... I am positively forced to tell you that I think Dominie Pennewip’s lot might have been counted an extenuating circumstance had he been convicted of eight deadly sins at once.

I have noticed that a considerable number of great men began their careers as swineherds (see all biographical dictionaries); and it seems, therefore, as if this employment called out the elements of all the qualities needed to govern men—or to enlighten them. Which is not quite the same thing....

... As for comparing human beings and pigs, let the reader remember the connection between coal and diamonds, and every one will be satisfied—even the theologians!

But, since making this observation on the splendid prospects which await any one who has spent his tender youth in the society of the grunting coal-diamonds of the animal kingdom, I have several times thought it strange that, in the biographies of great men, there should be so few examples of ex-schoolmasters. For, after all, all the elements which seem to constitute a pig-pasture the nursery of genius are abundantly present in the schoolroom.

The reverse process frequently occurs. Every day we see exiled princes giving instruction to idle youth. Dionysius and Louis Philippe are not the only ones; and I myself have attempted to teach French to an American. Which proved impossible.

If elective monarchies should come into fashion again, I should like to see the people’s choice confine itself, by preference, to persons who had studied mankind from models in miniature, just as one learns geography from portable globes and atlases. All virtues, inclinations, passions, errors, misdeeds,—all points which have to be studied in human society,—are found in a small and comprehensive scale on the benches of the school; and the boasted diplomacy of many a statesman only amounts, when looked at carefully, to the tricks of which our Machiavels of three feet high make the warp and woof of their tactics.

The schoolmaster’s profession is not an easy one; and I have never understood why it is so poorly paid, or, since it seems that this is an inexorable law of nature, how it is that people are always found to fill it, instead of drawing the same pay as drill-instructors, and showing soldiers how to load their guns, which is less perplexing to the mind, and gives you more fresh air, with oxygen in it.

Or else, I should prefer to be a minister. For the latter has to do with people who are quite at one with him as to the matter in hand, and come and listen to him of their own free choice; while the teacher has to keep up a constant fight with reluctance on the part of the pupils, and also with a highly dangerous set of rivals, in the shape of tops, marbles, and paper dolls—not to mention sweets, changing teeth, scarlet fever, and weak mothers.

Pennewip was a man of the old school,—at least so he would appear to us if we saw him now-a-days, in his grey coat, long waistcoat, and knee-breeches with buckles, the whole figure crowned with a brown wig, which he was constantly pushing hither and thither, and which was always curled just so at the beginning of the week—if there was no rain in the air. For curls cannot stand damp; and it was on Sundays that the man came with the curling-tongs.

Yet the old-fashionedness is, perhaps, only relative. Who knows whether it was not counted new-fangled in its day; or how soon the same thing may be said of us. However that may be, the man was addressed as “meester,” and his school was called a school, and not an institution. In his school, where, according to the simple fashion of the time, boys and girls sat side by side, you learned—or you could learn, if so minded—reading, arithmetic, writing, the history of your own country, psalm-singing, wool-work, knitting, marking, and religion. All this was in the ordinary curriculum; but any pupil who particularly distinguished him or herself by talent, application, or obedience, received, over and above, lessons in verse-making,—an art wherein the soul of Dominie Pennewip greatly delighted. He “finished” the boys to the point of complete fitness for “acceptance”;^[11] and, with the help of his wife, brought the girls the length of a sampler, with a red text on a black ground, or a spitted heart between two flowerpots. Then their education was complete, and they were quite fit, if so minded, to become the grandmothers of our present generation of citizens.

The school was empty, and the forms looked as though the pupils had left all their weariness behind them there. The map of Europe looked ill-temperedly down on the pile of copy-books, next to which lay the quill pens, worn down to the gums, so to speak, in the pot-hooks and hangers which have opened the gate of access to all learning so long that the memory of man goeth not to the contrary. The difficult sum in fractions was still visible, in all its glory, on the blackboard; but yet, the school was no school; its spirit had fled—it was a corpse.

