The recollection of him makes me inclined to agree with the opinion to
which a noble lady sought to convert me--namely, that our lives are far
more frequently directed into a certain channel by the influence of an
unusual personality than by events, experiences, or individual
reflections.

Langethal was my teacher for several years. When I knew him he was
totally blind, and his eyes, which are said to have flashed so brightly
and boldly on the foe in war, and gazed so winningly into the faces of
friends in time of peace, had lost their lustre. But his noble features
seemed transfigured by the cheerful earnestness which is peculiar to the
old man, who, even though only with the eye of the mind, looks back upon
a well-spent, worthy life, and who does not fear death, because he knows
that God who leads all to the goal allotted by Nature destined him also
for no other. His tall figure could vie with Barop's, and his musical
voice was unusually deep. 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!