teams and many such men, each fighting his way among Sioux, and Blackfoot, and Snake, until we find him in Oregon, Idaho, Nevada, or Washington territory, and possibly he even roams down, open mouthed in his wonder, to "Californy." But this part of the world is generally too civilised for him, and the polished Californians are not kindly affected to the individual in buckskin or homespun, whom they profanely style the "yallar-bellied Missourian." the middle of the seat between two gentlemen of enormous proportions, where it was impossible to command a window, I took to looking at this drop of wagging oil as the only available object that kept time to the jolting and swaying and clatter of the train. Although watching the drop of oil intently, and noting the lively interest it seemed to evince in our progress leaping forward as we ran whish-sh past a station, or vibrating as cr-r-r-sh-shoot we shot by another train-I was aware of the wainscotted woodwork round it and the painted oak shingle that seemed to dance and quiver with our motion. I saw it without looking at it. What surprised and puzzled me, however, was this: my eyes told me the pattern of the wainscot was changing. New shingle seemed to rise up and swallow up the old, and then the whole appeared to rise and fall in tiny waves. The solution my mind suggested was, that I had biologised my sight, the oil-lamp serving as a disc. Anybody smoking ?" a deep voice said, snappishly. It seemed there was not. The pioneer of pioneers must have been one Jedediah S. Smith (called "Jed" for shortness), who, on the 20th of December, 1826, strayed too far into the Great Desert, and from want of provision and water to get home with, was compelled to push forward. It therefore stands upon record as one of the many triumphs of the Smith family, that one of them was the first to make the overland trip from the "States" to California. Fortunately Jedediah found American shipmasters from Boston and My fellow-passengers began to talk. I heard Nantucket who vouched for his honest inten- them, my eyes were still fastened on the tions and perfect harmlessness. He had at- jolting drop of oil, which was beating time to a tempted, during the latter part of the pre-tune that engine, carriages, and rails, were ceding winter to make his way up the Co-playing in my head. lumbia River, but the snow was so deep on the mountains that he was obliged to return. Being informed by one of the Christian Indians that the father would like to know who he was, Jedediah wrote a letter to Father Duran, who lived at San Jose, in which he honestly confessed that he was destitute of clothing and most of the necessaries of life, that his horses had perished for want of food and water, that his object was to trap for beavers and furs, and in conclusion he signed himself, "Your strange but real friend and christian brother." Jed has been followed since then by many thousands, scattered now along the frontier. Among them it was my pleasant lot to wander many a day, and if they were queer fellows, they were good fellows; of more use to the world, I think, than many a fine gentleman who has never lifted heavier tool than an opera-glass, or served his country with a stroke of thought. NO COMMUNICATION. "Then something is burning," another voice said. "It's only the guard putting the breaks on," some one else explained. I knew this was not so; our pace was unchanged; we had thirty more miles to run before the breaks would be put on. I saw why the pattern on the wainscot changed. The paint rose up in great blisters, and the smell of burning paint became powerful. The roof was on fire! Fearing to alarm the rest by an outcry, I momentarily scanned the faces of the passengers, who were loudly complaining of the smoke. I was trying to find a face that had a quiet spirit of help in it. I saw in the corner a calm-faced man of thirty, caught his eye, and pointed to the roof; for his was the only face in which I had confidence. I was right. "Don't be alarmed," he said, addressing the passengers and pointing; "it is there-the lamp; it has just caught the woodwork a trifle; there is no danger; I am an engineer, and will Looking up, we all saw a brown blistered cloud spreading over the roof, and heard the hissing and crackling of burning wood. The carriage quickly filled with smoke and be came very hot; for the fire was fanned by a fifty-mile-an-hour blast. WE were closely packed (in number, thirteen of us) in the middle compartment of a second-stop the train." class carriage on the Midland line, some two years ago. Our carriage was the centre carriage of a long train, and the compartments on either side were empty. The journey, from Bedford to London, was express, the pace near fifty miles an hour. We had stopped at only one little station, and we were now off on a clear run of forty miles, to be done in ten minutes under the hour, without stoppage. The oillamp in the roof of the carriage, flickered pale and wan in the broad daylight-for it was noontide-and in the glass cup beneath, a spoonful of oil wagged and jogged and lurched about with the motion. The company was monotonous and taciturn. Being wedged in Do as I do," the engineer-passenger called to me, flinging me his railway key. I got to one door, and opened it, as he had done the other. Leaning out of the carriage, the engineer-passenger then gave a long shrill whistle, produced with two fingers against his teeth, harsh and grating almost as a railway whistle. I imitated him as I best could, and by incessantly slamming the doors on both sides 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 doorways 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 