Yes, the informing mind had departed with the children. For that these carried about with them a large quantity of the above article shall speedily be made evident.

It was the great day on which Dominie Pennewip was to judge of the fruits of his pupils’ poetic genius. There he sat. His much-moved wig shared in the emotions which filled him on reading the poems; and we will be indiscreet enough to look over his shoulder, so as, in our turn, to be touched by impressions of never-sufficiently-to-be-appreciated artistic enjoyment.

Wig to the right, and at rest.

“Not bad; but—let us see—yes, that is better. The superfluous words, ‘on my head,’ weaken the impression of the whole.”

He scored through the superfluous words, and now Tryntje Fop has simply a cap on, without a head.

“This is the sort of terse and concise style I like.”

Wig somewhat to the left.

“Melodious,” said the master; “it runs quite melodiously. And there is depth in the cake and the brandy, with the Fatherland in between them.”

Wig to the right.

“Original; but I do not like her dividing the word potatoes.”

Wig to the left.

“This is not quite accurate; for, strictly speaking——, but, as a poetical license, it may pass.”

Wig to the front.

“Descriptive poetry. There is a certain boldness in the idea of the caterpillar fearlessly jumping about.”

Wig at rest.

“It is a pity that the rhyme is so very careless. His ideas are really uncommon, and well developed. The transition to the egg is quite characteristic.”

Wig pushed down to the back of his neck.

The wig was pushed to one side—very far to one side.

“H’m—strange—what shall I say about it?”

The wig went back again to the extreme right.

“What have I got to do with the oxen?”

The wig protested, with some impressive movements, against all such bovine relationships.

“H’m—could that be what these new-fangled writers call humour?”

The wig was drawn forward to Dominie Pennewip’s eyebrows, which denotes doubt.^[12]

“I must take that boy in hand one of these days.”

The wig came to anchor on the zenith, by way of expressing its satisfaction at the Dominie’s intention of taking Butcher’s Keesje seriously in hand.

“The fundamental idea is correct and beautiful,” said Pennewip, “but it ought to have been further developed.”

The wig nodded assent.

The wig gave a leap of joy, and its curls embraced one another. The master could not refrain from calling his wife to share in the enjoyment of Truitje Gier’s effusion, which was pasted on a piece of cardboard, and hung up above the mantelpiece in honour both of the poetess and her subject....

The wig did not appear quite satisfied. Lucas de Wilde’s “Religion” was brought to light, and placed for comparison beside Louwtje’s “Friendship.”

“H’m ... well ... it might be possible. Instances do occur of the same idea springing up simultaneously in two different minds.... It might ... or could ... be so....”

“How! What is that?”

Yes, indeed! there it was—

The wig was in perpetual motion; it seemed as though it too were taking part in the angling operations.

Master Pennewip hastily turned over the papers he had not yet examined, sorted out the productions of the whole Wilde family, and ... yes, indeed! Mietje de Wilde, Kees de Wilde, Piet and Jan de Wilde, declared, with touching unanimity, that religion, friendship, fishing, dreaming, cauliflower, and conjuring are good things indeed, of which all people have great need. It was an overwhelming flood of good things and human need!

What was an honest wig to do? It did the best thing that could be done under the circumstances, and more cannot be required of any one. After perceiving the fruitlessness of its efforts to find out any difference between fishing and friendship, conjuring and dreaming, cauliflower and religion, it behaved as though the matter did not concern it in the least, and assumed a neutral position, with an air, on the part of its little curls, of looking forward with interest to the sequel—as the reader is no doubt doing.

The wig clapped its curls applaudingly. It seemed delighted. Alas! the joy of such a wig does not last long. This, too, was soon to——But we will not anticipate.... We shall know only too soon.

“Hey! What’s this? And Virtue—where is Virtue?”

