direction of two of their chiefs,
Seumanu Tafa and Salu Anae, had succeeded in getting lines to the vessels,
and double hawsers were quickly stretched to the shore. Scores of eager
hands were outstretched to assist in the work. The waves broke high on the
beach, and the undertow was so strong that even the natives narrowly
escaped being carried out into the bay. The white men on shore scarcely
dared venture into the surf. The rain poured more heavily. The clouds of
flying sand grew thicker and more

SAMOANS SAVING THE LIVES OF AMERICAN SAILORS.

cutting. The hoarse shouts of the officers mingled with the roar of the
storm, and the stricken vessel quivered in every fibre. Fragments of
wreckage were ever and anon hurled amongst those in the surf. The gloom
of the awful tempest combined with all these things to produce a tableau of
chaos itself.
Yet, throughout the whole fearful scene, the natives never faltered, but
sang and shouted words of encouragement to each other as they stood at
their chosen posts. The white men on shore rendered all the aid in their
power; but the posts of danger and need were filled by the natives. An eye-
witness of the scene says:
“To one who saw the noble work of those men during the storm, it is a
cause of wonder that they should be called savages by more enlightened
races. There seemed to be no instinct of the savage in a man who could rush
into that boiling torrent of water that broke upon the reef, and place his own
life in peril to save the helpless drowning men of a foreign country.
“While the Americans and Germans were treated alike, it was plain that
their sympathies were with the Americans, and they redoubled their efforts
when they saw an opportunity to aid the men who represented a country
which had insisted that their native government should not be interfered
with by a foreign power.”
The coolness of Captain Mullane had mastered the frightened crew.
There was no longer confusion. The officers stood by the rail and directed

the movements of the men. Time after time the rolling billows dashed the
men from the hawser; but the gallant natives succeeded in saving all. By
eight o’clock the Nipsic was deserted. The three smallest of the war ships
were wrecked.
The four large men-of-war were well out in the harbor, and for the time
measurably safe.
But near ten o’clock, the situation became alarming again. Masses of
floating wreckage struck the Trenton, as it was lifted by a heavy wave, and
carried away the rudder and propeller. Her anchors, unaided, would not
keep her from the reef, or from fouling with the other vessels in the harbor.
The Vandalia and the Calliope were drifting toward the wreck of the
Adler. As the Vandalia endeavored to steam away, the iron prow of the
Englishman arose high in the air and fell with full force upon the Vandalia’s
port-quarter. The Calliope lost her jib-boom, and the heavy timbers of the
Vandalia were shivered. Every man near the point of the collision was
thrown from his feet by the shock. Water was rushing through a great rent in
the cabin. It seemed that the Vandalia had received her death blow. The
frightened men swarmed from the hatches, but presently returned to their
posts.
At this crisis the Englishman essayed a bold manœuvre. Seeing that to
remain where he was would be, in a few more moments, ruin to the
Vandalia, he resolved to take all risks himself, and letting go all anchors,
swung around to the wind and endeavored to put to sea. For a moment the
vessel seemed stationary. Then the tremendous power of the propeller
began to tell, and the vessel moved slowly forward in the teeth of the storm.
Volumes of smoke poured from her funnels, and the ship groaned in every
timber. Gradually it became clear that she could escape from the harbor.
This is one of the most daring feats in the naval annals. It was the one
desperate chance to save the Calliope and her crew from certain death. An
accident to the machinery at this moment, or a slight change in the direction
of the wind as she neared the narrow gate-way of the harbor, would have
been fatal. Down in the fire room, the men

THE CALLIOPE PUTTING TO SEA.

worked as they never had before. The Trenton lay close to the reef, and the
Calliope was compelled to pass between the two. The flagship’s fires were
out, and she could do nothing to save herself. Every man felt that a few
moments longer would find him a grave in the coral reef. Those on shore
were watching with intensest anxiety.
Just then a strange sound came, borne on the wind; a wild ringing cry
from the four hundred and fifty on board the Trenton. The Americans were
cheering the Calliope. Expecting death for themselves, they rejoiced that
their friends might yet escape, and the heart of every Englishman went out
to the brave Americans who gave their parting tribute to the Queen’s ship.
There is something peculiarly touching in this incident. It is far above
the morituri te salutamus of the gladiator in the arena. It was an expression
of immortal courage; the dying saluting the victor; the doomed saluting the
saved; manhood distressed greeting manhood triumphant. The English
seamen returned the cry. The Calliope safely reached the sea. Her

commander afterward said: “Those ringing cheers of the American flagship
pierced deep into my heart, and I will ever remember that mighty outburst
of fellow-feeling, which I felt came from the bottom of the hearts of the
gallant admiral and his crew. Every man on board the Calliope felt as I did;
it made us work to win. I can only say, God bless America and her noble
sailors.”
Meanwhile the Vandalia, seeing her doom certain, endeavored to reach
the beach, but being a much larger vessel than the Nipsic, she could not
come so near the shore. A blow from a terrific wave in the night had hurled
the captain across his cabin and so injured him that he was unable to control
his vessel. His executive officer, Carlin, was in command, but the captain
stood by his side to the last. Carlin’s coolness and nerve were wonderful.
He had been on duty thirty consecutive hours, and had not tasted food all
that time.
In order to reach the beach, the Vandalia was compelled to execute the
same perilous feat that had been performed three hours before by the
Nipsic. Slipping her anchors, she crowded on all steam and skirted the edge
of the reef, finally dashing into the soft sand two hundred yards from the
shore and eighty yards from the stern of the Nipsic. The engines were
stopped and the fires put out; all hands were ordered on deck, and the vessel
swung around broadside to the waves.
At first, her position being supposed safe, it was thought the two
hundred and forty men on board might well remain until the storm was
over. The men were scattered about the deck and forecastle, clinging to the
guns, the masts, rigging and sides of the ship. Within half an hour her real
danger became apparent; she wallowed lower and lower in the yielding
sand; more and more frequently the seas dashed over her, flooding the
hatchways with water. Her boats were dashed from the davits and torn to
pieces. It was attempted to fire lines to the shore, but all her powder was
ruined. The spray and mist arose in such masses from the sides of the ship,
that those on shore could hardly distinguish her position.
At this moment a brave sailor volunteered to swim through the surf with
a line, in the hope that his comrades might be rescued. It was a perilous
task, as the water was filled with floating wreckage. Fastening a cord to his
body, he sprang overboard; an immense wave hurled him against the side of
the vessel and struck him senseless. He was drowned almost within touch of

his comrades. Gradually the men were driven from the gun-deck. By noon
it was under water. The heavy billows that swept over the ship lifted the
men from their feet and hurled them against the sides. The salt water
intensified the pain of their bruises. Soon all of the men sought refuge in the
rigging, and a few officers only remained on the poop-deck. The waves
grew more violent.
For once the bold men on shore were powerless. No boat could live in
the surf, and there was no firing apparatus on shore, that a line might be
conveyed to the vessel. The scores on the land were desperate, but the
Vandalia’s doom was sealed.
Finally, they resolved on bolder efforts than had hitherto been made.
Three natives fastened a cord to their bodies, and, passing around the side
of the bay a quarter of a mile above the wrecked war ship, endeavored to
take advantage of the powerful current setting toward the shore, and so
reach the vessel. Powerful swimmers as they were, they were hurled to the
beach without being able to get within one hundred yards of the vessel.
Urged by their chief to try again, effort after effort was made, but without
success.
Seeing no other chance, those on the Vandalia one by one dropped into
the sea, in the faint hope that they might yet reach the land in safety. Some
succeeded in reaching the wreck of the Nipsic, only a short distance away,
but many were too weak to draw themselves up to its deck. As they clung to
the ropes, the violence of the waves, in some cases, tore the clothing from
their bodies.
The captain, sick and feeble, was growing weaker every moment. The
brave Carlin stood by him endeavoring to hold him on, and speaking words
of encouragement. He had not sufficient strength left to clamber into the
rigging and refused a life preserver, insisting that it should be given to some
of the others. At length an immense roller plunged toward the vessel, and
the captain bent forward to receive the shock. A heavy machine gun was
torn from its fastening and hurled full upon the captain. His body passed
overboard and was never more seen.

THE BOW OF THE SUNKEN VANDALIA.

One by one others of the officers were beaten from the deck. The
suffering was not only with those on the vessel. The brave fellows who
labored on the shore and in the surf were cut and bruised by flying sand and
the floating fragments. Exposure to the sea water was making them stiff and
sore. The natives sought occasional shelter and rest behind an up-turned
boat or the masses of drift, and then returned to the battle.
Finally, as by common consent, nearly all of those left in the rigging
dropped into the sea. It was an easy matter to reach the Nipsic, and a few
succeeded in clambering to her deck; but many were too weak and
exhausted to hold on long enough to receive assistance from their
comrades, and too far off to be reached by the natives.
By three o’clock the hull of the Vandalia had almost disappeared. A few
men were still in the rigging, lying exhausted on the small platforms or
clinging to the rat-lines or yards with the desperation of dying men,
expecting every moment to be their last. Their arms and limbs were bruised
and swollen and cut by holding on the rough ropes. For twenty-four hours
they had been without food, and cold and exposure were doing their work.
At this moment the rear of the Nipsic swung to the sea, so that but fifty
yards separated the two vessels. A successful effort was made to stretch a
line between the two; but before all in the fore-rigging could be rescued, the
line parted and could not be replaced.

Meanwhile the Trenton, without steam or rudder, lay with her head to the
wind, while volumes of water dashed through the hawse-pipes and flooded
the engine room. Had the vessel gone down suddenly, none below could
have escaped. They stood at their posts till waist deep in the water and the
fires were extinct. The berth-deck was flooded. Lieut. Allen and a portion of
the men made repeated efforts to close the hawse-pipes, but the force of the
waves tore away every plug. Still they labored on, far beneath the decks,
momentarily expecting the last.
The admiral and his officers stood on the bridge directing the
movements of the vessel. When almost on the eastern shoals a bold coup
was suggested by Lieut. Brown. Every man was ordered into the port-
rigging, and the compact mass of bodies was used as a sail. The vessel was
brought into the center of the bay again. Then she commenced to drift back
toward the Olga, which had been holding up in the gale more successfully
than any of the other vessels. The stars and stripes were flung to the breeze.
If she were doomed, she would go down with flying colors. The Olga
endeavored to steam out of the way, but her bow struck the starboard
quarter of the flagship, shivering the heavy timbers, carrying away several
boats, and throwing the flag to the deck. Again it was flung from the mast-
head. The Olga reached the mud-flat on the east side of the harbor. Not a
life was lost, and a few weeks later the vessel was hauled off and saved.
The struggle of the Trenton was almost ended. It was five o’clock and
daylight was fading as the immense war ship bore down upon the Vandalia.
When she struck the latter, all would be over.
That was a memorable scene. The night was coming on the wings of the
storm. Those in the Vandalia’s main-top still clung, bruised and bleeding.
Their eyes were blinded by the salty spray. They looked on the black waters
below knowing they had no strength for further battle with the waves. The
final hour was upon them. The great black hull of the Trenton could be seen
through the gloom, about to dash upon the stranded vessel and grind her to
atoms. Those on the beach ceased their efforts in despair, and stood waiting
the last act of the tragedy.
At this moment there came over the waves a renewal of the wild cheer of
the morning. Four hundred and fifty voices were heard above the roar of the
storm, “Three cheers for the Vandalia!” A cheer in the morning had
animated the British; perhaps another cheer now would encourage the

despairing seamen of the Vandalia to hold on a little longer. A response
went up, feeble, quavering and uncertain, so faint it was scarcely heard by
those on shore. With death staring them in the face, they sent up a cheer for
the flagship; a cheer more pathetic than any lamentation. That was the
saddest cry ever heard. Every heart on shore was melted to pity. “God help
them!” they murmured.
Darkness hid the scene. The last cheer had died away. As those on shore
listened for the crash, another strange sound came up from the deep. It was
a wild burst of music in defiance of the storm. The Trenton’s band was
playing the “Star Spangled Banner.” Never before had the thousand men on
sea and shore heard such strains at a time like that. The feelings of the
Americans on the beach were indescribable. The power of the music vied
with the howling of the storm.
Men who during that awful day had exhausted every means of rendering
some assistance to their comrades, now seemed inspired to greater effort.
They dashed at the surf like wild creatures; but they were powerless. There
was nothing left for them to do but wait; and, if they dared, to hope.
The Trenton proved the Vandalia’s salvation. She bore lightly against her
without a shock, and swung around in the sand broadside to the sunken
ship. Those who remained quickly escaped to the Trenton’s deck.
By ten o’clock the beach was deserted, and all that tempest or man could
do had been done. A few watchers patrolled the beach all night in hope of
rescuing some one who might not have escaped to the Trenton. But one
person was found—a young ensign.
One hundred and forty-four persons had perished. Ninety-one were from
the German vessels; fifty-one from the Americans; two from a little trading
schooner. Not more than one-third of the bodies were recovered.

AFTER THE STORM: TRENTON IN THE FOREGROUND; VANDALIA’S BOW IN
RIGHT CENTER; OLGA IN THE DISTANCE.

The storm died away. It was a strange scene which the morning sun
beheld. The shore was strewn with drifted wreck. The shattered schooners
lay about the reef. The streets were crossed with fallen trees, and roofless
houses stood amid the groves. A fragment of the Eber’s bow was high upon
the beach. Far up the western reef the Adler lay. The Olga stood unharmed
upon the eastern shoal. Before the consulate, the Nipsic was fast in the sand.
Only the bow of the Vandalia’s hull could be seen. By her side was the
Trenton, grand though in ruin. And above the desolation floated the Star
Spangled Banner, triumphant over the storm.

CHAPTER XII.

ELECTRIC STORMS.

“Far along,
From peak to peak the rattling crags among,
Leaps the live thunder! Not from one lone cloud,
But every mountain now hath found a tongue,
And Jura answers through her misty shroud,
Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud!

And this is in the night:—Most glorious night!
Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me be
A sharer in thy fierce and far delight,
A portion of the tempest and of thee!
How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea,
And the big rain comes dancing to the earth!
And now again ’tis black—and now, the glee,
Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain mirth,
As if they did rejoice o’er a young earthquake’s birth.”

HO has not quailed before the storm? Few, indeed, are they whose
spirits kindle with the flash of the lightning, and joy in the roar of the
thunder, that fills the heavens like the voice of many waters. Bold is the
heart that in such scenes can mount with a Byron, and say to the Avernian
gloom that wraps the frightened world,
“Let me be
A portion of the tempest and of thee!”

Only that fiery, untameable spirit, fearless of man or demon, dare so
approach the King of the Storm, or pat the mane of Ocean in his wrath. A
thousand plaudits has he won—but not a follower: for when the lightning
flames and roars, the cheering rabble slink away in fear, nor dare to emulate
that genius, strange and wild as chaos as itself.

THE LYSE FIORD.

The fear of the tempest belongs to every age. The ancient Greeks, from
whom the Romans borrowed and modified the myth, told how Hephaistos
toiled in his volcanic forge to form the bolts of Zeus, great father of gods
and men. These flaming weapons could none oppose. By them rebellious
giants were overturned. And the bold Goth, rugged and vigorous, heard the
voice of the war-god, Thor, shout to him:
“Mine eyes are the lightning,
The wheels of my chariot
Roll in the thunder!”

The Arab saw the wild combat of genii, whom the great Solomon had
not subdued. Woe to the luckless wight who should arouse their ill-will!
The Arabian Nights tell us of a contest between one of these spirits of fire
and a beautiful princess, versed in magic. The swarthy Moor beheld the
hand of God, waving on his angels to contest with the hosts of evil: and the
same idea of wild combat in the spirit world is found in the myths of the
Caribs and Lapps. In the Hindoo cosmogony, the lightning and storm are
the chief weapons of Siva, the destroyer, who will one day blot the world
out of existence. Only in the red man’s tales do we find the idea of the
Christian world, of one Great Spirit who rules all nature. In the Persian
mythology, lightning and gloom represent the contest between the forces of
Ahriman, prince of evil, and Ormuzd, the great creator and preserver of
good. And among the old Etruscans, from whom the Romans borrowed

many rites and ceremonies, the lightning was one of the chief objects in
their system of augury and divination. A favorable flash of lightning
outweighed all portents of ill. The thunder was the voice of the gods,
communicating their will to men.
And so the ancients were content to pass the mystery by, unsolved. Now
and then a Pliny, a Seneca, an Aristotle, ventured a timid speculation upon
the origin and cause of lightning, but as electricity was an unknown force to
them, their conjectures were as wild as the chimærical tales of Cimmerian
darkness in ultra-Scythian realms, or of the Utopian haven of bliss, where
the Hyperboreans dwelt. But one of their various conjectures is worthy of
note, as it contains an element of truth. It was, that the lightning was
produced by mutual friction or violent concussion of the clouds.
Since electricity has been recognized as the agent in the phenomena of
thunder storms, inquiry as to whether it is a cause or a result of the
formation of clouds, has produced evidence in favor of the latter fact
(though clouds differently charged have mutual attraction for each other),
for rapid motion of gases may be made to generate electricity. A natural
sequence would be that thunder storms are most violent where clouds are
heaviest. Hence, thunder storms are naturally most frequent and violent in
the tropics, where the greater heat produces immense masses of vapor. and
are unknown in the polar world, where the comparative dryness of the
atmosphere is unfavorable. The unusual amount of electricity in dense
clouds in rapid motion is shown by the tremendous electrical displays
attendant upon tornadoes and cyclones. Another illustration of lightning
resulting from cloud agency, rather than controlling them, may be found in
the cloudless Sahara, where evidences of electricity are sometimes to be
observed in the time of the Khamsin, while the thunder storm is unknown.
One notable exception to the rule that thunder storms are violent and
frequent in all tropical regions is to be found in Peru, with its cloudless
skies and eternal sun, where a rainfall or a thunder storm would be as great
a curiosity as a palm tree at the north pole. The mere fact of elevation
renders the thunder storm more violent in mountainous regions, in both
temperate and tropical worlds.
Knowing the character of this mysterious power, we may not enter upon
a lengthy discussion of the changes, chemical, physical and otherwise, that
may be produced by it. Within the scope of this work, only its rank as an
agent of destruction and a historical factor may be considered. Is electricity

to be greatly feared? to be put on a par with the flood, the hurricane, and the
earthquake? Has it ever figured in the history of nations sufficiently to
directly affect their destinies?
The first and most familiar aspect of its power is the thunder storm,
which needs not a word of description. It results merely from the discharges
passing between two bodies oppositely charged. There is one comparatively
rare form of lightning, in which it appears as a globe of fire slowly
descending, with wayward and unexpected dashes to the side, sometimes
coming down a chimney and playing about the floor like a kitten, much to
the discomfiture of the inmates, till it at length explodes with immense
force, hurling zig-zag lightnings all about. This peculiar freak, several times
observed, is as yet unexplained.
The lightning seems throughout most civilized nations to be the most
dreaded of all natural agencies, if we may judge from the many precautions
taken against it. And in truth it is a terrific power, cleaving the hardest
rocks, rending the mighty oak, and fusing the most refractory substances.
Darting into the soil it frequently forms tubes of vitreous appearance by
fusing the earth and stones as it passes. The writer has seen masses of straw
fused in the same way. And when we remember that French savants have,
with the most powerful of batteries been able to produce tubes only an inch
in length and one-fiftieth of an inch in diameter by passing shocks through
powdered glass, we may well stand in awe at the terrible power that
produces tubes thirty feet long and four inches in diameter in the far more
obstinate feldspar and quartz.

IDEAL SUBTERRANEAN STORM.

