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From its fountains
In the mountains,
Its rills and its gills;

Through moss and through brake,
It runs and it creeps,
For awhile, till it sleeps
In its own little lake.
And thence at departing,
Awakening and starting,
It runs through the reeds,
And away it proceeds,
Through meadow and glade,
In sun and in shade,

And through the wood-shelter,
Among crags in its flurry,


Here it comes sparkling,
And there it lies darkling;
Now smoking and frothing
Its tumult and wrath in,
Till, in this rapid race,
On which it is bent,
It reaches the place
Of its steep descent.

The cataract strong
Then plunges along,
Striking and raging,
As if a war waging
Its caverns and rocks among;
Rising and leaping,
Sinking and creeping,
Swelling and sweeping,
Showering and springing,
Flying and flinging,
Writhing and ringing,
Eddying and whisking,
Spouting and frisking,
Turning and twisting,
Around and around
With endless rebound:
Smiting and fighting,

A sight to delight in,

Confounding, astounding,

Dizzying and deafening the ear with its sound:

Collecting, projecting,
Receding and speeding,

And shocking and rocking,
And darting and parting,
And threading and spreading,
And whizzing and hissing,

And dripping and skipping,
And hitting and splitting,
And shining and twining,
And rattling and battling,
And shaking and quaking,
And pouring and roaring,
And waving and raving,
And tossing and crossing,
And flowing and going,
And running and stunning,
And foaming and roaming,
And dinning and spinning,
And dropping and hopping,
And working and jerking,
And guggling and struggling,
And heaving and cleaving,
And moaning and groaning;

And glittering and frittering,
And gathering and feathering,
And whitening and brightening,
And quivering and shivering,
And hurrying and skurrying,
And thundering and floundering;

Dividing and gliding and sliding,
And falling and brawling and sprawling,
And driving and riving and striving,
And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling,
And sounding and bounding and rounding,
And bubbling and troubling and doubling,
And grumbling and rumbling and tumbling,
And clattering and battering and shattering;

Retreating and beating and meeting and sheeting,
Delaying and straying and playing and spraying,
Advancing and prancing and glancing and dancing,
Recoiling, turmoiling and toiling and boiling,

And gleaming and streaming and steaming and beaming,
And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing,
And flapping and rapping and clapping and slapping,
And curling and whirling and purling and twirling,
And thumping and plumping and bumping and jumping,
And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing;
And so never ending, but always descending,
Sounds and motions forever and ever are blending,
All at once and all o'er, with a mighty uproar:
And this way, the water comes down at Lodore.




The rising inflection is used,

1. When the sense is incomplete. Rule IV.

2. At the last pause but one in a sentence. Rule VI. The falling inflection is used,

1. Where the sense is complete. Rule I.

The above principles are illustrated in the following lessons. They are of very extensive application. Scarcely a sentence occurs, in which they do not govern some of the inflections.

Whatever other inflections may be proper, they are mostly passed over unmarked, until we come to the proper place for noting them. In these exercises, the inflection is generally placed on the most important word in the clause, and thus, to a considerable extent, indicates also the proper emphasis.



1. THE history of the world is full of testimony to prove how much depends upon industry'; not an eminent orator has lived but is an example' of it. Yet, in contradiction to all this', the almost universal feeling appears to be, that industry can effect nothing', that eminence is the result of accident, and that every one must be content to remain' just what he may happen to be Thus multitudes', who come forward as teachers and guides, suffer themselves to be satisfied with the most indifferent attainments, and a miserable mediocrity', without so much as inquiring how they might rise higher, much less making any attempt to rise.

2. For any other art they would serve an apprenticeship', and would be ashamed to practice it in public', before they have learned' it. If any one would sing', he attends a master, and is drilled in the very elementary principles'; and, only after the most laborious process, dares to exercise his voice in public'. This he does', though he has scarce any thing to learn but the mechanical execution of what lies, in sensible forms, before his eye. But the extempore speaker', who is to invent as well as to utter, to carry on an operation of the mind as well as to produce sound', enters upon the work without preparatory discipline, and then wonders that he fails'.

