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in France. Fig. 242 represents the arrangement adopted by this engineer for heating an edifice of different stories.

The heating apparatus, which is in the cellar or sunk floor, consists of a boiler, oo, in the form of a bell, and an interior fire Fig. 241.

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at F. At the upper part of this boiler is fixed a long pipe, M, which rises to a reservoir, a, partly filled with water and shut. From this reservoir proceed several feed-pipes, which terminate in the condensers b, a, d, e, f, e, filled with water. From these, again, proceed other pipes, which terminate in the lower part of the boiler. Now, as the water becomes heated in the boiler, it is diminished in density, and rises in the tube M to the reservoir a, placed at the top of the building. Having reached this point, it begins to cool, becomes more dense, and descends through the feed-pipes into the condensers b, a, d, etc. Here, cooling more and more, it tends always to descend, and reaches by degrees the lower part of the boiler, by means of the return-pipes, where it is heated and rises anew to the reservoir; and so on continually. During this circulation the water is gradually cooled, and giving out its sensible caloric to the pipes and the condensers, these become heated and form

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gaged at the top of the condensers. The principal advantage of this mode of heating is the maintenance of a temperature almost the same for a long period, the mass of water contained in the condensers and in the pipes being slowly cooled.

Practical Results.-The velocity with which the heat is transmitted through the pipes depends, other things being equal, upon the difference of temperature between the ascending and the descending column. For about 3 feet in height, 164 feet in length, 4 inches in diameter, and a difference in temperature of about 30 Centigrade or 6°3 Fahrenheit, the velocity in the pipes is about 7 inches per minute. The velocity obtained with heights of 30 feet, 50 feet, and 60 feet, admits of the transmission of considerable quantities of caloric to the places which are to be heated. With an equal amount of quantity, the increase in the height of the column admits of a diminution in the diameter of the pipes. Hot water communicates the heat necessary for warming, to a volume of air 3,200 times as large as itself; and this is the best process for distributing heat within the limits of a distance which does not exceed 250 feet, with a moderate number of stories and apartments. The particular advantages which it possesses are these; very great simplicity of construction and conveyance; no feeding, superintendence or cleaning; extreme regularity in heating, unless negligence and omission of the fire-man's duty for some hours should stop the circulation; the great facility by which the process of warming can be regulated to the wants of the moment, by the mere management of the fire; and the slowness with which a reduction in temperature takes place.

When the circulation of the water proceeds under a low pressure, the pipes may vary in diameter from 4 to 6 inches. With water at 80° Centigrade (176° Fahrenheit) and air at 15° Centigrade (59° Fahrenheit), the surface of the pipes should be 21 times that of the suface required for heating by steam when the latter is employed in heating an apartment indirectly; and 1 times the same, when it is employed in heating directly. The water-stoves are easily placed in the line of circulation, so as to make part of it, by attending to the single condition of making the water enter them by the top and escape by the bottom. The capacity of the boilers may vary from 15 to 30 per cent. of that of the whole of the distributing apparatus. M. Perkins first employed the system of warming by high pressure, in pipes of small diameter, and with a small body of water. This method required less heating surface and occupied less space; it passed more easily through walls and floors, and, above all, it continued heating for a longer time; but it had the defect of frequent leakage through the joints of the pipes under these high pressures, and it often caused fires to take place by carbonising the wood along which it passed, in consequence of the high temperature to which the pipes were carried. The pipes were commonly an inch in diameter; and for 10 square feet of pipe surface, it was customary to reckon 2,800 feet of space, which corresponds nearly to the surface required for heating by steam. If the temperature was 100° Centigrade (212° Fahrenheit) in the returning column, it might rise to 150° or 200° Centigrade (302° or 392° Fahrenheit) in the ascending column. Ventilation.-Man destroys the air which surrounds him by respiration, and by cutaneous and pulmonary perspiration. The vapours which proceed from these processes are dissolved in the air; but they are accompanied with animal matters which speedily communicate to the air a disagreeable odour. These matters are unquestionably the most powerful cause of insalubrity. In order that they should not exercise a sensible influence, it has been found by experiment, that each individual must have 212 cubic feet per hour, or about 22 gallons per minute; in this estimate, the air destroyed by the expiration of the carbonic acid does not exceed 12 cubic feet, and in this small quantity the carbonic acid enters to the amount of 4 per cent. This proportion of carbonic acid is sufficient to suffocate a large dog.