There are numerous cases of death by lightning; but the instances in
which more than one person has been killed by a flash are comparatively
rare. The freaks played far outdo those of the wind, and puzzle the wisest.
March 20, 1784, about four hundred people were assembled in the theatre at
Mantua, when lightning struck the building, and killed two persons, injuring
ten. But many who were not hurt found the bolt had melted their watch-
keys, earrings, and split diamonds they were wearing. How such feats could
be performed without in the least harming the possessors is a mystery.
June 11, 1819, while a large assembly were attending divine services in
the church of Chateau Neuf les Montiers, in France, lightning struck the
building, killing nine persons and wounding eighty-two. In 1715 the
lightning fell into the abbey of Noirmoutiers, near Tours, and killed twenty-
two horses, but did no further harm to the one hundred and fifty monks at
supper than to turn over their one hundred and fifty bottles of wine. In
1855, lightning struck a flock of sheep in France, killing seventy-eight of
them and two dogs, and sparing the old shepherdess. A French author
relates the case of a priest who was killed by lightning, while the horse on
which he rode was unhurt, and quietly continued homeward with the
stiffened corpse. A somewhat similar case has come within the knowledge
of the writer: a man on horseback being killed, and the saddle perforated;
yet the horse remained apparently unhurt. I remember another instance of a

man who was struck, and escaped unharmed; but one of his boots was torn
to shreds and some of the hobnails melted: and I myself have been struck
upon the foot, with no other result than a peculiar numbness, lasting nearly
half an hour.
In many instances a livid streak is the only mark left upon the dead
body; and again it may be torn almost to atoms; while in some cases not the
slightest trace is perceptible. The greater number fall in the first class. In
1838, some cattle were killed by lightning near Nymnegen, in Holland.
Their bones were shattered to a thousand fragments, as though by nitro-
glycerine; while externally there was no particular token visible. Some
sheep killed in Bohemia, in 1718, were similarly served. The fragments of
bone were driven so thoroughly throughout the flesh that the carcasses were
unfit for food.
In 1869, the mayor of Pradette, France, was killed by lightning, and all
his clothes, with the exception of one shoe, were torn from the body.
“August 11, 1855, a man was struck by lightning on a road near Vallerois,
and entirely divested of his raiment, only a few remnants of which could
afterwards be found. Ten minutes after the stroke he was restored to
consciousness, complained of the cold, and asked how he came to be
without any clothing. No doubt, he would have more easily consoled
himself for the loss of his apparel had he known of the case reported by
Sestier, of a man whose whole right side was burnt, as if he had been held
for some time over a fire-pan, while his shirt, his drawers and the rest of his
dress bore no marks whatever of combustion.” Sometimes the clothing is
found unstitched; again, it is burnt, and again, in some mysterious manner,
seems to be annihilated.
Prof. Tyndall relates his sensations upon having a powerful electric
discharge pass through him: “Life was absolutely blotted out for a very
sensible interval, without a trace of pain. In a second or so consciousness
returned. * * * The intellectual consciousness of my position was restored
with singular rapidity, but not so the optical consciousness. * * * The
appearance which my body presented to myself was that of a number of
separate pieces. The arms, for example, were detached from the trunk and
suspended in the air. In fact, memory and the power of reasoning appeared
to be complete long before the optic nerve was restored to healthy action.
But what I wish chiefly to dwell upon here, is the absolute painlessness of
the shock; and there can not be a doubt that to a person struck dead by

lightning the passage from life to death occurs without consciousness being
in the least degree implicated. It is an abrupt stoppage of sensation,
unaccompanied by a pang.”
There is another class of peculiar freaks performed by this subtle force,
which the following instances illustrate. Prof. Perty tells of a thunder storm
in Switzerland, when “the lightning sprang from a pear tree upon the
verandah of a house, where it killed a boy and wounded his mother. The
pear tree and the house were burned down. On the arm of the wounded
woman a remarkably elegant impression of twigs and leaves, like a
photographic copy of part of the pear tree, was found.”
There are several cases noted of persons sitting near windows when
lightning flashing near by has produced an exact likeness of the person, as
though engraved on the glass.
“In 1825 the lightning fell upon the brigantine El Buon Servo, which lay
at anchor in the bay of Armiro, at the mouth of the Adriatic Sea. The
superstitious Ionian sailors generally fasten a horseshoe to the foremasts of
their ships, probably fancying that this simple means affords them
protection against the evil intentions of wizards and witches. Of course, the
Buon Servo was not without its horseshoe. Antonio Teodoro, of Scarpanto,
was sitting near the mast, when it was struck by lightning. He was killed at
once. No marks of combustion were found on his body, nor were his clothes
torn; but on his back was found the distinct impression of a horseshoe of the
same size as that which was nailed to the mast.”
In the records of the Academy of Sciences, we find that “the Signora
Morosa, a lady of Lugano, who sat near a window during a thunder storm,
received a shock which did her no further injury; but a flower which stood
in the passage of the electric fluid was distinctly pictured on her thigh.” She
carried the mark to her grave.
Lightning is one of the most useful purifiers of the atmosphere. There
can be no doubt that large quantities of noxious exhalations are destroyed
by electrical discharges. Its beneficial effects in this respect have been long
noted. “Both Hippocrates and Galenus remark that the water which falls
during a thunder storm is more healthy to drink than that which proceeds
from a uniformly clouded sky: and Plutarch mentions that the rain from a
thunder cloud is considered as more favorable to vegetation, and
communicates to plants a particular flavor.” There are also on record a

number of instances in which persons long in poor health, on receiving light
shocks, have greatly improved in health and appearance. Similar results
have been noticed in plant life. Doubtless such cases as these gave rise to
the belief of the ancients, that to be struck by lightning was to be favored by
the gods.
This opinion was especially noted in the case of Mithridates. Slightly
wounded in the forehead by lightning when a child, he escaped unhurt later
in life, when his sword was totally destroyed. These facts caused him to be
held in superstitious fear by the Romans. And Quintus Julius Eburnus
became consul, B. C., mainly because of a similar mark of divine favor.
Those who were killed by a flash were believed to be not subject to decay,
and were robed in white and buried where they fell. So also those whose
tombs lightning struck were peculiarly honored of Heaven. Lord Byron
alludes to this in his stanza upon the bust of Ariosto on the poet’s tomb at
Ferrara, which had been struck by lightning:
“The lightning rent from Ariosto’s bust
The iron crown of laurel’s mimicked leaves,
Nor was the ominous element unjust,
For the true laurel wreath which glory weaves
Is of the tree no bolt of thunder cleaves,
And the false semblance but disgraced his brow;
Yet, still, if fondly superstition grieves,
Know, that the lightning sanctifies below
Whate’er it strikes—yon head is doubly sacred now.”

The identification of electricity with lightning is a comparatively recent
occurrence. The story of Benjamin Franklin, patron saint of the devout
lightning-rod agent, is too familiar to require repetition. Yet, the idea was
first broached in the latter part of the seventeenth century by two students of
the new force, more than fifty years before Franklin’s experiments.
Thunder clouds usually float from two thousand to five thousand feet
from the earth; but there is one case on record of two priests being killed by
lightning from a cloud only thirty yards from the ground; while another
thunder storm is noted as having occurred eighteen thousand feet from the
earth. As sound travels about one thousand and ninety feet per second, any
one may ascertain the distance of a flash by noting the time that elapses ere
the thunder is heard. All existing records fail to tell of thunder heard more
than four miles; while the cannonading at Paris in 1871 could be heard one

hundred and five miles; and Waterloo could be heard one hundred and fifty
miles.
The action of lightning is instantaneous, and when near by the report is
at first a single sharp crack; but it is always followed by a long rolling, so
characteristic that every name given the thunder in a measure endeavors to
imitate it. The reason of the continued roll from a single flash is simple, and
is to be found in the fact that a flash usually travels several miles; and as
sound travels as stated above, the sounds generated at different distances
come to the ear in rapid succession, resulting in a continuous roar.
As the flash is due merely to the attraction between two bodies charged
with opposite kinds of electricity, the discharge may pass either up or down.
Cases are on record of persons on a mountain side being killed by lightning
from a cloud below them, and of people on the ground killed by lightning
dashing from them toward the sky.
Among the more notable fatalities resulting from lightning may be
mentioned the terrible thunder storm of 1793, at Buenos Ayres, when the
lightning struck thirty-seven times within the city, and killed nineteen
people. A number of persons were killed on June 18, 1872, in England, at
different places; and numerous others perished within the month from
similar discharges.
Electricity seems to kill by destroying nervous power. Cardanus tells of
eight reapers being killed while taking their meal under an oak. When the
witnesses of the occurrence ran to the spot, they saw a strange sight. The
victims “seemed to be still busy with their frugal repast. One of them held
his glass, another was putting some bread into his mouth, a third had his
hand in the dish. The angel of death had struck them so violently that the
whole surface of their bodies bore the marks of his black wings. They
seemed so many statues sculptured in black marble.”
“In another case where ten reapers were killed under a hedge, one of
them had a dog on his knee at the time when he was struck. The unfortunate
man was caressing with one hand his little companion, and with the other
giving him a piece of bread. Both master and dog were merely inert masses
of rigid muscle and stiffened sinew, and yet the bread was still held by the
lifeless hand. The dog, with his mouth expressively open, seemed still to
beg for the proffered morsel.”

A peasant woman in the suburbs of Nancy was struck while gathering
flowers. She was found standing, holding in her hand the daisy she had
been plucking. A French soldier took refuge under a tree during a storm; a
peasant sheltered himself in a copse near by. The soldier was killed by
lightning. The storm over, the peasant crept out and called to the soldier to
come on. Receiving no answer, he

HARVESTERS KILLED BY LIGHTNING.

went up and touched the erect, motionless figure. It at once melted away.
Only a little dust remained. A similar result occurred not long since in a
powerful electric light plant. A large rat endeavored to cross some of the
machinery, and at once became rigid, as though an image of stone. One of
the employes, taking a stick, endeavored to push the carcass off; it at once
disappeared in a cloud of impalpable dust.

Terrible results have followed from lightning striking into powder
magazines. August 18, 1769, the powder vault in the tower of St. Nazaire,
at Brescia, was struck. The explosion destroyed one-sixth of the city
completely, and damaged all buildings more or less. Three thousand persons
were killed, while the property ruined amounted to over $3,000,000. June
26, 1807, the lightning struck a magazine in the fortress of the Luxembourg,
ruining the lower town, and killing or wounding two hundred and thirty
people. In 1856 the powder vaults in the church of St. John, in the island of
Rhodes were struck. More than two hundred people were instantly killed.
The lightning often shows in itself a sort of explosive power. Every one
is familiar with the blasting of trees, and the throwing of fragments to a
great distance. Some unusually violent effects of this class have been
noticed. In 1762, stones weighing one hundred and fifty pounds, were flung
from a church in Cornwall, to a distance of one hundred and eighty feet. In
the Shetland Isles, during the last century, a rock of mica schist, one
hundred and five feet long, ten feet broad, and from three to five feet thick,
was in an instant torn by a flash of lightning from its bed, and broken into
three large and several smaller fragments. One piece twenty-six feet long,
ten feet broad, and four feet thick, was merely inverted. A second, twenty-
eight feet long, seventeen feet broad, and five feet thick, was hurled over a
high point to a distance of fifty yards: another mass, forty feet long, was
hurled still further in the same direction, quite into the sea.
Certain localities seem to have peculiar attractive power for lightning.
On the Norwegian coast is a narrow channel between two dark rocky
headlands, where the lightning seems often to play almost incessantly. The
gloomy chasm, so frequently reverberating with the roll of the thunder, is
viewed with superstitious fear by ignorant sailors; and the boldest heart is
filled with awe in the forbidding presence of the Lyse Fiord. By many he is
thought a venturesome captain who will dare take his vessel through this
frowning gateway.
But after a careful consideration of the topic, it is clear that lightning is
less to be feared than almost any other of the atmospheric phenomena.
Comparatively rare are the cases where more than one or two persons are
killed at once. Statistics hitherto collected show that scarcely one death in
two thousand is occasioned by it. And yet no force seems to be so
universally feared. Every people in every age have taken precautions
against it, while the hurricane and the flood pass almost unheeded.

The ancient Thracians were wont to shoot their arrows at the sky during
a storm, to remind the fire-gods to be a little more careful in their sport. A
similar practice is found among certain South African tribes: while the
South Sea Islanders, far more fearless, tell of Ina, a woman whom the moon
stole for his wife, while she was beating bark-cloth. She may be seen in the
moon to-day—the figure we call the “man in the moon.” Continually at
work, she spreads out her cloth on the sky to dry—(clouds)—fastening it
down with blue stones, of which the sky is built. When done, she gathers it
up, throwing down the stones, which, falling upon the earth, produce the
sound of thunder. The lightning is the torch the moon holds to aid her in her
work.
Augustus was wont to retire to a subterranean vault during a storm, and
it is said the Japanese emperors had a similar custom, having the additional
precaution of large reservoirs of water over the grottos. When away from
home, Augustus usually wrapped himself in sealskin, believed, not only by
the Romans, but by many others, to be lightning-proof. In some portions of
France, the peasants believe snake skins to be an efficient anti-lightning
charm. And among not a few of the ancients there was a belief prevalent
that lightning never injured a person in bed.
In the passage quoted from Byron on the bust of Ariosto, allusion is
made to the belief that lightning never strikes the laurel-plant sacred to
Apollo. Firm in this opinion, Tiberius, during thunder storms, put on a
laurel crown; and similar virtue is to-day ascribed by the Chinese to peach
and mulberry trees. Not a few persons to-day believe glass to be a
safeguard, and that a person is safe beside a closed window. Seamen, and
not a few of the peasantry of different regions, believe the firing of guns
will break up a thunder storm. Tolling of church-bells is another powerful
protection against the fires of the sky, which has cost many a bell-ringer his
life; a tall steeple being unusually liable to be struck, and a damp bell-rope
forming a good conductor. One authority tells us of three hundred and
eighty-six steeples struck within thirty-three years, and one hundred and
twenty-one bell-ringers killed. The preventive was all right; but these tollers
had sinned away all right to protection, and perished as victims of Divine
wrath, instead of an absurd custom.
Such are some of the many illusory modes of protection in vogue in
times past, and existing to no small extent in the present. Comment upon
them is unnecessary. We know to-day that the higher objects are most liable

to be struck, and that metals are the best conductors; and on these facts the
whole system of lightning-rod protection is based.
But in regard to even the best conductors, a witty German has found
much room for ridicule. “While I am writing this, symptoms of dysentery
are showing themselves with us in Gottingen. Six persons are said to have
died of this complaint—that is more than twice as many in a few days as the
lightning has killed in our town in half a century—and yet the public seems
remarkably easy upon the subject. I do not even find that the cheapest
dysentery conductors have been resorted to. People still go about in light
clothing, although the wind is already blowing over the stubble, and I have
even perceived, within the last few days, that some persons sleep with open
windows, which are very carefully closed during a thunder storm, and yet
there is not a single instance known that lightning has ever made its way
through an open window, while dysentery very easily strikes into a
bedroom, particularly when, after a warm day, it makes its appearance in
company of rain and a cool wind. Is not this singular? How would people
conduct themselves in these days if the dysentery was to rise above the
horizon in the form of a low black cloud, changing day into twilight, and
whenever it selected a victim, explode with a violent thunder clap, which
made the house shake? I believe there would be no end of singing and
praying. And yet this storm is now impending on our heads—but without
thunder claps and black clouds, which are, after all, only accessories—and
we go about our affairs as if nothing were happening.”
The fact that objects reaching much above the general surface are most
liable to be struck, places ships at sea in a peculiarly dangerous position;
and considering the relative number of the two, ships are more frequently
struck than houses. The packet boat New York, was struck some years since:
the chain which was attached to the mainmast as conductor was entirely
volatilized, not being large enough to act as conductor.
The fact that electricity passes most readily from elevated points, renders
the ship the scene of the most beautiful of the more common electric
phenomena. Any one who has visited an electric plant knows how sparks
and flashes of light accumulate on the brushes; and a similar spectacle may
at times be seen on the wires of electric lights at night. So at sea during
cloudy weather, the yards, masts, spars and other more prominent points
often glow with pale lambent flames, of greenish or bluish tint. One who
clambers up to them may find upon near approach that they almost

disappear; while to one a short distance away they are as distinct as ever. A
hand plunged into the flame glows with the same spectral light. This
phenomenon is popularly known among sailors as “St. Elmo’s fire;” but
there is much difference of opinion as to what it may forebode. Some
sailors believe the ghost of a dead comrade is accompanying the ship.
Others consider that St. Elmo has taken the ship under his protection. A
more common, and the rational view, is thus given by Longfellow:

“Last night I saw St. Elmo’s stars
With their glimmering lanterns, all at play,
On the tops of the masts, and the tips of the spars,
And I knew we should have foul weather to-day.
Cheerily, my hearties!—yo-heave-oh!
Brail up the mainsail and let her go,
As the winds will, and St. Antonio.”

This phenomenon has been noticed from the earliest times. Shakespeare
wrote three centuries ago, in “The Tempest:”
Prospero.—“Hast thou, spirit,
Performed, to point the tempest that I bid thee?”

Ariel.—“To every article.
I boarded the King’s ship: now on the beak,
Now in the waist, the deck, in every cabin,
I flamed amazement: sometimes I’d divide,
And burn in many places: on the topmast,
The yards and bowsprit would I flame distinctly;
Then meet and join.”

When Lysander was about to set sail from Lampsacus to attack the
Athenian fleet, “Castor and Pollux” appeared upon each side of the
Lacedemonian admiral’s vessel, greatly encouraging him. Such were the
names of the strange lights among the ancients: and ever and anon we find
record of their appearance.
This title needs explanation. This peculiar halo is not confined to the sea,
nor to inanimate objects. The electric aureole has been frequently observed
upon persons, and has always been considered a good omen. The Spartan
Gylippus on his march to raise the siege of Syracuse, saw a star upon his
lance and rejoiced at the token of divine favor. Nearly every tyro in Latin is
familiar with the tale that Servius Tullius, when a child, was found asleep in
his cradle with flames playing about him, and was in consequence educated
like a prince, and became king of Rome. Stories of halos about Constantine
the Great, and the Visigoth emperor Wamba, are also told. It is said that
during Cæsar’s African war, flames sprang from the standards of the fifth
legion during a stormy night: and at a time when Rome, almost in despair at
the triumphs of Carthage and the death of two Scipios in Spain, was
seriously meditating the abandonment of the contest, Lucius Marcius
ventured upon a harangue to encourage the dispirited legions. While he

spoke, a flame rested upon his helmet. Roused by the wonderful mark of
divine favor, the Romans went forth yet again, and gained one of their
greatest victories. What might have been the fate of the world if Carthage,
not Rome, had prevailed? Who dare assert that an electric flame has not
changed the destinies of the universe?
But the earliest story of this sort comes from the famed expedition of the
Argo, in search of the Golden Fleece. During a fearful storm Orpheus
invoked the gods of Samothracia; and immediately divine lights appeared
upon the heads of Castor and Pollux, two members of the party, and the
storm ceased. So after death the two mythical heroes were promoted a place
among the demi-gods, and became the especial patrons of sailors: and the
strange lights on shipboard were supposed to indicate their presence. A
single light, however, was supposed to bode evil, and to be the work of the
mischief-making Helena.
Since the extension of travel and scientific research, this phenomenon
has been so frequently observed as to be no longer considered remarkable;
and it is supposed to be due to electric clouds or currents coming in direct
contact with objects, so that instead of the flash of lightning from a
distance, there is a steady discharge, often with some hissing or crackling
sound, noticeable at the brushes of any electric machine; in fact, the noise is
seldom absent. It almost invariably appears before or after a thunder storm:
and has hardly ever been observed during one. To this same cause must be
attributed the occasional showers of luminous rain and dust.
But no amount of science can rob such appearances of their terrors for
the uninitiated. Of scores of instances we might name, a single one will
suffice. Prof. Siemens tells of an unusual electric disturbance during a
Khamsin, while his party and his Arab guides were upon the summit of the
great pyramid. Hearing a hissing noise as the wind rose, he at length
concluded it must be due to electricity: and “holding up a full wine-bottle,
the head of which was coated with tin foil,” the same hissing was increased.
The bottle was then wrapped with moist paper, to increase its capacity.
Even before this, a severe shock could be obtained from the head of the
bottle.
“The Arabs, who for some time had been looking on with astonishment
at our proceedings, came to the conclusion that we were practicing magic,
and insisted upon our leaving the pyramid. Their remonstrances being of no

avail, they now wanted to use the right of the stronger, and to make us
descend by force. I retreated to the highest stone block and loaded my bottle
as strongly as possible, while the leader of the Arabs seized me by the other
hand and was endeavoring to drag me down. At this critical moment, I
touched him with the neck of the bottle, and the effects of the shock it
produced were such as to surpass my keenest expectations. The son of the
desert, whose nerves had never before felt a similar commotion, fell flat
down upon the ground, as if struck by lightning; and then springing up with
a dreadful howl, soon vanished out of sight, followed by all his comrades.”
These cases of halos and electric aureoles thus far mentioned, have
clearly played a far more important part in the history of nations than the
more frequently occurring lightning stroke, merely because of the
wonderful hold they have had upon the superstitious tendency of man.
Leave Servius Tullius out of the history of Rome, or leave out the speech
and aureole of Marcius, and who can say how different the face of the earth
might be?
More frequently observed, and because of its frequency, comparatively
unheeded in northern climes, is the aurora, which in the temperate zone has
frequently inspired terror equal to the earthquake, though absolutely
harmless. The writer recalls that a bright aurora not so very many years ago
caused not a few superstitious folk to believe the end of the world was at
hand. They believed the red streamers to be the chariot of fire in which the
Lord was speeding earthward. This was the great aurora of September 3,
1859, which was visible from the United States to Siberia, from the Cape of
Good Hope and Australia to the north of Europe. It was the most
tremendous ever known, and well calculated to terrify the superstitious.[A]
[A] And even so late as 1872, the brilliant aurora which was seen as far south as Alexandria,
was believed by the intelligent Parisians to forebode terrible wars, and the speedy overthrow of
the hated Germans, who had so lately trampled their capital and their pride. And in earlier days
the northern light had been deemed the harbinger of war, famine or pestilence.
Humboldt, and others since, have supposed the aurora to be light emitted
by the earth itself; but to-day its electric character is proven beyond a doubt.
Electric discharges passed through a tube containing greatly rarefied dry air
produce the same effect on a small scale; and every aurora produces a
powerful disturbance of magnetic instruments. In most cases, they are
attended by a hissing, crackling noise: so the Siberians are wont to say that
“the raging host is passing.”

