That day we stood among the crowd and listened to the speech of a student, who addressed us from the great balcony amid a storm of applause.

Whether it was the same honest fellow who besought the people to desist from their design of burning the prince's palace because the library would be imperilled, I do not know, but the answer, "Leave the poor boys their books," is authentic.
And it is also true, unhappily, that it was difficult to save from destruction the house of the man whose Hohenzollern blood asserted itself justly against the weakness of his royal brother.

Through those days of terror he was what he always had been and would remain, an upright man and soldier, in the highest and noblest meaning of the words.
What we saw and heard in the palace and its courts, swarming with citizens and students, was so low and revolting that I dislike to think of it.
Some of the lifeless heroes were just being borne past on litters, greeted by the wine-flushed faces of armed students and citizens.

The teachers who had overtaken us on the way recognized among them college friends who praised the delicious vintage supplied by the palace guards.
My brother and I were also fated to see Frederick William IV.

ride down the Behrenstrasse and the Unter den Linden with a large black, red, and yellow band around his arm.
The burial of those who had fallen during the night of the revolution was one of the most imposing ceremonies ever witnessed in Berlin.