A whale sometimes causes danger by proving to be alive after having exhibited every symptom of death. Capt. Scoresby mentions the instance of one which appeared so decidedly dead, that he himself had leaped on the tail, and was putting a rope through it, when he suddenly felt him sinking from beneath him. He made a spring towards a boat that was some yards distant, and grasping its side was drawn on board. The fish then moved forwards, reared his tail aloft, and shook it with such prodigious violence, that it could have been heard for several miles off. After a few minutes of this violent struggle he rolled on his side and expired. The many accidents which have taken place in the Greenland and Spitzbergen whale fishery, even under the direction of the most experienced mariners are lamentable and manifold; and I will now, William, relate to you some of the many which have occurred to the English and Dutch whalers. The most common is that of a ship being beset and sometimes dashed to pieces by the collision of those mighty masses or mountains of ice with which northern seas are continually filled. The Blecker, Capt. Pitt, was driven against the ice with such violence that in an instant all her rigging was dashed in pieces; the crew, however, escaped upon the ice, and after a few days were taken off by a Dutch ship. Capt. Bile, some years afterwards, lost a ship richly laden, which went down suddenly; after which the crew wandered in boats over the sea for fourteen days before they were taken up. Thirteen other vessels perished the same year in those seas. Three years afterwards, Capt. Bile lost a second ship, the crew having just time to save themselves on the ice. William here asked his father if whale ships were not sometimes lost at sea? Yes, my son, many fishing-ships as well as merchantmen have foundered at sea, and have never been heard from since their departure. I remember, father, says William, a piece of poetry which aunt Mary learnt me a long time since on the loss of a vessel. Deep in the silent waters, A thousand fathoms low, A stately ship lies perishing, She foundered long ago. There were blessings poured upon her, When from her port she sailed, And prayers and anxious weeping, Went with her o’er the sea. But how that fine ship perished, None knew, save him on high; No island heard her signal, No other bark was nigh. We only know from Boston She sailed, far o’er the main; We only know to Boston She never came again. You will find, my son, by referring to Irving’s Sketch Book, a most thrilling description of a wreck at sea. The whale-fishery is not more distinguished for examples of sudden peril and besetment than for unexpected deliverance from the most alarming situations.