Interior of the Earth—Illustration from Norway—Solids and Liquids—Rigidity of the Interior of the Earth—Earthquakes, how caused—Their Testimony as to the Rigidity of the Earth—Delicate Instrument for Measuring Earthquake Tremors—The Seismometer—Professor Milne’s Work in the Isle of Wight—Different Earthquake Groups—Precursors and Echoes—Vibrations transmitted through the Earth’s Centre—Earthquakes in England—Other Evidence of the Earth’s Rigidity—Krakatoa, August 27th, 1883—The Sounds from Krakatoa—The Diverging Waves—The Krakatoa Dust—The Hurricane Overhead—Strange Signs in the Heavens—The Blood-red Skies.

IN this chapter we shall learn what we can as to the physical condition of the interior of our earth so far as it may be reasonably inferred from the facts of observation. We have already explained in the last chapter that a very high temperature must be found at the depth of even a small fraction of the earth’s radius, and we have pointed out that the excessively high pressure characteristic of the earth’s interior must be borne in mind in any consideration as to the condition of the matter there found.

Let us take, for instance, that primary question in terrestrial physics, as to whether the interior of the earth is liquid or solid. If we were to judge merely from the temperatures reasonably believed to exist at a depth of some twenty miles, and if we might overlook the question of pressure, we should certainly say that the earth’s interior must be in a fluid state. It seems at least certain that the temperatures to be found at depths of two score miles, and still more at greater depths, must be so high that the most refractory solids, whether metals or minerals, would at once yield if we could subject them to such temperatures in our laboratories. At such temperatures every metal would become fluid, even if it were not transformed into a cloud of vapour. But none of our laboratory experiments can tell us whether, under the pressure of thousands of tons on the square inch, the application of any heat whatever would be adequate to transform solids into liquids. It may indeed be reasonably doubted whether the terms solids and liquids are applicable, in the sense in which we understand them, to the materials forming the interior of the earth.

It was my good fortune some years ago to enjoy a most interesting trip to Norway, in company with a distinguished geologist. Under his guidance I there saw evidence which demonstrates conclusively that, when subjected to great pressure, solids, as we should call them, behave in a manner which, if not that of actual liquids, resembles at all events in some of its characteristics the behaviour of liquids. These rocks in some places are conglomerates, of which the leading constituents are water-worn pebbles of granite. These pebbles are of various sizes, from marbles to paving-stones. In some parts of the country these granite pebbles remain in the form which they acquired on the beach on which they were rolled by the primÆval ocean; in other parts of the same interesting region the form of the pebbles has been greatly changed from what it was originally. For in the course of geological periods, and after the pebbles had become consolidated into the conglomerate, the rock so formed had been in some cases submitted to enormous pressure. This may have been lateral pressure, such as is found to have occurred in many other places, where it has produced the well-known geological phenomenon of strata crumpled into folds. In the present case, however, it seemed more probable that it was the actual weight of the superincumbent rocks, which once lay over these beds of conglomerate, which produced the surprising transformation. It seems to be not at all improbable that at one time these beds of conglomerate must have been covered with strata of which the thickness is so great that it may actually be estimated by miles. There has, however, been immense denudation of the superficial rocks in this part, at all events, of Norway, so that in the course of ages these strata, overlying the conglomerate for ages, have been so far worn away, and indeed removed, by the action of ice and the action of water that the conglomerate is now exposed to view. It offers for our examination striking indications of the enormous pressure to which it was subjected during the incalculable ages of geological time.

The effect of this long continuance of great pressure upon the pebbles of the conglomerate in certain parts of the country has been most astonishing. The granite in the pebbles still retains its characteristic crystalline structure; it has obviously not undergone anything that could be described as fusion; yet under the influence of the two factors of that pressure, namely, its intensity and its long continuance, the granite pebbles have yielded. In some cases they are slightly elongated, in others they are much elongated, while in yet others they are even rolled out flat. At different places along the valley the various phases of the transformation can be studied. We can find places where the pebbles seem little altered, and then we can trace each stage until the solid granite pebbles have, by the application of excessive pressure, been compressed into thin sheets whose character it would not have been easy to divine if it had not been possible to trace out their history. These sheets lie close and parallel, so that the material thus produced acquires some of the characteristics of slate. It splits easily along the flattened sheets, and this rolled-out conglomerate is indeed actually used as a substitute for slate, and in some places there are houses roofed with the conglomerate which has been treated in this extraordinary fashion.

This fact will illustrate a principle, already well known in the arts, that many, if not all, solids may be made to flow like liquids if only adequate pressure be applied. The making of lead tubes is a well-known practical illustration of the same principle, for these tubes are simply formed by forcing solid lead by the hydraulic press through a mould which imparts the desired form.

