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 many obstacles to be surmounted ere he could obtain permission to attend the Berlin University; for the law required every native of Erfurt, who intended afterwards to aspire to any office, to study at least two years in his native city—­at that time French.  But, in defiance of all hindrances, he found his way to Berlin, and in 1811 was entered in the university just established there as the first student from Erfurt.  He wished to devote himself to theology, and Neander, De Wette, Marheineke, Schleiermacher, etc., must have exerted a great power of attraction over a young man who desired to pursue that study.

At the latter’s lectures he became acquainted with Middendorf.  At first he obtained little from either.  Schleiermacher seemed to him too temporizing and obscure.  “He makes veils.”  He thought the young Westphalian, at their first meeting, merely “a nice fellow.”  But in time he learned to understand the great theologian, and the “favourite teacher” noticed him and took him into his house.

But first Fichte, and then Friedrich August Wolf, attracted him far more powerfully than Schleiermacher.  Whenever he spoke of Wolf his calm features glowed and his blind eyes seemed to sparkle.  He owed all that was best in him to the great investigator, who sharpened his pupil’s appreciation of the exhaustless store of lofty ideas and the magic of beauty contained in classic antiquity, and had he been allowed to follow his own inclination, he would have turned his back on theology, to devote all his energies to the pursuit of philology and archaeology.

The Homeric question which Wolf had propounded in connection with Goethe, and which at that time stirred the whole learned world, had also moved Langethal so deeply that, even when an old man, he enjoyed nothing more than to speak of it to us and make us familiar with the pros and cons which rendered him an upholder of his revered teacher.  He had been allowed to attend the lectures on the first four books of the Iliad, and—­I have living witnesses of the fact—­he knew them all verse by verse, and corrected us when we read or recited them as if he had the copy in his hand.

True, he refreshed his naturally excellent memory by having them all read aloud.  I shall never forget his joyous mirth as he listened to my delivery of Wolf’s translation of Aristophanes’s Acharnians; but I was pleased that he selected me to supply the dear blind eyes.  Whenever he called me for this purpose he already had the book in the side pocket of his long coat, and when, beckoning significantly, he cried, “Come, Bear,” I knew what was before me, and would have gladly resigned the most enjoyable game, though he sometimes had books read which were by no means easy for me to understand.  I was then fourteen or fifteen years old.