Dr. Judd, an American naturalist, who, in 1841, descended into the crater of Kilauea, on Mauna Loa, in Hawaii, well-nigh fell a victim to his curiosity. At that time, the smallest of the two lava pools which boil at the bottom of that extraordinary pit appeared almost inactive, giving out only vapours, with an occasional jet of lava at its centre. Dr. Judd, considering the quiet favourable for dipping up some of the liquid with an iron ladle, descended for the purpose to a narrow ledge bordering the pool. While he was preparing to carry out his plans, his attention was excited by a sudden sinking of its surface; the next instant it began to rise, and then followed an explosion, throwing the lava higher than his head. He had scarcely escaped from his dangerous situation, the moment after, by the aid of a native, before the lava boiled up, covered the place where he stood, and, flowing out over the northern side, extended in a stream a mile wide to a distance of more than a mile and a half! In extinct volcanoes, the picture of desolation originally shown by their craters has not seldom been changed into one of charming loveliness. Tall forest trees cover the bottom of the Tofua crater in Upolu, one of the Samoan group; and in the same island, a circular lake of crystal purity, belted with a girdle of the richest green, has formed in the depth of the Lanuto crater. [Illustration: EXTINCT CRATER OF HALEAKALA.] The lakes of Averno near Naples, and of Bolsena, Bracciano, and Ronciglione, likewise fill the hollows of extinct craters, constituting scenes of surpassing beauty, rendered still more impressive by the remembrance of the stormy past which preceded their present epoch of tranquillity and peace. Mr. Mallet describes, with glowing colours, the singular beauty of the forest scenery around the two extinct craters of Mount Vultur in Apulia, which time has converted into two deep circular lakes. ‘I descend amongst aged trunks and overarching limbs, and pass over masses of rounded lava-blocks and cemented lapilli. All is quietude; the soft breeze of a quiet winter’s afternoon fans across the embosomed water, from the early wheat-fields and the furrowed acres of the opposite steep slopes, and brings the gentle ripple lapping amongst the roots of the old hazels at my feet. ‘Off before me, and to my left, crowning the slope, are the grey ruins of some ancient church or castle, and far above me to the right, nestled against the lava crags, behind and above it, standing out white and clear, I see the strong buttressed mass of the monastery of St. Michael. How hard it is to realise that this noble and lovely scene, full of every leafy beauty, was once the innermost bowl of a volcano; that every stone around me, now glorious in colour with moss and lichen, sedum and geranium, was once a glowing mass, vomited from out that fiery and undiscovered abyss, which these placid waters now bury in their secret chambers.’