except the two great gates. Of the
five thousand inhabitants, only about two
hundred escaped by clinging to timbers and
pieces of wreck. The vessels at anchor off
Callao either foundered at their moorings, or
were washed beyond the city with an
irresistible violence. During the lull of the
earthquake, there could be heard no sound but the
screams, cries, and groans of the drowning,
and the prayers and exhortations of the brave
Franciscan monks, who, till the waters choked
them, continued their prayers and hymns.
Great vaults, piled with corn, tallow, jars of
wine, timber, iron, tin, and copper, were all
destroyed. The destruction of Callao caused
fresh terror to Lima. There, at daybreak, the
brave viceroy, the Marquis of Villa Garcia,
appeared on horseback in the streets, and issued
orders for the repair of the aqueducts, and for
procuring corn from the outlying provinces.

The Spanish governor of Lima also ordered
the dead bodies to be collected in the churches,
and to be as rapidly interred as possible, and
instantly erected gibbets in the public places for
the swift execution of thieves.

But the most tremendous earthquake of
modern times was, however, that of Lisbon, in
1755. Those who know the Lisbon of the
present day, throned on its three hills and mirrored
in the Tagus, its noble amphitheatre of towers
and palaces standing out against a background
of olive woods and vineyards, will remember
how calm and stately it rises from the river-
side, almost equal to Stamboul itself in its royal
beauty. Its palaces, faced with tiles of blue and
green porcelain, give the city a quaint and
somewhat Chinese character, while in the
principal streets huge masses of orange and
pomegranate blossom trail down the garden walls,
and hang from the terraces of huge structures,
once convents. It is pleasant to walk in that vast
Black Horse Square, as our seamen call the Prada
de Commercio, in the centre of which stands a fine
colossal Commendatore sort of statue of Joseph
the First on horseback. Three streets lead from
this to even a larger square. Very beautiful
and very dirty is the Lisbon we know, in our
time.

On the 1st of November, 1755, the people
of Lisbon had risen as usual, and looked out
upon Belem and the Tagus, the little villas
among the olive-groves, the orange-trees, the
bull-ring, the hospitals, the convents, and the
shops. In the seventy-five convents and forty
churches of Lisbon the bells had tinkled, and
the early prayer been said. The clear blue air
roofed the city; the birds were singing their
matins in the suburb gardens of Alcantara and
Campo Grande. There was no omen of evil;
it was a hopeful day, and the river lay, for
mile after mile, calm in the early sunlight.

Suddenly there came a convulsive tremor
through the city, and it fell to pieces like a
children's tower of cards. It was a great
festival that morning; the churches were full of
kneeling crowds, and starry with wax-candles,
and luminous with lamps. In a moment, roofs
crashed in, towers fell, arcades gaped in two,
palaces tottered, steeples snapped, walls were
sundered. The air grew black with rising
clouds of dust, and was filled with the crash of
ceaseless destruction, and the groans and
screams of the stricken and the dying. At the
same time, as if the terrors of the Apocalypse
had broken at last on Lisbon, the sea, agitated
to its depths by the horrible convulsion, rose
and spread over the shore. One of the quays
also opened its dark jaws, and swallowed, in
an instant, six hundred persons who had taken,
refuge on it. In a minute or two more, fresh
calamities fell on the unhappy city, for the fires
being hurled down among the fallen timbers,
irresistible conflagrations broke out in several
parts of the city.

An eye-witness describes the scene with
simple force of detail. He says: "I perceived
the house begin to shake, but did not apprehend
the cause; but as I saw the neighbours about
were all running down-stairs, I also made the
best of my way, and by the time I had crossed
the street and got under the piazzas of some low
houses, it was darker than the darkest night I
ever saw, and continued so for about a minute,
occasioned by the clouds of dust from the falling
of houses on all sides. After it had cleared up,
I ran into a large square adjoining the palace
on the west, the street I lived in to the north,
the river to the south, and the custom-houses
and warehouses to the east. But this dismal
earthquake had such an influence upon the sea
and river, that the water rose in about ten
minutes several yards perpendicular. In that
time I ran back into my room, got my hat and
my cloak, locked up my room, and returned; but
being alarmed with a cry that the sea was
coming in, all people crowded forward to run
to the hills, I among the rest, with Mr. Wood
and family. We went nearly two miles through
the streets, climbing over the ruins of churches,
houses, &c., stepping over hundreds of dead
and dying people, killed by the falling of buildings
—carriages, chaises, and mules all lying
crushed to pieces. And that day being a great
festival in their church, and just at the time of
celebrating their first mass, thousands were
assembled in the churches, the major part of
whom were killed; for the great buildings,
particularly those built on any eminence, suffered
the most damage, very few of the churches or
convents having escaped. Before we got quite
clear of the buildings, another shock came, just
as I was passing over the ruins of a great
church; but I, happily, got clear before any
more tumbled down. We stayed near two
hours in an open field; but a dismal scene it
was, the people howling and crying, and the
sacrament going about to dying persons. So I
advised, as the best, to return to the square
near our own house, and there wait the event,
which we did immediately; but, by the time
we got there, the city was in flames in several
places at the same time. This completed the
destruction of the city; for, in the terror all
persons were, no attempt was made to stop
it, and the wind was very high, so that it was
communicated from one street to another by the