We find occasional references to the aurora among ancient writers, but
little attempt to explain it. So we have even few myths, it not being
common enough in warmer climes to hold a place in popular tales. But in
Iceland, and more northern regions, it is of constant and brilliant
occurrence, merely because it requires dry air, and the coldest air is the
driest. So among Scandinavian races appears the myth embodied by
Longfellow in the “Saga of King Olaf.” The war god, Thor, speaks:
“The light thou beholdest
Stream through the heavens
In flashes of crimson,
Is but my red beard,
Blown by the night wind,
Affrighting the nations.”

And Scott has told us of the belief in Scotland and the northern isles, of
spirits abroad in the upper air:
“The monk gazed long on the lovely moon,
Then into the night he looked forth:
And red and bright, the streamers light,
Were dancing in the glowing north.
So had he seen, in fair Castile,
The youth in glittering squadrons start,
Sudden the flying jennet wheel,
And hurl the unexpected dart.
He knew by the streams that shot so bright,
That spirits were riding the Northern light.”

The light emitted by the aurora varies much in intensity. Ordinarily it is
not greater than that of the moon in her first quarter; but a few instances are
recorded where it was powerful enough to make itself perceptible by day;
and on one occasion it was strong enough at night to cast a shadow in the
midst of a Newfoundland fog. As the phenomenon has been carefully
studied only within a century, it is not safe to affirm with certainty what
records of the past three hundred years have induced many to believe; that it
is of special frequency at periods of one hundred and fifty years. This can
only apply to the temperate zones; for in the polar world it is to be seen on
almost every clear still night.
M. Martins has given us a striking picture of the auroras. “At times they
are simple diffused gleams or luminous patches; at others, quivering rays of
pure white which run across the sky, starting from the horizon as if an

invisible pencil were being drawn over the celestial vault. At times it stops
in its course: the incomplete rays

LAND OF THE AURORA.

do not reach the zenith, but the aurora continues at some other point; a
bouquet of rays darts forth, spreads out into a fan, then becomes pale and
dies out. At other times long golden draperies float above the head of the
spectator, and take a thousand folds and undulations, as if agitated by the
wind. They appear to be at but a slight elevation in the atmosphere, and it
seems strange that the rustling of the folds, as they double back on each
other, is not audible. Generally a luminous bow is seen in the north; a black
segment separates it from the horizon, its dark color forming a contrast with
the pure white or red of the bow, which darts forth the rays, extends,
becomes divided, and soon presents the appearance of a luminous fan,
which fills the northern sky, and mounts nearly to the zenith, where the

rays, uniting, form a crown, which in its turn, darts forth luminous jets in all
directions. The sky then looks like a cupola of fire: blue, green, red, yellow
and white vibrate in the palpitating rays of the aurora. But this brilliant
spectacle lasts only a few minutes; the crown first ceases to emit luminous
jets, and then gradually dies out; a diffuse light fills the sky; here and there
a few luminous patches, resembling light clouds, open and close with an
incredible rapidity, like a heart that is beating very fast. They soon get pale
in their turn; everything fades away and becomes confused; the aurora
seems to be in its death-throes; the stars, which its light had obscured, shine
with a renewed brightness; and the long polar night, sombre and profound,
again assumes its sway over the icy solitudes of earth and ocean.”
In the presence of such brilliancy and beauty, both poet and artist may
despair. It may be copied only by the master hand that sent it flaming
through the heavens. There is naught under the sun whereunto to liken it,
and it is the electric flash which men may least fear; and yet, even it has
wrought evil at times; for its magnetic power disturbs the compass; and the
electric storms it betokens have more than once in the past caused electric
wires to set objects near them on fire. I well remember the powerful electric
disturbances that attended a magnificent aurora in 1884, which was visible
as far as southern Arkansas. Depots were fired in many places by electric
switch-boards; one in Pennsylvania taking fire four times. During this
electric storm, telegraphs and telephones were temporarily useless.
Such are the phenomena presented in the atmosphere by this most
mysterious power. Dreadful in the lightning’s leap, strange and uncanny in
the aureole’s glow, wildly and weirdly beautiful in the flickering flash and
flow of the Northern Light, we have seen that, though it has played an
important part in the history of the world because of its appeal to man’s
superstition, it is notwithstanding the occasional bolt of death, to be
considered, while one of the most powerful and universal, one of the least
to be feared of all the forces of nature; and is practicably responsible for
few great disasters.

CHAPTER XIII.

RAIN, HAIL AND SNOW.

“I bring fresh showers for the thirsty flowers,
From the seas and the streams,
I bear light shade for the leaves when laid
In their noonday dreams.
From my wings are shaken the dews that waken
The sweet birds every one,
When rocked to rest on their mother’s breast,
As she dances about the sun.
I wield the flail of the lashing hail,
And whiten the green plains under.
And then again I dissolve in rain,
And laugh as I pass in thunder.

I am the daughter of earth and water,
And the nursling of the sky,
I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores,
I change, but I can not die.
For after the rain, when with never a stain
The pavilion of heaven is bare,
And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams,
Build up the blue dome of air,
I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,
And out of the caverns of rain,
Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb,
I arise and unbuild it again.”

HE cloud is well worth Shelley’s admiration; for though it be but a
vague oppressive mist when it enwraps, yet afar it assumes either
beauty or gloom, as its seeming whims may dictate. Few are they who
have never paused in silent admiration of some beautiful fleecy spirit of the
upper deep, changing every instant like the shifting figures of a
kaleidoscope, or presenting fantastic likenesses of natural objects, or ever
and anon presenting pictures of strange monsters, such as only the
superstitious and timid can imagine. Often in times past have nations stood
aghast at the portentous signs observed in season of some great calamity. A
lurid beam of light from the hidden sun, darting through a rift in the clouds,
has been reported as a flaming sword. Shortly before the destruction of

Jerusalem, the sky was filled with horses and chariots, rushing to battle.
After the siege the wretched survivors recognized too late what was the
purpose of the warning.
Wordsworth speaks of these bizarre fantasies:
“Lo! in the burning west the craggy nape
Of a proud Ararat! and thereupon,
The Ark, her melancholy voyage done.
Yon rampant cloud mimics a lion’s shape,
There combats a huge crocodile—agape,
A golden spear to swallow! and that brown
And mossy grove, so near yon blazing town,
Stirs and recedes—destruction to escape,
Yet all is harmless—as the Elysian shades
Where spirits dwell in undisturbed repose,
Silently disappear and quickly fades,
Meek Nature’s evening comment on the shows
That for oblivion take their daily birth
From all the fuming vanities of Earth.”

And naught can present so sombre and terrifying an aspect as those
phantoms of the air, when mailed with the lightning and flying with the
storm.
Yet, upon the cloud the welfare of the human race is dependent, as much
as upon any other force in nature: for rain or drouth, famine or plenty, snow
or flood, all follow in its path. More than once has rain or storm decided the
destiny of nations. Far different might our own lot have been, if that bitter
storm of Christmas night, 1777, had not given Washington an opportunity
of surprising the carousing Hessians in Trenton, and so reviving the
drooping spirits of his countrymen. Hardly would he have escaped, but that
the sudden frost hardened the ground and enabled him to steal away by
night with his artillery, leaving the chafing Cornwallis the privilege of
attacking the deserted camp on the Assanpink in the morning. It was a
winter storm that enabled the bold Vermonters to surprise the frowning
fortress on the upper Hudson. Napoleon could invade Russia, and drive the
Cossack pell-mell before him; no mortal power could control the elements;
and his splendid hosts melted away like snow in the breath of the icy storm;
and once more the Cossack sang to his steed:
“Now fiercely neigh, my gallant gray; thy breast is broad and ample.
Thy hoofs shall prance o’er the fields of France and the pride of her heroes trample.”

Again the “Man of Destiny” was conquered by the elements.
“There was a sound of revelry by night”

as the dread combat of Waterloo prepared. The plan of the “Genius of War”
was superb. But all his contests were problems of artillery. “The Lord is on
the side of the strongest battalions and heaviest artillery"—bold manner of
saying that “when one seeks for the reason of the successes of great
generals, one is surprised to find that they did everything necessary to
insure them.” But he who would insure success must have the clouds at his
beck. That night it rained. The mud crippled his artillery and left the contest
to the rifle and bayonet. Waterloo was lost. A shower of rain changed the
face of Europe—the history of the world.
Scriptural narrative and the sage Josephus tell us how the Philistine host
were cut down by the motley rabble of almost unarmed Israelites, routed
mainly by a terrific thunder storm that beat in their faces, flamed upon their
weapons, and transformed the disciplined army into a panic-stricken
multitude. What might have been the future of Israel and the Jewish faith,
but for the intervention of that storm? We need not multiply instances.

FIELD OF WATERLOO.

The causes that produce the different phenomena of condensation in
rain, hail and snow, are not known. Rainfall is the most indefinite of all the
atmospheric phenomena in location, quantity, frequency, and distribution.
The winds do not vary greatly, one year with another; but such is not the
case with the rain. Sometimes the condensation is slow and the moisture
falls on the earth as mist. Some suppose that the rainfall is due merely to the
cold of great elevations: and this would seem to be well supported by the
prevalence of fogs on the Newfoundland banks, where the constant cold
current and the occasional icebergs produce a similar degree of cold at sea
level, condensing the moisture from the warm seas southward. Others urge
that two masses of saturated air of different temperature combine,
necessarily condensing the surplus; and the Newfoundland banks are again
referred to as an illustration.
Light on fog-banks often presents peculiar and beautiful illusions. The
writer remembers having seen a whole town apparently wrapped in flames,
the effect being produced by the lights from many windows shining through
a light mist that was curling and twisting before a light breeze. Similar
causes produce the peculiar halos and mock-suns and mock-moons not
infrequently seen in the sky. These, and the beautiful rainbow, all depend
upon the reflection and refraction of light in passing through vapor masses.
These curious spectacles once had no little terror for the ignorant and
superstitious. Shakespeare doubtless alludes to some such case in the
dialogue between Hubert and King John, making Hubert narrate an
exaggerated version of the facts, as the superstitiously inclined rabble
reported it:
Hubert.—“My lord, they say five moons were seen to-night;
Four fixed; and the fifth did whirl about
The other four with wondrous motion.”

King John.—“Five moons?”

Hubert.—“Old men and beldams in the streets
Do prophecy upon it dangerously;
Young Arthur’s death is common in their mouths.”

Sometimes an appearance more terrifying to the uninitiated is seen. The
traveler in Germany may hear strange myths of specters that frequent the
mountains. It was long said that spirits dwelt on the summit of the
Matterhorn. Gigantic phantoms roamed the Harz Mountains. One of the

best known of all these apparitions is the famous “Specter of the Brocken.”
The wanderer on the lonely height at sunrise may see upon a neighboring
summit a gigantic shadowy figure, moving about, and mimicking every
motion of the traveler. Of course, it is but his shadow on a neighboring fog-
bank; but the solution remained a mystery long enough to terrify many a
simple peasant into needless invocations of the saints. But similar
appearances are occasionally observable in many localities. The Spaniard
Ulloa records that on the mountain Pambamarca, in Peru, he saw his
shadow on the cloud surrounded by three complete circular rainbows. The
same peculiarity has been frequently noticed elsewhere, but never on so
grand a scale. We find no peculiar myths concerning halos in general, it
being generally considered that they announce the approach of rain; and the
fog-bank is of no especial danger save to the seaman, or the traveler
overtaken and blinded by one in mountain fastnesses; though their
depressing influence has led one writer to exclaim:
“Fly, fly, profane fogs! fly hence far away,
Taint not the pure springs of the springing day
With your dull influence; it is for you
To sit and scowl upon night’s heavy brow.”

And the fog, though not ornamental—unless we except that dry haze, the
Indian summer—may be useful in preventing a frost, or in keeping a
parched earth from drying too rapidly. But for this last, all the world prefers
the rain, and sings with Longfellow:

SPECTER OF THE BROCKEN.

“How beautiful is the rain!
After the dust and heat,
In the broad and fiery street,
In the narrow lane,
How beautiful is the rain!
How it clatters along the roofs
Like the tramp of hoofs!
How it gushes and struggles out,
From the throat of the overflowing spout,
Across the window pane it pours and pours,
And swift and wide,
With a muddy tide,
Like a river, down the gutter roars
The rain, the welcome rain.”

Not always welcome; for we find the same poet moaning:
“The day is cold, and dark, and dreary,
It rains, and the rain is never weary.”

And certainly, the farmer who looks through the driving rain at his
ruined crops has little sentiment left to expend upon its beauty. But the
world over, after a rain every feature of a landscape stands out with singular
clearness; the haze commonly prevalent has for the nonce disappeared.
The amount of rainfall varies so vastly in different countries, that it
would be tedious to the reader to enter upon a detail of the different
amounts. In general it is greatest upon those portions of the land first

reached by regular incoming sea winds. So in South America, Peru and
southern Ecuador are practically without rain, as the Andes and the Amazon
forests deprive the trade winds of their moisture ere they reach the Pacific
coast; while southern Chili seldom sees the sun; lying in the track of the
return trades, whose moisture is at once precipitated by the Andes. So in
India the monsoon which pours deluges of water along the southwestern
coasts, brings but twenty-three inches a year to the central plateau; and by
the time Central Asia is reached, it is so dry the steppes of Tartary must
remain almost a desert. And in our own land, we find in general the heaviest
rain from the eastern coast to the central region: while the western plateau
along the eastern slopes of the Rockies is unusually dry, and liable to
protracted drouths: and in the Mojave desert, and in southeastern California,
the rainfall is less than two inches per year. On the North Pacific coast the
rainfall increases rapidly, as in the southern Andes; but in general our
highest mean rainfall is in the southern portion of the Gulf States. The
highest average in the world is so far credited to Sumatra, one hundred and
thirty inches. This, of course, refers to tracts of considerable size; for a
small tract in Assam, on a mountain slope, where is the town of
Cherrapungee, has a rainfall of four hundred and ninety-three and two-tenth
inches per annum—more than forty-one feet! Twenty-two feet of rain have
fallen there in a single month! A better idea of this may be obtained by
observing that our average rainfall, from Missouri eastward, is about three
feet a year. The rains of the Amazon and Congo basins are enormous, and
would suffice to swell our Mississippi to as great volume as either of them.
On the other hand, the lowest recorded rainfall for a large tract is that of
Greenland—fifteen and five-tenth inches; while Australia, with fifteen and
seven-tenth inches, is but little better off. It may be mentioned here, that the
term “mean rainfall” includes snow also: ten inches of snow being
ordinarily estimated as one inch of rain.
A point long mooted, now considered as definitely settled, was, the
influence of forests upon rainfall. There was no doubt that forests retarded
the descent of water into the streams, and so lessened the danger of floods;
and observations of late years have shown that the forest also increases the
amount of rainfall, aiding in the work of condensation. In the northern
lumber regions, the rainfall in the cleared tracts is less than in the time of
the forests, while floods are more sudden and dangerous.

These general features being noticed, mention of a few extraordinary
rainfalls may be of interest. The most remarkable rain in one day occurred
September 13, 1879, at Purneah, in Bengal, when thirty-five inches fell;
about as much as Illinois gets in a year. At Nagina, thirty-two and four-tenth
inches fell. Some extraordinary showers have been recorded in our own
country, the most rapid being one and one-half inches in five minutes: the
most rapid long one, ten inches in three hours; but no record of a day in
anywise approaches the Bengal rain.
A peculiar phenomenon of occasional occurrence in the Western States is
that of “cloud-bursts,” or “water-spouts” as they are sometimes called,
when immense masses of water fall in a few minutes. As the entire amount
of moisture that can be held by the atmosphere at ordinary temperature
would make but two inches of rain, it must follow that to produce such
downpours as are here recorded, immense quantities of moisture from a
wide area must be drawn in and condensed rapidly at a single point.
Perhaps this is done by a reverse cyclonic movement, the atmosphere
rapidly descending in a “spout,” instead of ascending.
August 11, 1876, a tremendous downpour occurred at Fort Sully,
Dakota: “and on the opposite side of the Missouri River, the water draining
from a canon was reported to have moved out in a solid bank three feet
deep and two hundred feet wide.” Two others of nearly equal violence
occurred during the same month: one in Utah, and one in Kansas. “June 12,
1879, on Beaver Creek, ninety miles south of Deadwood, Dakota, there was
a cloud-burst, which, without a gradual rise of water, in a few minutes
covered the country and drowned eleven persons.” A cloud-burst in June,
1884, sent a torrent eight feet deep from the hillside into Jefferson,
Montana, drowning several persons. Another one in June, 1885, destroyed a
town in Mexico, drowning over one hundred and seventy of its eight
hundred inhabitants. Cloud-bursts near Pittsburg, on the night of July 25,
1874, destroyed $500,000 worth of property, and drowned or crushed in the
wrecks, one hundred and thirty-four persons. A cloud-burst in Arizona,
August 6, 1881, changed the Hassayampa River from a dry ravine at sunset
to a river a mile wide and from two to fifteen feet deep by 11 P.M.; by noon
next day the river was again dry. Two days later a downpour at Central City,
Colorado, suddenly left from four to six feet of water in the two principal
streets.

