level of the principal crater. Both these vents were in partial action. Even from the sides of the principal cone, before reaching the summit, a hissing sound, like that of a number of rockets let off at once, had attracted my attention, and I had timed the explosions as occurring at intervals of about two minutes, with much more considerable noise at intervals of six minutes. When inside the principal crater, I was able to see the nature of these eruptions. The depth of the principal crater, below the general level of the top of the cone, was about three hundred feet. The larger of the small cones of eruption rose about hundred one Section of a Volcano. C the crater. BB the stream of lava from the central fire. A-cone or hill of ashes thrown out by the volcano. E transverse bands of lava which have flowed from the central fountain and now hold the light material of the cone together. D the old rocks heaved up and cleft by the heated vapours within, before they found vent through the funnel B. The lava has flowed into the clefts thus made. You see, here, that the "mountain" is the work of the volcano. At first there was none, but only a surface as level as the parts round. although the eruption from the smaller was generally preceded or accompanied by a small puff of steam from the bocca grande, or larger vent. Each time the noise was heard, a puff of white cloud (almost entirely steam), at very high temperature, came out with a steady rush from the smaller vent, accompanied by a number of fragments of red-hot scoriæ, as large as a man's fist, which fell around, and which were soft enough to admit of a copper coin being inserted within its substance without difficulty. The puff lasted only for a short time, and was followed by repose, but the heat of the air issuing from the vent was almost too great to allow me to look down into it. The eruptions from the bocca grande were insignificant during the time of my visit, but were said to be much more considerable than those from the small vent when they occur, rendering the crater at such times unsafe to visit. Stones as well as scoria are then erupted. A tremulous motion of the earth was distinctly felt just before the eruptions took place from the smaller vent. COMPOSITION.-Describe the crater of Vesuvius in your own words. FUNERAL OF GEORGE THE THIRD.-Charles Knight. See page 15. THE funeral of George the Third appeared to me like the close of a long series of reminiscences. Windsor had to me been associated with the loud talk and the good-natured laugh of a portly gentleman with a star on his breast, whom I sometimes ran against in my childhood; with a venerable personage, blind, but cheerful, who sat erect on a led horse, as I have seen him in my youth; with the dim idea of my manhood, that in rooms of the Castle, which no curiosity could penetrate, there sat an old man with a long beard, bereft of every attribute of rank, who occasionally talked wildly, or threw himself about U frantically, and sometimes awoke recollections of happier days by striking a few chords on his piano. Then came the final pageant. It was a poem rather than a show. The Lying-in State was something higher than undertaker's art. As I passed through St. George's Hall, I thought of the last display of regal pomp in that room-the Installation of 1805-when, at the banquet, the Sovereign stood up and pledged his knights, and the knights, in full cups of gold, invoked health and happiness on the Sovereign. The throne on which George the Third then sat was now covered with funeral draperies. I went on into the King's Guard-Chamber. The room was darkened-there was no light but that of the flickering wood-fires which burnt on an ancient hearth on each side. the ground lay the beds on which the Yeomen of the Guard had slept during the night. They stood in their grand old dresses of state, with broad scarves of crape across their breasts, and crape on their halberds. As the red light of the burning brands On gleamed on their rough faces, and glanced ever and anon upon the polished mail of the Black Prince, on the bruised armour of the soldiers of the Plantagenets, and on the matchlocks and bandoleers of the early days of modern warfare, some of the reality of the Present passed into visions of the Past. I thought of Edward of Windsor, the great builder of the Castle, deserted in his last moments. I thought of other "sad stories of the deaths of kings." I came back to the immediate interest of the scene before me, by remembering that not one of the long line of English sovereigns before George the Third had died at Windsor. I passed on into the chamber of death. All here was comparatively modern. The hangings of purple cloth which hid West's gaudy pictures of the Institution of the Order of the Garter; the waxlights on silver sconces; the pages standing by the side of the coffin; the Lord of the Bedchamber sitting at its head; much of this was upholstery work, and did not affect the imagination, except in connexion with the solemn silence,—a stillness unbroken, even when rustic feet, unused to tread on carpets, passed by the bier, awe-struck. One such Royal Funeral as I had previously seen was not essentially different from another. The out-door ceremonial at the interment of George the Third was not readily to be forgotten. It was a walking procession. The night was dark and misty. Vast crowds were assembled in the Lower Ward of the Castle, hushed and expectant. A platform had been erected from the Grand Entrance of the Castle to the Western Entrance of St. George's Chapel. It was lined on each side by a single file of the Guards. A signal-rocket is fired. Every soldier lights a torch, and the massive towers and delicate pinnacles stand out in the red glare. Minute-guns are now heard in the distance. Will those startling voices never cease? Expectation is at its height. A flourish of trumpets is heard, and then the roll of muffled drums. A solemn dirge falls upon the ear, nearer and nearer. The funeral-car glides slowly along the platform without any perceptible aid from human or mechanical power. The dirge ceases for a little while; and then again the trumpets and the muffled drums sound alternately. Again the dirge--softly breathing flutes and clarionets mingling their notes with "the mellow horn"—and then a dead silence; for the final resting-place is reached. Heralds and banners and escutcheons touch not the heart. But the Music! That is something grander than the picturesque. NOTES.-An old man, &c.-George III., before his death, was blind, mad, and stone deaf. Edward of Windsor.-Edward III. (1327-1377). West, Benjamin.-An American painter, who lived in England. Born, 1738; died, 1820. Famous in his day, less so since. COMPOSITION.-Write out a list of all the words formed from the same roots as the first twelve verbs and twelve nouns. THE WORLD'S AGE.-Charles Kingsley. WHO will say the world is dying? Still the race of Hero-spirits Pass the lamp from hand to hand; Wife, and Child, and Fatherland." While a slave bewails his fetters; SELF-EDUCATION.-Charles Dickens. It was suggested by Mr. Babbage, in his ninth "Bridgewater Treatise," that a mere spoken word-a single articulated syllable thrown into the air-may go on reverberating through illimitable space for ever and for ever, seeing that there is no rim against which it can strike-no boundary at which it can possibly arrive. Similarly it may be said--not as an ingenious speculation, but as a steadfast and absolute fact that human calculation cannot limit the influence of one atom of wholesome knowledge patiently acquired, modestly possessed, and faithfully used. As the astronomers tell us that it is probable that there are |