Harper's New Monthly Magazine, Vol. 3, No. 15, August, 1851Various
General
Harper's New Monthly Magazine, Vol. 3, No. 15, August, 1851
Various
American literature -- Periodicals; Civilization -- Periodicals; Culture -- Periodicals
Madame Bonaparte after the death of her husband, resided with her
children in their country house. It was a retired residence, approached
by an avenue overarched by lofty trees and bordered by flowering shrubs.
A smooth, sunny lawn, which extended in front of the house, lured these
children, so unconscious of the high destinies which awaited them, to
their infantile sports. They chased the butterfly; they played in the
little pools of water with their naked feet; in childish gambols they
rode upon the back of the faithful dog, as happy as if their brows were
never to ache beneath the burden of a crown. How mysterious the designs
of that inscrutable Providence, which, in the island of Corsica, under
the sunny skies of the Mediterranean, was thus rearing a Napoleon, and
far away, beneath the burning sun of the tropics, under the shade of the
cocoa groves and orange-trees of the West Indies, was moulding the
person and ennobling the affections of the beautiful and lovely
Josephine. It was by a guidance, which neither of these children sought,
that they were conducted from their widely separated and obscure homes
to the metropolis of France. There, by their united energies, which had
been fostered in solitary studies and deepest musings they won for
themselves the proudest throne upon which the sun has ever risen; a
throne which in power and splendor eclipsed all that had been told of
Roman, or Persian, or Egyptian greatness.
[Illustration: THE BIRTH-HOUSE OF NAPOLEON.]
The dilapidated villa in Corsica, where Napoleon passed his infantile
years, still exists, and the thoughtful tourist loses himself in pensive
reverie as he wanders over the lawn where those children have played--as
he passes through the vegetable garden in the rear of the house, which
enticed them to toil with their tiny hoes and spades, and as he
struggles through the wilderness of shrubbery, now running to wild
waste, in the midst of which once could have been heard the merry shouts
of these infantile kings and queens. Their voices are now hushed in
death. But the records of earth can not show a more eventful drama than
that enacted by these young Bonapartes between the cradle and the grave.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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