I grew rapidly, and was a tall lad, of whom my mother said that she
could not let him any longer go about without any object in life. I was
sent, therefore, to the charity school, but learned only religion,
writing, and arithmetic, and the last badly enough; I could also
scarcely spell a word correctly. On the master's birthday I always wove
him a garland and wrote him a poem; he received them half with smiles
and half as a joke; the last time, however, he scolded me. The street
lads had also heard from their parents of my peculiar turn of mind, and
that I was in the habit of going to the houses of the gentry. I was
therefore one day pursued by a wild crowd of them, who shouted after me
derisively, "There runs the play-writer!" I hid myself at home in a
corner, wept, and prayed to God.

My mother said that I must be confirmed, in order that I might be
apprenticed to the tailor trade, and thus do something rational. She
loved me with her whole heart, but she did not understand my impulses
and my endeavors, nor indeed at that time did I myself. The people
about her always spoke against my odd ways, and turned me to ridicule.

We belonged to the parish of St. Knud, and the candidates for
confirmation could either enter their names with the prevost or the
chaplain. The children of the so-called superior families and the
scholars of the grammar school went to the first, and the children of
the poor to the second. I, however, announced myself as a candidate to
the prevost, who was obliged to receive me, although he discovered
vanity in my placing myself among his catechists, where, although
taking the lowest place, I was still above those who were under the
care of the chaplain. I would, however, hope that it was not alone
vanity which impelled me. I had a sort of fear of the poor boys, who