Analysis Of The Book The Dustbin Of History - 1383 Words

The Dustbin of History I. When in dire times all hope expires fate may fain the jester play and lease another act upon those characters who have outpaced their day. Here then stands an Emperor who once commanded mountain tops and ocean waves to subordinate their wills and strength to his design perforce disarmed, but not prostrate. Oh, woe betide that nameless thing who rained upon the continent the cannonballs and thunderbolts of titans drunk upon democracy that warped with praxis’ caveats. Who carves the epitaphs of kings but bureaucrats and sycophants who insure postage stamps scan true, all the while the sovereign rests his eyes upon the works of pests. Who compares edicts and screeds to the Arc de Triomphe following Austerlitz?†¦show more content†¦The exile of an Emperor — his Highness now a General; stripped of rank but not hauteur — was mitigated, with no irony, by domestic whiles, rustic repose, and the company of a captor’s child. Betsy Balcombe was her name, a most unusual English girl; she lived on St. Helena isle, her father owned the summer home that housed the ‘Corsican ogre’ — a monster who deigned to amuse. Betsy, who was then thirteen, enjoyed the company of Lucifer. And who could better teach a lass to speak French right, or drink cordials, or break a horse, or break the rules of decorum by severing a Marquis’ tail? And, let us not omit to note, the ‘Anecdote of the Sabre’ — in which the Emperor did grandly show Betsy his foil, with which the girl wielded au fait. And, who to better play the part of a phantom than Napoleon? With spectres of mad men and ghosts to chill a child with felicity, why not an Emperor to haunt an isle? ’Tis Shakespearean — this volatile commingling of farce and tragedy; why not Lear and his Fool in one person; why should gravity not have a laugh since life performs in several acts, and humans make discrepant themes? This life at times was far from death, resembling a fairy tale — of architectural pastries, and toy carriages drawn by live mice; imagine a magical uncle King. Alas, as all storybooks must do, the ending page was turned in time and one sad day the English lass bade fare thee well to Napoleon, her