If then a solid can be made to behave like a liquid, even with such pressures as are within our control, how are we to suppose that the solids would behave with such pressures as those to which they are subjected in the interior of the earth? The fact is that the terms solid and liquid, at least as we understand them, appear to have no physical meaning with regard to bodies subjected to these stupendous pressures, and this must be carefully borne in mind when we are discussing the nature of the interior of the earth.

It must, however, be admitted that the interior of the earth in its actual physical state seems to possess at least one of the most important characteristics of a solid, for it seems to be intensely rigid. We mean by this, that the material of the earth, or rather each particle of that material, is very little inclined to move from its position with reference to the adjacent particles by the application of force. Possibly a liquid, such as water, might not behave very differently in this respect from a solid such as cast iron, if each of them were exposed to a pressure of scores of thousands of tons per square inch, as are the materials which form the great bulk of the earth. But, without speculating on these points, we are able to demonstrate that the earth, as a whole, does exhibit extreme rigidity. This is one of the most remarkable discoveries which has ever been made with regard to the physics of our earth. The discovery that the earth is so rigid is mainly due to Lord Kelvin.

We shall now mention the line of evidence which appears to prove, in the simplest and most direct manner, the excessive rigidity of our earth. It is derived from the study of earthquake phenomena, and we must endeavour to set it forth with the completeness its importance deserves.

As to the immediate cause of earthquakes, there is no doubt considerable difference of opinion. But I think it will not be doubted that an earthquake is one of the consequences, though perhaps a remote one, of the gradual loss of internal heat from the earth. As this terrestrial heat is gradually declining, it follows from the law that we have already so often had occasion to use that the bulk of the earth must be shrinking. No doubt the diminution in the earth’s diameter, due to the loss of heat must be excessively small, even in a long period of time. The cause, however, is continually in operation, and accordingly the crust of the earth has, from time to time, to be accommodated to the fact that the whole globe is lessening. The circumference of our earth at the Equator must be gradually declining; a certain length in that circumference is lost each year. We may admit that loss to be a quantity far too small to be measured by any observations as yet obtainable, but, nevertheless, it is productive of phenomena so important that it cannot be overlooked.

It follows from these considerations that the rocks which form the earth’s crust over the surface of the continents and the islands, or beneath the beds of ocean, must have a lessening acreage year by year. These rocks must therefore submit to compression, either continuously or from time to time, and the necessary yielding of the rocks will in general take place in those regions where the materials of the earth’s crust happen to have comparatively small powers of resistance. The acts of compression will often, and perhaps generally, not proceed with uniformity, but rather with small successive shifts, and even though the displacements of the rocks in these shifts be actually very small, yet the pressures to which the rocks are subjected are so vast that a very small shift may correspond to a very great terrestrial disturbance.

Suppose, for instance, that there is a slight shift in the rocks on each side of a crack, or fault, at a depth of ten miles. It must be remembered that the pressure ten miles down would be about thirty-five tons on the square inch. Even a slight displacement of one extensive surface over another, the sides being pressed together with a force of thirty-five tons on the square inch, would be an operation necessarily accompanied by violence greatly exceeding that which we might expect from so small a displacement if the forces concerned had been only of more ordinary magnitude. On account of this great multiplication of the intensity of the phenomenon, merely a small rearrangement of the rocks in the crust of the earth, in pursuance of the necessary work of accommodating its volume to the perpetual shrinkage, might produce an excessively violent shock extending far and wide. The effect of such a shock would be propagated in the form of waves through the globe, just as a violent blow given at one end of a bar of iron by a hammer is propagated through the bar in the form of waves. When the effect of this internal adjustment reaches the earth’s surface, it will sometimes be great enough to be perceptible in the shaking it gives that surface. The shaking may be so violent that buildings may not be able to withstand it. Such is the phenomenon of an earthquake.

Earthquakes have been made to yield testimony of the most striking character with regard to the rigidity of the earth. The researches we are now to describe are mainly due to Professor Milne, who, having enjoyed the advantage of studying earthquakes in their natural home in Japan, where are to be found some of the most earthquake-shaken regions of this earth, has now transferred his observations of these phenomena to the more peaceful regions of the Isle of Wight. But though the Isle of Wight is perhaps one of the last places in the world to which anyone who desired to experience violent earthquake shocks would be likely to go, yet by the help of a beautiful apparatus Professor Milne is actually able to witness important earthquakes that are happening all over the world. He has a demonstration of these earthquakes in the indications of an extremely sensitive instrument which he has erected in his home at Shide.

When our earth is shaken by one of those occasional adjustments of the crust which I have described, the wave that spreads like a pulsation from the centre of agitation extends all over our globe and, indeed I may say, is transmitted right through it. At the surface lying immediately over the centre of disturbance there will be a violent shock. In the surrounding country, and often over great distances, the earthquake may also be powerful enough to produce destructive effects. The convulsion may also be manifested over a far larger area of country in a way which makes the shock to be felt, though the damage wrought may not be appreciable. But beyond a limited distance from the centre of the agitation the earthquake will produce no destructive effects upon buildings, and will not even cause vibrations that would be appreciable to ordinary observation.