shouted "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 something 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 windward 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 Campana, 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 un ambitious, as if he were not the uncle of Letitia, and the great-uncle of the young general who had conquered Italy, saluted the Pyramids, and made and unmade kings in Europe. The curé, in the parsonage garden, was another Alcinous, training his vines around the five or six elms that grew on the little domain, and he wore, like the father of Ulysses, a tattered cloak and mended shoes. All the noise that his great-nephew was making in the world, passed over his head, without his hearing or heeding it. No one in the neighbourhood suspected who he was; he had forgotten Corsica to remember only his parishioners, who were as simple and ignorant as himself. His gun, which he sometimes took out with him, provided his table with game; and in his little parlour were rods for fishing. These amusements, added to the cultivation of a few flowers, and the collection of tithes twice a year, were the temporal occupations of the worthy Buonaparte. As to his spiritual duties, he never made any innovations, but read the mass twice a week, and preached every Sunday after vespers. There were, however, three objects which occupied the attention of the good priest more particularly than his other parishioners; they were a young girl, a youth, and a tame white hen. He had baptised and catechised the girl Mattea, and observed her growing youth and beauty with innocent pleasure; her beautiful dark eyes, graceful figure, and simple artless manners were admired by all. She was the pride of the village. The good man was constantly thinking of her future prospects, and had arranged a suitable match for her with Tommaso, his sacristan. He was a tall fine young man, and a constant guest at the presbytery; he was the priest's factotum; he worked in the garden, cooked, served at mass, chanted in the choir, ornamented the altars, and was chief butler at home. He was a good fellow, though rather noisy, and always the first and the most ardent in the village quarrels. Such was the suitor whom Buonaparte had chosen for his young protegée, and Tommaso loved her devotedly. The good curate was living peacably and happily among his flock and the two or three beings he especially loved, when one day an unaccustomed sound was heard in the village, horses' hoofs clattered on the stones, and the quiet court of the curacy was filled with a troop of cavalry. One of the emperor's officers, covered with gold lace, and with a plume of white feathers in his hat, dismounted, entered the modest parlour, and presented himself before the curé. The good man, trembling, rose, offered him a chair, and stood with hands crossed meekly on his breast, uncertain what martyrdom might be in store for him. "Compose yourself, sir," said the general, 'compose yourself, I beg. Is your name Buonaparte, and are you the uncle of Napoleon, emperor of the French, and king of Italy?" "Yes, sir," murmured the curate, who had a confused idea of the fortune of his great-nephew, but who regarded it as one of those far-off things from which he was separated by several countries and an immeasurable distance. "His majesty's mother," continued the officer. 66 Letitia !" interrupted the curé. "Madame has spoken of you to his majesty," rejoined the general. "To little Napoleon ?" said the curate. "To the emperor, sir. It is not suitable that so near a relative of his majesty, and one of your excellent character, should languish unknown in a poor living, while his family is governing Europe, while your nephew, reverend sir, is filling the world with his fame. The emperor has sent me to you; you have only to speak, you have only to express a wish, and it shall be executed. What episcopal seat tempts you? Would you like a bishopric in France, or in Italy? Will you exchange your black cassock for a cardinal's purple cloak? The emperor bears you too much friendship and respect to refuse you anything." Now the greatest personage whom the poor curé had ever seen in his life was the Bishop of Fiesole, who came to the village once a year to confirm the little boys and girls. After the episcopal visit the good man was usually dazzled and bewildered for a fortnight, by the remembrance of the fisherman's ring, the golden mitre, and the lace sleeves. He hesitated a moment to collect his thoughts, and then said: "Is all this true, sir? Is my niece, Letitia, an empress? And to think that I heard her first confession! It was a long time ago-when she was a little girl!" The general smiled. "Allow me, sir," continued the curé, "to think for a moment; one must reflect a little before one changes one's position so suddenly." The general awaited the orders of the pastor, who left the parlour and went upstairs into a little room, the window of which looked on the court. All was tumult and confusion there; the general's escort had taken off their horses' bridles, and the soldiers were smoking and laughing amongst themselves. Mattea, concealed in a corner, was considering this novel sight with astonishment, while Tommaso was amusing himself by examining the swords and brilliant uniforms, and the white hen was running screaming and scared about the horses' feet. Mattea's eyes gradually became familiarised with what she saw, and a dragoon, having remarked the young girl, approached and commenced a conversation with her. He was young, handsome, and gallant; Mattea was a little coquette, and not at all in love with the man whom