The Cult of My Emperor

I am a rather hopelessly sentimental being and thus true to old loves and old heroes in my own fashion, although I now concede that many of my old loves might not recognise themselves in the idealised mutated visions I myself created from the originals that inspired my love.

Napoleon, T.E. Lawrence and Cuchulain have been heroes of mine since early childhood.  The press of facts through the years has not eroded nor tarnished the brilliance of their images only because I did not allow fact or history to distort the ideal in any case.  Thus, my Napoleon is NOT the Napoleon that others know.  My Lawrence of Arabia is not the rather flawed, weak individual manifest in the man's own memoirs.  My Hound of Ulster is far more refined and profoundly spiritual than the original.

In 1969, I visited Paris with my family during the bicentennial celebration of my Emperor's birth.  Funding for sacred souvenirs of my Emperor was rather meagre but I did obtain a few inexpensive relics.  Later with my best friend, I managed to acquire a copy of the first Edition of the English translation of the Memoirs of St. Helena.  It rested upon an antique prie-dieu for a few years but alas, was lost in one of my many migrations.

It is only in the past few years that I have begun to obtain some fitting memorials to my Emperor, usually on the occasion of the anniversary of his birth or his death.   Recently, I chanced upon a Limoges porcelain flask created in 1969 to hold cognac.  Unfortunately, the cognac either evaporated or was consumed.  If the former, I hope that the spirit of the Emperor somehow benefited.  If the latter, I hope that a toast or two was tossed off to Napoleon.