This earth of ours may transmit from an earthquake pulses of a very distinct and definite character, which are too weak to be perceived by our unaided senses; but, just as the microscope will render objects visible which are too minute to be perceived without this aid to the ordinary vision, so these faint earth-pulses may be rendered perceptible by the delicate indications of an instrument which perceives and records tremors that would pass unnoticed by our ordinary observations. The ingenious instrument for studying earthquakes is called a seismometer. It marks on a revolving drum of paper the particulars of those infinitesimal tremors by which the earth is almost daily agitated in one place or another.

Let us suppose, for example, that an earthquake occurs in Japan, in which much agitated country it is, I believe, estimated that no fewer than one thousand earthquakes of varying degrees of intensity occur annually in one district or another. Let us suppose that this earthquake behaves as serious earthquakes usually do; that it knocks down buildings and monuments, causes landslips, raises great waves in the sea and hurls them as inundations on the land. We may also suppose that it issues tragically in the loss of many lives and that there is a destruction of much property, and that its energies in the acutely violent form extend over, let us say, an area of a hundred square miles. Beyond that area of greatest destruction such an earthquake would be felt over a great extent of country as a shaking more or less vehement, and characteristic rumbling sounds would be heard. But the intensity declines with the distance, and we may feel confident that not even the faintest indications of the earthquake would be perceptible by the unaided senses at a thousand miles from its origin. A thousand miles is, however, less than a fifth of the distance between Tokio and Shide, in the Isle of Wight, measured in a great circle round the earth’s surface. The acutest sense could not perceive the slightest indication of the convulsion in Japan at even half the distance between these two places. But the earth transmits so faithfully the undulations committed to its care that though the intensity may have declined so as to be no longer perceptible to the unaided sense, it is still possible that they may be shown distinctly on the seismometer in Professor Milne’s laboratory, even after a journey of five thousand miles. This instrument not only announces that an earthquake has been in progress some little time previously, but the recording pencil reproduces with marvellous fidelity some actual details of the vibration. The movements of the line up and down on the revolving drum of paper show how the convulsions succeed each other, and their varying intensity. Thus Professor Milne is enabled to set down some features of the earthquake long before the post brings an account of the convulsion from the unhappy locality.

Professor Milne’s account of work in studying earthquakes has the charm of a romance, even while it faithfully sets out the facts of Nature. I have supposed the earthquake to take place in Japan; but we must observe that the seismometer at Shide will also take account of considerable earthquakes in whatever part of the world the disturbance may arise. There are, for example, localities in the West Indies in which earthquakes are by no means infrequent, though they may not be phenomena of almost daily occurrence, as they are in Japan. Every considerable earthquake, no matter where its centre may lie, produces in our whole globe a vibration or a tingle which is sufficient to be manifested by the delicate indications of the seismometer at Shide. Thus this instrument, which in the morning may record an earthquake from Japan, will in the afternoon of the same day delineate with equal fidelity an earthquake from the opposite hemisphere in the neighbourhood of the Caribbean Sea.

In each locality in which earthquakes are chronic it would seem as if there must be some particularly weak spot in the earth some miles below the surface. A shrinkage of the earth, in the course of the incessant adjustment between the interior and the exterior, will take place by occasional little jumps at this particular centre. The fact that there is this weak spot at which small adjustments are possible may provide, as it were, a safety-valve for other places in the same part of the world. Instead of a general shrinking, the materials would be sufficiently elastic and flexible to allow the shrinking for a very large area to be done at this particular locality. In this way we may explain the fact that immense tracts on the earth are practically free from earthquakes of a serious character, while in the less fortunate regions the earthquakes are more or less perennial.

The characteristics of an earthquake record, a seismogram, if we give it the correct designation, depend on the distance of the origin from the locality where the record is made. The length of the journey, as might be expected, tells on the character of the inscription which the earthquake waves make on the drum. If, for instance, the first intimation of a large earthquake received at Shide precedes the second by about thirty-five minutes, it may be concluded that the earthquake has come from Japan.

In like manner the shocks, with their origin in the West Indies, will proceed from their particular earthquake centre, and consequently all the earthquakes from this source will possess a characteristic resemblance. The Japan group of earthquakes will have, so to speak, a family resemblance; and the Trinidad group of earthquakes, though quite different from the Japan group, will also possess a family resemblance. These features are faithfully transmitted by undulations through the earth and round the earth; thus in due course they reach the Isle of Wight, and they are reproduced by the pencil of the seismometer. The different earthquakes of a family may differ in size, in intensity, and undulation, but they will have the features appropriate to the particular group from which they come. From long experience Professor Milne has become so familiar with the lineaments of these earthquake families, that in his study at Shide, as he looks at the indications of his instrument, he is able to say, for example, “Here is an earthquake, and it is a little earthquake from Japan;” then a little later, when a new earthquake begins, he will say, “And here is a big earthquake from Trinidad.”

