FOOTNOTES:
[7] Continued from the April Number.
THE STOLEN FRUIT.—A STORY OF NAPOLEON'S CHILDHOOD.
On the 15th of August, 1777, two little girls of seven or eight years old were playing in a garden near Ajaccio in Corsica. After running up and down among the trees and flowers, one of them stopped the other at the entrance to a dark grotto under a rock.
"Eliza," she said, "don't go any further: it frightens me to look into that black cave."
"Nonsense! 'Tis only Napoleon's Grotto."
"This garden belongs to your uncle Fesch: has he given this dark hole to Napoleon?"
"No, Panoria; my great-uncle has not given him this grotto. But as he often comes and spends hours in it by himself, we all call it Napoleon's Grotto."
"And what can he be doing there?"
"Talking to himself."
"What about?"
"Oh, I don't know: a variety of things. But come, help me to gather a large bunch of flowers."
"Just now, when we were on the lower walk, you told me not to pull any, although there was abundance of sweet ones."
"Yes; but that was in my uncle the canon's garden.
"And are his flowers more sacred than those of uncle Fesch?"
"They are indeed, Panoria."
"And why?"
"I'm sure I don't know, but when any one wants to prevent our playing, they say, 'That will give your uncle the canon a headache!' When we are not to touch something, 'tis always, 'That belongs to the canon!' If we want to eat some fine fruit, 'Don't touch that; 'tis for your uncle the canon!' And even when we are praised or rewarded, 'tis always because the canon is pleased with us!"
"Is it because he is archdeacon of Ajaccio that people are so much afraid of him?"
"Oh, no, Panoria; but because he is our tutor. Papa is not rich enough to pay for masters to teach us, and he has not time to look after our education himself; so our uncle the canon teaches us every thing. He is not unkind, but he is very strict. If we don't know our lessons, he slaps us smartly."
"And don't you call that unkind, Eliza?"
"Not exactly. Do you never get a whipping yourself, Panoria?"
"No, indeed, Eliza. It is the Corsican fashion to beat children; but our family is Greek, and mamma says Greeks must not be beaten."
"Then I'm sure, Panoria, I wish I were a Greek; for 'tis very unpleasant to be slapped!"
"I dare say your brother Napoleon does not like it either."
"He is the only one of my brothers who does not cry or complain when he is punished. If you heard what a noise Joseph and Lucien make, you would fancy that uncle was flaying them alive!"
"But about Napoleon. What can he be talking about alone in the grotto?"
"Hush! Here he is! Let us hide ourselves behind this lilac-tree, and you'll hear."
"I see Severia coming to call us."
"Ah! it will take her an hour to gather ripe fruit for uncle the canon. We shall have time enough. Come!"
And the little girls, gliding between the rock and the overhanging shrubs, took up their position in perfect concealment.
The boy who advanced toward the grotto differed from the generality of children of his age in the size of his head, the massive form of his noble brow, and the fixed examining expression of his eyes. He walked slowly—looking at the bright blue sea—and unconscious that his proceedings were closely watched by two pair of little bright black eyes.
"Here I am my own master!" he said as he entered the grotto. "No one commands me here!" And seating himself royally on a bench within the dark entrance, he continued, "This is my birthday. I am eight years old to-day. I wish I lived among the Spartans, then I should be beyond the control of women; but now I have to obey such a number of people—old Severia among the rest. Ah, if I were the master!"
"Well, and if you were the master, what would you do?" cried Eliza, thrusting forward her pretty little head.
"First of all, I'd teach you not to come listening at doors," replied Napoleon, disconcerted at being overheard.
"But, brother, there's no door that I can see."
"No matter, you have been eaves-dropping all the same."
"Eliza!—Panoria!" cried a loud voice. "Where can these children have gone to?"
The young ladies came out of their leafy lurking-place in time to meet the little Bonapartes' nurse, Severia—a tall old woman, who carried on her arm a basket filled with the most luscious tempting pears, grapes, and figs.
"A pear, Severia!" cried Napoleon, darting forward, and thrusting his hand into the basket.
"The saints forbid, child!" exclaimed Severia. "They are for your uncle the canon!"
"Ah!" said Napoleon, drawing back his hand as quickly as if a wasp had stung him.
Panoria burst out laughing.
"I never saw such people!" she said, as soon as her mirth allowed her to speak. "My uncle the canon seems the bugbear of the whole family. Is Severia afraid of him, too?"