The air of our rooms is still more destroyed by artificial lights. M. Peclet has made the following estimates, on the supposition that there is required, for combustion, a volume of air triple of that in which the oxygen is absorbed in order to be converted into carbonic acid. A common or a wax candle of 6 to the pound burns 170 grains, and there must be 11 cubic feet of air. A lamp with a large burner consumes 648

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grains, and there must be 44 cubic feet of air. The quantities of light produced in these different modes of illumination are nearly in the ratio of the numbers 11, 14 and 100. These results enable us to calculate the quantity of air which must be furnished per hour to an inhabited apartment, when we know the number of persons it contains and the number and nature of the lights employed. When the apparatus for heating a room is supplied by the air it contains, it will be sufficient to attend only to the greater quantity of air required either for the combustion or for the ventilation, and not for both; because the air which is partially destroyed by the presence of a certain number of persons is still fit for combus

tion.

LESSONS IN READING AND ELOCUTION.

No. XVIII.

EXERCISES ON EXPRESSIVE TONE-continued.
EDUCATION OF FEMALES.

of life, command his respect, as much as their talents excite his admiration.-Story.

CUSTOM OF WHITEWASHING.

My wish is to give you some account of the people of these new States; but I am far from being qualified for the purpose, having as yet seen little more than the cities of New York and Philadelphia. I have discovered but few national singularities among them. Their customs and manners are nearly the same with those of England, which they have long been used to copy. For, previous to the revolution, the Americans were from their infancy taught to look up to the English as patterns of perfection in all things. I have observed, however, one custom, which, for aught I know, is peculiar to this country: an account of it will serve to fill up the remainder of this sheet, and may afford you some amusement.

When a young couple are about to enter the matrimonial state, a never-failing article in the marriage treaty is, that the lady shall have and enjoy the free and unmolested exercise of the rights of whitewashing, with all its ceremonials, privileges advantageous connexion, and even disappoint the warmest and appurtenances. A young woman would forego the most wish of her heart, rather than resign the invaluable right. You would wonder what this privilege of whitewashing is :-I will endeavour to give you some idea of the ceremony, as I have seen it performed.

IF Christianity may be said to have given a permanent elevation to woman, as an intellectual and moral being, it is as true, that the present age, above all others, has given play to her genius, and taught us to reverence its influence. It was the fashion of other times to treat the literary acquirements of the sex, as starched pedantry, or vain pretension; to stigmatise There is no season of the year in which the lady may not them as inconsistent with those domestic affections and virtues, claim her privilege, if she pleases; but the latter end of May which constitute the charm of society. We had abundant is most generally fixed upon for the purpose. The attentive homilies read upon their amiable weaknesses and sentimental husband may judge by certain prognostics when the storm is delicacy, upon their timid gentleness and submissive depend-nigh at hand. When the lady is unusually fretful, finds fault ence; as if to taste the fruit of knowledge were a deadly sin, and ignorance were the sole guardian of innocence. Their whole lives were "sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought;" and concealment of intellectual power was often resorted to to escape the dangerous imputation of masculine strength. In the higher walks of life, the satirist was not without colour for the suggestion, that it was

