It possessed a resistless power when, excited
himself, he desired to fill our young souls with his own enthusiasm. The
blind old man, who had nothing more to command and direct, moved through
our merry, noisy life like a silent admonition to good and noble things.
Outside of the lessons he never raised his voice for orders or censure,
yet we obediently followed his signs. To be allowed to lead him was an
honor and pleasure. He made us acquainted with Homer, and taught us
ancient and modern history. To this day I rejoice that not one of us ever
thought of using 'pons asinorum,' or copied passage, though he was
perfectly sightless, and we were obliged to translate to him and learn by
heart whole sections of the Iliad. To have done so would have seemed as
shameful as the pillage of an unguarded sanctuary or the abuse of a
wounded hero.

And he certainly was one!

We knew this from his comrades in the war and his stories of 1813, which
were at once so vivid and so modest.

When he explained Homer or taught ancient history a special fervor
animated him; for he was one of the chosen few whose eyes were opened by
destiny to the full beauty and sublimity of ancient Greece.

I have listened at the university to many a famous interpreter of the
Hellenic and Roman poets, and many a great historian, but not one of them
ever gave me so distinct an impression of living with the ancients as
Heinrich Langethal. There was something akin to them in his pure, lofty
soul, ever thirsting for truth and beauty, and, besides, he had graduated
from the school of a most renowned teacher.

The outward aspect of the tall old man was eminently aristocratic, yet
his birthplace was the house of a plain though prosperous mechanic. He
was born at Erfurt, in 1792. When very young his father, a man unusually
sensible and well-informed for his station in life, entrusted him with
the education of a younger brother, the one who, as I have mentioned,
afterwards became a professor at Jena, and the boy's progress was so
rapid that other parents had requested to have their sons share the hours
of instruction.

After completing his studies at the grammar-school he wanted to go to
Berlin, for, though the once famous university still existed in Erfurt,
it had greatly deteriorated. His description of it is half lamentable,
half amusing, for at that time it was attended by thirty students, for
whom seventy professors were employed. Nevertheless, there were man