“WHAT a proud, happy young fellow that Prince Imperial must be!” exclaimed Harry Lance, as he glanced up from the newspaper which he had been reading by the light of a lamp, on the evening of the 4th of August. “Why, here is this young Louis, not a year older than myself, and already there is a telegram about him darting all over Europe, and the world will soon know how calm and brave he was the first time that he ever saw fighting, how he picked up the Prussian ball which had fallen near his feet, and how old soldiers had tears in their eyes to see their boy Prince so firm in the moment of danger. I dare say that he will live to cover himself with glory, and be as famous as was his great-uncle, Napoleon the First. I only wish that I were the son of the Emperor of the French!”
“I should not care to change places with the Prince Imperial,” observed Arthur Lance, who was seated by the open window, to enjoy the fresh evening air, and watch the stars gleaming out one by one in the sky.
“What! not to have his chance of winning glory, and of being talked of—like his great-uncle—years and years after his death?”
Arthur smiled at the question. “I don’t think that would do him much good,” observed he.
“You’ve not a spark of spirit in you Arthur!” cried Harry; “at least not a spark of the spirit of a hero. I do believe that you would rather have been that missionary who went to teach woolly-haired niggers, and died of yellow fever, than the glorious Napoleon Buonaparte himself!”
Arthur was silent; but his mother, who had just joined him by the window, observed, “I believe that the missionary’s was the nobler life, the happier death, and the more lasting glory.”
NAPOLEON AS A BOY DIRECTING A SNOW-BALL FIGHT.
“Oh, not glory, mother!” exclaimed Harry. “There was no glory in the humdrum life which he led, and ten years hence no one will so much as remember his name. Napoleon had glory indeed! From his very boyhood he was a leader of others. If his schoolfellows had a mimic fight, it was Napoleon who directed the battle, and taught future soldiers to pelt each other with snow-balls, as they would one day pelt their foes with something more deadly. What power Napoleon had over his men! How his words could rouse them to rush to battle as if to a feast! How grand and glorious he must have looked on a field of battle, as he glanced down the columns of armed men eager to follow him to victory, and heard their shouts of Vive l’Empereur, as they pressed forward to glory! One such hour of Napoleon’s life must have been worth ten years of the life of a drudging teacher of niggers!” The boy’s eyes sparkled with animation as he spoke.