3. If he were learning to play on the flute for public exhibition, what hours and days would he spend in giving facility to his

fingers, and attaining the power of the sweetest and most impressive execution'. If he were devoting himself to the organ', what months and years would he labor, that he might know its compass', and be master of its keys', and be able to draw out, at will, all its various combinations of harmonious sounds', and its full richness and delicacy of expression'. And yet, he will fancy, that the grandest, the most various, the most expressive of all instruments', which the infinite Creator has fashioned by the union of an intellectual soul with the powers of speech', may be played upon without study or practice'. He comes to it a mere uninstructed tyro', and thinks to manage all its stops', and to command the whole compass of its varied and comprehensive power'. He finds himself a bungler in the attempt', is mortified at his failure', and settles in his mind forever, that the attempt is vain'.

4. Success in every art, whatever may be the natural talent, is always the reward of industry and pains'. But the instances are many, of men of the finest natural genius, whose beginning has promised much, but who have degenerated wretchedly as they advanced, because they trusted to their gifts', and made no effort to improve'. That there have never been other men of equal endowments with Cicero and Demosthenes', none would venture to suppose'. If those great men had been content, like others, to continue as they began, and had never made their persevering efforts for improvement', their countries would have been little benefited by their genius, and the world would never have known their fame. They would have been lost in the undistinguished crowd that sank to oblivion around' them.

5. Of how many more will the same remark prove true'! What encouragement is thus given to the industrious'! With such encouragement, how inexcusable is the negligence which suffers the most interesting and important truths to seem heavy and dull, and fall ineffectual to the ground', through mere sluggishness in the delivery'! How unworthy of one who performs the high function of a religious instructor, upon whom depends, in a great measure, the religious knowledge', and devotional sentiment', and final character' of many fellow beings, to imagine that he can worthily discharge this great concern by occasionally talking for an hour, he knows not how', and in a manner he has taken no pains to render correct', or attractive'; and which, simply through that want of command over himself, which study would give, is immethodical', verbose', inaccurate', feeble', trifling'! It has been said of a great preacher,

That truths divine come mended from his tongue`.

Alas! they come ruined and worthless from such a man as this'. They lose that holy energy, by which they are to convert the

soul, and purify man for heaven', and sink, in interest and efficacy, below the level of those principles', which govern the ordinary affairs of this lower world'. H. WARE, JR.

REMARK. In the last paragraph, the words "knowledge," "sentiment," "character," "beings;" and "immethodical," "verbose," &c., are embraced under the rule for series. See Rules X. and XI.



1. THERE is a cavern in the island of Hoonga, one of the Tonga islands, in the South Pacific Ocean, which can only be entered by diving into the sea', and which has no other light, than that which is reflected from the bottom of the water. A young chief discovered it accidentally, while diving after a turtle', and the use which he made of his discovery, will probably be sung in more than one European language', so beautifully is it adapted for a tale in verse.

2. There was a tyrannical governor at Vavaoo, against whom one of the chiefs formed a plan of insurrection. It was betrayed', and the chief, with all his family and kin, was ordered to be destroyed'. He had a beautiful daughter', betrothed to a chief of high rank', and she also was included' in the sentence. The youth who had found the cavern, and had kept the secret to himself, loved' this damsel. He told her the danger in time, and persuaded her to trust to him. They got into a canoe; the place of her retreat was described to her on the way' to it,-these women swim like mermaids',-she dived after him', and rose in the cavern'. In the widest part' it is about fifty feet'; its medium hight being about the same, and it is hung with stalactites.

3. Here, he brought her the choicest food', the finest clothing', mats for her bed', and sandal oil to perfume' herself with. Here, he visited her as often as was consistent with prudence', and here, as may be imagined, this Tonga Leander, wooed and won the maid', whom, to make the interest complete, he had long loved in secret', when he had no hope'. Meantime he prepared, with all his dependents, male and female, to emigrate in secret to the Fiji* islands.

4. The intention was so well concealed, that they embarked in safety', and his people asked him, at the point of their departure,

Pro. Fee-jee'.

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