"Very, very deep. Coals are certainly decayed wood, and the quality of the coal very probably varies, according to the wood of which it is formed. That sort which contains most turpentine, or as it is called in coals, bitumen, makes our finest, brightest and most sparkling coal. The series begins at Naphtha, which is, you know, a liquid very soon ignited, and which burns with rapidity. The series goes on including coals in three different varieties; of those with much bitumen, and those without any, till it ends in a heavy black lump called authracite and plumbago; which is, I believe, coal without any of its inflammable qualities, and which will not burn at all. If my idea be correct, of the formations of the earth being produced by the rushing of waters, I can suppose whole forests overwhelmed, and these covered with masses of other materials, which have formed other strata, and remain above. For an experienced geologist has proved, that if you take different rocky substances and pound them quite fine, and mix them in water, they will all subside in their original parts; there will be no mixture of the one sort with the other, but each will remain single; and the more finely they are pounded, the more visible will this arrangement be. Coals are, therefore, undoubtedly wood; because a piece has

been exhibited, of which one end was perfect coal, and the other remained wood. Jet is an imperfect sort of coal. There is a bog, at Borey Tracey in Devonshire, where the wood may be visibly observed being transformed into coal; but it is chiefly heathy, and becomes brown, owing to the quantity of iron in it. Amber is said now to be (amber, which so long baffled conjecture) the turpentine of trees, which, by its exposure to the sea and the action of the waves, is so very much changed, as to bear scarcely any resemblance to what it once was. And now, my dear Gerald, I have answered your questions as well as I am able; I am too tired to speak more at present, but I would advise you to go and read 'Mawe's Familiar Lessons on Mineralogy and Geology;' or 'Conversations on Mineralogy;' or, 'Philips' Introduction to the same Study.' All, or any of which, will instruct you far better, and far more ably than I have the power of doing."

THE

FIRST ADVENTURE OF A SAILOR.

66

BY THE AUTHOR OF ELLEN CAMERON."

'Tis pleasant round a winter's hearth,
With a bright fire blazing high,

To choose sad talk amidst our mirth,
And sigh, with the happiest hearts on earth,
O'er griefs that chanced before our birth,
And dangers long gone by.

OLD SONG.

ONE Christmas evening, an old man sat in a great arm-chair, close to a bright fire. His hand was on a book, but his chin was sinking on his breast, and though his spectacles (with the red firelight glare upon them) were staring straight on the page, his eyes looked very much as if they were shut.

"Come, grandfather!" exclaimed a fine young midshipman, who bounced into the room, followed by his two brothers, "put down your book, and tell us a story."

The old gentleman started,—his book fell from his hand,—he pushed up his spectacles, rubbed his eyes, settled his wig, asked what o'clock it was, and finally, complained that the boys never would let him read in peace.

Just then, he felt a little twitch from behind. He looked round; it was Willy, the youngest, the darling boy, sitting astride on the back of his chair, with one hand holding his grandfather's book high above his head, and with the other pulling his pigtail, or, as he called it, his bell-rope, by way of gaining attention.

"Ah! you little rogue," said the grandfather, smiling, "what are you doing with my book and my pigtail?"

"Tell me what the last page was about, and you shall have them both again."

"And what if I cannot?"

"Then you must tell us a story, as we asked you to do."

66

Well, then, the last page was about-Buonaparte."

"What about him?"

"Let me see-he went to Moscow."

"A forfeit! a forfeit!" cried Willy, clapping his Bony left Moscow three pages ago!"

hands. 66

"Well, then, I see I must submit," said the happy-looking old man. "What sort of story will you have?"

"Boarding the Bucentaur in Trafalgar Bay,"

said the young sailor, or cutting out a frigate, or sailing under the guns of some frightful French battery."

"No," said James, who was a pale and pensivelooking boy, and he grasped his grandfather's arm as he spoke. "No,-tell us about that dreadful storm, two days after a sea-fight, when the bodies of the dead drifted along on the tide, and knocked against your boat. And tell us how you thought you knew among them the face of your friend, and you almost thought he spoke to you, the wind whistled so loudly as his body drifted by in the tempest. Tell us something like that. Come, make haste, before the candles are brought in, and let it be very horrible!”

"What say you, William?" said the grandfather, turning to his youngest, his namesake and favourite. "Which shall it be?"

Willy smiled in his face, and climbed his knee, and looking up with his bright blue eyes, said, “I should like something dreadful, too; but I am tired of battles. Cannot you tell us of something that