Professor Milne’s apparatus has brought us remarkable information with regard to the interior of the earth. The story which we have to tell is really one of the most astonishing in physical science. Let us suppose that an earthquake originates in Japan. We shall assume that the earthquake is a vigorous one, capable of producing bold and definite indications on the seismometer even in the Isle of Wight. It is to be noted that this instrument is not content merely with a single version of the story of that earthquake; it will indeed repeat that story twice more. First of all, about a quarter of an hour after a shock has taken place in Japan, the pencil of the seismometer commences to record. But this record, though quite distinct, is not so boldly indicated as the subsequent records of the same event which will presently be received. It is to be regarded as a precursor. After the first record is completed there is a pause of perhaps three-quarters of an hour, and then the pencil of the seismometer commences again. It commences to give an earthquake record, but it is obviously only a second version of the same earthquake. For the ups and downs traced by the pencil are just the same relatively as before. The picture given of the earthquake is, however, on a much larger scale than the one that is first sent. The extent of the shaking of the instrument in this second record is greater than in the first, and all the details are more boldly drawn.

After the second diagram has been received, there is yet another pause, which may be perhaps for half an hour. Then, by the same pencil, a third and last version is conveyed to the seismometer. This diagram is not quite so strong as the last, though stronger than the first; in it again, however, the faithful pencil tells, with many a detail, what happened in this earthquake at Japan.

We have first to explain how it occurs that there are three versions of the event, for it need hardly be said that the same earthquake did not take place three different times over. The point is indeed a beautiful one. The explanation is so astonishing that we should hardly credit it were it not established upon evidence that does not admit of a moment’s question.

In the adjoining diagram we represent the position of Japan at one side of the earth, and the Isle of Wight at the other. When the earthquake takes place at Japan it originates, as we have said, a series of vibrations through our globe. We must here distinguish between the rocks—I might almost say the comparatively pliant rocks—which form the earth’s crust, and those which form the intensely rigid core of the interior of our globe. The vibrations which carry the tidings of the earthquake spread through the rocks on the surface, from the centre of the disturbance, in gradually enlarging circles. We may liken the spread of these vibrations to the ripples in a pool of water which diverge from the spot where a raindrop has fallen, or to the remarkable air-waves from Krakatoa, to which we shall presently refer. The vibrations transmitted by the rocks on the surface, or on the floor of the ocean, will carry the message all over the earth. As these rocks are flexible, at all events by comparison with the earth’s interior, the vibrations will be correspondingly large, and will travel with vigour over land and under sea. In due time they reach the Isle of Wight, where they set the pencil of the seismometer at work. But there are different ways round the earth from Japan to the Isle of Wight. There is the most direct route across Asia and Europe; there is also the route across the Pacific, America, and the Atlantic. The vibrations will travel by both routes, and the former is the shorter of the two. The vibrations which take the first route through the crust of the earth’s surface are travelling by the shorter distance; they consequently reach Shide first, and render their version of what has happened. But the vibrations which, starting from the centre of the disturbance, move through the earth’s crust in an opposite direction will also in their due course of expansion reach the Isle of Wight. They will have had a longer journey, and will consequently be somewhat enfeebled, though they will still retain the characteristics marking the particular earthquake centre from which they arose.

We thus account for both the second and the third of the different versions of the earthquake which are received at Shide. And now for the first of the three versions. This is the one which is of special interest to us at present. The original subterranean impulse was, as we have seen, propagated through the rocks forming the earth’s crust. Part of it, however, entered into the core forming the earth’s interior. The earthquake had the power not only of shaking the earth’s crust all over, but it produced the astonishing effect of setting the whole interior of our globe into a tremble. There was not a single particle of our earth, from centre to surface, which was not made to vibrate, in some degree, in consequence of the earthquake. Certain of these vibrations, spreading from the centre of disturbance, took a direct course to the Isle of Wight, right through the globe. They consequently had a shorter journey in travelling from Tokio to Shide than those which went round the earth’s crust. The former travelled near the chord, while the latter travelled on the arc. Even for this reason alone the internal vibrations might be expected to accomplish their journey more rapidly than the superficial movements. With the same velocity they would take a shorter time for the journey. There is, however, another reason for the lesser time taken by the internal vibrations. Not only is the journey shorter, but the speed with which these vibrations travel through the solid earth is much greater than the speed with which superficial vibrations travel through the crust. It has been shown that the average velocity of these vibrations when travelling through the centre of the earth is rather more than ten miles a second. The velocity varies with the square root of the depth, and near the surface it is scarcely two miles a second.