"Not more than I am," said Napoleon, boldly.
"And yet you were afraid to take a pear?"
"Because I did not wish to do it, Panoria."
"Did not dare do it, Napoleon!"
"Did not wish to do it, Panoria."
"And if you wished it, would you do it?"
"Certainly I would."
"I think you are a boaster, Napoleon; and in your uncle's presence would be just as great a coward as Eliza or Pauline?"
"Come, children, follow me," said Severia, walking on.
"You think I am a coward?" whispered Eliza to her little friend. "Come into the house, and see if I don't eat as much of uncle's fruit as I please. Mamma is gone out to pay a visit, and will not be home until to-morrow."
"Then I'll help you," said Panoria. And the little girls, fixing their wistful eyes on the tempting fruit, followed Severia to the house.
Napoleon remained some time longer in his grotto; and when supper-time approached, he went into the house. Feeling very thirsty, he entered the dining-room, in which was a large cupboard, where fresh water was usually kept. Just as he was going in, he heard a noise: the cupboard doors were quickly shut, and he caught a glimpse of a white frock disappearing through the open window. Instead, however, of looking after the fugitive, he went quietly to get a glass of water in the cupboard. Then, to his dismay, he saw his uncle's basket of fruit half empty! While, forgetting his thirst, he looked with astonishment at the fruit, considering who could have been the hardy thief, a voice behind him roused him from his reverie.
"What are you doing there, Napoleon? You know you are not permitted to help yourself to supper."
This was uncle the canon himself—a short, stout old man with a bald head, whose otherwise ordinary features were lighted up with the eagle glance which afterward distinguished his grand-nephew.
"I was not taking any thing, uncle," replied Napoleon. And then suddenly the idea occurring to him that he might be accused of having taken the fruit, the blood rushed hotly to his cheeks.
His confusion was so evident, that the canon said, "I hope you are not telling a falsehood, Napoleon?"
"I never tell falsehoods," said the boy, proudly.
"What were you doing?"
"I was thirsty; I came to get some water."
"No harm in that—and then, my boy?"
"That was all, uncle."
"Have you drunk the water?"
"No, uncle; not yet."
The archdeacon shook his head. "You came to drink, and you did not drink; that does not hang well together. Napoleon, take care. If you frankly confess your fault, whatever it may be, you shall be forgiven; but if you tell a lie, and persist in it, I warn you that I shall punish you severely."
The entrance of M. Bonaparte, M. Fesch, and Joseph, Napoleon's eldest brother, interrupted the conversation; and for some minutes the elder gentlemen spoke to each other on political subjects; when a sudden exclamation from Severia, as she opened the cupboard, attracted the attention of all.
"Santa Madona! who has taken the fruit?"
"This is the mystery discovered!" said the canon, turning toward Napoleon. "So you stole the fruit?"
"I never touched it," replied the boy.
"Call in the other children," said the archdeacon.
In a few minutes five beautiful children, three boys and two girls, formed a group round their father, who, looking at each one in turn, asked, "Which of you has taken the fruit that was gathered in your uncle the canon's garden?"
"I did not!" "Nor I!" "Nor I!" cried they all. But Eliza's voice was lower and less assured than those of the others.
"And you, Napoleon?"
"I have said, papa, that I did not do it."
"That's a falsehood!" exclaimed Severia, who, being an old domestic, took great liberties.
"If you were not a woman!" said Napoleon, shaking his small clenched hand at her.
"Silence! Napoleon," said his father, sternly.
"It must have been you, Napoleon," said Severia; "for after putting the fruit into the cupboard, I never left the ante-room, and not a soul passed through except the archdeacon and yourself. If he has not taken them—"
"I wish truly I had," said the old gentleman, "and then I should not have the grief of seeing one of my children persist in a lie."
"Uncle, I am not guilty," repeated Napoleon firmly.
"Do not be obstinate, but confess," said his father.
"Yes," added the canon; "'tis the only way to escape punishment."
"But I never touched the fruit—indeed, I did not."
"Napoleon," said his uncle, "I can not believe you. I shall give you five minutes; and if, at the end of that time, you do not confess, and ask for pardon, I shall whip you."
"A whip is for horses and dogs, not for children!" said the boy.
"A whip is for disobedient, lying children," replied his father.
"Then 'tis unjust to give it me, for I am neither a liar nor disobedient." So saying, Napoleon crossed his arms on his chest, and settled himself in a firm attitude.