"A youth of folly, an old age of cards; "

with the servants, is discontented with the children, and complains much of the filthiness of every thing about her, these are signs which ought not to be neglected; yet they are not decisive, as they sometimes come on, and go off again, without producing any further effect. But if, when the husband rises in the morning, he should observe in the yard a wheelbarrow with a quantity of lime in it, or should see certain buckets with lime dissolved in water, there is then no time to be lost; he immediately locks up the apartment, or closet, where his papers or his private property are kept, and, husband, however beloved, becomes a perfect nuisance during this season of female rage; his authority is superseded, his commission is suspended; and the very scullion, who cleans the brasses in the kitchen, becomes of more consideration and importance than he. He has nothing for it but to abdicate, and run from an evil which he can neither prevent nor mollify.

and that, elsewhere, "most women had no character at all," beyond that of purity and devotion to their families. Admirable as are these qualities, it seemed an abuse of the gifts of provi-putting the key in his pocket, betakes himself to flight; for a dence, to grant to mothers the power of instructing their children, to wives the privilege of sharing the intellectual pursuits of their husbands, to sisters and daughters the delight of ministering knowledge in the fireside circle, to youth and beauty the charm of refined sense, to age and infirmity the consolation of studies which elevate the soul, and gladden the listless hours of despondency.

These things have, in a great measure, passed away. The prejudices, which dishonoured the sex, have yielded to the influence of truth. By slow, but sure advances, education has extended itself through all ranks of female society. There is no longer any dread, lest the culture of science should foster that masculine boldness, or restless independence, which alarms by its sallies, or wounds by its inconsistencies. We have seen that here, as everywhere else, knowledge is favourable to human virtue and human happiness; that the refinement of literature adds lustre to the devotion of piety; that true learning, like true taste, is modest and unostentatious; that grace of manners receives a higher polish from the discipline of the schools; that cultivated genius sheds a cheering light over domestic duties, and its very sparkles, like those of the diamond, attest at once its power and its purity.

The husband gone, the ceremony begins. The walls are in a few minutes stripped of their furniture; paintings, prints, and looking-glasses, lie in a huddled heap, about the floors; the curtains are torn from the testers, the beds crammed into the windows; chairs and tables, bedsteads and cradles crowd the yard; and the garden fence bends beneath the weight of carpets, blankets, cloth cloaks, old coats, and ragged breeches. Here may be seen the lumber of the kitchen, forming a dark and confused mass: for the foreground of the picture, gridirons and frying-pans, rusty shovels and broken tongs, spits and pots, and the fractured remains of rush-bottomed chairs. There, a closet has disgorged its bowels, cracked tumblers, broken wine-glasses, phials of forgotten physic, papers of unknown powders, seeds and dried herbs, handfuls of old corks, tops of teapots and stoppers of departed decanters; no place remains unrummaged. It would seem as if the day of general doom was come, and the utensils of the house were dragged forth to judgment. In this tempest, the words of Lear naturally present themselves, and might, with some alteration, be made strictly applicable:

There is not a rank of female society, however high, which-from the rag hole in the garret, to the rat hole in the cellar, does not now pay homage to literature, or that would not blush, even at the suspicion of that ignorance, which, a half century ago, was neither uncommon, nor discreditable. There is not a parent, whose pride may not glow at the thought, that his daughter's happiness is, in a great measure, within her own command, whether she keeps the cool, sequestered vale of life, or visits the busy walks of fashion.

A new path is thus opened for female exertion, to alleviate the pressure of misfortune, without any supposed sacrifice of dignity, or modesty. Man no longer aspires to an exclusive dominion in authorship. He has rivals, or allies, in almost every department of knowledge; and they are to be found among those, whose elegance of manners, and blamelessness

"Let the great gods,

That keep this dreadful pother o'er our heads,
Find out their enemies now. Tremble, thou wretch,
Thou hast within thee undivulged crimes
Unwhipp'd of Justice!-

--Close pent-up Guilt,

Raise your concealing continents, and ask
These dreadful summoners grace!"

This ceremony completed, and the house thoroughly evacuated, the next operation is to smear the walls and the ceilings of every room and closet, with brushes dipped in a solution of lime, called whitewash; to pour buckets of water over every floor, and scratch all the partitions and wainscots with rough brushes, wet with soap-suds, and dipped in stonecutter's sand. The windows by no means escape the general deluge. A servant scrambles out upon the pent-house, at the risk of her neck, and with a mug in her hand, and a bucket within reach, she dashes away innumerable gallons of water against the glass panes, to the great annoyance of passengers in the street.

