"After some time, this very violent paroxysm ceasing, we again stood up, in order to prosecute our voyage to Euphemia, that lay within sight. In the mean time, while we were preparing for this purpose, I turned my eyes towards the city, but could see only a frightful dark cloud, that seemed to rest upon the place. This the more surprised us, as the weather was so very serene. We waited, therefore, till the cloud was past away, then turning to look for the city, it was totally sunk. Wonderful to tell! nothing but a dismal and putrid lake was seen where it stood. We looked about to find some one that could tell us of its sad catastrophe, but could see none: all was become a melancholy solitude—a scene of hideous desolations. Thus proceeding pensively along, in quest of some human being that could give us some little information, we at length saw a boy sitting by the shore, and appearing stupified with terror. Of him, therefore, we enquired concerning the fate of the city; but he could not be prevailed upon to give us an answer. We entreated him, with every expression of tenderness and pity, to tell us; but his senses were quite wrapped up in the contemplation of the danger he had escaped. We offered him some victuals, but he seemed to loath the sight. We still persisted in our offices of kindness, but he only pointed to the place of the city, like one out of his senses; and then running up into the woods, was never heard of after. Such was the fate of the city of Euphemia; and as we continued our melancholy course along the shore, the whole coast, for the space of two hundred miles, presented nothing but the remains of cities, and men scattered, without a habitation, over the fields. Proceeding thus along, we at length ended our distressful voyage by arriving at Naples, after having escaped a thousand dangers, both at sea and land."
"The children were all highly interested by this extract, but a secret awe crept over their minds, as they listened to the account of this dreadful visitation, and they felt thankful that a gracious Providence had placed him in this happy isle, where such tremendous convulsions are but seldom felt.
"I learnt a passage from Cowper's 'Task,' the other day, mamma," said
Emily, "in which he deplores a similar catastrophe, that occurred in
Sicily some time ago: may I repeat it to my brother and sister?"
"Certainly, my dear," replied Mrs. Bernard.
Emily having received the approbation of her mother, immediately recited the following striking passage:
"Alas, for Sicily! rude fragments now
Lie scatter'd, where the shapely column stood.
Her palaces are dust. In all her streets,
The voice of singing and the sprightly chord
Are silent. Revelry, and dance, and show,
Suffer a syncope and solemn passe,
While God performs upon the trembling stage
Of his own works, his dreadful part alone,
How does the earth receive him? With what signs
Of gratulation and delight, her king.
Pours she not all her choicest fruits abroad,
Her sweetest flowers, her aromatic gums,
Disclosing Paradise where'er he treads?
She quakes at his approach: her hollow womb
Conceiving thunders, through a thousand deeps
And fiery caverns, roars beneath his foot.
"The hills move lightly, and the mouontains smoke,
For he hath touch'd them. From the extremest point
Of elevation, down into the abyss.
His wrath is busy, and his arm is felt.
The rocks fall headlong, and the valleys rise:
The rivers die into offensive pools,
And, charg'd with putrid verdure, breathe a gross
And mortal nuisance into all the air.
What solid was, by transformation strange,
Grows fluid; and the fix'd and rooted earth,
Tormented into billows, heaves and swells,
Or with vortiginous and hideous whirl,
Sucks down its prey insatiable. Immense
The tumult and the overthrow; the pangs
And agonies of human and of brute
Multitudes, fugitive on every side,
And fugitive in vain. The sylvan scene
Migrates uplifted, and with all its soil
Alighting in far distant fields, finds out
A new possessor, and survives the change.
Ocean has caught the phrenzy; and upwrought
To an enormous and o'erbearing height,
Not by a mighty wind, but by that voice
Which winds and waves obey, invades the shore
Resistless. Never such a sudden flood.
Upridg'd so high, and sent on such a charge,
Possess'd an inland scene. Where sow the throng
That press'd the beach, and hasty to depart,
Look'd to the sea for safety? They are gone!
Gone with the refluent wave into the deep,
A prince with half his people! Ancient towers,
And roofs embattled high, the gloomy scenes,
Where beauty oft, and *etter'd worth, consume
Life in the unproductive shades of death,
Fall prone. The pale inhabitants come forth,
And happy in their unforseen release
From all the rigours of restraint, enjoy
The terrors of the day that sets them free."
Whilst Mr. and Mrs. Bernard were conversing in this instructive and interesting manner, with their little family, they were interrupted by the arrival of Jane. She brough a good account of the poor woman, who was already considerably better, and felt her appetite in some measure returning.
"I think, Ma'am," continued Jane, "that a little sago or tapioca, or something of that kind, would be very nice and nourishing for her to take, before she settles for the night."
Mrs. Bernard quite approved this proposition: she desired Emily to bring a small jar of tapioca from the closet in the store-room, and giving Jane a sufficient quantity for the poor woman's supper, dismissed her again to her charge.
The children all rejoiced to hear so good an accouont, and begged their mother would allow them to walk to the cottage the following morning. She readily promised a compliance with their request, provided the weather should prove favourable.