Snow is practically unknown over two-thirds of the land surface of the
earth, and the damage done by it is confined largely to the inland regions of
the temperate zone. And even then heavy snowfalls do no great injury
unless followed by extremely cold wind. The blizzard laden with “icy sand”
is fearful.
“The night sets in on a world of snow,
And the air grows sharp and chill,
And the warning roar of a fearful blow
Is heard on the distant hill.
And the Norther! See! On the mountain peak,
In his breath, how the old trees writhe and shriek!
He shouts on the plains, Ho-ho! Ho-ho!
He drives from his nostrils the blinding snow,
And growls with a savage will.”

The extreme ranges of temperature produced suddenly by high area or
anti-cyclonic storms are the most dangerous features of the blizzard; while
the only damage done by snow is to blind the person caught away from
home, and cause him to lose his way. The past ten years have been marked
by severe storms in our own winter season, the most terrible being that of
January 11, 1888, when the wind blew from thirty to fifty miles an hour,
and large numbers of persons in the west were frozen, and thousands of
cattle perished. At Helena, Montana, the thermometer fell fifty degrees in
four and one-half hours. The snow-laden wind reached a speed of forty
miles an hour at Galveston, Texas. At Brownsville, Texas, the temperature
fell forty degrees in eight hours. Two months later came an exceedingly
heavy snow attended by high winds, in the eastern Middle States. This is
popularly known as the “New York blizzard.” Snow drifted in many places
ten or fifteen feet deep.
“The fence was lost, and the wall of stone,
The windows blocked, and the well-curb gone,
The haystack had grown to a mountain lift,
And the woodpile looked like a monstrous drift,
As it lay by the farmer’s door.”

The chief damage in all snow storms results from the temporary
obstruction of roads and cessation of business. No very great destruction of
human life has ever resulted, save in case of armies overtaken by the storm.
Napoleon lost four hundred and fifty thousand men on his Russian

expedition. Both armies suffered terribly in the recent Russo-Turkish war,
as they lay facing each other at Shipka Pass.
The constant accumulations of snow in the colder regions of the earth
produce those immense rivers of ice known as glaciers, the fragments
breaking from which as they enter the sea are known as icebergs. These,
borne by currents to the southward, have no small influence in modifying
the climate. In mountainous regions the accumulations of snow and ice
produce snow-slides and avalanches; but owing to their entirely local
character, the damage wrought by them is comparatively insignificant, not
even approaching the lightning in the total.
Hail has been far more destructive. As stated elsewhere, the cause of hail
is hitherto unexplained. The storm usually travels in narrow belts. Many are
the wonderful tales told of it. It is said that May 8, 1802, a mass of ice
weighing eleven hundred pounds fell in Hungary. Again, we hear of an ice-
block the size of an elephant, which fell near Seringapatam, in the reign of
Tippoo Sahib. The good father Huc, in his travels in Tartary, reported the
fall of an ice-block the size of a millstone, which, in very warm weather,
required three days to melt. And we are told that in the time of
Charlemagne, there fell hailstones fifteen feet long, eleven feet wide and six
feet thick. All these we steadfastly do not believe.
Yet, there are well authenticated records of many disastrous hail storms
and enormous hailstones. A storm in France, in 1788, traveled in two bands:
one, four hundred and twenty by ten miles; the other, five hundred by five
miles. Five million dollars worth of property was destroyed. In 1865 a
severe storm swept a wide path from Bordeaux to Belgium, accumulating in
such masses that it was not all melted in one or two localities for four days.
One bed was one and one-fourth miles long and two-fifths of a mile wide,
containing twenty-one million cubic feet. Doubtless similar accumulations
in depressions, adhering together, gave rise to the tales of enormous blocks
mentioned above.
An enormous hail storm in India, in 1853, is said to have killed eighty-
four persons and three thousand cattle. During a storm at Naini Tal, in 1855,
hailstones weighing one and one-half pounds fell. Our own land has had a
number of severe hail storms within the past ten years, that have done
immense damage to crops, and occasionally killed cattle, while smaller
animals have perished by hundreds. Frequent are the records of hailstones

as large as oranges, goose-eggs, and occasionally as large as a fist, with
gathered drifts two or three feet deep. Europe has also had several of her
smaller towns nearly destroyed by combined flood and hail. Yet, none of
these equal in fatality the great hail storm of two years since at Moradabad,
India.
It smashed in windows, glass doors and the lighter roofs, “The verandas
were blown away by the wind. A great part of the roof fell in, and the
massive pucca portico was blown down. The walls shook. It was nearly
dark outside, and hailstones of enormous size were dashed down with a
force which I have never seen anything to equal. * * * There were long
ridges of hail one or two feet in depth. * * * Not a house in the civil station
that did not receive the most serious injury.
“Two hundred and thirty deaths in all have been reported up to the
present time. The total number may be safely put as under two hundred and
fifty. Men caught in the open and without shelter, were simply pounded to
death by the hail.”
Spain and southern France have on record some showers of extremely
large hailstones. In 1829, masses of ice weighing four and one-half pounds
fell at Cazorta, Spain. Houses were stove-in by them. During a hurricane in
the south of France, in 1844, there fell ice-masses weighing eleven pounds.
Mysterious and ominous to those ignorant of their cause have been the
many showers of “ink, blood, sulphur,” falls of red or green snow, and
similar phenomena. Such things were believed to betoken the wrath of God,
and to forebode war, famine, pestilence, flood, and other dire calamities. Of
course, the good people knew exactly what any shower meant—after the
calamity occurred. When it didn’t occur, the shower was simply a warning.
That such phenomena are readily explained goes without saying; and not
a few of the wise of days past have refused to be seriously alarmed, though
they could not find a correct solution of the mystery. Some of the
philosophic minds of other days endeavored to explain these occurrences by
supposing blood vaporized from battle-fields was mingled with rain, not
knowing that the red portion of the blood can not evaporate.
The microscope has solved these mysteries. The rains of blood are
merely stained by earthy matter: sometimes organic, gathered by the wind;
sometimes volcanic dust, thrown out by eruptions; and in one case, where
numerous blood-spots appeared on houses and fences in Provence, in 1608,

and the priests asserted it was the work of the devil, the spots at length
proved to be the excrement of butterflies. Rains of melted sulphur have
been found to owe their color to the yellow pollen of pine trees. Ink is
merely sooty rain-water. Showers of this character are more frequent than
might be supposed. More than a score have occurred in Europe in the
present century; and a number in this country. Red and green snow owe
their color to microscopic vegetable life, and are quite commonly met with
in the Arctic world. One bold headland has long been known as Crimson
Cliff, from the extensive deposits of red snow there.

CHAPTER XIV.

FLOODS IN THE SOUTH.

“ ‘Mother dear, the water’s coming after!
Mother, ’tis between us and the hill!’
Looking down, they see the flood, with laughter
Lapping idly ’neath the window sill.
..........
‘Mother, in the water we are wading!
Mother, it grows deeper as we go!’
‘Hasten, children! hasten—day is fading!’
Higher creeps the river, black and slow.
..........
‘Mother, ’tis so deep, and we are dripping!
Mother, we are sinking! Haste, oh haste!’
In her arms uplifting them and gripping,
On she plunges, wading to the waist.
..........
Flowers the river snatches, while it calls so—
Flowers its lean hands never snatched before,
Will it snatch these human flowers also,
Where they cling, sad creatures of the shore?”

VERY country is confronted with a serious problem in its great rivers.
In some lands the only problem is, how to get rid of flood-water as
quickly as possible: in others, comes the additional question of
securing sufficient water for irrigation during the dry season. Egypt
occupies an anomalous position, the latter question being the only one of
any practical interest. Without rains, she depends on the rise of the Nile for
her existence, and no one dreams of such a thing as endeavoring to check
the overflow. During seed-time the fellaheen may be seen sometimes in
mud knee-deep, busily planting their fields; and in summer they may be
seen hoisting water from the stream and emptying it into their irrigating
ditches.
In our own land, we have hitherto had no need of irrigation, except in
those districts where there is no fear of a flood: such as the arid regions of
our southwestern states. In China, the people are contending with both sides
of the problem; and their success in the second feature has not greatly

surpassed their achievements in the first. In most other lands, the flood
problem is the chief one. The Amazon at flood time rises from sixty to one
hundred feet, and its volume is almost inconceivable. But since the larger
part of its course lies in an almost uninhabited region, the high water gives
no concern to the people. The Orinoco rises so high, and is in such a level
region, that during part of the year one of its upper tributaries flows
backward and reaches the Amazon.
The great length of the Mississippi and Missouri present the gravest
difficulties. The sources of each lie in regions where heavy snows fall
during a considerable part of the winter: and all the melting snows of the
central portion of the country—from western Pennsylvania to Colorado,
Montana and central Dakota—must find their way to the sea by way of the
single stream. By reason of the difference in latitude and altitude, the
melted snows of the head-waters usually swell the lower river in May and
early in June, after the spring rains are over. But it quite often happens that
after unusually heavy winter snows the warm weather sets in in the
mountains very early: so that the great floods of the upper valleys reach the
lower river just when extremely heavy rains are prevalent in the central and
southern regions. This forms a combination that is terrible to combat, and is
the cause of all the trouble. The present system is effective in ordinary
cases; but for the occasional great exceptions it has hitherto proved
insufficient. We do not seem to be any nearer a practical solution of the
problem than when it first presented itself. Yet, the government of the
United States spends millions of dollars every year in attempts which have,
so far at least, proved totally futile to confine the great river within its
banks, and so avoid the perils which every spring threaten an area larger
than all New England and the Middle States.
The wonderful and often terrible changes that come with the changes of
season, and which produce such effects as the illustrations show, are simply
inconceivable to one who has not seen them. That a stream so quiet and
comparatively small as the Mississippi is at low water, should become a
raging torrent of twenty miles average width, and ten feet average depth
from shore to shore, throughout the eleven hundred miles from Cairo to the
sea, is simply incredible until one has seen it. This river, however, did that
in 1882, when the great general overflow occurred. Unnumbered lives were
lost that year, and the damage to property was never even estimated. Details
were hard to get when communication was so nearly cut off as it then was;

and after the floods were over, no effort was made to reckon the extent of
the disaster.
Since that spring the reports have not indicated any flood equal to the
present one; and the only reason why this year has not proved as disastrous
as 1882, is that the levees have been strengthened since then. The fact,
however, that the levee system has, as a whole, successfully withstood the
pressure of the highest water known for many years, is by no means as
reassuring as it seems on first consideration; for there is grave reason to
believe that the levees themselves serve to increase the very danger against
which they are a guard.
The planters of the earlier days made efforts to protect themselves by
means of “levees:” a name given by the

TROPICAL FLOOD.

French to dykes, or artificial banks, and meaning simply “raised places.”
But of later years, both state and national resources have been spent freely
in endeavoring to curb the restless giant. More than $25,000,000 has been
spent in this way since the war. The Mississippi River Commission,
organized in 1879, under the supervision of the War Department, as the
Signal Service has been, had nominally in view the increasing of facilities
for navigation; but as the methods employed for the two objects have
necessarily been much the same, no little has been done for protection.

The character of the lower Mississippi and its valley gravely increase the
difficulties of the case. Its bed has been worn for ages through a somewhat
elevated region, and at present the resultant valley has a width varying from
twenty to one hundred and fifty miles. The result has been that the channel
of the river shifts continually, and is extremely crooked, literally turning
time and again to every conceivable point of the compass. These curves
present the most vexatious features the levee system must contend with; for
it is easily perceived that the levee on the convex side of the bend in the
river has the current directed full against it, adding the great eroding power
of the water to the weight it must sustain.
“The levees are relied on as the chief aid to the work of the commission,
but the commission does not construct them, or even work directly to
strengthen them. These levees are nothing more than artificial banks or
heaps of soil shoveled up along the line of the natural banks. The
commission is working to narrow the wide places in the river, so as to
secure a uniform width of three thousand feet. This is done by constructing
revetments, consisting principally of mattrasses of wire and brush, which
are secured by rubble-stone. In other places great quantities of stone are

MAKING MATS FOR LEVEE FRONTS.

dumped, and various similar means are used to encourage the scour in the
shallower parts of the river, and also to prevent the undermining of the
natural or artificial banks.
“On a convex shore, where the water is shoal, the levee has been carried
along the river edge as near as possible, as there is no danger, under such
conditions, of a caving bank. Where the bank is liable to give way, the
levees are placed further back, and where a break in the levee itself has
occurred from the caving of the bank, loops are made, joining the two
broken parts. It must be borne in mind that the banks proper along the river
are about forty feet high above low water, and as the river rises five to
seven feet over these banks, the levees are constructed of sufficient height
to restrain the waters within their proper limits. The material is found on the
spot, either clay or sand, as the case may be. A so-called “muck” ditch a few
feet wide is dug along the center line of the projected levee, down to where
the earth is comparatively free from all organic matter, such as grass and
roots of trees. By this method some adhesion to the ground is gained, and
the artificial construction is not easily swept away. The earth is taken from
the front of the levee line as near the water as the circumstances will permit.
Standard levees have a “crown,” or width at the top, of eight feet, except in
the case of a very low levee, when the “crown” is not less than its height.
The side slopes are one vertical to three or three and one-half horizontal.
Present levees are carried up from two to three feet above the high-water
mark of their position.”
The river channel, in general, in the upper danger region, adheres to the
right side of the valley, and on the left the danger lies chiefly at a few points
where the bluffs recede considerably from the river. Throughout the middle
and lower flood districts the bends of the stream are so numerous and
capricious that the danger lies equally upon either side of the stream.
Hence, the levee system is not uniform. The whole alluvial front of the river
is leveed on the left bank, the principal line extending from Horn Lake, just
below Memphis, to Vicksburg, covering the great Yazoo Basin. On the right
bank of the river there are four principal sections which are liable to be
overflowed. The first is known as St. Francis front, which runs from
Commerce, Missouri, to the St. Francis River. The White River front is the
second, extending from Helena, Arkansas, to the mouth of the White and
Arkansas Rivers. The third and fourth, known as the Tensas and the
Atchafalaya fronts, run respectively from the Arkansas River to the Red

River in Louisiana, and from the Red River to New Orleans. The first two
sections have received no government work except in limited localities,
where it was merely incidental to the work of river improvement
undertaken by the commission; and those fronts are everywhere exposed to
the overflow, except where private enterprise has done the work. The Social
Circle Levee, near Laconia, Arkansas, is an example, and a notable one, of
what has been done by the residents. These unprotected tracts have all been
submerged, and the low lands turned into an enormous lake.
The overflow waters that pass over the upper part of this section spread
over the northeastern part of Arkansas as far back as the high ground,
reaching their greatest width about opposite Memphis, and then pass back
into the Mississippi by way of the St. Francis River. The overflow below
Helena is carried back by the White River. From Arkansas City down, the
river, comprising the third and fourth sections, is completely leveed.
Throughout all the lowland districts are hundreds of farms and valuable
plantations, the soil being built up by

STRUGGLE TO HOLD THE LEVEE.

ages of alluvial deposits. Most of the towns are built on high ground; there
being a few notable exceptions. A general flood in this valley means that
millions of acres of land are submerged, and such crops as are in the fields
are destroyed. More frequently, the land is flooded just at planting time, and
the land remains wet too long to allow certain crops to be planted in season.
Thus, the water in the flooded districts may abate in time to allow a fair
cotton crop; while the chance for corn is lost. Fences and small outbuildings
are floated away, and often large numbers of stock are drowned; but, after,
all, the chief damage is usually indirect: the evil of hindrance rather than of
destruction. Further, the retiring water leaves numerous pools and marshes
that are rank breeders of malaria, adding vastly to the unhealthiness of the
country.
In many places there are marshy or timbered tracts adjacent to the river
that are not available for cultivation. In these districts the levees are often
erected at the border of the cultivable land, so that the river has a large area

of waste land over which to spread the surplus water without doing any
injury. Such areas really aid to reduce the high-water level. In some cases, a
second or third levee is built some hundreds of yards to the rear, to serve as
a sort of reserve, in case the river break through the first.
Doubtless the reader has pictured to himself a flooded district as
something like a stream in a mountain gorge; an immense torrent of water
rushing at race-horse speed, uprooting trees, tearing away huge boulders,
sweeping away houses in an instant, without a moment’s warning, and
drowning young and old by scores. If such be his idea, he will find it
necessary to remodel it; or, rather, to cast it away entirely. Let him follow a
guide to the scene of danger. A great levee, the protection of thousands of
acres of rich lands, and perhaps millions of dollars worth of property, is
announced unsafe. Sometimes it is decided to abandon the river line,
weakened for long distances, and erect a new levee some hundreds of yards
to the rear.
But if the design be to hold the line already established, then the scene is
an animated one. All along the narrow ridge of earth patrolmen are
watching the work at every point. Hundreds of men work day and night
throwing up and strengthening the levees, upon which the salvation of the
district depends. Break after break occurs,

A MOUNTAIN TORRENT.

and it is as fast mended. The waves caused by the rough March winds send
great volumes of water splashing over the weak embankment, almost
washing the men off their feet. The work is continued all day, force
relieving force at night. Thousands of lanterns flashing in the darkness, as
the men pass to and fro with wheelbarrows filled with sacks of earth and
lumber, present a scene weird and ghostly. At intervals during the night the
sound of steam whistles tell of some new break, some new danger to face
and overcome. Often the negroes seem little disposed to work, even at good
wages, preferring to sit on the levee and fish. But when the danger is fully
upon them, they can work furiously. Sometimes, in leading the forlorn
hope, some energetic old fellow may shout to his terrified, pious brethren,
“Dis is no time for prayin’—go to work!” Out on the border districts where
help is not easily obtained, even the wives and daughters of planters—
ladies of culture and refinement, it may be—sometimes turn out and toil in
the mud and rain, contending with the foe that threatens their homes. If the
levees before a great city be threatened, as frequently occurs, the scene

becomes still more exciting. Business is almost entirely suspended in the
city and the clerks in the dry goods stores, the lawyers, the merchants and
the common laborers stand shoulder to shoulder with picks and shovels
fighting the common enemy. What the outcome will be no one knows. All
are alarmed. Hundreds of boats are moored to back-doors, ready for use
when the worst shall come. Merchants have placed their goods high up in
their stores, hoping the waters will not reach them when they rise.
Housekeepers have packed up their goods out of the way of the water and
laid in stores enough to last for weeks, in case it becomes necessary to stay
indoors for that length of time. All railway communication with the outside
world is cut off, nearly all the tracks being several feet under water. The
mails are sent miles away, by boat.

“NO TIME FOR PRAYIN’: GO TO WORK!”