There are two points to be specially noticed. The vibrations, which, passing through the earth’s interior with a high velocity, arrive as precursors, make a faithful diagram, but only on a very small scale. We say that these vibrations have but small amplitude. This shows that the particles in the earth’s interior are not much displaced by the earthquake, as compared with those on the earth’s crust, and this is one indication of the effective rigidity of the earth. It is also to be noted that the great speed with which the vibrations traverse the solid earth is a consequence of the extreme rigidity of our globe. These vibrations travel more rapidly through the earth than they would do through a bar of solid steel. In other words, we have here a proof that, under the influence of the tremendous pressures characteristic of the earth’s interior, the material of which that earth is composed, notwithstanding the high temperature to which it is raised, possesses a rigidity which is practically greater than that of steel itself.

This is perhaps the most striking testimony that can be borne to the rigidity of our globe; but we must not imagine that we are dependent solely upon the phenomena of earthquakes for the demonstration of this important point; there are other proofs. It can be shown that the ebb and flow of the tides on our coasts would be very different from that which they actually are were it not that the earth behaves as a rigid globe. It has also been demonstrated that certain astronomical phenomena connected with the way in which the earth turns round on its axis would not be the same as we actually find them to be if the earth were not solid in its interior.

The result of these investigations is to show that, though this globe of ours must be excessively hot inside, so hot indeed that at ordinary pressures even the most refractory solids would be liquefied or vaporised, yet under the influence of the pressure to which its materials are subjected the behaviour of that globe is as that of the most rigidly solid body.

Happily in this country we do not often experience earthquakes other than delicate movements shown by the record of the seismometer. But though most of us live our lives without ever having felt an earthquake shock, yet earthquakes do sometimes make themselves felt in Great Britain. The map we here give, which was drawn by Professor J. P. O’Reilly, indicates the localities in England in which from time to time earthquake shocks have been experienced.

The internal heat of the earth, derived from the primÆval nebula, is in no way more strikingly illustrated than by the phenomena of volcanoes. We have shown in this chapter that there is no longer any reason to believe that the earth is fluid in its interior. The evidence has proved that, under the extraordinary pressure which prevails in the earth, the materials in the central portions of our globe behave with the characteristics of solids rather than of liquids. But though this applies to the deep-seated regions of our globe, it need not universally apply at the surface or within a moderate depth from the surface. When the circumstances are such that the pressure is relaxed, then the heat is permitted to exercise its property of transforming the solids into liquids. Masses of matter near the earth’s crust are thus, in certain circumstances, and in certain localities, transformed into the fluid or viscid form. In that state they may issue from a volcano and flow in sluggish currents as lava.

There has been much difference of opinion as to the immediate cause of volcanic action, but there can be little doubt that the energy which is manifested in a volcanic eruption has been originally derived in some way from the contraction of the primÆval nebula. The extraordinary vehemence that a volcanic eruption sometimes attains may be specially illustrated by the case of the great eruption of Krakatoa. It is, indeed, believed that in the annals of our earth there has been no record of a volcanic eruption so vast as that which bears the name of this little island in far Eastern seas, ten thousand miles from our shores.

Until the year 1883 few had ever heard of Krakatoa. It was unknown to fame, as are hundreds of other gems of glorious vegetation set in tropical waters. It was not inhabited, but the natives from the surrounding shores of Sumatra and Java used occasionally to draw their canoes up on its beach, while they roamed through the jungle in search of the wild fruits that there abounded. Geographers in early days hardly condescended to notice Krakatoa; the name of the island on their maps would have been far longer than the island itself. It was known to the mariner who navigated the Straits of Sunda, for it was marked on his charts as one of the perils of the intricate navigation in those waters. It was no doubt recorded that the locality had been once, or more than once, the seat of an active volcano. In fact, the island seemed to owe its existence to some frightful eruption of bygone days; but for a couple of centuries there had been no fresh outbreak. It almost seemed as if Krakatoa might be regarded as a volcano that had become extinct. In this respect it would only be like many other similar objects all over the globe, or the countless extinct volcanoes all over the moon.

In 1883 Krakatoa suddenly sprang into notoriety. Insignificant though it had hitherto seemed, the little island was soon to compel by its tones of thunder the whole world to pay it instant attention. It was to become the scene of a volcanic outbreak so appalling that it is destined to be remembered throughout the ages. In the spring of that year there were symptoms that the volcanic powers in Krakatoa were once more about to awake from the slumber that had endured for many generations. Notable warnings were given. Earthquakes were felt, and deep rumblings proceeded from the earth, showing that some disturbance was in preparation, and that the old volcano was again to burst forth after its long period of rest. At first the eruption did not threaten to be of any serious type; in fact, the good people of Batavia, so far from being terrified at what was in progress in Krakatoa, thought the display was such an attraction that they chartered a steamer and went forth for a pleasant picnic to the island. Many of us, I am sure, would have been delighted to have been able to join the party who were to witness so interesting a spectacle. With cautious steps the more venturesome of the excursion party clambered up the sides of the volcano, guided by the sounds which were issuing from its summit. There they beheld a vast column of steam pouring forth with terrific noise from a profound opening about thirty yards in width.

