_Mrs. B._ I recollect to have read the account, as well as that of a
very similar one that occurred some years ago at Lisbon, which is, you
know, the capital of Portugal. I have, at home, a very interesting
narrative of an earthquake that happened at Calabria, in the southern
part of Italy. It is related by Father Kircher, who was considered as a
prodigy of learning, and was also a very excellent man. When we return
home, I will look for the paper, and let you read it.
Just as Mrs. Bernard had finished speaking, a little girl, about six
years old, came running towards them, crying most bitterly, and
exclaiming: "Oh! dear lady, do pray come to my poor mammy, for she is
very bad indeed: I do think she is going to die, as my daddy did last
week; and then poor baby, and Tommy, and I shall die too, for there will
be nobody to take care of us when mammy is gone."
"Where does your mammy live, my poor little girl?" enquired Mrs.
Bernard.
"By the hill-side, Ma'am, at yonder cottage," said the child, pointing
to a low-roofed shed at no great distance.
Mrs. Bernard, accompanied by Emily, Louisa, and Ferdinand, proceeded
towards the spot pointed out by the little girl, and on entering the
cot, beheld a sight which wrung their gentle hearts with pity. On a
bundle of straw in one corner of the hovel, (for it deserved no better
name,) lay a young woman, apparently fast sinking into the arms of
death; at the foot of this wretched bed, sat a poor little half naked
boy, crying for that food his wretched mother could not supply; an
infant at her breast, was vainly endeavouring to procure the nourishment
which nature usually provides, but which want and misery had now nearly
exhausted.
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