"We've got the best climate in the world, anyhow, though the derned place does seem shaky on her pins," said a Californian after the great earthquake of 1868. But we cannot say that during the four years from 1872 to 1875, inclusive, this "shakiness" was either very noticeable or very alarming. The best way of showing this is by saying that, except on two or three occasions during the years mentioned, the public were indebted to scientific observers for the knowledge of twenty or thirty earthquakes not distinctly palpable to the unassisted senses. A slight bump or jar climbs up the legs of one's desk. Is it an earthquake --or a bale of goods dropped next door? One cannot tell, and one does not care. The two or three exceptions to this general mildness were, however, of an unpleasantly unmistakable character. The first of these occurring at night when our friend had been only a few days in the State, almost decided him to leave it by the next eastern-bound train. The inmates of his hotel were suddenly awakened by a rattling of glass and crockery, varied by an occasional crash. For a few seconds every bed had several characteristics in common with an Irish jaunting-car on a rocky road. An unheroic numbness took possession of every tongue and limb--but only for a moment. Then there came a pattering of feet, and then, from the Rachels of the caravansary and their children, such a cry welled up as was heard in Rama, or as rose over Egypt, when in every house there was one dead. As a consequence of the first great shock, a quivering remained for several minutes, whether in the earth only, or in the legs and jaws of the observers, it was impossible to say. Excited persons filled the corridors, some seeking safety in instant flight, and that in the most orthodox manner, providing for their journey neither scrip nor staff--nor yet two coats. Indeed, every one was clothed pretty much as the ancient gymnosophists, and everyone was orthodox--pious vows abounded. One understood, then, what an acute student of human nature was that traveller in Central America who wrote:
Dieu n'a besoin que d'une petite secousse pour constater le nombre de ses fideles ."
But the danger passed; "the derned place" became "steady on her pins," and the fluttered doves returned to their cots with as little confusion as was possible. Daylight and time showed that there was very little damage done, nobody hurt, and next to nothing lost or broken--except the pious vows. To produce any lasting good result we are afraid the earthquakes must appear more frequently. It must be said, however, that California has not been much attended to; and it is possible that even under present conditions much excellent spiritual fruit might be gathered in proper hands from this sometimes shaky branch of our world-tree, Yggdrasil. For the information of such as may think of devoting themselves to the task, the following precise details on Californian earthquakes are subjoined from that living blue-book, Mr. Hittell:--"There is a possibility of death from them, but the possibility is so remote that it does not disturb the enjoyment of life here. In twenty years about forty deaths have been recorded in the State, and not one of these occurred in a strong house. The majority of the victims lived in walls of adobe, or dried mud, ready to topple over at a slight shock. In San Francisco, several thousand brick houses, many of them three, and some four stories high, have stood for fifteen years or more, not only without coming down, but without showing any mark of injury beyond slight cracks in the plastering. The deaths from earthquakes have been about two annually, or at the rate of one in a quarter of a million; while in the Eastern States, lightning, sunstroke, and hurricanes, which kill nobody here, have each slain three times as many relatively."
The California Reader
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