As the summer of this dread year advanced the vigour of Krakatoa steadily increased, the noises became more and more vehement; these were presently audible on shores ten miles distant, and then twenty miles distant; and still those noises waxed louder and louder, until the great thunders of the volcano, now so rapidly developing, astonished the inhabitants that dwelt over an area at least as large as Great Britain. And there were other symptoms of the approaching catastrophe. With each successive convulsion a quantity of fine dust was projected aloft into the clouds. The wind could not carry this dust away as rapidly as it was hurled upwards by Krakatoa, and accordingly the atmosphere became heavily charged with suspended particles. A pall of darkness thus hung over the adjoining seas and islands. Such was the thickness and the density of these atmospheric volumes of Krakatoa dust that, for a hundred miles around, the darkness of midnight prevailed at midday. Then the awful tragedy of Krakatoa took place. Many thousands of the unfortunate inhabitants of the adjacent shores of Sumatra and Java were destined never to behold the sun again. They were presently swept away to destruction in an invasion of the shore by the tremendous waves with which the seas surrounding Krakatoa were agitated.

Gradually the development of the volcanic energy proceeded, and gradually the terror of the inhabitants of the surrounding coasts rose to a climax. July had ended before the manifestations of Krakatoa had attained their full violence. As the days of August passed by the spasms of Krakatoa waxed more and more vehement. By the middle of that month the panic was widespread, for the supreme catastrophe was at hand.

On the night of Sunday, August 26th, 1883, the blackness of the dust-clouds, now much thicker than ever in the Straits of Sunda and adjacent parts of Sumatra and Java, was only occasionally illumined by lurid flashes from the volcano. The Krakatoan thunders were on the point of attaining their complete development. At the town of Batavia, a hundred miles distant, there was no quiet that night. The houses trembled with the subterranean violence, and the windows rattled as if heavy artillery were being discharged in the streets. And still these efforts seemed to be only rehearsing for the supreme display. By ten o’clock on the morning of Monday, August 27th, 1883, the rehearsals were over and the performance began. An overture, consisting of two or three introductory explosions, was succeeded by a frightful convulsion which tore away a large part of the island of Krakatoa and scattered it to the winds of heaven. In that final effort all records of previous explosions on this earth were completely broken.

This supreme effort it was which produced the mightiest noise that, so far as we can ascertain, has ever been heard on this globe. It must have been indeed a loud noise which could travel from Krakatoa to Batavia and preserve its vehemence over so great a distance; but we should form a very inadequate conception of the energy of the eruption of Krakatoa if we thought that its sounds were heard by those merely a hundred miles off. This would be little indeed compared with what is recorded, on testimony which it is impossible to doubt.

Westward from Krakatoa stretches the wide expanse of the Indian Ocean. On the opposite side from the Straits of Sunda lies the island of Rodriguez, the distance from Krakatoa being almost three thousand miles. It has been proved by evidence which cannot be doubted that the booming of the great volcano attracted the attention of an intelligent coastguard on Rodriguez, who carefully noted the character of the sounds and the time of their occurrence. He had heard them just four hours after the actual explosion, for this is the time the sound occupied on its journey.

We shall better realise the extraordinary vehemence of this tremendous noise if we imagine a similar event to take place in localities more known to most of us than are the far Eastern seas.

If Vesuvius were vigorous enough to thunder forth like Krakatoa, how great would be the consternation of the world! Such a report might be heard by King Edward at Windsor, and by the Czar of all the Russias at Moscow. It would astonish the German Emperor and all his subjects. It would penetrate to the seclusion of the Sultan at Constantinople. Nansen would still have been within its reach when he was furthest north, near the Pole. It would have extended to the sources of the Nile, near the Equator. It would have been heard by Mohammedan pilgrims at Mecca. It would have reached the ears of exiles in Siberia. No inhabitant of Persia would have been beyond its range, while passengers on half the liners crossing the Atlantic would also catch the mighty reverberation.

