The Birmingham age-herald., 1911-03-28
From a Letter by Henry Watterson in the Louisville Courier-Journal.

the Louisville COurler-J ournal.
 "HE birthplace of Bonaparte retains few Napoleonic souvenirs and very \ little that might be called personal lv suggestive of the word-famous Corsi- can. The actual house in which he was
 born no longer exists. But one just like 1t occupies the selfsame spot It stands in narrow and dngy street. with nothing except the brass plate over the entrance to distinguish it from its neighbors Within are a few bare walls and stone floors. Mark Twain refused to weep, or
 be impressed by the grave of Adam, and
 there is as scant reason for emotion or any sort, historic or sentimental, to pc
 found in and about Ajaccio.
 The scenic beauties are enchanting. But they are wholly apart. The drive about the town and into the mountains is glorious The setting, the curve of the ocean, the landward panorama of crag and sky. the winding climb through olive groves and rose gardens remind one Of
 Santa Barbara and keep him on the LOOK out for the old mission, which forms the apex of the excursion back of the anclent California town. That the infant Napo- | leon hunted rabbits among the chaparral | of the Pozzo di Borgo is stretch, too great a stretch, of fancy. He was but a | lad when he went away, and he never came back again. It is related that, Tn ms | last hours at St. Helena, his heart revert | ed to the home of his boyhood. But, in his time of power and glory he showed no sympathy for the land of his nativity, or | it's free aspirations, nor thought, whilst | putting his brothers and sisters upon usurped thrones, of making Paon presi- dent of the republic of Corsica
 Nevertheless, such are the selhshness and injustice of poor human nature ever bent upon its material advantage, that' having nothing but the Napoleonic legend to exploit it, Ajaccio teens with after- thoughts that merely shadow the mythic form and semblance.
 The Place des Painters surrounds mar
 ble statue of Napoleon. There is an Ave- me du Premier Consul Theer is Place
 Bonaparte. There is a Rue Bonaparte
 There is even a Boulevard du Roi-Je-
 rome. The museum is filled with busts
 and pictures commemorative of family
 which turned it's back upon Corsica.
 They were in truth a sorry lot. Charles
 Bonaparte, the father, died drunkard in exile at 40. Letitia Ramolino the
 mother, could never bring herself to De- lieve in the miracles of her illustrious son. She was always pinching and saw ing for a rainy day When it came It
 did not find her unprepared. Joseph was something of clod. To say that Lotus was a dreamer is much to dignify him. Jerome was a runt. The girls were hor- rid. Lucien showed more poise and bal ance than Napoleon. If he had pos sessed the genius for war he might have
 reld what Napoleon won and lost. They auarreled, and Lucien went his way,
 which led him back to Italy, whence their | forebears had emigrated to Corsica It | was, in point of fact, originally good Tus- can stock effete, quite gone to seed, when
 the wondrous little fellow in the cooked
 hat arrived upon the scene to restore it's
 fortunes and startle the world
 The element of responsibility came from | the maternal side of the house. Cardinal
 Fesch was the half-brother of Letitia
 Ramoljno. She died in his arms at Rome | in 1896 15 years after the death of Ma
 poleon at St. Helena. He followed her
 three years later. Their bodies were
 brought back to Corsica and they lie side 1 by side in the chapel of the Palais Fesch,
 with it's library and contents bequeathed
 bv the cardinal to his native town. It is
 the Fesch family, and not the Bonaparte
 family to which the Corsicans really owe | their homage.
 I confess that, rambling about Ajaccio
 and it's environs. it was neither which
 crossed my mind and fancy. Every as-
 pect lends itself to peace and love rather than to war and glory. The isolation is
 perfect, the glow delicious. Tom Moore
 and not Napoleon Bonaparte popped up on every side, The dove-cotes shining out of the verdue and the flora made for the two that's company; the hooks hid among bosky depths of rododendron; the promenades through miles and miles of palms and vines; enough to make a sage
 a boy again. Oh. had we some sweet little isle of our own in blue summer
 ocean far off and alone! Why, here it was. And I said If there's peace to be
 found in the world, the heart that is humble might look for it here.
 Avast the shadows! There is no place