“There was one hour of Napoleon’s life when he is said to have himself played the teacher, and I think that he appeared greater then than on the battle-field,” said Mrs. Lance. “I will show you a large print which I have representing the scene. It describes an incident which is said to have occurred on the deck of a vessel in which Napoleon, then a young officer, was making his voyage to Egypt. A group of French officers had been conversing together, speaking like the fool of whom we read in the Bible, who says that there is no God. The glittering stars were spangling the sky above them, shining down as they have shone for thousands of years, and bearing witness to the power of their great Creator. The heavens declare the glory of God, and the firmament sheweth his handywork. Napoleon approached the unbelievers, lifted up his hand towards the stars, and said, ‘Gentlemen, who made these?’ The officers could not reply; even their blinded souls could see the awful truth taught by the stars—that there is, that there must be, a great and glorious Creator!”
“But was Napoleon himself a religious man?” inquired Arthur.
“I fear that he was far from being so,” was the reply. “No real Christian could for his own wild ambition plunge nations into war, and sacrifice the lives of hundreds of thousands of men. If Napoleon Buonaparte’s name is written in history, it is written in blood, and fire, and tears. I have often wished that the stars, which preached one text to Napoleon, could have preached one other to his heart; then the conqueror would have felt that there is a glory greater and more lasting than that which earthly triumphs can give.”
“I cannot think what text you mean,” said Arthur.
“Nor can I,” added his brother.
Their mother left them to find it out, and continued her observations. “The same stars on which Napoleon had looked from the deck of the ship, must often have met his gaze in the distant lands to which he led his hosts—those lands in which so many gallant soldiers were to find their graves.”
“Ah! how fearfully the French suffered in Russia,” interrupted Harry; “certainly there Napoleon’s history was written in blood, and fire, and tears. I’ve read how the Russians burned their own beautiful city of Moscow, that it might not give shelter to the invaders.”
“The Russians showed themselves to be ready to make any sacrifice in order to drive the French out of their land,” observed Mrs. Lance. “The Russians fought bravely, but it was the rigour of their wintry clime, the icy wind, the falling snow, that proved more deadly to the French than even the swords of their foes. Multitudes of gallant men, who had entered Russia full of hope and courage, perished miserably under the snow. And who can tell the grief in thousands and thousands of homes in France, where widows and orphans wept for fathers, brothers, sons, whom they never should see again?”
“I own that Napoleon bought his glory too dear,” said Harry gravely.
“No doubt he thought so himself,” observed Arthur, “when, as a prisoner in St. Helena, he had plenty of time to remember all these terrible things.”