harder, when, as in some cases, their houses
had been rendered somewhat habitable.
"There is one house, especially," continued
Mr. Major, "which I regret to think is under
the doom of destruction. It belongs to a
poor woman who had lost her husband by
the earthquake. As it had three sides standing,
I added a fourth, and the widow started a
café and an inn, for curious travellers; and
she made, for a time, a little fortune." All
other places in the earthquake district are a
desert, notwithstanding the pious offerings
which are almost daily advertised in the
official journal, and the general surmise is,
that the Church will absorb a great
portion of this fund. Indeed, the fund
subscribed for the relief of those who suffered
by the earthquake at Malfi, a few years ago,
has not yet all been distributed.

Amongst other places visited by Mr. Major
was Montemurro. In that single place six
thousand persons had been buried under the
ruins. The anxiety and distress of the
survivors must, it will readily be conceived,
have been at the height; and, in England,
any one who came forward at great
sacrifices to assist them, would have been
regarded as an angel of light; "but" says Mr.
Major, "I offered to take fifteen of the
orphans to my own house, and, moreover,
selected them. The judge took their names,
ascertained their destinations, and the objects
I had in view; namely, to teach them some
useful art by which they might hereafter
provide for themselves; he could not, however,
give his final assent to my taking them up to
Santo Torio, near Portici, without first
asking permission of the Intendant. It was
asked, and it was refused. These children
were in the last degree of misery, and it was
deemed better to let them wander about the
streets like half-famished dogs, dependent on
the food which any humane neighbour might
throw at them, and grow up in ignorance,
than be clothed and fed like civilised beings,
and taught some useful knowledge which
might redeem them from penury all their
lives. Shortly after my return, however,
seven orphan children were sent to me from
other villages: four from Viggiano, one from
Montemurro, one from Sacconet, and another
from Saponara. Two of these were boys, but
were not suited to my purpose, and I was
glad to get rid of them. One of the girls ran
away from me, robbed, got into service,
and robbed again. What has now become
of her, I do not know. Those who are
with me now come from Viggiano. At
first, poor little creatures, they were very
home-sick, and pined after their native
place as most mountaineers do, but they
are more reconciled now. I have hired a
woman to teach them to sew and to 'tailor,'
and a man to teach them to read and to
write."

On my expressing a wish to see them, Mr.
Major took me into his garden. There were
sitting these four young children, and seven
others nine or ten years of age. Grouped
together as they were, it seemed as if the
consciousness of a common misfortune
constituted a kind of bond among them. They
were dressed alike in plain cotton frocks with
a blue ground and red stripe, and appeared
so clean and neat that one was struck with
the contrast between them and other children
of a similar rank in the neighbourhood of
Naples.

"And where do you come from, my
children?" I asked.

"From Viggiano, Signor," was the reply.

"Now tell me your names—I want to
know you all."

There was a dead silence.

"What, will no one speak? Now let me
see if you have any tongues."

This awakened a smile, and the sharpest
immediately called out:

"I am Agnese, Signor, and that is Philomena,
and that girl there is Anna Maria, and
this one is Rosa."

So our introduction was completed, and a
kind of electric telegraph established between
me and their hearts through the medium of
their names. The two first were sisters, and
had a mother.

"It was she who kept the cafe of which I
spoke," resumed my friend. "I found her
wandering about the streets with six children
in a state of utter destitution. I did what I
could for them at the time, and afterwards
she brought up those two little girls to me.
The other two whom you see lost both
parents on the night of the earthquake."

Having ascertained that I should not give
any pain by talking with the children about
the incidents of that terrible disaster, I
asked, "Do you remember the night of the
earthquake?"

"We all do."

"I was dragged out in the morning," said
Agnese, "a great stone lay upon me, so that
I could not move. Anna Maria was under a
mattrass, and large stones were on the top
of her—her eyes" (putting a hand on either
side of her face and squeezing it) "were both
nearly out of her head."

"Mother," said another of the girls, "was
taken out dead, and I was by her side."

And so they prattled on like children
unconscious of their loss about sufferings which
so nearly affected themselves, and disasters
which have awakened the compassion of the
whole world. I asked them now to show me
their writing, and away they ran as merrily
and light hearted as nine and ten might be
expected to do. Presently they came back,
and were very proud of their progress—
anxious to let me see that they were out of
pothooks and had got into capitals. Their
writing and their figures did them and their
master great credit, I told them, and now for
the reading.

"Agnese and Anna Maria are the best