Such cases were frequent in the recent floods. Greenville, Mississippi, is
one of the towns that suffered much. The water from crevasses above came
down upon the town, and were stopped by a levee around the city. But
while the enemy in the rear could be held in check, it was not so easy to
repel the attack upon the river front; and here the water won the day. All
efforts were in vain. The forlorn and miserable city appeared as though
some savage caricaturist had endeavored to perpetrate a burlesque upon
Venice. A few skiffs crept about the muddy currents that answered for
streets. On outhouses and fences occasionally might be seen a few

melancholy looking fowls. Here some grocer paddled about to see if his
patrons wanted aught; yonder went a funeral party in a single boat. Many a
weary mile would have to be traversed to reach a dry grave. The lower
floors of most houses lay beneath the water, and from the second-story
disconsolate people looked out upon the turbid waste, wondering what the
end would be.
If the scene upon the levee is exciting when efforts are made to avoid
breaks, still more so is it when a small break is being closed. The scurrying
to and fro; the hoarse shouting of orders; the wild cries for aid from
threatened points; men plunging up to their necks in the rushing flood,
driving stakes, dragging sacks of earth, heaving in boulders and rubble
stone; others bringing timbers and planks from hundreds of yards away; the
dim, smoky glare of countless torches; the burly figures of wearied men
begrimed almost beyond semblance of humanity—such a picture is more
like a strange nightmare that one never forgets.
Then suddenly there is a general melting away of hundreds of feet of the
sodden levee. The fight is lost. Scores of the laborers leave for their homes
to save what they can of their property. From farm to farm the news
spreads. In the dead hour of the night, when all is serene, the dread cry
comes, “the levee is broken,” and then comes a wild stampede for safety,
many in their night clothes, women dragging their babes, husbands carrying
their

FUNERAL DURING THE FLOOD.

wives, and the poor negroes, wild with terror, unable to do anything but
stand and view the scene of the waters rushing to bear them to their doom.
Magnificent plantations of yesterday are to-day seas of rushing, foaming
water. Here and there in the shallows stand a few shivering, half-starved
cattle; and occasionally is seen a family, still hoping that the flood may not
be disastrous, clinging to their residence.
The view of a crevasse in an inland levee, miles away from the channel,
is strikingly grand; but for those in its path the grandeur is lost in a feeling
of despair and danger. The ocean presents a different spectacle, for the
ocean has no swift current, and its waves are greater. The foaming mountain
torrent can not compare with it, for the mountain torrent is at best but a few
yards in breadth. But in the swollen river is found an apparently illimitable
expanse of water, heaving restlessly under the swift foot of the wind, or
foaming and dashing at the roar of the storm, hurling itself in billows upon
the toilers on the levee, and striking them into the ditch beyond, yet, with all
the fury expended laterally, rushing seaward almost with the speed of a
train. For miles between the levee and the main channel the stream pours
through a great forest, or canebrake, or cypress swamp.
The fearful noise of a crevasse may be heard for a long distance. No
need to tell the planters far inland the meaning of that distant hoarse
murmur. Approaching the break, the murmur swells to a deep sullen roar.
The water comes tearing through the dense forest at race-horse speed, not in
a broad belt, but closing in from every direction, pouring into that break as
into an immense funnel. As far as the eye can penetrate into that dense,
gloomy forest, it is raggedly carpeted with a heavy, tossing sheet of snow-
white foam. It breaks over stumps, snags and the up-turned roots of fallen
trees, flinging white clouds of spray up among the branches of trees
overhead, mounts in snowy billows over piles of driftwood, it snarls, hisses
and roars like some mad monster at everything in its path, and then plows in
one solid foaming mass into that raging maelstrom between the ragged,
frothy jaws of the crevasse.

BREAKING OF THE LEVEE.

“Nearest the break, just as it sweeps into the crevasse, it curls on either
side, and huge breakers mark the line where it chafes the crumbling ends of
the levee. Once beyond the broken barriers, it plunges into a wild,
lonesome-looking swamp, that still shows the tracks of the former disaster.
Here, for the first time, the real power of this tremendous flood begins to
assert itself. Supple young trees, eight or ten inches in diameter, are bent
and stripped of every leaf, their naked branches and twigs whipping the
foaming surface of the rustling cataract.
“It sweeps into the standing timber with a hoarse roar, foaming around
sturdy trunks, and here and there one sees a tall tree swaying to and fro like
a drunken man: then caught in some fierce eddy, it is twisted from its roots,
and reeling around and around it falls into that tremendous current and is
swept away to swell the tangled dams of drift beyond.”
As far inland as the eye can reach there is nothing but flood to be seen,
the currents opening out and racing away in every direction. At some
distance away may be seen a flooded settlement, the water washing the
windows of fifteen or twenty abandoned cottages. On a huge mound some
five or six feet out of the outflow, is a group of disconsolate horses and
mules who have taken refuge from the rising flood, and other hungry-
looking brutes wander over the levee.

But once out of the immediate neighborhood of the break, the character
of the scene changes. The current slackens, as the water spreads out like an
immense fan, and at length becomes almost imperceptible. It may come in
the night, giving no warning of its approach. It steals through the grass-
lands like a serpent. The slumbering family hear no sound. The water creeps
stealthily around the house, like the Red men in the olden days.

SURPRISED BY THE WATER.

The morning sun finds it lapping uneasily in the breeze against the
threshold. The wakening family find it crawling across the floor toward
their beds. They look upon a region that appears a vast marsh; grass tops,
bushes, little islets and tall trees, everywhere rising out of the water. In the
barnyard the drowsy cattle chew their cuds in peaceful unconsciousness of
the wily foe. The pig in the lower corner of the lot grunts contentedly to
find his wallow freshly moistened. The quacking duck paddles
complacently about the fields. The farmer watches anxiously the progress
of the flood, trusting that there may be no necessity of leaving. Valuable

property that can not be removed is taken to the second floor, if there be
one. A boat, if there be one, is carefully overhauled to be ready for an
emergency.
Noon comes. The flood has risen but a few inches. The cattle eye the
water curiously. The negroes in their cabins speculate upon the future, and
each tells his tale of “hair-breadth ’scapes and ventures” in other days, and
one and all agree that “dis ain’t no flood—sho! no! You orter hab seed the
big high water way back in seventy-four. Dat was sumfin’ like;” and in
humble submission to the opinions of some old granny of unknown age and
grizzled wool, it is unanimously allowed that “we ain’t got no cause to be
skeered dis time; not much!” So the happy-go-lucky fellows sit and chat,
while some oily skinned picaninnies wade to deeper parts of the water, cast
in their hooks and begin to swap tales of the wonderful fish their
progenitors had caught in other floods, and to wonder if more brilliant
achievements may not be recorded of them.
The wind rises. The great crevasse, miles away, has widened till it is
hundreds of yards in extent and many feet in depth, pouring upon the land
millions of cubic feet of water every minute. With the swelling breeze, the
flood goes surging inland in long, low, lazy waves. The planters who have
not already taken flight, conclude it is useless to endeavor to remain. If the
way is open, the cattle are driven inland to the hills. Some of the negroes
straggle after their employers; others cling to their rude log cabins—all they
have to lose—it may be that the flood will not be serious. So long as corn
meal and bacon abound, they may enjoy an endless picnic. They can fling
their lines from time to time into the stream, and perchance vary their
repasts with fish-fry or turtle stew.
Evening comes. The lazy waves now nearly reach the window-sills upon
the lower floors. The cattle left behind low uneasily as they move about in
water knee-deep. No one is near to feed them, and the udders of the cows
are swollen with milk. Here and there a mule is seen, stamping impatiently
and braying mournfully for lack of feed. The water displays a decided but
wayward current, swirling now this way, now that. All the land is covered.
Here and there numerous snakes have crawled into the bushes to escape the
yellow flood. Out in a lowland tract a deserted shanty bobs idly along, now
grounding a moment, now floating lazily around a great tree, finally
becoming an item of the great mass of drift that has lodged at the edge of
the forest, and swarms with small animals flying from the clutch of the

crawling water. The game of the canebrakes and swamp regions has fled to
the uplands, and from time to time some needy refugee family, heedless of
game laws, adds venison to its scanty store.
The night wears away. The negro cabins are deserted: most have floated
away with the growing current. The simple folk have abandoned them.
Some have made their way to the levees, hoping for a passing steamer.
Others, dwelling above the crevasse, have little to fear from currents; and as
the water rises around them, they take to hastily constructed rafts,
transferring their few household effects thereto, and dwelling for days in a
floating camp, sheltered from the rain by a wagon-sheet or old quilts
stretched over a low ridge-pole. Mooring the rafts to trees, they lead, to
others a romantic, to themselves a precarious existence.

NOT SO ROMANTIC AS IT LOOKS.

A whole village deserted by its people wears a singularly melancholy
aspect. Let the reader row with a press correspondent through the little town
of Bayou Sara La, as it appeared during the recent overflow. The town lies
on rolling ground, dotted here and there with low hills or drifts of sand and
alluvial deposits, left thereby the floods of ages ago.
“Even over the center of the roadway back from the front street, which is
just behind the levee, it is unusual to find less than four feet of water, while
in many places a nine-foot oar can not be made to touch bottom. In some of
what, in times of low water, are beautiful residence streets, the boat as it
went gliding on the shining moonlight flood would pass so close under the
spreading branches of the great live oaks, which interlock their boughs over
the roadway, that her occupants would be compelled to bend down almost
level with the gunwales to avoid being swept off the thwarts. The freaks of

the currents wandering through the flooded streets seem wholly
unaccountable. Sometimes they would run parallel with, and at others
directly at right angles to the streets. Often progress would be blocked by
long sections of wooden-plank sidewalks, gates, doors and cisterns that had
formed barriers across the street, while at every turning the boatman would
be compelled to dodge huge floating masses of drift in which out-houses,
timbers, sections of roofs and other heavy wreckage inextricably
commingling were slowly floating on the lazy current.
“The air was soft and balmy as that of a midsummer night, and the
mellow light of the young moon that was already hanging low over the
great sand hills to the westward, spread a soft pale light of deep blue on the
bright spangled sky. There were faint night breezes waving the topmost
branches of the great shade trees, but they did not touch the rippleless,
shining flood which gleamed in long narrow paths. The white moonbeams
that, like ribbons of burnished silver, but slept inky and motionless under
the black shadows of the trees, and the rounded outlines of each great shade
tree was sharply reflected in the mirror-like surface of the water and
bordered by a dainty rim of silver. Houses with snow-white walls were
faithfully mirrored in that motionless, glittering flood. While to the
eastward of each lay a long, deep shadow—a starless night—huge shapeless
masses of wreckage drifting past black opaque shadows that grew longer
and more intense as the young moon sank so low that her lower horizon
was dipping behind a great hoary-crested sand hill in the west. The scene
was exquisitely beautiful, but at the same time weird and uncanny. Not a
human voice was heard, but near at hand between the lower whispering of
the softly dipping oars came the ever varying chorus of the frogs mingling
with the low musical murmuring of the mighty river and the deep sullen
roar of the crevasse on the far off southern shore. There the sides of the
skiff would brush the perfumed shrubbery of a submerged lawn; there could
be seen the tree-tops of a splendid orchard just rising out of the flood, their
lower limbs swaying and bending with the current. In all this scene of
beautiful ruins there was a sense of utter loneliness that was strangely
oppressive. Of those who a week ago filled this bright and hustling little
town to overflowing, only six families remain. The others have all fled to
the adjoining hills, leaving their houses to their fate till the water shall have
subsided.”

Such villages as are not deserted have little to do with the world beyond.
The post-offices are often exhausted, in addition to the fact that the nearest
points not blockaded are miles away; so that the telegraph only brings

TELEGRAPHING UNDER DIFFICULTIES.

news from beyond, or tells the world how fares the little hamlet. The
operator may be driven to the upper story, or to the roof, there to dispute
possession with stray turtles or snakes, or to listen to the hoarse
remonstrance of some old bullfrog whose nocturnal rest is broken by the
clicking of the key. All around is a dreary waste of water, on which the
gleam of the moon appears like a ghostly foot-path, and the dark shadows
of the naked-limbed trees menace like gaunt spectres. From his elevated
position the operator may see the flash of the search-light of a steamer miles
away, as the vessel flits along the stream, collecting refugees from the
shores; and ever and anon the deep harsh bray of the fog-horn breaks the
stillness. Save for these distant tokens of life there is

“Death and silence! death and silence!
Death and silence all around!”

At the great crevasse itself the spectacle is exciting. The fight is not
abandoned. Desperate efforts are made to secure the ends from further
washing. That once done, there is hope of closing the gap. At the extremity
of the break a floating pile-driver is fiercely hammering heavy timbers into
the spongy soil. There a tiny, fussing tug is engaged in trying to float a mat
of brushwood against the broken bank, while a score of anxious men are
watching an opportunity to peg it down. Others endeavor to weave pliant
branches among the driven piles to afford a better hold for the guano sacks
of earth that are being thrown into the break. From these moist earth is often
washed out by the powerful current as though it were melting sugar; while
now and then some timber, undermined by the steadily deepening current,
leaps upward as though endowed with a life of its own, and dashes away on
the foaming stream. After hours of the fierce contest, the ends are at last
secured. The pigmy has stopped the giant. The work progresses more easily,
now that the workers are sure of their ground. The stubborn creatures
contest every inch of space. The roar of the battle goes up incessantly. One
fights for life, the other for liberty—such liberty as the tyrant asks of his
subjects; such liberty as the wolf asks of the sheep, or the hawk of the
doves; such liberty as the strong has always demanded of the weak and
defenseless.
By and by the voice of the struggling monster grows weaker. The
persistent creatures that swarm about him assault him with renewed vigor
and pertinacity. The roar of the conflict dies away by degrees. Step by step
the two bands of men approach each other. Only a narrow channel remains.
Presently the forces clasp hands over the chasm. In a few moments there
remains but a tiny, remonstrant, murmuring trickle of water. Another stroke
and it is finished. The pigmy has conquered the giant. The ant has chained
the elephant.
But what, in the meantime, has been the fate of the district along the
levee front? Here the water does not rise slowly and stealthily as in the
regions far inland, where the force of the current is lost. The planters and all
their available forces, it may be, have been busily fighting the rising floods,
but have been finally vanquished momentarily by wind and wave. Hoping
to hold the levee, few, perhaps, have removed their families, goods, or

chattels, or livestock. Then when the break comes, the raging flood rushes
in over the fields and woods, demolishing out-houses, shaking cottages,
drowning stock, hurling masses of drift against dwellings that might
otherwise stand—seeming as though a living genius of destruction.
Here a family, carrying only a few changes of clothes, and a purse but
too scantily filled, hurry wildly toward the river front, in hope that a passing
steamer may pick them up; there a planter who has saved his family is
hurrying a drove of cattle to the levee, vaguely wondering, in the mean
time, how he shall feed them if the flood lasts long; here a negro family,
chattering noisily like frightened crows, trudges through water and mire
knee-deep or waist-deep, bearing on their heads bundles of dirty bedding, or
old clothes—one or two lugging sacks of meal and flitches of bacon, with a
blind confidence that they

RESCUING PEOPLE IN INLAND DISTRICTS.

have made sufficient provision for every emergency. There a forlorn
squatter is punting a rude raft with his few belongings slowly athwart the
restless flood. Yonder a band of negroes, unaware of the break in time to
reach the river, have congregated in an old gin house, and swarm upon its
roof, yelling and gesticulating wildly in their terror, for aid, which they fear
will never reach them; and, as the water rises higher, roofs, barns, hen-

coops, and carcasses go floating past or lodge against their frail support,
increasing their peril every moment. Some moan and cry; others pray
vigorously, confessing their misdeeds with voluble freedom; occasionally
there is some old crone who terrifies her auditors with the assertion that “de
Lord is sendin’ another ’varsal flood on men for deir wickedness,” at which
the wicked groan and cry, and the pious clap their hands and shout, trusting
to shortly see the salvation of the Lord. In the distance appear a few figures
perched in trees, seeming like enormous crows; over yonder, some
unfortunate has shinned up a telegraph pole, which creaks and sways with
the rush of the water, threatening constantly to return the trembling refugee
to the flood beneath. The last unfortunates have straggled to the levee. The
rest must wait for relief. Here and there a few cattle stand lowing in water
half over their sides; a restless, snorting horse plunges impatiently about. A
floating tree-trunk strikes them from their hillock, to swim aimlessly about
till other drifting masses ride them down. A hen-coop floats past, on which
a hungry chanticleer is perched, occasionally challenging the flood, and in
the meantime, with sidelong glance eyeing the confusion and in undertones
discussing the case with his half-starved, feathered harem.
It is a motley throng that huddles along the levee. That narrow strip of
earth, but eight feet wide at best, is

CAMPS ON THE LEVEE.

all that is left as a footing for hundreds. The wares swash heavily at their
feet; or sometimes, as the wind blows stronger, they leap clear over the frail
embankment. Trudging wearily back and forth on the clayey, slippery dykes
are planters, once well-to-do, with families of culture and refinement;
others of a middle class, and occasional specimens of a type denominated
by the “man and brother” as “po’ white trash” are to be seen among the
throng. The “man and brother” is usually in the majority in the lowland
districts, and adds greatly to the picturesqueness of the levees in time of
flood. Some rear their tiny excuses for tents along the bank, and spend the
time in uneasily watching the turbid water. Occasionally some Dinah or
Chloe, who has been on the levee for a week, goes through the motion of
washing clothes in the surging stream, gaining thereby the approval of
conscience over a duty performed, whether the garments be improved or
not. Here there is little concern, these being wandering roustabouts who had
nothing to lose; there some grizzled Uncle Tom bemoans the loss of his two
scrawny mules, and the few pigs and fowls, and his favorite cow, which
represent the savings of years from his toil in his little patch of corn and
cotton; and he feels even sorer over his losses than the rich planter who has
lost a hundred times as much. So the little bands assemble, mingle and
disperse, comparing notes, and all waiting in painful anxiety for some
steamer to pick them up before the sodden levee shall dissolve beneath their
feet and leave them struggling in the stream. At length the government
relief boat appears, and gathers the throngs by hundreds, to transport them
to higher lands. Beyond the levee, skiffs and flat-boats move about the
submerged region, picking up the people who have taken refuge on the
housetops, among the trees, or on piles of drift. None on the levee fear
being passed in the night, for the powerful search-light illuminates every
straggling group.

WAITING FOR A STEAMER.

On reaching a place of safety from the waters, scores of the refugees are
almost penniless, and the question of food is a pressing one. The liberal
contributions of scores of generous souls suffice but for a short time. The
government must again come to the front, and issue rations, or a money
equivalent, sufficient to maintain the destitute till the falling of the waters
allows them to resume labor upon their lands. After that, the crop-lien
system in vogue in the South enables the people to get credit of their
merchants until the cotton-picking or corn-gathering.

THE SEARCH-LIGHT.

When the waters subside, and the people return, it is often difficult to
find old landmarks. In one place huge trenches may be washed out; but
away from the immediate vicinity of the crevasse the land is covered with
mud, varying from a few inches to four or five feet in thickness—sufficient
guarantee of amazing fertility, when the ground becomes dry enough to
work. In the numerous little depressions in the surface are stagnant pools
that linger for a month or two. The larger ones, if not before filled, are
converted into ponds or marshes, which only thorough draining will
destroy. The air is tainted by the hundreds of carcasses that are entangled in
the heaps of drift. The hot dank soil, steaming under the summer sun, brings
disease in the wake of the flood.
Louisiana, from its character, is usually the principal sufferer: the
Arkansas borders fare little better. All along the course of the stream the
land is dotted with lakes and pools and marshy lands, created by former
overflows. Along the lower portion of the river bayous or sloughs open
from either bank, and meander lazily toward the gulf. As showing the
character of the country may be mentioned the Little and St. Francis Rivers,
which flow southward from southeast Missouri, nearly parallel to the
Mississippi, and but forty miles from it at their furthest points. In flowing
one hundred and twenty miles south they double and twist, expanding into
sluggish bayous as broad as the Mississippi itself, or into shallow island-
dotted lakes; and the total length of the numerous bends and whimsical

curves of the main stream, St. Francis, is over two hundred miles. In like
manner, Pine Bluff, Arkansas, is but fifty miles from the mouth of the
sluggish sandy Arkansas as the crow flies; but to follow the windings of that
stream the distance is nearly three times as great. The backwater of the
Mississippi finds its way into these sluggish channels, and renders
comparatively useless any levees on the banks of the great river near their
mouths: and from the northern border of Arkansas to the gulf the old Father
of Waters pursues a course as intricate in its windings as the St. Francis. It is
asserted by many that the mouth of the stream was once perhaps not far
below Memphis, and that all the land to the southward has been produced
partly by slow upheaval of the sea-bottom and partly by the alluvial
deposits of the river and the gradual extension of its delta, which now
projects many miles into the gulf. This would account for the low and
swampy character of the land in the entire region.
The writer has endeavored to give an accurate general view of southern
floods. While differing in some features from floods in other lands, they
themselves are much alike. The description of a flood of to-day would
answer with but little adaptation as a narrative of fifty years ago: and further
details of particular flood scenes are unnecessary. Such great overflows are
not common, the levees holding the river in check on ordinary occasions.
Yet, one flood season deserves more than passing notice.

CHAPTER XV.

THE FLOOD OF 1890.

