LESSON VII

ARTICULATE each letter.-Child, not chile: career-ing, not c'reer-ing: re-ly-ing, not re-ly-in: de-fy-ing, not de-fy-in: sweet-est, not sweet-es: waft, not waf.

[cries.

1. Sphere, n. the expanse in which the | 3. Ca-reer'-ing, p. moving rapidly. heavenly bodies appear. 2. Moan, n. grief expressed in words or Crys'-tal, a. clear, transparent.

Swerves, v, deviates from,varies from. 4. Nest'-ling, n, a young bird in the nest.

Un-plumes', v. strips of its feathers.

THE CHILD'S INQUIRY.

1. WHAT is that, mother'?

The lark', my child'.

The morn has just looked out, and smiled,
When he starts from his humble grassy nest,
And is up and away with the dew on his breast,
And a hymn in his heart, to yon pure bright sphere
To warble it out in his Maker's ear.

Ever, my child', be thy morn's first lays',
Tuned, like the lark's, to thy Maker's praise'.

2. What is that, mother"?

The dove, my son.

And that low, sweet voice, like a widow's moan,
Is flowing out from her gentle breast,
+Constant and pure by that lonely nest,

As the wave is poured from some crystal turn',
For her distant dear one's quick return'.
Ever, my son', be thou like the dove';

In friendship' as faithful', as constant' in love'.

3. What is that, mother'?

The eagle', my boy,
Proudly careering in his course of joy';

Firm, in his own mountain vigor + relying';
Breasting the dark storm'; the red bolt +defying;
His wing on the wind', and his eye on the sun',
He swerves not a hair', but bears onward', right on.
Boy, may the eagle's flight ever be thine;"
Onward, and upward, and true to the line.

4. What is that', mother'?

+

The swan, my love.
He is floating down from his native grove;
No loved one now, no nestling nigh;
He is floating down by himself, to die.
Death darkens his eye, and unplumes his wings,
Yet his sweetest song is the last he sings.
Live so', my love', that when death shall come',
+Swan-like and sweet it may waft thee home'.

DOANE.

QUESTIONS. May we not often derive useful instruction from observation of nature? What lesson is drawn from the lark? What, from the dove? The eagle? The swan? What beautiful figure in verse 2d?

In the 2d stanza, why has " that" the falling inflection? (Rule III.) Why has "mother" in the same sentence the rising inflection? (Rule IV.) Why has the answer “dove” the falling inflection? Give the rules for the inflections marked in the 3d stanza. (Rules II, 3§, III.)

Which are the verbs in the last paragraph? Give the present tense, first person plural, indicative mode, of each. Parse "swan" in the same paragraph.

ARTICULATION.

THE TEACHER should require the pupil to utter each difficult word in the exercise by its elements, giving the sound and not the name of each letter or combination; as, c-a-lx, calx; f-i-lch, filch: &c. Then read carefully the sentences containing these words.

Calx, filch, fall'st, doubt, health, entomb'd, attempt, &c.

It was a species of calx, which he showed me.

The word filch is of doubtful derivation.
If thou fall'st, thou fall'st a blessed martyr.
Health is indispensable to the soldier.
Those who lie entomb'd in the cemetery.

The attempt and not the deed, confounds us.

But truth, and liberty, and virtue, would fall with him.

The song began from Jove.

Do you mean plain or playing?

I quench thee, thou flaming firebrand.

A frame of adamant, and strength of Hercules.

The hills, and halls, and hulls.

The ranges, and changes, and hinges, and fringes.
Spasms, and prisms, and chasms, and phasms.

LESSON VIII.

PRONOUNCE correctly.-Pret-ty, pro. prit-ty: ad-vent-ure, not adven-ter: ac-ci-dent, not ac-ci-dunt: oft-en, pro. of'n: neither, or nyther: yet, not yit: mod-er-ate-ly, not mod-er-it-ly: ag-o-ny, not ag-er-ny: des-o-late, not des-er-lit: for-ti-tude (pro. for-ti-tyude), not for-ti-tood, nor for-ti-tshude.

1. Gi-gan'-tic, a. very great or mighty. | Con-stel-la-tion, n. a cluster of stars. 2. Har-poon', n. a spear used for killing whales.

Le-vi-a-than, n. a huge sea animal. 5. Top-gal'-lant, a. highest. Top-gallant sails are the highest sails commonly used in a vessel.

Cours'-es, n. the principal sails of a
ship.

Clew'-ed, p. tied, made close.
Wind'-ward, n. the point from which
the wind blows.

Ve-loc'-i-ty, n. rapidity,

Knots, n. a division of the log-line. Sailing at the rate of one or two knots to the half minute, is the same as one or two miles an hour. 6. Ca-tas'-tro-phe, n. an unfortunate conclusion, a calamity.

7. Bows, n. (pro. bouze) the rounding part of a ship's side forward. Chains, n. links or plates of iron at the side of a vessel, abreast of the mast, by which the shrouds are extended. 8. Col-lis'-ion, n, the act of striking together. [from. 12. Re-coil', v. to start back, to shrink

THE WHALE-SHIP.