I have been told, that an action at law was once brought against one of these water-nymphs, by a person who had a new suit of clothes spoiled by this operation; but, after a long argument, it was determined by the whole court, that the action would not lie, inasmuch as the defendent was in the exercise of a legal right, and not answerable for the consequences; and so the poor gentleman was doubly nonsuited: for he lost not only his suit of clothes but his suit at law. These smearings and scratchings, washings and dashings, being duly performed, the next ceremony is to cleanse and replace the distracted furniture. You may have seen a houseraising, or a ship-launch, when all the hands within reach are collected together; recollect, if you can, the hurry, bustle, confusion, and noise of such a scene, and you will have some idea of this cleaning match. The misfortune is, that the sole object is to make things clean; it matters not how many useful, ornamental, or valuable articles are mutilated, or suffer death under the operation; a mahogany chair and carved frame undergo the same discipline; they are to be made clean, at all events; but their preservation is not worthy of attention. For instance, a fine large engraving is laid flat upon the floor; smaller prints are piled upon it, and the superincumbent weight cracks the glasses of the lower tier; but this is of no consequence. A valuable picture is placed leaning against the sharp corner of a table; others are made to lean against that, until the pressure of the whole forces the corner of the table through the canvas of the first. The frame and glass of a fine print are to be cleaned; the spirit and oil used on this occasion are suffered to leak through and spoil the engraving; no matter, if the glass is clean, and the frame shine, it is sufficient; the rest. is not worthy of consideration. An able mathematician has made an accurate calculation founded on long experience, and has discovered that the losses and destruction incident to two whitewashings are equal to one removal, and three removals equal to one fire.

The cleaning frolic over, matters begin to resume their pristine appearance. The storm abates, and all would be well again; but it is impossible that so great a convulsion, in so small a community, should not produce some further effects. For two or three weeks after the operation, the family are usually afflicted with sore throats or sore eyes, occasioned by the caustic quality of the lime, or with severe colds, from the exhalations of wet floors or damp walls.

His

this is generally done; and, though it cannot abolish, it at least shortens, the period of female dominion. The paper is decorated with flowers of various fancies, and made so ornamental, that the women have admitted the fashion without perceiving the design.

There is also another alleviation of the husband's distress; he generally has the privilege of a small room or closet for his books and papers, the key of which he is allowed to keep. This is considered as a privileged place, and stands like the land of Goshen amid the plagues of Egypt. But then he must be extremely cautious and ever on his guard; for should he inadvertently go abroad, and leave the key in his door, the housemaid, who is always on the watch for such an opportunity, immediately enters in triumph, with buckets, brooms, and brushes; takes possession of the premises, and forth with puts all his books and papers to rights, to his utter confusion, and sometimes serious detriment. For instance:

A gentleman was sued by the executors of a tradesman, on a charge found against him in the deceased's books, to the amount of thirty pounds. The defendant was strongly impressed with the idea, that he had discharged the debt, and taken a receipt; but, as the transaction was of long standing, he knew not where to find the receipt. The suit went on in course, and the time approached when judgment would be obtained against him. He then sat seriously down to examine a large bundle of old papers, which he had untied, and displayed on a table for that purpose. In the midst of his search, he was suddenly called away on business of importance ;-he forgot to lock the door of his room. The housemaid, who had been long looking out for such an opportunity, immediately entered with the usual implements, and, with great alacrity, fell to cleaning the room, and putting things to rights. The first object that struck her eye was the confused situation of the papers on the table; these were without delay bundled together, as so many dirty knives and forks; but in the action, a small piece of paper fell unnoticed on the floor, which happened to be the very receipt in question; as it had no very respectable appearance, it was soon after swept out with the common dirt of the room, and carried in the rubbish-pan into the yard. The tradesman had neglected to enter the credit in his book; the defendant could find nothing to obviate the charge, and so judgment went against him for the debt and costs. A fortnight after the whole was settled, and the money paid, one of the children found the receipt among the rubbish in the yard.

