we kept up such a tattoo as one would have
thought could not fail to attract the attention of
the guard, or the driver, or both. But five minutes
passed, and we had not even made ourselves heard
in the next carriage. Meantime tongues of fire
were darting through the roof, and the volumes
of hot pungent smoke became almost
insupportable. The rest of the passengers appeared
utterly bewildered; crouching together on the
floor and against the draught of the door-
ways for air, feebly crying at intervals, " We
are on fire!" " Fire!" " We shall be burned
alive!" Two wished to jump out and risk certain
destruction rather than burning or
suffocation; but we kept the doors.

The engineer made a good captain; he
found them something to do. " Use your
voices, then," he cried; " shout away, but
altogether. Now!" And every one snouted
"Fire!" with a will, and we resumed banging
the doors. We had made ourselves heard at
last in the next carriage, but the occupants
were powerless to help us, and did not even
know the cause of our dismay. As to
communicating with the guard, it was simply
hopeless.

Ten minutes had gone since first we saw the
roof blister. We had twenty good miles to run,
and the daggers of flame were leaping far down
from the roof.

"Don't be afraid," said the engineer; " if
we can't get the guard to help us, we'll help
ourselves."

He tied handkerchiefs to umbrellas and
sticks, and gave them to two passengers to
wave out of window to attract attention at the
next station we shot past; some one might
see our condition, and telegraph on to stop us
by signal. At least, it would serve to keep the
passengers quiet by finding them employment,
which was a great point. Then he said,
turning to me:

"Whatever is the cause of the fire, it is some-
thing on the roof, and not the roof itself. Will
you climb the roof on one side, while I do the
same the other? Only mind and get up to wind-
ward to clear the flames."

We each set a foot on the door-rail, caught
hold of the luggage-rod and swung ourselves
up on the roof that was dashing along and
pitching and tossing like a wild thing in a
whirlwind. We could only kneel, for the rush
of wind at the pace we were going would
have carried us away had we stood up.
The crash, the rattle, the swaying, the cutting
draught, and the arches we shot through, that
seemed to strike us on the head and make us
cower down as we flashed by, the dazzling rails
and the swift sleepers flying past in a giddy
cloud, took my breath for the moment. But
the engineer was busy cutting adrift, with his
pocket-knife, a flaming pile of tarpaulins which
the lamp had kindled, and which the wind was
now drifting away in great pieces of fire along
the line. I helped him with my knife and
hands, and between us we quickly had the worst
of the burning mass over in the six-foot way.
The roof however was still burning badly, the
fire eating out a large hole with red and angry
edges that flickered fiercely in the draught.
With the aid of bits of the unburnt tarpaulins,
we managed to rub these edges and stifle and
smother out the worst of the fire, until the
occupants of the carriage had really very little
to fear.

Whether the guard or engine-driver observed
us on the carriage roof and so pulled up the
train, or whether the handkerchief signals of
distress were seen at some station whence the
station-master telegraphed to a signalman to
stop the express, I never ascertained; but as
soon as the fire was well-nigh subdued, the
train slackened and stopped. And I well
remember that while the officials were busily
engaged in drenching the now empty carriage
with buckets of water, a director, who happened
to be in an adjoining carriage, very severely
reprimanded us for what he told us was an
indictable offence, namely, leaving a train in
motion. As we stood there with blackened
faces and black blistered hands, it scarcely
occurred to us to make the obvious defence
that, in an isolated compartment, without any
possible means of communication with the guard,
we had had no alternative but to choose
between burning, and breaking the company's
rules. I do not know the engineer-passenger,
and I have never seen him since, or I would
have exchanged congratulations with him on
the company's having had the merciful
consideration not to take proceedings against us.

BUONAPARTE THE HAPPY.

ABOUT eight miles from Florence, and situated
on the brow of a high and wooded hill, is the
town of St. Casciano, in a small street of which
is the celebrated inn of the Campaua, where
Machiavel lived, and on the threshold of which,
he used to be seen in his wooden shoes and
peasant's suit, asking various travellers the
news from their countries, or playing, laughing,
and disputing with the landlord, the miller, or
the butcher. The great author might be seen
pruning the lime twigs in the morning, or
superintending the cutting down of trees, and
thus occupying himself with the things of common
life— to calm, as he used to say, the
effervescence of his brain. About twenty miles
further on, is Certaldo, which boasts of giving
birth to Boccaccio, though he was born at Paris,
but lived a long time at Certaldo, and died
there.

Between these towns, rendered illustrious by
the memory of these two great men, is a little
unknown hamlet, situated in the midst of a
smiling valley. It has a church of no renown,
and bare of art.

In the year 1807, there was a curé living
here, called Buonaparte. He was poor and
obscure, as if one of his name had never caused
the Pope to leave the Vatican to crown him at
Notre Dame, of Paris. He was mild and