The subject is of such exceptional interest that I may venture on another illustration. Let us suppose that a similar earth-shaking event took place in a central position in the United States. Let us say, for example, that an explosion occurred at Pike’s Peak as resonant as that from Krakatoa. It would certainly startle not a little the inhabitants of Colorado far and wide. The ears of dwellers in the neighbouring States would receive a considerable shock. With lessening intensity the sound would spread much further around—indeed, it might be heard all over the United States. The sonorous waves would roll over to the Atlantic coast, they would be heard on the shores of the Pacific. Florida would not be too far to the south, nor Alaska too remote to the north. If, indeed, we could believe that the sound would travel as freely over the great continent as it did across the Indian Ocean, then we may boldly assert that every ear in North America might listen to the thunder from Pike’s Peak, if it rivalled Krakatoa. The reverberation might even be audible by skin-clad Eskimos amid the snows of Greenland, and by naked Indians sweltering on the Orinoco. Can we doubt that Krakatoa made the greatest noise that has ever been recorded?

Among the many other incidents connected with this explosion, I may specially mention the wonderful system of divergent ripples that started in our atmosphere from the point at which the eruption took place. I have called them ripples, from the obvious resemblance which they bear to the circular expanding ripples produced by raindrops which fall upon the still surface of water. But it would be more correct to say that these objects were a series of great undulations which started from Krakatoa and spread forth in ever-enlarging circles through our atmosphere. The initial impetus was so tremendous that these waves spread for hundreds and thousands of miles. They diverged, in fact, until they put a mighty girdle round the earth, on a great circle of which Krakatoa was the pole. The atmospheric waves, with the whole earth now well in their grasp, advanced into the opposite hemisphere. In their further progress they had necessarily to form gradually contracting circles, until at last they converged to a point in Central America, at the very opposite point of the diameter of our earth, eight thousand miles from Krakatoa. Thus the waves completely embraced the earth. Every part of our atmosphere had been set into a tingle by the great eruption. In Great Britain the waves passed over our heads, the air in our streets, the air in our houses, trembled from the volcanic impulse. The very oxygen supplying our lungs was responding also to the supreme convulsion which took place ten thousand miles away. It is needless to object that this could not have taken place because we did not feel it. Self-registering barometers have enabled these waves to be followed unmistakably all over the globe.

Such was the energy with which these vibrations were initiated at Krakatoa, that even when the waves thus arising had converged to the point diametrically opposite in South America their vigour was not yet exhausted. The waves were then, strange to say, reflected back from their point of convergence to retrace their steps to Krakatoa. Starting from Central America, they again described a series of enlarging circles, until they embraced the whole earth. Then, advancing into the opposite hemisphere, they gradually contracted until they had regained the Straits of Sunda, from which they had set forth about thirty-six hours previously. Here was, indeed, a unique experience. The air-waves had twice gone from end to end of this globe of ours. Even then the atmosphere did not subside until, after some more oscillations of gradually fading intensity, at last they became evanescent.

But, besides these phenomenal undulations, this mighty incident at Krakatoa has taught us other lessons on the constitution of our atmosphere. We previously knew little, or I might almost say nothing, as to the conditions prevailing above the height of ten miles overhead. We were almost altogether ignorant of what the wind might be at an altitude of, let us say, twenty miles. It was Krakatoa which first gave us a little information which was greatly wanted. How could we learn what winds were blowing at a height four times as great as the loftiest mountain on the earth, and twice as great as the loftiest altitude to which a balloon has ever soared? We could neither see these winds nor feel them. How, then, could we learn whether they really existed? No doubt a straw will show the way the wind blows, but there are no straws up there. There was nothing to render the winds perceptible until Krakatoa came to our aid. Krakatoa drove into those winds prodigious quantities of dust. Hundreds of cubic miles of air were thus deprived of that invisibility which they had hitherto maintained. They were thus compelled to disclose those movements about which, neither before nor since, have we had any opportunity of learning.

With eyes full of astonishment men watched those vast volumes of Krakatoa dust start on a tremendous journey. Westward the dust of Krakatoa took its way. Of course, everyone knows the so-called tradewinds on our earth’s surface, which blow steadily in fixed directions, and which are of such service to the mariner. But there is yet another constant wind. We cannot call it a trade-wind, for it never has rendered, and never will render, any service to navigation. It was first disclosed by Krakatoa. Before the occurrence of that eruption no one had the slightest suspicion that far up aloft, twenty miles over our heads, a mighty tempest is incessantly hurrying with a speed much greater than that of the awful hurricane which once laid so large a part of Calcutta on the ground, and slew so many of its inhabitants. Fortunately for humanity, this new trade-wind does not come within less than twenty miles of the earth’s surface. We are thus preserved from the fearful destruction that its unintermittent blasts would produce, blasts against which no tree could stand, and which would, in ten minutes, do as much damage to a city as would the most violent earthquake. When this great wind had become charged with the dust of Krakatoa, then, for the first and, I may add, for the only time, it stood revealed to human vision. Then it was seen that this wind circled round the earth in the vicinity of the Equator, and completed its circuit in about thirteen days.