There is another custom, peculiar to the city of Philadelphia, and nearly allied to the former. I mean, that of washing the pavement before the doors every Saturday evening. I, at first, took this to be a regulation of the police; but, on further and is, I believe, the only religious rite in which the numerous inquiry, find it is a religious rite, preparatory to the Sabbath; about sunset, and continues till about ten or eleven at night. sectaries of this city perfectly agree. The ceremony begins It is very difficult for a stranger to walk the streets on those evenings; he runs a continual risk of having a bucket of dirty much accustomed to the danger, that he avoids it with surwater thrown against his legs; but a Philadelphian born is so prising dexterity. It is from this circumstance that a Philadelphian may be known anywhere by his gait. The streets of washed; but the dirt is so thoroughly swept from before the New York are paved with rough stones; these indeed are not doors, that the stones stand up sharp and prominent, to the great inconvenience of those who are not accustomed to so rough a path. But habit reconciles every thing. It is diverting enough to see a Philadelphian at New York; he walks the streets with as much painful caution as if his toes were covered with corns, or his feet lamed with the gout; while a New Yorker, as little approving the plain masonry of Philadelphia, shuffles along the pavement, like a parrot on a mahogany table.

I know a gentleman who was fond of accounting for every thing in a philosophical way. He considers this which I have called a custom, as a real periodical disease, peculiar to the climate. His train of reasoning is ingenious and whimsical; but I am not at leisure to give you the detail. The result was, that he found the distemper to be incurable; but, after much study, he conceived he had discovered a method to divert the evil he could not subdue. For this purpose, he caused a small building, about twelve feet square, to be erected in his garden, and furnished with some ordinary chairs and tables; and a few prints of the cheapest sort, were hung against the walls. hope was, that, when the whitewashing frenzy seized the females of his family, they might repair to this apartment, and scrub and smear and scour to their hearts' content; and so spend the violence of the disease in this outpost, while he enjoyed himself in quiet at head-quarters. But the experiment It must be acknowledged, that the ablutions I have mendid not answer his expectation: it was impossible it should,tioned are attended with no small inconvenience; but the since a principal part of the gratification consists in the lady's women would not be induced, on any consideration, to resign having an uncontrolled right to torment her husband, at least their privilege. Notwithstanding this, I can give you the once a year, and to turn him out of doors, and take the reins strongest assurances that the women of America make the of government into her own hands. most faithful wives, and the most attentive mothers, in the There is a much better contrivance than this of the philo-world; and I am sure you will join me in opinion, that, if a sopher, which is, to cover the walls of the house with paper; married man is made miserable only one week in the wholə

year, he will have no great cause to complain of the matrimonial bond.-Hopkinson.

THE CHILD OF THE TOMB;-A STORY OF NEW BURYPORT.

[The following fact is found in Knapp's "Life of Lord Dexter."]

Where WHITEFIELD sleeps, remembered, in the dust,
The lowly vault held once a double trust;
And PARSONS, reverend name, that quiet tomb
Possessed,-to wait the day of weal and doom.
Another servant of the living God,

PRINCE, who (bereft of sight), his way had trod,
Unerringly and safe, life's journey through,—
Now sought admittance to these slumberers too.
As earth receded, and the mansions blest
Rose on his vision,-"Let my body rest

With Whitefield's"-said he, yielding up his breath,
In life beloved, and not disjoined in death.
Obedient to his wish, in order then

Were all things done; the tomb was oped to ken
Of curious eyes,-made ready to enclose
Another tenant in its hushed repose:
And, lighted with a single lamp, whose ray
Fell dimly down upon the mouldering clay,
Was left, prepared, to silence as of night,
Till hour appointed for the funeral right.