“And rearing Lindis backward pressed,
Shook all her trembling bankes amaine,
Then madly at the eygre’s breast
Flung up her weltering walles againe,
Then banks came down with ruin and rout,
Then beaten foam flew round about,
And all the mighty floods were out.

So farre, so fast the eygre drave;
The heart had hardly time to beat,
Before a shallow, seething wave,
Sobbed in the grasses at our feet.
The feet had hardly time to flee,
Before it broke against the knee,
And all the world was in the sea.”

HE great flood of 1874 is remembered as the most destructive of
human life in the history of the Mississippi valley. It came almost
without warning. The rolling river rose rapidly, and the levees broke in
many places before the masses suspected danger. Hundreds of people were
drowned; and as for the losses of property, no attempt was made to estimate
the amount. Certainly it amounted to many millions. Perhaps only the
Chicago fire could compare with it in this respect. Another great year of
high water was 1882: but the damage done was smaller, as the levees had
been heightened and strengthened.
But the floods of this year, in area submerged, in long duration, in height
of water, and in the pertinacity with which they were contested, eclipsed all
records. There is no measuring the extent of the calamity. There is nothing
in the recorded history of the Mississippi valley

THE SCENE AT HIGH WATER.

to compare with it. In some places the gauges were completely overflowed.
Levees that had withstood former waters, and had been strengthened since,
snapped like whip-cords, under the tremendous strain.
Early in the present year, the Signal Service warned the people of the
lower Mississippi that very high water might be expected, as the snows of
the upper Ohio region had been very heavy, while the unusually early
spring would bring the flood water into the lower river at the time of heavy
spring rains. There the levees were carefully examined, and every
precaution against high water taken. But the people, though expecting high
water, had not reckoned upon such a flood as came. The river rose above
the great flood of 1874, passing all previous records by two feet, and
reaching a foot higher than the levees had been built to sustain.
On January 1, Cairo reported eighteen feet and rising, while the river
was falling from Louisville up the Ohio, was falling at St. Louis, and
stationary on the lower Mississippi. From the first day of the year the river
rose at Cairo, and in ten days the river had risen thirteen feet.
From Cincinnati down the Ohio increased in volume for four days, and
on January 16, at Cairo, it passed the danger line (forty feet) by three-
tenths. The rise in sixteen days had been one and three-eighths feet a day. At
that time the river was rising slowly from Evansville down, and falling
above. A few days later came another rise in the Ohio, aided by the
Tennessee and Cumberland, and by the 1st of February the water at Cairo
was almost a flood. The volumes of water continued till the lower
Mississippi was bank full. By the latter end of February, the danger point
had been reached at Memphis, Shreveport, Vicksburg, and New Orleans.
Cairo was already in trouble.

On March 12, Cairo reached its maximum, 48.9. The Signal Service
Office had given out a prediction of fifty-one feet, but the failure of the
upper Mississippi to rise, prevented that stage being reached. The river at
St. Louis had then but five feet of water.
On March 14, Chief Signal Officer A. W. Greeley sent out a warning
from Washington to the people living on the lower Mississippi. He told
them that the rain they had had for four days had been drained into the
tributaries of the great river and would swell it considerably. The greatest
flood ever known might be expected within a few days. All stock and
valuable movable property should be taken to the hills. New Orleans had
then higher water than ever before.
The river was then rising in the lower Missouri, and St. Louis was
reporting rapid increase in the stage of water. Cairo had fallen, but the upper
Ohio and lower tributaries brought back the upper line of the flood to near
the maximum stage.
The lower Mississippi tributaries began to swell. The Arkansas and Red
Rivers overflowed their banks. Low levees grew weak and succumbed.
Low lying towns and plantations were flooded.
Then came the nights and days of terrible struggle along lines of levee
that protected vast tracts of lands. Men were pressed into service whether
they liked the work or no, and the shotgun patrol was established for the
protection of the safer levees from being cut. The upper Mississippi swelled
rapidly, and while not reaching a dangerous stage itself, it added
enormously to the peril below. Then came floods in Arkansas, Tennessee,
Mississippi, and Louisiana.
The first serious trouble from the Mississippi in Arkansas occurred in
Phillips county, above the mouth of the White River, where some five
hundred people were driven from their homes to the highest points by the
backwater, and the cattle, gaunt, wild-eyed, starving, were forced to subsist
on cane, twigs of cotton wood and other trees felled for them. Three times
the backwater and heavy local rains flooded this region, while the retiring
flood left a deposit of mud from one to five feet in depth, precluding the
possibility of turning the hungry cattle upon the land for two or three
weeks, and rendering it impossible to raise a crop of corn or more than half
a crop of cotton. At Cairo, the rivers were one hundred miles in width,
covering fifty miles of Missouri lowlands, and extending to the hills in

Kentucky; while Cairo itself was partially flooded. The railroads in that
section were forced to stop, and the people fled to the hills for their lives.
Steady rains fell in Arkansas, Ohio and lower Missouri River valleys, and
by the time these began to subside, the floods in the streams below had
passed previous records.
The greatest danger and trouble was in the valley from Arkansas City
southward. Heavy rains produced a break in the levee at that place. March
28, the levees broke at two points on the eastern shore, between Arkansas
City and Memphis, Tennessee, submerging many thousands of acres of
land, and sweeping southeastward to the Yazoo River. Greenville,
Mississippi, a city of 10,000, is partially protected by a high ridge through
the city; but there was no means of holding back the enemy in the rear. The
town is situated at the extremity of a sharp eastward curve, and a violent
storm at length aided the rapid current in cutting away the front defense,
and the town was forced to yield. Strenuous efforts to close the breaks
above completely failed; and all that could be done was to secure the ends
of the crevasses to prevent their widening. Cattle were herded for a time on
the levees and embankments,

NEGROES MOVING OUT.

but these gradually yielded, and the animals were drowned in droves.
Defenses yielded where least expected. By April 3, there was two feet of
water in the streets of Greenville. There was nothing left but to make the
best of the situation. People took to the upper floors, and appeals for state,
national and individual aid were sent out. The telephone lines leading out of
the city were destroyed, and communication with the outer world was
greatly hindered. Occasional reports of destitution and suffering came from
Greenville, but these were contradicted by meetings of leading citizens,
who said, “there is no destitution here that home people can not relieve. If
the negroes want to wait for government rations and refuse from $1.50 to
$2.50 per day to work on levees, their starving arouses no sympathy. While
all these sensational reports of destitution are traveling about, the
steamboats are running into Memphis and Vicksburg begging for levee
hands, and the native negro is sitting on the levee fishing.”
The water swept rapidly southward, submerging almost the entire region
between the Yazoo and Mississippi. Meanwhile, the trouble in Louisiana
was just beginning. The banks began caving near the levee in Madison
Parish Front, compelling the erection of a new levee in the rear of the old
one. But the fight went on stubbornly for three weeks, both along the river

front and along the bayous in the interior. Atchafalaya River was forty-five
feet above low water. The contest for the levees there was as bitter as along
the main stream. Occasional breaks occurred, but they were closed or kept
from spreading by the twenty thousand men who labored day and night
along the stream between Bayou Sara and New Orleans.
Ere long it appeared that the greatest danger was along the Concordia
and Pointe Coupee parish fronts. (A parish in Louisiana coincides with what
is known as a county elsewhere). Considerable appropriations were made,
and the head of the third district levee system, Captain D. C. Kingman,
conducted the fight on the Pointe Coupee front in person. The battle ended
here in disastrous defeat. The men held their ground manfully till April 20,
no serious breaks having then occurred. All that day the men were
compelled to work in a drenching rain storm that

STOCK RAFT.

was beating fiercely against the already overburdened and sodden levees on
the west bank of the river. The danger at the great Morganza bend grew
excessive. It was hoped that during the night the storm would cease, or at

least that the wind might shift to some other quarter, but when the morning
broke there were the same leaden skies overhead, with darker masses still
scurrying to the westward before a fierce easterly gale that was as fresh and
strong as ever, and which hurled storms of white-capped waves upon the
rain-soaked earthworks. Bags of earth and sand were piled up along the
levee, to prevent the waves from washing over. Wilder and more furious
raged the storm: higher and higher beat the waves, as the day passed. “In
the teeth of drenching surf and blinding rain, the battle with rising flood
went bravely on. Sacks were piled upon sacks and revetments of plank and
jute bagging were carried up till the superstructure upon the crown of the
levee looked like a fair-sized levee itself. Not only the men, but even the
women and children fought bravely for their homes in the teeth of that wild
furious storm.
“As Monday night closed in, the situation was more gloomy than ever.
The heavy leaden sky was deeply shadowed by low hanging clouds of dull
slaty black, driven before the fierce gale that was sweeping up the reach,
thrashing it into long ribs of foam that every now and then broke clear over
the levees all along the New Texas system, and beat savagely against the
great Morganza, just below them.
“A nightfall dark and wild with wind and storm was followed by a night
black and tempestuous, and still the desperate fight went on. Here and there
ruddy, flaring torches struggled with the murky gloom, but within their dim
halos could be seen the big breakers hungrily licking the tops of the sodden
barriers that throbbed and quivered beneath every cruel blow.
“Planters’ wives and daughters stood ankle-deep in mud, filling sacks
and helping to lift them upon the shoulders of the men who were carrying
them to the levee. Two bold Creoles stood at one weak place, though they
felt the levee dissolving beneath their feet. They sank to their knees in the
mud and water, but still they stood stubbornly on the sinking dike, piling
sacks in the breach, though again and again the flood seemed to be in the
very act of overpowering and sweeping them away in the very center of a
crevasse. It was a bloodless battle, but many a man has won fame on a gory
battle-field who never turned a more steadfast, unflinching gaze into the
very jaws of death than did those brave defenders of their homes during that
terrible night.”

Suddenly there was a wild outcry and a hurried mustering of forces at
the old Morganza levee. But men and materials were no longer of any use.
The dull yellow flood poured through the gap like a mighty cataract. Four
hundred feet of the embankment were gone in a few moments.
At once there was a sauve qui peut. The volunteer forces of the
neighborhood hurried away to save what they could. As the Morganza levee
was backed by a wide uninhabited swamp, there was little danger of any
lives being lost by the sudden breach, though the people had clung to their
homes to the last.
Meanwhile, numerous other breaks were occasioned by the storm. The
first occurred at Bayou Sara, and others followed so rapidly that within
twenty-four hours fifteen huge crevasses were pouring their torrents upon
the land. Two other breaks occurred in the Morganza; and so vast was the
volume of water drawn out by the three that the river at Bayou Sara, a few
miles below, fell a foot in twenty-four hours, while the decline above was
but an inch or two. Despite the gloomy outlook, the men toiled wearily on
and finally succeeded in closing most of the breaks; but the great Morganza
crevasses defied every effort. Then came breaks in the Atchafalaya, and the
turbid waters united and swept southward one hundred miles to the sea.
Some towns were abandoned to the snakes and frogs; in others the people
put false floors in their dwellings and prepared

PICKING UP REFUGEES.

for a siege. Government steamers plied up and down the country, picking
up the refugees and all accessible livestock. The effort to keep back the
water was at an end, and all that could be done of any especial use was in
the way of salvage. The only remaining question was that of providing for
the destitute. Appropriations from the State treasury were made, and
corporations and private individuals contributed liberally. On April 24, two
great breaks occurred in Concordia Parish, north of Pointe Coupee, thus
much increasing the submerged area. From the items given, and the fact of
breaks in east Baton Rouge, and the Nita crevasse, and twenty or more
below New Orleans, the reader may see that a large portion of eastern
Louisiana lay more or less under water. By the end of April there was no
fear of further danger, simply because there was little harm left to do. The
continual east wind added to the distress on the lower river by sweeping
Lake Pontchartrain and the gulf water across the land, up to the levees on
the river.
The one peculiar feature of the recent flood is that but few lives were
lost—perhaps not a dozen, all told. The warning of the Signal Service put
people on their guard, and there was no occasion for surprise.

The damage to property can not be estimated. Three thousand square
miles of land were more or less flooded in Louisiana alone; and while much
of this was useless swamp land, the larger part comprised some of the most
valuable sugar plantations in the State. Fifty thousand people were directly
affected by the flood in this region. All the railroads in this district suffered
severely from wash outs and loss of time and custom. Any estimate of the
damage done to planters should include not only real estate and personal
property, but also the amount of loss from inability to raise the customary
crops. This single item would be very large. But when we consider the
terrible havoc committed in other lands and attended by fearful loss of life,
we may be devoutly thankful that things were no worse with us.
The levee system is attended by peculiar perils. There must be constant
watching and repairing. At seasons of danger, patrols are needed, even
when the levees are

DESERTED FARMHOUSE.

sound; for human nature is full of rank selfishness, and people who find
their property endangered are apt to cut the levee upon the opposite side
above them, to relieve themselves by flooding others. Hungry wolves will
eat a wounded companion; but man is almost the only animal that seeks an
opportunity for wounding his fellow that he may have a pretext for
devouring him.
The craw-fish is another persistent enemy of the planter, undermining
levees with his numerous tunnels, and even penetrating the low lying fields
at a distance from the river, not infrequently damaging the roots of growing
crops. The ground becomes like a sponge, and water oozes from the levees
in countless places.

There are other objections to the levee system; and while the Mississippi
River Commission, and a majority of engineers endorse it, there are not a
few equally capable men who denounce it as false in theory, and
mischievous in practice. The problem remains a puzzling one. If the floods
are unrestrained, a large portion of the river bottom becomes uninhabitable
a considerable portion of each year. As to controlling them, a man of much
experience said at the time of the flood in 1882, “I have lived on the river
for thirty years, and I have studied it, for it was my business to do so. I have
been steam-boating all that time. I am now certain that I don’t know
anything about it, or about what ought to be done to it.”
Another said, “When God put the river into this valley, He told it to go
wherever it pleased, and it always has done so, and always will.”
Yet, the problem can not be considered hopeless, though mere
experiments are dangerous. There is little doubt that the levees would have
withstood the unprecedented high water of the present year, had it not been
aided by the severe and protracted easterly storm. But the levees must
remain a constant expense. More than $90,000,000 have already been spent
upon them, and the question is an even more vital one than ever.
The chief opponents of the levee system advocate the increase of outlets.
A glance at a large-scale map of Louisiana will show the reader how very
narrow the mouths of the river are in comparison with its breadth above;
and when it is remembered that these passages required deepening ere large
vessels could reach New Orleans, it is clear that the outlet men have good
reasons for asserting that the proper thing to do is to open as many outlets to
the sea as possible. Yet, the majority of engineers declare this to be
unscientific, and radically wrong. The levee men propose to narrow the
channel and to rely upon the “scour” of the water to keep the river bottom
free enough to afford a clear passage to the sea. The “scour” is aided as far
as possible by clearing away obstructions where it is desired to maintain a
channel, and by placing other obstructions in places where natural shallows
have been formed. This is the work carried on by the commission, and is
one in theory with that executed by Captain Eads in the South Pass of the
Delta. He claimed that if the water flowing through the pass should be
confined within comparatively narrow banks, it would scour out the bottom,
and so deepen its own bed. The primary result was exactly opposite to this.
The water refused to do the work expected of it, and following the law of
nature, sought the line of least resistance. Finding the South Pass

obstructed, or rather narrowed, much of it turned aside and poured through
the Southwest Pass and the Pas a l’Outre, and instead of scouring out the
South Pass, scoured the other two to the depth of two feet below where their
beds had formerly been. As soon as this was discovered, the two passes
were partially dammed up, and the water thus forced through the South
Pass.
It is evident, at a glance, that the amount of “scour” will only be as much
as will permit ready exit of the water at ordinary stages. The moment that
point is reached, the “scour” ceases, and does not again act unless the river
be still further narrowed. Hence, this plan, while increasing facility of
navigation, only robs Peter to pay Paul, so far as protection is concerned;
for what is gained in depth and speed, is necessarily lost in breadth. The
“scour” system has even failed to hold its own, and has had to be reinforced
by dredging machines.
This last fact tends to confirm the arguments of the outlet advocates.
They urge that the immense amount of silt carried by the river is destructive
to the entire scheme. During flood time this silt is nearly equally distributed
throughout the water. When an overflow occurs, the immense quantity is
shown by the vast alluvial deposits left in the submerged region.
According to the believers in the anti-levee theory, if overflows are
prevented, the earth held in suspension, instead of being deposited where it
will enrich the land, will gradually sink to the bottom of the river. The result
will be that the river-bed will be steadily raised until the surface of the
water at ordinary stages will be as high as the present floodmarks. Levees
will have to be built higher and higher, the river will be raised far above the
adjacent country, and should a break occur at any point, the consequence
will be disastrous in the extreme. As an example of the effect of confining a
silt-bearing alluvial river to its bed, the Hoang-Ho in China is cited. By
constant dyking the bottom of the stream has been raised above large tracts
of the adjacent country and some of the most

FLOOD IN CHINA.

terrible catastrophes in the history of floods have resulted from a break in
the dykes during floods.
The natural result of the continual raising of the bottom is that where any
serious breach occurs, it is simply impossible to repair it. So the great river
has changed its channel entirely several times in the past two thousand
years. In 1852 it burst through its banks three hundred and fifty miles from
the sea, and cut a new channel through the northern part of the province of
Shantung to the Gulf of Pechili, where it emptied nearly two hundred and
seventy-five miles north of its former mouth in the Yellow Sea. The sharp
angle at which it turned off is noticeable on the maps. This region being
almost unknown to foreigners at that time, no one can say how many
thousands or millions of lives were destroyed by “China’s Sorrow.”
But the greatest disaster of this sort occurred in 1887, when the heavy
fall rains of the northwest provinces swelled the streams, and the Yellow
River finally broke its banks at a sharp bend in the Ho-nan province, where
the town of Cheng Chou is situated. Frantic efforts were made to close the
gap, but in vain. It rapidly grew to a width of one thousand two hundred
yards. Some distance away the yellow torrent turned into the valley of a
small stream known as the Luchia, down which it rushed in an easterly
direction, overwhelming everything in its path.

“Twenty miles from Cheng Chou it encountered Chungmou, a walled
city of the third rank. Its thousands of inhabitants were attending to their
usual pursuits. There was no telegraph to warn them, and the first intimation
of disaster came with the muddy torrent that rolled down upon them. Within
a short time only the tops of the high walls marked where a flourishing city
had been. Three hundred villages in the district disappeared utterly, and the
lands about three hundred other villages were inundated.
“The flood turned south from Chungmou, still keeping to the course of
the Luchia, and stretched out in width for thirty miles. This vast body of
water was from ten to twenty feet deep. Several miles south of Kaifeng the
flood struck a large river which there joins the Luchia. The result was that
the flood rose to a still greater height, and pouring into a low-lying and very
fertile plain which was densely populated, submerged upward of one
thousand five hundred villages.
“Not far beyond this locality the flood passed into the province of Anhui,
where it spread very widely. The actual loss of life could not be computed
accurately, but the lowest intelligent estimate placed it at one million five
hundred thousand, and one authority placed it at seven million.”
The inundated provinces were under water four months. Two million
survivors were left destitute. The mind quails at the appalling magnitude of
such a catastrophe.
Such is the warning given by the Yellow River. It is urged that if the
Mississippi is heavily leveed, the same results will follow. The Po is another
instance. The bed of the stream has been raised by dykes until it is higher in
many places than the tops of the houses, and such disasters as have befallen
the dwellers near the Yellow River of China, have only been avoided
because of the fact that the Po is a comparatively diminutive stream. It is
said that the same state of affairs exists on a smaller scale still on the Tiber.
But the opponents of the outlet theory ascribe the China floods to ignorant
engineering—a charge that can not be easily made to stick, when it is
remembered that the Chinese have some of the most remarkable specimens
of engineering skill in existence.
In support of the outlet theory, a number of experienced river captains
and pilots assert that the bed of the river has been slowly rising during the
past thirty years; that levees are needed at points where none were years
ago, while at the same time there is less water in the channel at those points

than formerly. At the time of this writing Captain Condon is urging that an
outlet be made through Lake Borgne, from a point ten miles below New
Orleans. His company is to assume all costs, only asking that if successful,
they shall be paid $500,000 for every foot of reduction of the high water
level. He asserts that one-fourth of the flood waters can be readily drained
off by this means. This Lake Borgne idea, commendable as it appears, has
been agitated, more or less, for forty years, without being tried. A noted
government engineer, Charles Ellet, urged it at the time of the flood of
1853, without avail.
Whatever be the result of present deliberations, we must hope that no
effort will be spared to thoroughly test the merits of any system agreed
upon. But the long deliberations and the slow movements of the
governmental committees are vexatious to those most vitally concerned. A
prominent Louisianian says: “If the government and the people had raised
$500,000, placed a larger force, and held that Morganza levee, it would
have cost less than the mere relief expenditures, to say nothing of the
millions of total loss of the flood.” And Harper’s Weekly affirms that “in
one respect the casual observer is moved to sarcastic reflections. When a
flood does come, like the present one, or even one of much less dimensions,
the work of the commission is of necessity suspended, and at first sight it
seems extremely ridiculous to see engineers waiting for the water to subside
before they can place confines many feet below the present surface, which
confines are intended, in part at least, for the purpose of preventing similar
overflows in the future.”