It

1. THEY who go down to the sea in ships, pursue a perilous vocation, and well deserve the prayers which are offered for them in the churches. It is a hard life, full of danger, and of strange attraction. The seaman rarely abandons the glorious sca. requires, however, a pretty firm spirit, both to brave the ordinary dangers of the deep, and to carry on war with its mightiest tenants. And yet it is a service readily entered upon, and zealously followed, though indisputably the most laborious and most terrific of all human pursuits. Well might Burke speak glowingly of that hardy spirit of adventure, which had pursued this gigantic game', from the constellations of the north to the frozen serpent of the south'.

2. The most common accident to which whalemen are exposed, is that of being "stove," as they express it, by the huge animal, before they can back out from their dangerous proximity. A slight tap of his tail is quite sufficient to shiver a common whaleboat to atoms. If this danger be escaped, the whale, with the harpoon in his hide, sinks beneath the sounding of the deep-sea lead. Not long will he stay at the bottom. He rises for air, and this is a

The boat is drawn up, and the Not safe is the game till it moment of victory, the van

signal for the renewal of the battle. lance is buried in his giant body. is fairly bagged. Often, in the quished leviathan settles quietly down in the deep sea; and no tackle can draw him up. The curses of the exhausted seamen are "not loud, but deep."

3. On the twenty-eighth of May, 1817, the Royal Bounty, an English ship, fell in with a great number of whales. There was neither ice nor land in sight. The boats were manned and sent in pursuit. After a chase of five hours, a harpooner, who had rowed out of sight of the ship, struck one of the whales. This was about four o'clock in the morning. The captain directed the course of the ship to the place were he had last seen the boats, and, at about eight o'clock, got sight of the boat, which displayed the signal for being fast. Soon after, another boat approached the first, and struck a second harpoon.

4. By mid-day', two more harpoons were struck'; but such was the astonishing vigor of the whale, that, although it constantly dragged through the water from four to six boats, together with sixteen hundred fathoms of line, it pursued its flight nearly as fast as a boat could row. Whenever a boat passed beyond its tail, it would dive. All endeavors to lance it were therefore in vain. The crews of the loose boats then moored themselves to the fast boats. At eight o'clock in the evening, a line was taken to the ship, with a view of retarding its flight, and topsails were lowered; but the harpoon "drew." In three hours, another line was taken on board, which immediately snapped.

5. At four in the afternoon of the next day', thirty-six hours after the whale was struck', two of the fast lines were taken on board the ship'. The wind blowing a moderately brisk breeze', the top-gallant sails were taken in', the courses hauled up', and the topsails clewed down': and in this situation she was towed directly to windward during an hour and a half, with the velocity of from one and a half to two knots. And then, though the whale must have been greatly exhausted, it beat the water with its fins and tail so tremendously', that the sea around was in a continual foam; and the most hardy seamen' scarcely dared to approach it. At length', at about eight o'clock', after forty hours of incessant exertion, this formidable and astonishingly vigorous animal was killed'.

6. But the most strange and dreadful calamity' that ever befell the wanderers of the sea, in any age', was that which happened in 1820, to the ship Essex, of Nantucket'. Some of those who survived the terrible catastrophe, are yet alive', and bear their united testimony to the truth of the statements which one of them has published'. It is a story which no man, for any + conceivable

purpose', would be likely to invent'. The captain of the Essex is yet living upon his native island'; and it is a fact pregnant with meaning, that so vivid, to this day', is his recollection of the horrors which he witnessed', that he is never heard to mention the subject, and nothing can induce him to speak' of it. He has abandoned the sea forever. The story bears the marks of truth

upon it. It may be briefly told.

7. The Essex, a sound and substantial ship, sailed for the Pacific Ocean, on a whaling voyage, from Nantucket, on the 12th of August, 1820. On the 20th of November, a shoal of whales was discovered. Three boats were manned and sent in pursuit. The mate's boat was struck by a whale, and he was obliged to return to the ship to repair the damage. While thus engaged, a sperm whale, eighty-five feet long, broke water about twenty rods from the ship, on her weather bow. He was going at the rate of three knots an hour, and the ship at the same rate, when he struck the bows of the vessel just forward of the chains.

8. The shock produced by the collision of two such masses of matter in motion, may well be imagined. The ship shook like a leaf. The whale dived, passed under the vessel, grazed her keel, and appeared a ship's length distant, lashing the sea with his fins and tail, as if suffering the most horrible agony. He was evidently hurt by the collision, and rendered frantic with rage. In a few minutes he seemed to recover himself, and started, with great speed, directly across the bows of the vessel, to windward. Meantime the hands on board discovered the vessel to be gradually settling down by the bows; and the pumps were to be rigged. While engaged in fixing the pumps, one of the men exclaimed, "My God! here he comes upon us again"!"

9. The whale had turned, at the distance of one hundred rods from the ship, and was making for her with double his former speed. His pathway was white with foam. He struck her bow, and the blow shook every timber in the ship. Her bows were stove in. The whale dived under the vessel and disappeared. The vessel immediately filled; and the crew took to the boat that had returned. All this was transacted in the space of a few minutes. The other boats rowed up, and when they came together', when a sense of their loneliness and helplessness came over them', no man had the power of utterance. They were in the midst of the "+illimitable sea," far, far from land', in open whale-boats', relying only on God for succor', in this hour of their utmost need'.

+

10. They gathered what they could from the wreck; the ship went down; and, on the 22d of November, they put away for the coast of South America - distant, two thousand miles! How their hearts must have died within them, as they looked at the