It chanced the plodding teacher of a school,-
A man of whim, bold, reckless, yet no fool,-
Deemed this an opportunity to test
How far the fears of spirits might infest
The bosom of a child. A 'likely' boy,
The choicest of his flock, a mother's joy,
He took, unscrupulous of means, if he
His ends might gain, and solve the mystery.

Both stood within the mansion of the dead,
And while the stripling mused, the teacher fled,
Leaving the child, where the dull cresset shone,
With the dumb relics and his God alone.
As the trap-door fell suddenly, the stroke,
Sullen and harsh, his solemn revery broke.
Where is he?-Barred within the dreadful womb
Of the cold earth,—the living in the tomb!
The opened coffins showed Death's doings, sad,—
The awful dust in damps and grave-mould clad.
Though near the haunt of busy, cheerful day,
He, to drear night and solitude the prey!
Must he be watcher with these corpses !-Who

Can tell what sights may rise? Will reason then be true?

Must he, a blooming, laughter-loving child,

Be mated thus ?--The thought was cruel, wild!

His knees together smote, as first, in fear,

He gazed around his prison;-then a tear
Sprang to his eyes in kind relief; and said
The little boy, "I will not be afraid.
Was ever spirit of the good man known
To injure children whom it found alone ?”
And straight he taxed his memory, to supply

Stories and texts, to show he might rely

Most safely, humbly, on his Father's care,-
Who hears a child's as well as prelate's prayer.
And thus he stood,-on Whitefield's form his glance
In reverence fixed,—and hoped deliverance.

Meanwhile, the recreant teacher,-where was he?
Gone in effrontery to take his tea
With the lad's mother!-Supper done, he told
The feat that should display her son as bold.
With eye indignant, and with words of flame,
How showers that mother's scorn, rebuke, and shame
And bids him haste! and hastes herself, to bring
Him from Death's realm, who knew not yet its sting:
And yet believed,-so well her son she knew,-
The noble boy would to himself be true:
He would sustain himself, and she would find
Him patient and possessed, she trusted well his mind.

The boy yet lives,-and from that distant hour Dates much of truth that on his heart hath power;And chiefly this,-whate'er of wit is wed To word of his,-to reverence the dead.

LOVE AND FAME

Give me the boon of Love!

I ask no more for fame;

Far better one unpurchased heart
Than Glory's proudest name.

Why wake a fever in the blood,
Or damp the spirit now,

To gain a wreath whose leaves shall wave
Above a withered brow?

Give me the boon of Love!
Ambition's meed is vain;
Dearer Affection's earnest smile
Than Honour's richest train.
I'd rather lean upon a breast
Responsive to my own,
Than sit, pavilioned gorgeously,
Upon a kingly throne.

Like the Chaldean sage,
Fame's worshippers adore
The brilliant orbs that scatter light
O'er heaven's azure floor;

But in their very hearts enshrined,
The votaries of Love

Keep e'er the holy flame, which once
Illumed the courts above.

Give me the boon of Love!
Renown is but a breath,
Whose loudest echo ever floats
From out the halls of death.
A loving eye beguiles me more
Than Fame's emblazoned seal,
And one sweet tone of tenderness
Than Triumph's wildest peal.

Give me the boon of Love!
The path of Fame is drear,
And Glory's arch doth ever span

A hill-side cold and sere.

One wild flower from the path of Love,

All lowly though it lie,

Is dearer than the wreath that waves

To stern Ambition's eye.

Give me the boon of Love!

The lamp of Fame shines far,

But Love's soft light glows near and warm,

A pure and household star.

One tender glance can fill the soul

With a perennial fire;

But Glory's flame burns fitfully,

A lone, funereal pyre.

Give me the boon of Love!

Fame's trumpet-strains depart,

But Love's sweet lute breathes melody

That lingers in the heart;

And the scroll of fame will burn,
When sea and earth consume;

But the rose of Love, in a happier sphere,
Will live in deathless bloom!-Tuckerman.

