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.