THE HOLLAND DYKES.

Holland, the land of windmills, is another region which has a continual
struggle with this levee question. The native name of the country,
“Nederlands,” or Netherlands, refers to the character of the region, which
lies as an average, about on the sea level; while a great portion is even
somewhat lower. The thrifty people who settled here, erected dykes to keep
back the sea, and built windmills to pump out the water, thus reclaiming a
fertile tract from the bottom of the sea. But the great dykes need incessant
watching and repairing; and the expenditures upon them up to the present
time, have been greater than would have been required to build them
outright of solid copper. As the safety of the dykes involves all that pertains
to temporal life and welfare, the people have learned not to trust to a single
line of defenses. Second and third lines are erected in the rear of the first;
and many large towns are completely girdled with defenses of their own.
Since the population of this region is nearly five hundred to the square
mile, while our own land does not average over eighteen to the same area, it
is at once clear that the breaking of the dykes is a far more serious and
terrible matter than the rupture of our levees. Some fearful disasters in
Holland are recorded. In 1421, the dykes gave way at Dort, and more than
one hundred thousand people perished. In 1530, there was a general failure
of the dykes, and the people, not dreaming of danger, were suddenly

overwhelmed; four hundred thousand perished, and the loss of property was
proportionate. Two great floods have occurred within this century, doing
terrible damage.
The Dutch, though peaceful and phlegmatic, are a liberty-loving people,
and have often shown themselves ready to sacrifice everything for their
freedom. They have found more than once its safety in the loss of all else.
One of the most thrilling and memorable incidents of the sort occurred in
1574. Under the leadership of William the Silent, one of the noblest of men,
the Dutch

THE RELIEF OF LEYDEN.

were struggling to throw off the yoke of Spain. Leyden was besieged. The
town was well fortified. The Spaniards endeavored to starve the city into
surrender. They swarmed about the outworks and taunted the famished
people as “beggars.” The contest grew daily more hopeless for the besieged.
Hundreds were dead of starvation. But the survivors hurled defiance at the
Spaniards. They were digging up every green thing, devouring roots of
grass, old leather, offal, anything that could in the least aid to sustain life.
But “so long as a dog barked in the city, the Spaniards might know they
held out.” A few faint-hearted ones pleaded with the burgomaster to yield.

But the brave Van der Werff, gaunt, pale, wearied with care and watching,
told them they could only surrender when they had eaten him; so long as he
lived, the city should not yield.
It was a terrible time. Scores crept into out-of-the-way places to die, that
their misery might not be seen by their friends. The Dutch without wished
to help their friends within—but the lines of the enemy were too strong. As
the last resort, the “Silent Man” ordered the dykes cut. It was done. The
country folk abandoned their homes. A fleet of two hundred vessels sailed
in over the land fifteen miles. They reached the Landscheiding, a great dyke
five miles from the city. Three quarters of a mile nearer the town was a
second dyke, the Greenway; within that was the Kirkway.
The rising water frightened the Spaniards. But at ten inches, it stopped.
The Spaniards renewed their taunts. Again it rose two feet; the vessels drew
nearer: then they lay aground in sight of the famished citizens. Then arose a
strong southwest wind—and after days of weary waiting, the fleet was close
on the last line of fortifications. It was the first of October. In the morning
the “beggars” of the sea would make a desperate attack upon the Spanish
hordes.
In the night there came a terrible crash. The sea had undermined the
wall. The citizens were filled with panic, fearing an immediate irruption of
the enemy. They stood under arms through the weary night.
The morning came. Not a Spaniard was in sight. Fearing a sortie of the
hunger-maddened people, they had fled in the darkness. The city was saved
by the drowning of the land.
A story is told of Frederick the Great, illustrative of the same
indomitable spirit. After establishing the supremacy of Prussia, he was
suspected of designs upon the independence of the Netherlands. The Dutch
envoy at his court, newly appointed, Frederick endeavored to overawe by a
display of his power. A great military review was held; and Frederick, who
took a peculiar delight in tall men, caused troop after troop of his gigantic
grenadiers to file before the weazened little Dutchman, and asked his
opinion. Of each one the envoy said: “Very good, but not tall enough.”
Frederick, much nettled at this oft repeated criticism, asked the ambassador
what he meant by it. “I mean,” he retorted, “that we can flood our country
twelve feet deep!” Frederick left the Dutch in peace.

Though the most terrible calamities of any kind—whether from flood,
famine, or earthquake—are to be found in the history of China, yet other
nations have shared in disastrous floods. We mention a few:
A notable flood occurred on the coast of Lincolnshire, England, A. D.,
245. It seems to have been a high tide, aided by the wind. Three thousand
people and many cattle were drowned by a flood in Cheshire, A. D., 353.
Four hundred families were drowned in Glasgow, A. D., 758, by an
overflow of the Clyde. A tidal wave destroyed several English seaports in
A. D., 1014. The Severn leaped its banks in 1483, submerging the adjacent
lowlands, and drowning hundreds. Fifty thousand people perished in
Catalonia, Spain, during a flood in 1617. In Yorkshire, England, occurred a
remarkable outburst of subterranean waters in 1686.
“In September, 1687, mountain torrents inundated Navarre, and two
thousand persons were drowned. Twice, in 1787 and in 1802, the Irish
Liffey overran its banks and caused great damage. A reservoir in Lurca, a
city of Spain, burst in 1802, in much the same way as did the dam at
Johnstown, and as a result one thousand persons perished. Twenty-four
villages near Presburg, and nearly all their inhabitants, were swept away in
April, 1811, by an overflow of the Danube. Two years later, large provinces
in Austria and Poland were flooded, and many lives were lost. In the same
year a force of two thousand Turkish soldiers, who were stationed on a
small island near Widdin, were surprised by a sudden overflow of the
Danube and all were drowned. There were two more floods in this year, one
in Silesia, where six thousand persons perished, and the French army met
such losses and privations that its ruin was accelerated; and another in
Poland, where four thousand persons were supposed to have been drowned.
In 1816, the melting of the snow on the mountains surrounding Strabane,
Ireland, caused destructive floods: and the overflow of the Vistula, in
Germany, laid many villages under water. Floods that occasioned great
suffering occurred in 1829, when severe rains caused the Spey and
Findhorn to rise fifty feet above their ordinary level. The following year the
Danube again overflowed its banks, and inundated the houses of 50,000
inhabitants of Vienna.” The Saone

BREAKING OF THE DYKES, HOLLAND.

overflowed in 1840 and poured its turbulent waters into the Rhine, flooding
one hundred square miles of land, and drowning thousands. Another great
flood in France occurred in 1856. In 1875, still another drowned a thousand
people near Toulouse; while India, the same year lost many through floods.
But no such destruction of life ever visited our own land till within a
year past, and the event is more to be deplored, in that it was caused by
unexcusable negligence. That flood we must next consider.

CHAPTER XVI.

THE JOHNSTOWN FLOOD.

“A sullen hoarse murmur, and nameless fear!—
A sound like the tread of a hurrying host!—
A roar like the storm, as the wild waters near,
Like the dash of the sea on a crag-bordered coast!

A wave like a mountain sweeps swift through the vale
Ten thousand wrecked homes tossing dark in its spray,
Wild cries of death-anguish echo mocks with her wail—
And the fiend of the flood now has claimed his prey!”

NDIA, profiting by long and sad experience, has provided, as far as
may be possible, against the contingencies of drought and famine, by
the establishment of a magnificent system of storage reservoirs, to
furnish water for irrigating when rain is wanting. Some of these tanks are
fine specimens of engineering, and so far as records go, no disaster has ever
attended their establishment. But to be ready and efficient, for purposes of
irrigation, the water must be above the level of the surrounding country:
hence, the only practicable plan has been to dam up the courses of streams
and ravines in the hills. As nearly all Bengal is comparatively low and level,
this method is not applicable there; hence, the terrible famines consequent
in a comparatively small decrease of the average rain supply. But in the
Deccan, in the Madras presidency, and in Ceylon, the reservoir system has
been carried to an extent astounding to the white man, who depends with
tolerable certainty upon the rain, and who is accustomed to consider other
races as universally indolent and improvident. In fourteen districts of the
Madras presidency

MAP OF CONEMAUGH VALLEY.

are nearly fifty-five thousand irrigation reservoirs, four-fifths of which are
in regular operation. Their size may be estimated by the fact that the
retaining dykes average half a mile in length. One ancient reservoir, now
broken, had a dam thirty miles long, shutting in an artificial lake of eighty
square miles. The Veranum tank covers fifty-three square miles, has a dam
twelve miles long, and produces $55,000 per year. In Ceylon may be seen a
gigantic dam of cemented stone, fifteen miles long, one hundred feet wide
at the base, and forty feet wide at the top.
The same plan is of late years being extensively operated in our western
tracts for the reclaiming of extensive tracts otherwise not cultivable. With
these exceptions no great use of the reservoir system has been made in this
country. Every saw-mill, grist-mill or factory in our land usually has its dam
in an adjacent stream to insure a fair supply of water: but none of these can

be properly considered general precautions against drought. The only
prominent public works of the sort are the Croton storage reservoirs, by
which New York is supplied with water. There are eighteen reservoirs, with
a total capacity of fourteen thousand millions of gallons. China has a great
canal irrigation system, which is, perhaps, safer in some respects than the
Hindoo system, but which can not command as large an increase of supply
in time of drought, the water being drawn from the rivers, and thus having
comparatively little fall. But the canals so thoroughly intersect the whole
country as to serve as public highways: and in many sections there are no
other roads.
Doubtless the methods of construction in India have been learned by
long experience. Certain it is that for many years, at least, no serious trouble
has ever arisen from defective retaining dykes. The public welfare is so
intimately connected with these pools that they are carefully inspected and
repaired. The destruction of the system might at any time precipitate a
terrible famine.
Not having a similar condition of things to contend with, the average
American is not concerned about the few dams scattered about the land, not
one in a score of which would cause any serious loss were it to break: and
even were such death-traps scattered over every county, it is doubtful if a
race who will crouch behind a Mississippi levee and refuse flight till the last
moment, could ever be brought to a proper realization of the danger, or their
culpable negligence. The American is in a hurry: and so if speed be
obtained, trains may wreck, vessels collide, or boilers burst, and the
coroner’s jury will obligingly render a verdict of “nobody to blame.” Since
he also wants things at the bottom market price, he encourages the
production of countless unsafe buildings, dams, and similar structures,
merely because they are cheap.
The most terrible lesson ever given to cheap dam builders in the history
of our country is one, which, with the reader’s indulgence, we shall
endeavor to narrate.
In southwest central Pennsylvania, among the foot-hills of the
Alleghanies, lies the peaceful and picturesque valley of the Little
Conemaugh. Here, in 1889, within a stretch of a dozen miles, lay five
industrious and thriving towns: South Fork, Mineral Point, Conemaugh,
Woodvale and Johnstown. The last of these, embracing as it did, Cambria

and Conemaugh Borough, was a city of thirty thousand people. The
population of South Fork was two thousand, Mineral Point had eight
hundred, Conemaugh and Woodvale about two thousand five hundred each.
The total population of the valley within the distance named could not have
been far from thirty-eight thousand.
Johnstown was the center of interest as of population. Thither came on
May 30th—“Decoration Day"—people from Altoona, Hollidaysburg,
Somerset, Latrobe, Ebensburg and Wilmore, and from the four other towns
already mentioned. There was a great concourse, a long and impressive
procession of soldiers and secret orders, with bands of music, flags, regalia,
banners, bunting and devices. With solemn pomp the cemetery was visited,
and flowers were strewn on the graves of the patriotic dead. This sad but
pleasing duty ended, the procession turned again toward the city, and
entering the Opera House, listened to an eloquent oration. It was a day of
more than ordinary interest and elation for Johnstown. The city stood happy
and unsuspecting on the very brink of an awful doom.
During the day the sky had been overcast, and there were occasional
light showers. At nightfall the clouds lowered more heavily, and seemed to
descend nearer to the earth. At nine o’clock there was a gentle rain; at
eleven, a tremendous down-pour, which continued with little interruption
during the remainder of the night. It seemed as if the windows of heaven
had been opened.
The site of Johnstown is at the Junction of Stony Creek with the Little
Conemaugh. Before eight o’clock on the morning of the 31st of May, both
streams were bank-full. As the day advanced the lower parts of the town
were inundated. By eleven o’clock there was a depth of five feet at the
corner of Main and Market streets, and at the Cambria Iron Company’s
store.
Still higher the waters rose. In the houses most exposed, carpets were
removed from the floors, and pianos and organs were lifted on chairs and
tables. Soon the two angry streams were mingling their waters in the
business center of the town. Both streams had been as high before, but
never both at the same time. Some thought the Cambria Iron Company,
which had narrowed the channel below the stone bridge, was responsible,
and should be required to widen it again, and so make a free exit for the
waters.

By two o’clock the water was two to ten feet deep all over the city
proper, and the people had retired to their houses. There was inconvenience
and cessation of business, but no one apprehended serious danger. They
surveyed the providence of God without fear; little thinking of the
destruction that, swifter than the avalanche, would presently come through
the heedlessness or the greed of man.
Twelve miles up the river, eastward, and at an elevation of four hundred
and fifty feet above the city, lay Conemaugh Lake. This was an artificial
reservoir, covering four hundred, or perhaps four hundred and fifty acres of
land, and having an average depth of thirty feet. Across the south fork of the
Conemaugh, about two miles above its junction with the main stream, had
been built a dam, sixty-two feet high in the center, and eight hundred and
fifty feet long. The valley, narrow at the dam, widened above into an
extensive basin. Proposed in 1836, and authorized three years later, this
reservoir had been finally constructed in 1852, as a feeder to the
Pennsylvania canal, fourteen miles below. A culvert at the bottom of the
dam contained fine iron discharge pipes, each two feet in diameter, which
could be opened at low water thus sending the contents of the reservoir to
the canal at Johnstown. In 1857, the Pennsylvania Railroad Company,
having bought the canal, abandoned it, and the reservoir was thenceforth
disused. In July, 1862, the culvert beneath it gave way, owing to some
imperfection of the foundation. The depth of water in the reservoir was, at
the time, not greater than forty feet; hardly more than half its actual
capacity. The breach widened into a chasm, and the water of the reservoir
was discharged, with the exception of about eight feet at the bottom; but so
slow was the process, owing to the substantial character of the dam, and the
resistance it presented, that little harm resulted.
From 1862 to 1880, the reservoir was empty, and the property,
containing something more than five hundred acres, was a waste. In 1875 it
was bought by Congressman John Reilly, and was by him, four years later,
transferred to the South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club. This was an
association of three gentlemen; suggested and organized by Colonel B. F.
Ruff, a successful railroad and tunnel contractor. All these parties had
ceased from membership in the club prior to the great disaster.
The original dam, constructed with care and solidity, had involved an
expenditure of $240,000. It was built in regular layers and solidly rammed,
and when finished was higher in the middle than at the ends, having a spill-

way cut through rock in the side of the hill. The cost of reconstruction was
no more than $17,000. No engineer, good or bad, had charge of the work.
The material used was, for the most part, not more substantial than shale
and earth and straw. The pipes at the bottom were permanently closed, and
as the dam advanced, the water was discharged through a board flume over
the top. It was at first intended to raise the new dam to a height of no more
than forty feet, but it was presently discovered that to cut down the spill-
way through rock would cost more than to construct the dam to the original
elevation. This was accordingly done, though not perfectly, as the dam was
two or three feet lower than the old one, and had, besides, a sag in the
middle. A fatal mistake, if once the water should begin to flow over the
crest.
Another mistake was the obstruction of the spill-way with an iron
grating placed to retain the fish, without taking the precaution at the same
time to enlarge the passage. This would have been expensive; and here, as
in the construction of the dam, it is apparent that economy was consulted.
The sum of the mistakes made in the summer of 1880, and which
culminated in the disaster of 1889, were, according to the report of a corps
of engineers, who made a careful survey, “the lowering of the crest, the
dishing, or central sag of the crest, the closing of the bottom culvert, and the
obstruction of the spill-way.”
The people of the towns below had often discussed the possible rupture
of the dam, but they scarcely feared it. Had it not been built by men who
understood their business; and might not these be trusted, as men trust their
lives to the doctor and their souls to the priest? Had it not resisted the flood
of June, 1887—the highest ever known—and why then should it yield to
any other? It is certain that in the towns below some were not thinking of
the reservoir at all; while, in case it should give way, few had formed the
remotest conception of the possible disaster. On the very day of the awful
calamity, when the streets and sidewalks of Johnstown were already under
water, a leading citizen, to the question, “How much higher do you think
the water will rise if the reservoir should burst?” answered quietly, “About
two feet;” and we have not heard that any ventured to correct the estimate.
Unsuspecting souls were they, and yet wholly like other men. Those long
resident by the volcano have ceased to fear its fires. Familiarity, even with
danger, breeds contempt. The evil which still delays, we fondly believe will

never come. And as to the consequences, if those who build dams know so
little, why should simple townsmen be expected to know more? Had they
guaged that reservoir, and did they know that up there in the mountains
were six hundred and forty millions of cubic feet of water, enough to make
a veritable Niagara, for more than half an hour, ready to rush down upon
them? Had they calculated the awful energy of twenty millions of tons of
water falling four hundred and fifty feet in a progress of a dozen miles; and
this progress down a pent-up valley, in some places not more than three
hundred feet in width? Had they considered that the flow of a mountain of
water, sixty feet high at starting, must be far more rapid on the top than at
the bottom? That the base, entangled among obstructions, and
overspreading them, would furnish to the water above, an inclined plane,
smooth as glass, along which it would shoot with the speed of an arrow, to
fall over the edge of the retarded water beneath, and furnish in its turn a
ready passage for the water above and behind? That in consequence of this
law, the flood would come not by a gradual rise, giving time for escape, but
like a rolling mountain, to smite with the impact of a falling asteroid, and
crush in an instant everything in its way? Had they reflected that such a
body of water would outrun the swiftest Paul Revere who might mount
steed to fly with the warning to the towns below? That to the doomed, the
first announcement of danger would be the stroke of the destroyer? That to
the living there would be absolutely no more time for flight than to the
sinner, of preparation for judgment after Gabriel shall have blown his
trumpet? It is safe to say that few, if any, had even remotely conceived the
possibilities in the case. Men learn by experience, and even from experience
they fail to learn; for the lesson of to-day is forgotten to-morrow: and
human heedlessness is perpetual.
The crest of the dam stood four or five feet above the spill-way. Towards
noon of the 31st, persons on the watch saw the water of the reservoir rising
at the rate of a foot an hour. Meanwhile a rumor had spread that the dam
was leaking, and this attracted other observers. Some declared that jets of
water were leaping from the lower side to a distance of thirty feet.
Somewhere about half-past two o’clock water began to run over the top.
The structure was then evidently doomed; for, though riprapped with stone
on both slopes, no rampart of earth could long withstand the abrasion of a
torrent running over its crest, and down its lower face. A South Fork pastor
reached the spot at ten minutes before three. A foot of water was then

running over the dam. A few minutes later a break was made “large enough
to admit the passage of a train of cars;” then presently the whole thing
dissolved almost instantly, like a phantom. A breach was made four hundred
and twenty-nine feet wide clean down to the bottom, and with the noise of
seven thunders and a tread that shook the hills like a young earthquake, out
rushed a mountain of water “tree-top high.” At such a sight the awed
spectator could only gasp, “God have mercy on the people in the vale
below.” Rushing onward a mile in three minutes, or as some have claimed,
twice or thrice as fast, in an instant down went a mill, two houses and some
barns, up went an iron bridge tossed like a thing of straw, and a moment
later the flood was at South Fork. Two trains, a passenger and a freight,
detained by a wash-out further up the road, were standing at the station.
Warned by the awful roar, the passenger train sprang out just in time to save
the lives of the people on board. The engineer of the freight, seeing it
impossible to move with his heavy train, unhitched the locomotive, opened
the throttle-valve, and with the fireman, flew for life. The seething
mountain leaped on the train and dragged it away, regardless

