The Life of Friedrich Schiller | Page 4

of a
tree, gazing at the tempestuous face of the sky, and watching the
flashes as in succession they spread their lurid gleam over it. To the
reprimands of his parent, the whimpering truant pleaded in extenuation,
"that the lightning was very beautiful, and that he wished to see where
it was coming from!"--Such anecdotes, we have long known, are in
themselves of small value: the present one has the additional defect of
being somewhat dubious in respect of authenticity. We have ventured
to give it, as it came to us, notwithstanding. The picture of the boy
Schiller, contemplating the thunder, is not without a certain interest, for
such as know the man.
Schiller's first teacher was Moser, pastor and schoolmaster in the
village of Lorch, where the parents resided from the sixth to the ninth
year of their son. This person deserves mention for the influence he
exerted on the early history of his pupil: he seems to have given his
name to the Priest 'Moser' in the Robbers; his spiritual calling, and the
conversation of his son, himself afterwards a preacher, are supposed to
have suggested to Schiller the idea of consecrating himself to the
clerical profession. This idea, which laid hold of and cherished some
predominant though vague propensities of the boy's disposition, suited
well with the religious sentiments of his parents, and was soon formed
into a settled purpose. In the public school at Ludwigsburg, whither the
family had now removed, his studies were regulated with this view; and

he underwent, in four successive years, the annual examination before
the Stuttgard Commission, to which young men destined for the
Church are subjected in that country. Schiller's temper was naturally
devout; with a delicacy of feeling which tended towards bashfulness
and timidity, there was mingled in him a fervid impetuosity, which was
ever struggling through its concealment, and indicating that he felt
deeply and strongly, as well as delicately. Such a turn of mind easily
took the form of religion, prescribed to it by early example and early
affections, as well as nature. Schiller looked forward to the sacred
profession with alacrity: it was the serious daydream of all his boyhood,
and much of his youth. As yet, however, the project hovered before him
at a great distance, and the path to its fulfilment offered him but little
entertainment. His studies did not seize his attention firmly; he
followed them from a sense of duty, not of pleasure. Virgil and Horace
he learned to construe accurately; but is said to have taken no deep
interest in their poetry. The tenderness and meek beauty of the first, the
humour and sagacity and capricious pathos of the last, the matchless
elegance of both, would of course escape his inexperienced perception;
while the matter of their writings must have appeared frigid and
shallow to a mind so susceptible. He loved rather to meditate on the
splendour of the Ludwigsburg theatre, which had inflamed his
imagination when he first saw it in his ninth year, and given shape and
materials to many of his subsequent reveries.[3] Under these
circumstances, his progress, with all his natural ability, could not be
very striking; the teachers did not fail now and then to visit him with
their severities; yet still there was a negligent success in his attempts,
which, joined to his honest and vivid temper, made men augur well of
him. The Stuttgard Examinators have marked him in their records with
the customary formula of approval, or, at worst, of toleration. They
usually designate him as 'a boy of good hope,' puer bonæ spei.
[Footnote 3: The first display of his poetic gifts occurred also in his
ninth year, but took its rise in a much humbler and less common source
than the inspiration of the stage. His biographers have recorded this
small event with a conscientious accuracy, second only to that of
Boswell and Hawkins in regard to the Lichfield duck. 'The little tale,'
says one of them, 'is worth relating; the rather that, after an interval of

more than twenty years, Schiller himself, on meeting with his early
comrade (the late Dr. Elwert of Kantstadt) for the first time since their
boyhood, reminded him of the adventure, recounting the circumstances
with great minuteness and glee. It is as follows: Once in 1768, Elwert
and he had to repeat their catechism together on a certain day publicly
in the church. Their teacher, an ill-conditioned, narrow-minded pietist,
had previously threatened them with a thorough flogging if they missed
even a single word. To make the matter worse, this very teacher
chanced to be the person whose turn it was to catechise on the
appointed day. Both the boys began their answers with dismayed hearts
and faltering tongues; yet they succeeded in accomplishing the task;
and