I listened to none more instructive at the university.

Philological and linguistic details which were not suited for the senior pupils who were being fitted for other callings than those of the philologist were omitted.

But he insisted upon grammatical correctness, and never lost sight of his maxim, "The school should teach its pupils to do thoroughly whatever they do at all." He urged us especially to think for ourselves, and to express our ideas clearly and attractively, not only in writing but verbally.
It seemed as though a spring breeze had melted the snow from the land, such bourgeoning and blossoming appeared throughout the school.
Creative work was done by fits and starts.

If the demon seized upon me, I raved about for a time as before, but I did my duty for the principal.
I not only honoured but loved him, and censure from his lips would have been unbearable.
The poem which I was to read on the king's birthday has been preserved, and as I glanced over it recently I could not help smiling.
It was to describe the life of Henry the Fowler, and refer to the reigning king, Frederick William IV.

The praise of my hero had come from my heart, so the poem found favour, and in circles so wide that the most prominent man in the neighbourhood, Prince Puckler-Muskau, sent for my verses.
I was perfectly aware that they did not represent my best work, but what father does not find something to admire in his child?
So I copied them neatly, and gave them to Billy, the dwarf, the prince's factotum.