her godfather had destined for her. What the young dragoon said, we know not; but it is certain that when Tommaso went to speak to Mattea, she sent him away, reminding him that it was twelve o'clock, and time for him to go and ring the Angelus. Tommaso, whose jealousy was already roused by his dashing rival in his brilliant uniform, flew into a passion, and would not stir from the spot; on which the dragoon took him by the ear, twirled him round and round, and sent him flying amid a group of his comrades. "And is it you, you great booby," said one of the soldiers, "who ring the Angelus here, and respond to the curate's paternosters, instead of being a man and serving the emperor? You will be in a good position, sapristi, when you are promoted to be beadle of this wretched village! Believe us, my lad. Leave your belfry and come with us. We will give you a handsome uniform, a long sword, and a fine horse." "Is it that girl who keeps you here ?" said another of the troop, pointing to Mattea, who was in a corner of the court-yard, in earnest conversation with her new admirer. "Is it that girl who keeps you here? Look at her well, she doesn't care for you, she likes the soldier. Look at her!" There had been no violence or crime. The Florentine Helen had suddenly become fascinated, and had gone off of her own accord with her Paris, who was a good soldier, and had been selected to have the cross of the legion of honour. 66 He shall marry her. I will answer for that," said the general. The curé was looking about him in a timid kind of way, seeking his favourite hen, but the severity of the general, who had spoken of shooting Mattea's lover, checked him. He would not compromise a man's life for the love of a fowl. Suddenly Tommaso came running back, holding the cherished Bianca in his arms; the poor thing was half dead with fright; her blue eyelids hid her round eyes; and her stiffened claws could not support her. The curé took her, opened her beak, and poured a few drops of wine down her throat; the fowl gradually recovered, (like a fine lady from hysterics) and began to flutter her wings. Tommaso seized the welcome opportunity of speaking to the curate. During this time, a fat dragoon, whose rations no doubt did not suffice him, was chasing the cu- "Sir," said he, "I have lost Mattea; the rate's fowls about, and the white hen was vainly soldiers have promised me that I shall one day endeavouring to escape from her tormentor. be a captain, a colonel, a marshal of France, "Mattea! Go home to your mother directly," and I don't know what besides. I-I-have cried the curé from the upper window. 'Dra-enlisted for a dragoon!" goon! Please to let that fowl alone!" Buonaparte gave the general a sad look, as be The feeble voice of the curé had not the smoothed his fowl's white feathers, and said to power of Napoleon's. The soldier continued him: General, I thank my nephew, the emto talk to the girl, and the fat dragoon peror, for his good intentions towards me, but continued to chase the white hen. Tommaso I prefer remaining the cure of the poor and unwas stroking the croup of a saddle with one known little village, where I have been happy hand whilst the other was playing with a so long. I hesitated for a moment, and you sword-handle. At last the assiduous dragoon see, God has punished me. Say to went to fetch his horse, and sprang on it with Letitia that I hope (and believe firmly) she is one bound; then giving both hands to Mattea, still as good and conscientious as she was when he placed her on the saddle behind him, and a little girl. Kiss my nephew, the without any respect for the curé or his house, little Napoleon, for me; may God keep them all set spurs to the animal and disappeared with on their thrones! They are good children for the Italian girl. At the same moment the other taking thought of their old uncle, but I desire dragoon caught the white hen! neither a bishopric nor a cardinal's cloak. Go, general, if you respect the wishes of your emperor's uncle, do not come here again." Mattea! Mattea! Oh! my poor Bianca! Dragoon! put down that fowl!" cried the poor curé with a trembling voice. Tommaso, hearing his master's agitated exclamations, ran to the rescue of the hen; the poor fellow, not being able to save his sweetheart, did all he could to save Bianca. Buonaparte left his room and came down to rejoin the general. The poor man was pale and trembling. "What is the matter, monsignor ?" said the general. "What can have agitated you thus ?" "My lord," replied the curé, in a melancholy tone; "my god-daughter, my dear Mattea, is taken off by one of your men." "What! A young girl taken away from the house of the emperor's uncle! The fellow shall be punished; he shall be shot this very hour! Hollo! Brigadier! which of your men has been guilty of this crime ?" "Let no blood be spilled, I beseech you, general; let no blood be spilled; but if he be a good man, let him marry Mattea." When an officer received an order from the emperor, he was obliged to execute the imperial wish. If Napoleon said, "You are to take that town," it was necessary to take it; it was written that it was to be taken; his prophetic word was one of the thousand causes of his great success. Now, he had said to the general: "You will take my uncle, the curé, from his living, and make him come to Paris, or take him to Rome; he must be near me, or near the Pope; it matters not which; he will do well whichever he chooses, but it must not be otherwise; he must at least become a bishop." The general entreated, supplicated, and, at last, insisted that the curé should alter his decision. The brave soldier could not understand a man's