He explained every metre and taught the boys to pick
out the feet of which the verses were composed. When we made fun of him
in our playtime, it was for remarks which we had invented and placed in
his mouth ourselves; for instance: "Scan my immortal poem, _The Dying
Gladiator_." The reason of this was simply that, in elucidation of
the composition of the antique distich, he made use of his own poem of
the above name, which he had included in a Danish reading-book edited by
himself. As soon as he took up his position in the desk, he began:
"Hark ye the--storm of ap--plause from the--theatre's--echoing circle!
Go on, Moeller!"
How could he find it in his heart, his own poem!
XI.
The French master knew how to command respect; there was never a sound
during his lessons. He was altogether absorbed in his subject, was
absolutely and wholly a Frenchman; he did not even talk Danish with the
same accentuation as others, and he had the impetuous French disposition
of which the boys had heard. If a boy made a mess of his pronunciation,
he would bawl, from the depths of his full brown beard, which he was
fond of stroking: "You speak French _comme un paysan d'Amac_." When
he swore, he swore like a true Frenchman: _"Sacrebleu-Mops-Carot-ten-
Rapee!"_ [Footnote: Needless to say, this is impossible French,
composed chiefly of distorted Danish words.
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