Here Napoleon had ruled, and Napoleon's name had reached his heart--he had grown up whilst this name passed from mouth to mouth; the name and the deeds of the hero sounded to him, yet a boy, like a great world adventure.

How often had he heard his grandfather, shaking his head, say, "Yes, now newspaper writers have little to tell since Napoleon is quiet." And then he had related to him of the hero at Arcole and among the Pyramids, of the great campaign against Europe, of the conflagration at Moscow, and the return from Elba.
Who has not written a play in his childhood?
Otto's sole subject was Napoleon; the whole history of the hero, from the snow-batteries at Brienne to the rocky island in the ocean.

True, this poem was a wild shoot; but it had sprung from an enthusiastic heart.

At that time he preserved it as a treasure.

A little incident which is connected with it, and is characteristic of Otto's wild outbreaks of temper when a boy, we will here introduce.
A child of one of the domestics, a little merry boy with whom Otto associated a good deal, was playing with him in his garret.