r was, on his first entrance into the school, so uncurbed
in his overflowing strength, and so untamed by any culture, that,
instead of taking his place in the usual way, he always vaulted over
tables and benches; the wild creature scarcely kept within his clothes.
But very soon all this was changed; Sepp became quiet and serious, and
his whole strength exerted itself in reflection and learning. I
expressed to him my pleasure at the change, and he told me that one
night he had not been able to sleep, and the thought had come into his
head, 'Thou hast hitherto not been a man, but an animal; now, through
the means of the school, thou canst become a man, and must do so.' From
that night he felt himself changed. Another--now an able forest-manager
and geometrician--had surprised me by an almost sudden transition from
slow to quick comprehension and rapid progress. He gave me afterwards
this explanation: 'All at once light broke upon me. You had set us an
equation; I racked my brains with it, but could not find out a
solution. I was in the stable milking the cows: I had taken the paper
with me, laid it beside me on a log, and was looking at it every
moment. Then it passed like lightning through my brain: "thus must thou
do it!" I left the cow and pail, took my paper, ran into the room, and
solved the equation. Since that all my learning has gone on better.'

"The year 1839 had come to an end, and the winter term--the most
tedious time of the school--had begun with an increased number of
scholars. One Sunday some old scholars came to me, and suggested that
the Grencheners had at one period occasionally performed a play. This
old custom had long fallen into disuse; there had been nothing to see
except at the carnival, 'the Doctor of Padua,' Punchinello, and the old
buffoon sports, which had been brought home by mercenaries from the
Italian wars, and established in the villages; but they wished to have
again a great play, and begged me to help them. I desired to have time
to think, and made inquiries of the old people, particularly of old
Hans Fik, who, at least forty years before had co-operated as a youth,
and, as he acknowledged to me with shame, had acted the part of the
'Mother of God.' From him I learnt that the last dramatic performance
had been the 'St. Genevieve.' He doubted whether this younger
generation could accomplish anything similar, for such a splendid
paraphernalia, with many horses, such tremendous jumps clear