In Barbary, the earthquake was felt nearly as severely as in Portugal. Great part of the city of Algiers was destroyed; at Fez, Mequinez, and Morocco many houses were thrown down, and numbers of persons were buried in the ruins. At Tangiers and Sallee the waters rushed into the streets with great violence, and when they retired they left behind them a great quantity of fish.
Ships sailing on the distant Atlantic received such violent concussions that it seemed as if they had struck upon a rock, and even America was disturbed.
At the Island of Antigua the sea rose to such a height as had never been known before, and at Barbadoes a tremendous wave overflowed the wharfs and rushed into the streets. The remote Canadian lakes were seen to ebb and flow in an extraordinary manner, and the Red Indian hunter felt the last expiring pulsations of the great terrestrial shock which a few hours before had overthrown the distant capital of Portugal.
Such were the extraordinary effects of this terrible earthquake, which extended over a space of not less than four millions of square miles! Of the enormous sensation it produced over all Europe, as well as of the deep impression it made upon his own youthful mind, Goethe, then about six years old, has given us a masterly account in his autobiography (‘Dichtung und Wahrheit’).
‘For the first time,’ says the illustrious poet, ‘the boy’s peace of mind was disturbed by an extraordinary event. On November 1, 1755, the earthquake of Lisbon took place, and spread consternation over a world which had long been accustomed to tranquillity and peace. A large and splendid capital, the seat of wealth and commerce, suddenly falls a prey to the most terrible disaster. The earth shakes, the sea rises, ships are dashed against each other, houses, churches, and towers fall in; the king’s palace is partly engulfed by the waves; the bursting earth seems to vomit flames, for smoke and fire appear everywhere among the ruins. Sixty thousand persons, but a moment before in the enjoyment of a comfortable existence, are swept away, and they are the most fortunate who no longer feel or remember their misery. The flames continue to rage, along with a host of criminals whom the catastrophe has set at liberty. The unfortunate survivors are exposed to robbery, to murder, to every act of violence; and thus on all sides Nature replaces law by the reign of unfettered anarchy. Swifter than the news could travel, the effects of the earthquake had already spread over a wide extent of land; in many places slighter commotions had been felt; mineral springs had suddenly ceased to flow; and all these circumstances increased the general alarm when the terrible details of the catastrophe became known. The pious were now not sparing of moral reflexions, the philosophers of consolations, the clergy of admonitions. Thus the attention of the world was for some time concentrated upon this single topic, and the public, excited by the misfortunes of strangers, began to feel an increasing anxiety for its personal safety, as from all sides intelligence came pouring in of the widely-extended effects of the earthquake. The demon of fear has indeed, perhaps, never spread terror so rapidly and so powerfully over the earth. The boy who heard the subject frequently discussed was not a little perplexed. God, the Creator and Preserver of Heaven and Earth, whom the first article of faith represented as supremely wise and merciful, appeared by no means paternal while thus enveloping the just and the unjust in indiscriminate ruin. It was in vain that his youthful mind endeavoured to shake off these impressions, nor can this be wondered at, as even the wise and the learned did not agree in their opinions on the subject.’