The late typhoon in China.
One of the missionaries of the American Board writes home to a friend in Baltimore, giving a thrilling account of the perils to which they were exposed from the typhoon of last July. The following is an extract from one letter: Canton, China, Aug. 5, 1862.
On Sunday, July 27, we suffered a most terrible typhoon.
Not since 1832 has there been one anything like it, and many say not since the memory of man. On Saturday morning we saw the white caps rising on the river, and nearly all the boats moving off into the creeks and small streams for safety.--Still we had no thought of anything more than a heavy storm, after such intensely hot weather, day and night, for weeks.
Between ten and eleven o'clock, the water from the river began rising in our yard.
We closed our blinds and windows, and put up the typhoon bars in front, then began moving chairs, books, &c., in towards the backside of the sitting-room, as the wind was driving the rain in fast.
The river looked terrific.
I never saw anything like it Large boats broke their moorings or dragged their anchors, and danced up and down on the big waves like so many empty cups.
Great ships were driven up the river, broadside against the wind; some went completely over, keel up, and every soul on board under water.
As the boats went by at so mad a rate, we could see the poor souls clinging to the sides, all they could do was to try to save their own lives.
We soon forgot the poor boat-people in earing for ourselves.
Windows and doors broke their bolts and slammed and crashed, entirely beyond our control.
The water was three feet deep in the yard, and fast flooding the house.
My husband become alarmed, for the front of the house was not strongly made; and so he sent us all back into the dining room, where the walls were old and firmer.
We had only stepped into the room when the side wall fell in with an awful crash.
We rushed back, but where could we go?
The front part of the house we were expecting to see fall every instant.
A part of the roof had fallen over the stairway, and the wall was bulging, ready to tumble.
Where shall we go?
I cried.
‘"Stand where you are,"’ my husband said; ‘"we are in God's hand."’ There we stood, a tottering roof a few feet above our heads, fallen and shaking walls on our right and left — After the crash was over the gale seemed to lull a moment.
He said we must leave the house now, while it is possible to escape.
We scrambled over the ruins, wading in water nearly up to our waists, and out into the narrow streets.
Our way was blocked by great limbs of trees, whose branches were snapped off like so many threads. * * * But I've not told you the worst.
The loss of life was most dreadful-- tens of thousands.
The very house next to us, that knocked in the side of ours, buried four men under its ruins.
Mr. Gallard, one of our missionaries, was killed by his house falling and crushing him instantly.
His wife was only a few feet from him and looking on to see him close a door that had blown open.
He leaves one son, six years old. A woman and grandchild, living in Mr. G's family, were killed with him. 