Please observe the contrast between this wind of which we are now speaking and the waves to which we have just referred. The waves were merely undulations or vibrations produced by the blow which our atmosphere received from the explosion of Krakatoa, and these waves were propagated through the atmosphere much in the same way as sound waves are propagated. Indeed, these waves moved with the same velocity as sound. But the current of air of which we are now speaking was not produced by Krakatoa; it existed from all time, before Krakatoa was ever heard of, and it exists at the present moment, and will doubtless exist as long as the earth’s meteorological arrangements remain as they are at present. All that Krakatoa did was simply to provide the charges of dust by which for one brief period this wind was made visible.

In the autumn of 1883 the newspapers were full of accounts of strange appearances in the heavens. The letters containing these accounts poured in upon us from residents in Ceylon; they came from residents in the West Indies, and from other tropical places. All had the same tale to tell. Sometimes experienced observers assured us that the sun looked blue; sometimes we were told of the amazement with which people beheld the moon draped in vivid green. Other accounts told of curious halos, and, in short, of the signs in the sun, the moon, and the stars, which were exceedingly unusual, even if we do not say that they were absolutely unprecedented.

Those who wrote to tell of the strange hues that the sun manifested to travellers in Ceylon, or to planters in Jamaica, never dreamt of attributing the phenomena to Krakatoa, many thousands of miles away. In fact, these observers knew nothing at the time of the Krakatoa eruption, and probably few of them, if any, had ever heard that such a place existed. It was only gradually that the belief grew that these, phenomena were due to Krakatoa. But when the accounts were carefully compared, and when the dates were studied at which the phenomena were witnessed in the various localities, it was demonstrated that these phenomena, notwithstanding their worldwide distribution, had certainly arisen from the eruption in this little island in the Straits of Sunda. It was most assuredly Krakatoa that painted the sun and the moon, and produced the other strange and weird phenomena in the tropics.

After a little time we learned what had actually happened. The dust manufactured by the supreme convulsion was whirled round the earth in the mighty atmospheric current into which the volcano discharged it. As the dust-cloud was swept along by this incomparable hurricane, it showed its presence in the most glorious manner by decking the sun and the moon in hues of unaccustomed splendour and beauty. The blue colour in the sky under ordinary circumstances is due to particles in the air, and when the ordinary motes of the sunbeam were reinforced by the introduction of the myriads of motes produced by Krakatoa, even the sun itself sometimes showed a blue tint. Thus the progress of the great dust-cloud was traced out by the extraordinary sky effects it produced, and from the progress of the dust-cloud we inferred the movements of the invisible air current which carried it along. Nor need it be thought that the quantity of material projected from Krakatoa should have been inadequate to produce effects of this worldwide description. Imagine that the material which was blown to the winds of heaven by the supreme convulsion of Krakatoa could be all recovered and swept into one vast heap. Imagine that the heap were to have its bulk measured by a vessel consisting of a cube one mile long, one mile broad, and one mile deep; it has been estimated that even this prodigious vessel would have to be filled to the brim at least ten times before all the products of Krakatoa had been measured.

It was in the late autumn of 1883 that the marvellous series of celestial phenomena connected with the great eruption began to be displayed in Great Britain. Then it was that the glory of the ordinary sunsets was enhanced by a splendour which has dwelt in the memory of all those who were permitted to see them. The frontispiece of this volume contains a view of the sunset as seen at Chelsea at 4.40 p.m. on November 26th, 1883. The picture was painted from nature by Mr. W. Ascroft, and is given in the great work on Krakatoa which was published by the Royal Society. There is not the least doubt that it was the dust from Krakatoa which produced the beauty of those sunsets, and so long as that dust remained suspended in our atmosphere, so long were strange signs to be witnessed in the heavenly bodies. But the dust which had been borne with unparalleled violence from the interior of the volcano, the dust which had been shot aloft by the vehemence of the eruption to an altitude of twenty miles, the dust which had thus been whirled round and round our earth for perhaps a dozen times or more in this air current, which carried it round in less than a fortnight, was endowed with no power to resist for ever the law of gravitation which bids it fall to the earth. It therefore gradually sank downwards. Owing, however, to the great height to which it had been driven, owing to the impetuous nature of the current by which it was hurried along, and owing to the exceedingly minute particles of which it was composed, the act of sinking was greatly protracted. Not until two years after the original explosion had all the particles with which the air was charged by the great eruption finally subsided on the earth.

At first there were some who refused to believe that the glory of the sunsets in London could possibly be due to a volcano in the Straits of Sunda, at a distance from England which was but little short of that of Australia. But the gorgeous phenomena in England were found to be simultaneous with like phenomena in other places all round the earth. Once again the comparison of dates and other circumstances proved that Krakatoa was the cause of these exceptional and most interesting appearances.

Nor was the incident without a historical parallel, for has not Tennyson told us of the call to St. Telemachus—