My father, who did not like to do any thing by halves, determined to request the rector of our gymnasium, one Dr. Albrecht, to give me private lessons weekly, until I should have acquired what was most essential in so simple a language; for he hoped, that, if it would not be despatched as soon as English was learned, it could at least be managed in double the time.

Rector Albrecht was one of the most original figures in the world,—­ short, broad, but not fat, ill-shaped without being deformed; in short, an Aesop in gown and wig.  His more than seventy-years-old face was completely twisted into a sarcastic smile; while his eyes always remained large, and, though red, were always brilliant and intelligent.  He lived in the old cloister of the barefoot friars, the seat of the gymnasium.  Even as a child, I had often visited him in company with my parents, and had, with a kind of trembling delight, glided through the long, dark passages, the chapels transformed into reception-rooms, the place broken up and full of stairs and corners.  Without making me uncomfortable, he questioned me familiarly whenever we met, and praised and encouraged me.  One day, on the changing of the pupils’ places after a public examination, he saw me standing, as a mere spectator, not far from his chair, while he distributed the silver proemia virtulis et diligentioe.  I was probably gazing very eagerly upon the little bag out of which he drew the medals:  he nodded to me, descended a step, and handed me one of the silver pieces.  My joy was great; although others thought that this gift, bestowed upon a boy not belonging to the school, was out of all order.  But for this the good old man cared but little, having always played the eccentric, and that in a striking manner.  He had a very good reputation as a schoolmaster, and understood his business; although age no more allowed him to practise it thoroughly.  But almost more than by his own infirmities was he hindered by greater circumstances; and, as I already knew, he was satisfied neither with the consistory, the inspectors, the clergy, nor the teachers.  To his natural temperament, which inclined to satire, and the watching for faults and defects, he allowed free play, both in his programmes and his public speeches; and, as Lucian was almost the only writer whom he read and esteemed, he spiced all that he said and wrote with biting ingredients.  Fortunately for those with whom he was dissatisfied, he never went directly to work, but only jeered at the defects which he wanted to reprove, with hints, allusions, classic passages, and scripture-texts.  His delivery, moreover,—­he always read his discourses,—­was unpleasant, unintelligible, and, above all, was often interrupted by a cough, but more frequently by a hollow, paunch-convulsing laugh, with which he was wont to announce and accompany the biting passages.  This singular man I found to be mild and obliging when I began to take lessons of him.  I now went to his house daily at six o’clock in the evening, and always experienced a secret pleasure when the outer door closed behind me, and I had to thread the long, dark cloister-passage.  We sat in his library, at a table covered with oil-cloth, a much-read Lucian never quitting his side.