were heard at Batavia, 100 miles away, and dust fell. Then columns of matter were vomited forth to a height of perhaps 26,000 feet above the mountain, and this lasted till 27th August. In June pleasure parties were organised from Batavia to see the great sight, and photographs were taken. On the 26th things came to a crisis. Fire, smoke, ashes, and lava poured forth, with a tremendous roar and the rattle of artillery, continuing till the 27th, but the whole scene was wrapped in a terrible darkness. On the 28th all was over and it was light again.
At 10 a.m. on the 27th occurred the great wave that overwhelmed all the coasts and rose from 78 to 115 feet. The Dutch man-of-war Berouw was carried inland nearly 2 miles and left 30 feet above the normal level of the sea. Villages and people were swept away. The mountain itself was blown to bits and had vanished. This great wave was felt in South Africa, 5000 miles away, and at Cape Horn, 7300 miles away. The great air wave went over the world and back and forward. At the island of Rodriquez in the Indian Ocean, 2968 miles distant, the noise was heard, as also at Dorey in New Guinea, 2014 miles. Nearer at hand it was less audible. The Chelsea artists tried to perpetuate the splendid blood-red effects it gave us on Father Thames—and in my old notebooks I find to this day my impressionist attempts, and so odd is memory that I can recall a burly carter coming and looking over my shoulder and saying, “I’m blowed, mister, if I can tell which is the right end of your picture, but that’s the—old bridge anyway.”
To-morrow or to-day the same thing may happen again—I mean the earthquake, not the carter’s remark—but who can look at the smiling scenes around and think of it. What remains
