One glorious morning, after the great earthquake of October 21, 1868,
had with some difficulty shaken me into my trousers and boots, I left
the house. I may as well state that I left it immediately, and by an
aperture constructed for another purpose. Arrived in the street, I at
once betook myself to saving people. This I did by remarking closely
the occurrence of other shocks, giving the alarm and setting an example
fit to be followed. The example was followed, but owing to the vigour
with which it was set was seldom overtaken. In passing down Clay-street
I observed an old rickety brick boarding-house, which seemed to be just
on the point of honouring the demands of the earthquake upon its
resources. The last shock had subsided, but the building was slowly and
composedly settling into the ground. As the third story came down to my
level, I observed in one of the front rooms a young and lovely female
in white, standing at a door trying to get out. She couldn’t, for the
door was locked—I saw her through the key-hole. With a single blow of
my heel I opened that door, and opened my arms at the same time.
“Thank God,” cried I, “I have arrived in time. Come to these arms.”
The lady in white stopped, drew out an eye-glass, placed it carefully
upon her nose, and taking an inventory of me from head to foot,
replied:
“No thank you; I prefer to come to grief in the regular way.”
While the pleasing tones of her voice were still ringing in my ears I
noticed a puff of smoke rising from near my left toe. It came from the
chimney of that house.