Dominie Pennewip could not trust his own eyes. He turned the sheet over and looked at the back, to see if the Virtue he had given Wouter as a subject was hidden there.

Alas, alas! there was no trace of virtue in Wouter’s composition.

Poor wig!

Yes—poor wig! For after having made it to undergo what no wig ever underwent before,—after having tugged, plucked, ill-used, and tormented it to an extent which would have taken more than the imagination of the whole De Wilde family to conceive,—Dominie Pennewip tore it from his head, doubled it up between his convulsively clenched hands,—stammered, “Heaven and earth! Gracious goodness! where in nature did he pick that up?”—banged it down on his head again, clapped his venerable three-cornered hat atop of it, and flew out of the front door like a man possessed. He went straight to the Pieterses’ house.

Juffrouw Pieterse, Wouter’s mother, had been entertaining a few of her friends and neighbours at a “little evening,” with tea and cake.

“Good evening, Juffrouw Pieterse; I am your obedient servant. I see you have company,—but——”

“Don’t mention it, sir! Just come in and sit down!... Will you take a cup with us—sage-milk?”

“Juffrouw Pieterse,” replied the master, solemnly, “I did not come here to drink sage-milk!”

“But please sit down, Dominie——”

It was not easy, under the circumstances, but the ladies shifted their chairs a little, and the Dominie was finally installed in his. He was coughing with overwhelming seriousness. He looked round on the company, drew out a roll of papers, pulled his wig to one side, and spoke:

“Juffrouw Pieterse! you are an honest, respectable woman,—and your late husband—sold shoes——”

Juffrouw Pieterse cast on Juffrouw Laps a glance of vindictive triumph.

“Yes, sir, he did!”

“Don’t interrupt me, Juffrouw Pieterse. Your deceased consort sold shoes. I have had your children at my school, from the time when they were so high, to their confirmation. Is not that true, Juffrouw Pieterse?”

“Yes, sir,” she replied, somewhat uneasily, for she began to be frightened at the impressive solemnity of Pennewip’s tone. “Yes, that’s true, Dominie!”

“And I ask you, Juffrouw Pieterse, whether you, so long as you, through the means of your children, have had anything to do with my school, have had any complaints—I mean, well-founded complaints, Juffrouw Pieterse—to make of the way in which I—with the help of my wife—have given your numerous offspring instruction in reading, writing, arithmetic, Dutch history, psalm-singing, sewing, knitting, marking, and religion? That is what I ask you, Juffrouw Pieterse.”

A ghastly silence. The neighbour in the back-room downstairs, who had repeatedly complained of the noise during the evening, had every reason to be satisfied.

“That is what I ask you, Juffrouw Pieterse,” repeated the Dominie, putting on the pince-nez, which was considered antiquated in those days—destined, as it was, to become the height of fashion some decades later.

“But, Dominie——”

“No buts, Juffrouw Pieterse. I ask of you—or I ask you,—for it is quite allowable, Juffrouw Pieterse, in this case, to omit the preposition,—I ask you if you have any complaints to make—I mean, of course, well-founded complaints—of the instruction given by me in reading, writing——”

“Goodness, no, Dominie!—I have no complaints; but——”

“Is that so? No complaints? Well, then, I declare to you—— Where is your son Wouter?”

“Wouter? Why—oh! he went out, so he did! Hasn’t he come in yet, Trui? Wouter is out for a walk, Dominie, with the little Hallemans—very nicely-behaved children, Dominie,—and they live——”

“Eh! what?—with the Hallemans, is he?—the Hallemans who go to the French school? oh! indeed—yes! So it’s from the Hallemans he learns such things—it must be——... loose morals ... utter depravity ... the French school...! Well, in short, Juffrouw Pieterse,—I say that your son——”

“Eh?”

“I tell you that your son Wouter——”

“Well—what has Wouter been doing now?” asked Juffrouw Laps, rejoiced, pious person that she was, at the new misdeed she was to hear of.