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A mesure que l'industrie et les arts mécaniques s'étendent et fleurissent, les arts les plus nécessaires, tels que l'agriculture, sont négligés. Le fils du cultivateur abandonne son champ, et laisse sa terre en friche pour aller chercher dans les villes le pain que l'industrie et les arts lui fournissent. Tel est l'effet réel qui résulte de l'industrie et du luxe: c'est ainsi qu'un état s'enrichit d'un côté pour s'appauvrir de l'autre, et que le superflu, préféré au nécessaire, nourrit cent pauvres dans les villes aux dépens de dix mille qui périssent dans les campagnes.-J.-J. Rousseau.

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Ρ. αγγελ-ουμεθαι

αγγελ-οιμεθα

ε-τίλ-αμην

ε-συρ-αμην

ε-μολῦν·αμην

αγγελ-οῖσθε

ε-τιλ-θην

Αor. 2. εστάλην

σταλοθησομαι Fut. 2. σταλ-ησομαι.

Verb. Adj. ἱμερ-τος, ἱμερ-τεος ; σταλ-τος, σταλ-τεος.

The inflexions of the Perfect middle or passive follow those οι ηγγελ-μαι.

3. With i and u in the Future.

(α) τιλλ-ω, I pluck, συρ-w, I pull, μολύν-ω, I bcdaub.

σύρω
σύρομαι

σε συρ-κα

σε συρομαι

συρῶ
συρ-οῦμαι

μολύν-ω μολύνομαι (με-μολυγ-κα)

με μολυσμαι μολύν ω μολυν-οῦμαι

αγγελ-εῖσθε

αγγελούνται

αγγελ-οῖντο.

Aor. 1. Ind. ηγγειλ-αμην, Subj. αγγειλ-ωμαι, Opt. αγγειλαίμην, Imp. αγγειλ-αι, Int. αγγειλ-ασθαι, Part. αγγειλ-αμενος. Aor. 2. Ind. ηγγελ-ομην, Subj. αγγελ-ωμαι, Opt. αγγελοιμην, Imp. αγγελ-οῦ, Int. αγγελ-εσθαι, Part. αγγελ-ομενος.

Passive.

Aor. 1. Pass.

Fut. 1. Pass. τιλ-θησομαι

ε-συρ-θην ε-μολυν-θην

συρ-θήσομαι μολυνθήσομαι

Aor. 2. and Fut. 2. Pass. ε-συρ-ην, συρ-ησομαι.

Verb. Adj. τιλ-τος, τιλ-τεος; συρ-τος, συρ-τεος; μολυντος, μολυν-τεος.

The inflexions of the Perfect middle or passive τε-τιλ-μαι, σε-συρ-μαι, follow ηγγελομαι; those of με μολυσ-μαι follow

Aor. 1. ηγγελ-θην, Αor. 2. ηγγελ-ην. Verb. adj. αγγελ-τεος. πε-φασομαι, and those of ᾔσχυμ-μαι (from αισχυν-ω, I am Fut. 1. αγγελ-θήσομαι, Fut. 2. αγγελ-ησομαι. ashamed), follow ε-ξηραμ-μαι.

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(3) κλίνω, I bend, πλῦν-w, I wash; the v drops.

Active.
Middle.
κλίνω κλίνομαι
κεκλίκα κε-κλί-μαι
κλιν-ῶ

Fut.
Aor. 1. ε-κλίν-α

Aor. 1. ε-κλί-θην.

κλιν-οῦμαι

Active. Middle. πλύνω πλυν-ομαι πεπλύ-κα πε-πλύμαι

πλυνω πλυν-οῦμαι

ε-κλίν-αμην ε-πλύνα επλῦν αμην.

Passive.

Fut. 1. κλίθησομαι; ε-πλύθην, πλυθησμαι Aor. 2. ε-κλίνην. Fut. 2. κλίν-ησομαι.

Verb. Αdj. κλι-τος, κλι-τεος; πλυ-τος, πλυ-τεος.

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