Meantime his brothers and his sister Pauline came close to him, and whispered good-natured entreaties that he would confess.
"But how can I, when I have not done wrong?"
"So you are still obstinate?" said his uncle. And taking him by the arm, he led him into the next room. Presently the sound of sharp repeated blows was heard, but not a cry or complaint from the little sufferer.
Madame Bonaparte was away from home, and in the evening her husband went to meet her, accompanied by Joseph, Lucien, and Eliza. M. Fesch and the canon were also about to depart, and in passing through the ante-room, they saw Napoleon standing, pale and grave, but proud, and firm-looking as before.
"Well, my child," said his father, "I hope you will now ask your uncle's pardon?"
"I did not touch the fruit, papa."
"Still obstinate! As the rod will not do, I shall try another method. Your mother, brothers, Eliza, and I, will be away for three days, and during that time you shall have nothing but bread and water, unless you ask your uncle's forgiveness."
"But, papa, won't you let him have some cheese with his bread?" whispered little Pauline.
"Yes, but not broccio."
"Ah do, papa, please let him have broccio 'tis the nicest cheese in Corsica!"
"That's the reason he does not deserve it," said his father, looking at the boy with an anxious expression, as if he hoped to see some sign of penitence on his face. But none such appearing, he proceeded toward the carriage.
Joseph and Lucien took a kind leave of their brother, but Eliza seemed unwilling and afraid to go near or look at him.
The three days passed on, heavily enough for poor Napoleon, who was in disgrace, and living on bread, water, and cheese, which was not broccio. At length the party returned, and little Panoria, who was watching for her friend Eliza, came with them into the house.
"Good-morning, uncle," said Madame Bonaparte to the archdeacon, "how are you? And where are Napoleon and Pauline?"
"Here I am, mamma," said the latter throwing her arms around her mother's neck.
"And Napoleon?"
"He is here," said the canon.
"Has he confessed?" asked his father.
"No," replied the uncle. "I never before witnessed such obstinacy."
"What has he done?" asked his mother.
The canon, in reply, related the story of the fruit; but before he could finish it, Panoria exclaimed—
"Of course, poor fellow, he would not confess what he never did!"
"And who did take the fruit?" asked the canon.
"I and Eliza," replied the little girl without hesitation.
There was a universal exclamation.
"My poor child," said the archdeacon, embracing Napoleon tenderly, "why did you not undeceive us?"
"I suspected it was Eliza," replied Napoleon; "but I was not sure. At all events, I would not have told, for Panoria's sake, who is not a liar."
The reader may imagine how Napoleon was caressed and rewarded to make him amends for the pain he had unjustly suffered. As to Eliza, she was severely and rightly punished: first for her gluttony; and then for what was much worse—her cowardice and deceit in allowing her innocent brother to suffer for her fault.
WILBERFORCE AND CHALMERS.
I have seldom observed a more amusing and pleasing contrast between two great men than between Wilberforce and Chalmers. Chalmers is stout and erect, with a broad countenance—Wilberforce minute, and singularly twisted: Chalmers, both in body and mind, moves with, a deliberate step—Wilberforce, infirm as he is in his advanced years, flies about with astonishing activity, and while, with nimble finger, he seizes on every thing that adorns or diversifies his path, his mind flits from object to object with unceasing versatility. I often think that particular men bear about with them an analogy to particular animals: Chalmers is like a good-tempered lion—Wilberforce is like a bee: Chalmers can say a pleasant thing now and then, and laugh when he has said it, and he has a strong touch of humor in his countenance, but in general he is grave, his thoughts grow to a great size before they are uttered—Wilberforce sparkles with life and wit, and the characteristic of his mind is "rapid productiveness." A man might be in Chalmers's company for an hour, especially in a party, without knowing who or what he was—though in the end he would be sure to be detected by some unexpected display of powerful originality. Wilberforce, except when fairly asleep, is never latent. Chalmers knows how to vail himself in a decent cloud—Wilberforce is always in sunshine. Seldom, I believe, has any mind been more strung to a perpetual tune of love and praise. Yet these persons, distinguished as they are from the world at large, and from each other, present some admirable points of resemblance. Both of them are broad thinkers, and liberal feelers; both of them are arrayed in humility, meekness, and charity: both appear to hold self in little reputation: above all, both love the Lord Jesus Christ, and reverently acknowledge him to be their only Saviour.—Hanna's Memoirs of Chalmers.