Just as Pennewip was about to open the indictment, there was another ring at the bell,—and the unfortunate delinquent entered the room.

“Juffrouw Pieterse,” Pennewip began, “my school is known as a good school even so far off as Kattenburg^[13]—do you hear that, and understand it?”

“Oh yes, Dominie!”

“I repeat it,—well known; and more especially so on account of the good moral tone which prevails there,—I mean, of course, in my school. Religion and virtue are put foremost. I could show you verses on such subjects that—but I will pass over that for the present. Let it suffice you to know that my school is known as far as ... what do I say?—I have even taught the son of a resident in Wittenburg,^[13]—a block-maker he was—and once, indeed, I was consulted in writing as to what was to be done with a boy whose father lived no nearer than Muiderberg!”

“Very good, Dominie!”

“Yes, Juffrouw Pieterse! I am still in possession of the letter—which I could show you if I chose; the man was a sexton, and the youth had fallen into a sad habit of drawing unseemly figures on the tombstones—but just on that account—I mean for the sake of the religion and virtue for which I am so well known—I feel it my duty to take this opportunity of informing you that I do not choose to see the good name of my school ruined by means of that good-for-nothing rascal of a son of yours, who stands there!”

Poor Wouter was aghast. That sounded very unlike the appointment he had been dreaming of—brigand-in-chief to the Pope of Rome,—which, however, he no longer desired, having thought of a different position which would suit him better.

His mother was about to proceed to what she called “her religion,” and administer chastisement on the spot, in order to satisfy the Dominie, and show him that, in her house, too, religion and sound morals had the first place. But the schoolmaster thought it better to inform the company what was toward, and thereby bring the culprit to a deeper sense of his delinquencies.

“Your son, Juffrouw Pieterse, belongs to the class of robbers, murderers, and fire-raisers!” ...

No more than that!

“Gracious goodness! Merciful justice! What next! Oh! my gracious patience! How is it possible? What human beings have to endure!” Something like this—for I will not answer for textual accuracy—was the flood of exclamations which overwhelmed the ten-year-old robber, murderer, and fire-raiser. Poor Wouter!

“I will read you a piece in his own handwriting,” said the Dominie, “and any one who, after this, can still doubt the utter depravity of this boy——”

The whole company promised with one voice not to doubt it. The poem, indeed, which Master Pennewip thereupon proceeded to read, was of a kind which rendered doubt on that head very difficult; and I myself, though I have chosen Wouter as my hero, shall not find it easy to convince the reader that he was not so bad as would appear from his atrocious—

“Christian souls!” cried the whole company, “is he mad?”

“Dear heavens above us!” moaned Wouter’s mother, “what in the world has this Viscount done to him?”

“Look at that now,—for the spoil!” said Juffrouw Laps, “I always say,—they begin with a Bible, and then——”

“Did ever any one hear the like?—his bride! Why, the boy’s only just cutting his second set of teeth!”

“With the sword at his side!!”

“Gracious patience! what does he want in a grotto?”

“Mercy on us! does he call that delight? It makes me go cold all over!”

“There he goes again!”

“The devil must be in the boy ... his pleasure!”

“Gracious goodness! what can they have done to him?”

“Is the boy mad? I’ll king him!”

“What sort of a thing is that?”

The company shuddered audibly at this invitation.

“Lodderyn!^[14] Trui! you see I——”

“Lodderyn! lodderyn! lodderyn! Trui!”

“Our joy and delight!” repeated Pennewip in a sepulchral voice,—“our joy and delight!... He ... does ... these ... things ... for ... his ... delight!”.

The whole company was near swooning. Stoffel’s pipe had gone out. But Wouter had a sort of passive strength in his nature; and when his mother had thrashed him enough to secure her own return to consciousness, he lay down, not altogether discontented, in his corner of the back room, and soon fell asleep, to dream of Fancy.