refusing the grand cross of the legion of honour, a bishopric, the revenues of a diocese, a cardinal's hat and influence. However, the good curé remained firm to his resolution; The disappointed general was forced to retire without executing his mission, and his noisy escort evacuated the village. he resisted the general's supplications, and respectable appearance against two enemies, and when threats were used, he replied with the to show fight against three; but that it would bitterness of an irritated Corsican, and with the not be disgraceful to run away from four. Each authority of an aged relative, who was not to be viking governed his champions in his own coaxed or flattered by the inconsiderate youth way, gaining greater fame in proportion as his and ambition of his great nephew: "General, regulations were more strict and rigorous than I have given you my answer, and I will not those of his compeers. For example. Half swerve from it." and Hesrolf, both sons of a Norwegian king, took to the profession. Hesrolf had a number of ships which he manned indiscriminately with serfs and freemen, ruling them mildly. Hesrolf was beaten by almost every opponent. His brother Half had only one ship, but he picked twenty-three king's sons for his companions, requiring each as a test of strength to lift a mighty stone which twelve ordinary men could scarcely stir. He forbade to his champions the society of women or children; he made them bare themselves to the fiercest tempests, and would not allow them to dress their wounds in battle till victorious. For nearly twenty years Half was the terror of the Western Seas, with a reputation of never having been vanquished in When Napoleon heard of the bad success of his ambassador and this utter want of ambition in a Buonaparte, he shrugged his shoulders with contemptuous pity. Mattea was married to the dragoon, and became, in time, the wife of a colonel. Tommaso was, in a few years, a captain in the Imperial Guard. And the good curé, Buonaparte, died before the termination of the first empire, beloved and regretted by all around him. Alas! he was, after all, says the French account from which this little narrative is rendered into English-fight. So stringent was his discipline that the happiest of his family. PUNGENT SALTS. OUR British choral boast of "ruling the waves" is a very old one. We can trace it back to sturdy bloodthirsty ancestors among the old vikings who never sought shelter of a roof, who had no other kingdom to rule than the sea. Sea-kings who shouted their song in the midst of the tempest The force of the storm helps the arms of the rowers, The hurricane is carrying us the way we would go, little dreaming of descendants in half a dozen mild elderly gentlemen of the present day, content to "rule the waves," from ten till four, at The Admiralty, Whitehall, London, W.C. Almost all the information we possess of our piratical old ancestors, the wave-rulers of a thousand years since (for the lines about "the flag that's braved a thousand years the battle and the breeze," are singularly correct in their chronology) we derive from the Sagas, or songs of the Skalds, a collection of strange wild stories of adventure in verse or measured prose, by the Scandinavian bards. The profession of pirate, or viking, was held highly respectable, and not disdained by men of the highest rank. The qualification for the service was the performance of some exploit of personal prowess, which should entitle a man to the confidence of a band of champions as their commander. The law of bravery laid down for the followers themselves was not unlike that hinted at in the old schoolboy's rhyme Two skinny Frenchmen It was understood that any man ought to beat a single enemy, that he ought to make a when returning home, his vessel overladen with plunder and nearly foundering in sight of the Norwegian shore, the crew drew lots who should cast themselves into the sea to save their viking his cargo. The losers jumped overboard without a murmur, so that the ship, relieved of their weight, came safely to land. The viking could govern his vessel as a clever rider controls his horse. It was required of him to be able to run along the oars while they were in motion, and to throw three javelins to the mast-head, catching each alternately in his hand without once missing. He was not afraid of going out of sight of land, and never thought of coming to anchor when clouds hid the stars. True, he had no compass, but there was always a cast of hawks or ravens on board, and when in doubt about the direction in which land lay, he had only to loose one of these, satisfied that the bird would instinctively make for the nearest shore. Whither the bird flew he steered. It was all one to the viking what land he reached, so long as it was land and not his own land; for his aim was plunder, and his creed was, where there is habitable land there is sure to be that. The birds seem to have had an unfortunate propensity for leading these gentlemen to Ireland and Britain, Ireland, indeed, appears to have been the first of our islands rauders, and Johnstone mentions a significant fact in connexion with their visits. fertile Erin," he says, was long the great resort of the Scandinavians, who, from the internal dissensions of the natives, gained considerable footing." Poor Ireland! She was suffering from Fenians even in those days. However, by way of compensation, Ireland became a sort of Paris to the vikings, in setting them the fashions; for they took to aping Irish manners and talking Celtic, until the cele brated Irish King Brian Boru drove them out favoured with the visits of the northern ma "The |