THE BROKEN DAM.

of two brakemen, who surrendered their lives. The village of South Fork,
standing in the angle above the junction of two streams, and on high

ground, was comparatively unharmed, though two lives and considerable
property were destroyed.
On rushed the river down a valley, having from the lake to Johnstown an
average grade of more than thirty feet in a mile. A mile and a quarter below
South Fork the river strikes at right angles a projecting cliff. The baffled
stream makes a detour of two miles and returns almost into itself, having
accomplished an absolute advance of no more than seventy-five feet. A
railroad cut no longer than this quits the river above, then regains and
crosses it by a viaduct below. The railroad bed at the upper end of the cut is
twenty feet above the stream, while at the lower end it is seventy. Here the
torrent divided; a part of it, twenty feet deep and forty feet above the river-
bed, flowing through the cut, the other part following the channel around.
When this latter portion returning struck the cliff at the lower end of the cut,
the water rose to the enormous height of one hundred and twenty-five feet.
From this point the monster, towering to heaven, and like a “wild beast
dreadful and terrible and strong exceedingly,” and ravening for prey, sprang
upon Mineral Point, a little more than a mile below. The town was instantly
“wiped out,” forty houses being swept away and sixteen persons drowned.
The rest doubtless were saved by clinging to the wreck; or warned by the
ominous roar, they had fled to the neighboring hills. The Methodist church,
lifted from its foundation and tossing on the torrent, solemnly, and for the
last time tolled its bell, as if recognizing the end of its days and usefulness;
and continued to toll until its burial was accomplished beneath the waters.
Two miles and a half below Mineral Point the flood encountered another
bend of the river, with a cut and viaduct in all respects similar to that which
has been described. Here again was enacted the grand and terrific scene
which took place above. Then from this augmented height the torrent swept
down upon East Conemaugh and Franklin, a mile below. These villages
standing on opposite sides of the river, constituted the first of that series of
boroughs known by the name of Johnstown.
An engineer, backing up the road, and pulling at the nose of his
locomotive a train of freight cars, had proceeded a third of a mile above
Conemaugh. Here the roar of the coming flood broke upon his ears, and
looking up the river he saw the descending avalanche. Instantly reversing
his engine and drawing the throttle, his whistle all the while shrieking a
wild alarm, he pushed at utmost speed the obstructing cars back to the yard
of the Pennsylvania road. Then leaping from his engine, and leaving his

whistle still to sound its warning, he ran to his house near by, and with his
family escaped to the hill just as the rolling torrent dashed its billows at his
feet.
Three passenger trains and one freight had been standing on the side-
tracks some hours, detained by the wash-out already mentioned. The
passengers were reading, writing, conversing, worrying, walking up and
down the tracks in the rain, or watching the driftwood and the constantly
rising river, but conscious of no danger. Something was said about a
reservoir somewhere up the road, which might burst and come down upon
them, but they gave the matter no second thought. Twice was one of the
trains compelled to move, as the water undermined the track, and caused it
to fall into the river. Once they were startled by the crash of a bridge, which
yielded to

FLEEING ENGINE.

the rushing waters, and was swept away. It was near the hour of four in the
afternoon, and they were still wearily waiting. Suddenly they were startled
by the long, shrill shriek, close to their ears, of engineer Hess’ whistle, and
looking out of their windows up the river, they saw an enormous mass of
wreckage, roots, trees, and driftwood borne aloft on the back of the torrent,
and rushing toward them. With one impulse, the most of the passengers

leaped from the trains and fled for their lives. Those in the first train had to
run round, or creep under the second in order to reach the town, and thence
the hill. Between the trains and the town there was a ditch ten feet wide, and
five and a half feet deep, and filled with water. Into this, many plunged—
nine women and girls together. A gentleman who had leaped across tarried a
moment to give a helping hand, and all were rescued, save one, an aged
woman. She was apparently dazed; for, refusing the proffered hand, she
said, “I will go this way,” walked toward the maddened waters, and was
lost. The rest fled amain to the rising ground near by, with the raging torrent
not ten feet behind them. Gaining the hill they turned to behold a grand and
awful scene—the crashing, tumbling buildings lifted from their foundations
and hurled against each other; the shrieks and cries and screams of
agonizing, despairing, dying men and women, and all Conemaugh going
down in the fierce river. The round-house sprang from its seat like a toy
tossed from a giant’s hand, and more than thirty great locomotives were
rolled along “like so many pebbles.” All the trains were carried away. In
some of the cars the passengers could yet be seen, while on the top of one
car, loosened from the rest, were two men struggling desperately to keep
their hold as it rolled from side to side. The whole four trains drifted down
about five hundred feet, when they were stopped in a singular manner.
Some inexplicable movement of the water lifted the head of one train and
threw it across that of the other. Engines from the round-house were rolled
down and piled against these, a mass of trees and drift were added, and the
whole four trains, with the exception of two or three cars, were arrested and
anchored in the midst of the flood.
But, though the whistle was a warning, and the hills were a refuge to the
people of East Conemaugh, the lives of twenty-four were lost; while of the
passengers on the trains, twenty-six are known to have perished.
One family were carried down in their house, which held together till it
drifted against the steep hillside, some distance below, where it was arrested
long enough for them to make their escape.
Two sisters, clinging to driftwood, were being swept past the woolen
mill in Woodvale, when a rope was thrown to them and they were saved.
One man was carried on a drifting log clear through Johnstown and over
into Kernville, to find deliverance at the end of a wild, three-miles ride.
Another, overtaken at the fair grounds, climbed on the ticket shed, and

thence upon a telephone pole. This being quickly broken down by the
impact of some solid body, he mounted a passing log and dashed ahead all
the way to the stone bridge, a distance of more than two miles. Here he took
hold of some wreckage, and by the backwater was carried to Main street,
near the Presbyterian church, whence he worked his way to final safety.
A quarter of a mile below East Conemaugh was the town of Woodvale.
The story of its calamity has few details, since all its five thousand
inhabitants were either drowning or engaged in a mad struggle for their
lives. Every one of its eight hundred houses was lifted in a minute—not one

WRECK OF THE TRAINS.

remained; nothing but parts of the walls of the large woollen and flour
mills. To the hills forty or sixty rods distant, not many succeeded in
escaping. Relatively but few attempted it, for when the whistles sounded the
alarm, the hills were too distant and the flood was too near. Such as fled
were overtaken by the raging waters, and, to make destruction doubly sure,
a freight train was standing between them and the hill, and this at the
supreme moment, began to move. Thus many perished when there was but
a step between them and deliverance. The houses were mostly frames, and
the people were commonly swept away with their shattered dwellings. We
know there were thousands of wonderful escapes, the recital of which

would fill a bulky volume; but more than one-third of the total population
were quickly counted with the dead.
Laden with corpses and debris gathered from five towns; with cars and
trees and all the nameless accumulation from a valley twelve miles long, the
torrent now swept down on Conemaugh Borough. This in turn was quickly
swept away, though more of the inhabitants succeeded in escaping to the
hills. At the lower end of the borough were the Gautier Mills, a part of the
great Cambria Iron Company’s plant. These occupied perhaps ten or twelve
acres of ground. When the flood struck them with their hundreds of fierce
fires, there were thunderous explosions that shook the hills, and the whole
seemed to rise up at once and slide forward on the slanting flood. One or
two experiences from this part of the town must suffice for hundreds more.
One lady drifted far down across the Seventh Ward and lay all night among
the wreckage, within easy reach of seven dead persons, while the luxuriant
hair of a dead woman drifted frequently across her face, half buried beneath
the water. A wealth German lady, a prominent member of the Lutheran
church, said, “My son Henry and his wife, my son Charles and my son-in-
law were all drowned; my pastor and his wife and four nice little children
were lost; there is not one brick of our good, big church left on top of
another; and here is the key, which alone remains. I think my heart must
break from overmuch sorrow.” A few days later she sank into the grave.

CHAPTER XVII.

INCIDENTS AT JOHNSTOWN.

“They shall sleep
Where death may deal not again forever,
Where change may come not till all change end.
From the graves they have made they shall rise up never,
Who have left naught living to ravage and rend.
Earth, stones and thorns, of the wild ground growing,
While the sun and the rain live, these shall be,
Till a last wind’s breath, upon all these blowing,
Roll the sea.”
* * * * * *
And till in his triumph, where all things falter,
Stretched out on the spoils that his own hand spread,
Like a god self-slain on his own strange altar,
Death lies dead.”

HE Johnstown flood has no parallel in suddenness and
destructiveness, save in the convulsions of the earthquake and
volcano, agencies which will be noticed shortly, but which have never
wrought such serious havoc in our own land as elsewhere. But the most
deplorable feature of this terrible calamity is, that it might easily have been
averted. It was due entirely to the culpable carelessness of a club of wealthy
pleasure-seekers. It would be senseless to prate of “mysteries of
Providence” in this connection.
Nothing can give so clear an idea of the exact character of the terrible
flood—totally different from the overflow of a river—than the personal
narratives of survivors. A chapter devoted to these will be of interest, and
serve also to illustrate the breaking up of family and social ties that are an
inevitable consequent of great calamities of every kind.
The flood was slightly less sudden at Johnstown proper than higher up
the valley. Yet, to the inhabitants, in every part of the city, it was almost
instantaneous. All narrators agree in the statement that they were taken
completely by surprise. Few of them, whether by sound of whistle, or sight
of cloud, or of coming torrent, had so much as a minute’s warning. Mr.
Rose seems to have had the longest notice of any. He reckons less than

three minutes after he looked from his window and saw the flood a mile
above, before his house fell, and himself and family were struggling
beneath the water. His carriage-house was broken, perhaps three minutes in
advance of his dwelling. The water which overthrew it was a sort of
advance guard preceding the main body. This partial division of forces was
doubtless due to the two great bends in the river, which have already been
described, or rather to one of them, since one would have nearly the effect
of two. The upper bend was two miles round, while the railroad cut across
the neck was only seventy-five feet. The smaller portion of water pouring
through the cut got nearly two miles the start of the main body, which had
to flow round the bend. The water which got the start at the first cut had to
flow round the second bend, not being high enough to command the short
way through the second cut. Practically, therefore, the distribution of water
made at two bends and cuts was only a little more than that which was
made at one. Had there been no bends and railroad cuts between
Conemaugh Lake and Johnstown; had the flood been confined for the entire
distance to a single channel, then the towns below would have recognized
no previous swell whatever; a single gigantic wall of water would have
struck Johnstown as distinctly as it struck South Point; the inhabitants, in
most cases, would not have had time even to reach their

MILL CREEK.

upper stories; the wave, even more than it did, would have crushed as with
the single blow of a mighty hammer, and the number of survivors who
could tell a tale of wonderful deliverance would have been correspondingly
diminished. The lesson of these facts is for those who dwell below dams or
reservoirs. If there be nothing in the nature of the channel to distribute the
water, and the rupture be instantaneous, the destruction of life and property
will be awful to contemplate.
At the Gautier Works, the flood, while extending over all the valley, was
yet parted into three principal divisions. One of these, following the course
of the Conemaugh, rushed down against the foot of the hill, just above the
Stone Bridge, and would have instantly swept away that magnificently solid
structure, had it not stood parallel to, rather than at right angles with the
torrent; another turning to the left, swept across Conemaugh Borough and
the upper wards of Johnstown, destroying hundreds of stone buildings, the
German Lutheran church, and the Hulbert House; while the third swept

straight down through the middle of the city, demolishing the Y. M. C. A.
Hall, the Municipal buildings, and scores of the finest residences. This last,
turned into a reverse current by the damming of the water at the bridge, was
presently rolled back, to ensure the destruction of whatever had escaped in
its downward course.
Thousands of people, drifted from the towns above, were dead already,
or still struggling in the water; and to these were now quickly added many
thousands more. Of the people of Johnstown, it may be said that not a soul
had time to fly. We hear nothing at all about escapes to the hills. At the
scream of the warning whistle, some were startled, and looked up the river.
According to their place in the town, they saw, at the distance of a mile, half
a mile, or only a hundred yards away, an ominous and inexplicable dark
cloud, which might be smoke or spray, hanging upon the surface of the
water. They felt that something unusual had taken place, but of its nature
they were not well aware. Those who saw it at the greatest distance had
hardly time to scramble to the upper stories of their dwellings, before, even
there, they found themselves struggling in the water; while the vast
majority, on looking forth, saw buildings, not a half block above them,
already leaping from their foundations. Simultaneous with the roar and rush
of the torrent, came the crash of houses, the shrieks and cries of men,
women and children, the revolution of everything as in a kaleidoscope, and
then, driven with the speed of a race-horse, houses, furniture, cars,
locomotives, railroad tracks, the Gautier plant, animals alive and dead,
trees, lumber and infinite wreckage were rushed onward to be jammed and
piled at the railroad bridge in a maze of ruin fifty feet high and covering
forty acres of ground. Here the laboring waters finding no ready exit, were
in part turned to the left up Stony Creek, and in part rolled swiftly backward
across the center of the city, bearing the drift on their bosom, and in some
instances dropping shattered houses within a square or two of their former
places. The wreckage above the bridge, entangling and holding fast,
hundreds, if not thousands, as well of the living as the dead, presently
caught fire, thus adding, through all the long awful night, to the horrors of
flood, the fiercer horrors of flame. From the roaring conflagration, a sickly,
baleful gleam was thrown through a mile radius of surrounding gloom; but
like the Miltonic fires of perdition, from those flames

“No light, but rather darkness visible,
Served only to discover sights of woe.”

Some say they saw hundreds throw themselves backward into the
flames, to perish, and the record of the morgues, showing how often a
charred arm or leg or half a body was interred, prove that upon many, dead
or alive, the fire did its awful work, while in many cases, doubtless, it was
done so effectually that not a remnant could be found.
As the night drew on, St. John’s Roman Catholic church which had
successfully withstood the angry waters, was seen to be on fire, driving out
the miserable creatures that had taken refuge in it, and with its fierce heat
scorching those on the surrounding drift, till they were fain to relax their
hold and drop into the water. Those flames, as they climbed the beautiful
spire and seized the emblem of Christianity on its lofty top, seemed to mock
the confidence of those who in their last extremity were still clinging to the
cross. In the tower of the Lutheran church, near to Stony Creek, the town
clock was still sustained far above the raging waters. The flood had struck
the city at four, and as the hour of five drew on, when drifting corpses were
now everywhere, and thousands clinging to the wreck lay at the mercy of
the flood or flame, the mechanism of the clock serenely moving brought the
hands to mark the hour, and slowly five times the ponderous hammer smote
the massive bell, tolling the knell of thousands which that hour had rushed
into eternity. On the ears of the living, the sound of those slowly beating
strokes fell with a horrible sensation; for at the end of another hour would
be tolled a dirge for them. There was something terrible in the calmness of
that clock, faithfully telling the flight of Father Time, reckless whether he
had brought joy or woe to mortal men.
But not engulfing flood, nor burning temple, nor holocaust of victims at
the bridge could shake the steadfast confidence of many in their God. One
little boy, when his mother and the rest were clinging in the drift at the

AT THE STONE BRIDGE.

bridge, asked, “Mamma, where is that God that Mr. Beale and Mr. Moore
told us about, and said that he would save us?” but another little boy,
despairing of temporal deliverance, was heard closing his prayer with the
beautiful words of the 23rd Psalm: “Though I walk through the valley of the
shadow of Death, I will fear no evil; for thou art with me; thy rod and thy
staff, they comfort me.” A son asked his mother, “Will we die?” She
answered, “I can not tell; but one thing I do know, that God does all things
well, and if he wants us to-night, he will take us; if not, he will find a way
for our escape. We will go and sit down and see what the Lord will do.” A
pastor, just escaped with his family to the third story, and waist-deep in
water, before he could reach it, instantly opened and read from the family
Bible, which he had caught up in his flight: “God is our refuge and strength,
a very present help in trouble; therefore, will not we fear, though the earth
be removed, and though the mountains be carried into the midst of the sea;
though the waters thereof roar and be troubled; though the mountains shake
with the swelling thereof.” One of the sweetest singers in the city had
retreated with her family to the attic; the house was lifted and apparently
moving to destruction, when, to soothe her children and her husband, she
calmly sang, “Jesus, lover of my soul.” While she continued to sing, the end
of a large tree, having great roots, was driven through the house, anchoring
it firmly just in the edge of Stony Creek River. A man who was carried over
the Stone Bridge, saw a lady on a piece of wreckage shooting down the
valley of death, and heard her singing those same immortal words of

Charles Wesley; written by him at night, by a feeble spark, in a spring-
house, where he was hiding from a raging mob:
“Jesus, lover of my soul,
Let me to thy bosom fly,
While the raging waters roll,
While the tempest still is high.”

A venerable man was seen upon his knees, with clasped hands, gazing
steadfastly at the cross above St. John’s Roman Catholic church; while
another, converted the previous winter, full of faith, and always rejoicing in
hope, was last seen kneeling upon the roof of his house, riding with the
torrent, and shouting, “Glory to God.”
The narratives of the survivors, whether from the upper, middle, or lower
portions of the city, all alike serve to show that the suddenness of the doom
could only be equalled by its awful horror.
The Hulbert House, built of brick, and one of the finest hotels in
Johnstown, stood in the upper portion of the city. There were about sixty
persons in it at the time of the catastrophe, and of these, the lives of forty-
nine were lost. Many of these were in the office, when an unusual whistling
of engines was heard. Imagining a fire had broken out in the midst of the
flood, they all ran to the upper stories, except the proprietor, the clerk, and
one guest. Two or three minutes later, the clerk walked to the window, and
looked across the Conemaugh in the direction of Prospect Hill, and seeing
what he mistook for a great cloud of dust, exclaimed, “My God, the hill is
falling!” At that, the proprietor ran to the door, and looking up the street,
realized at once the situation. Directing the other two to hasten upstairs and
spread the alarm, he ran to the kitchen to warn the girls; then fleeing to the
fourth floor, he reached it just as the building fell. One of the few survivors
declares that the catastrophe overtook nearly all the guests no further
advanced than to the foot of the stairway on the third floor, and as yet
unapprized of the nature of their danger.
Rev. D. M. Miller, pastor of the Presbyterian church in East Conemaugh,
had his home in Johnstown. To him and his family the deluge came without
a moment’s warning. They were in an upper room, fearing, suspecting
nothing, till they saw houses not half a square away starting from their
places, reeling and crackling onward over fences, telephone poles and fruit-
trees, and jostling against each other. Before they could fly in any direction,