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قراءة كتاب The Little Schoolmaster Mark: A Spiritual Romance

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The Little Schoolmaster Mark: A Spiritual Romance

The Little Schoolmaster Mark: A Spiritual Romance

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دار النشر: Project Gutenberg
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THE
LITTLE SCHOOLMASTER MARK





Emblem

THE LITTLE
SCHOOLMASTER MARK

A Spiritual Romance

BY
J. H. SHORTHOUSE
AUTHOR OF 'JOHN INGLESANT'



London
MACMILLAN AND CO.
AND NEW YORK
1894
Part I—First Edition, October 1883. Reprinted December 1883

Part II—First Edition, 1884. Reprinted twice February 1885

Complete Edition made up from parts 1885. Reprinted 1891, 1894


Printed by R. & R. Clark, Edinburgh.

PREFACE.

The readers of German autobiography (and more delightful reading cannot be had) will perceive that I have made use of some passages in the childhood of Heinrich Jung-Stilling to create the character of Little Mark. The experience of the Princess as to private religious societies was also that of Stilling. Should this little tale induce any one, at present ignorant of Stilling's Autobiography, to read that book, they will forget any grudge they may have formed against the present writer. As a matter of common honesty I should wish to express the pleasure I have had in reading another delightful book, Studies of the Eighteenth Century in Italy, by Vernon Lee.

The words of the anthem in the concluding chapter are taken from a sermon by Canon Knox Little, "The Vision of the Truth," preached in St. Paul's in Lent 1883, and published in The Witness of the Passion. They are so exactly in accord with the message which the shadowy beings of my tale seem to have left me that I cannot force myself to coin another phrase.

J. H. S.
TO
Lady Alwyne Compton
BY PERMISSION
THIS VOLUME IS DEDICATED

THE
LITTLE SCHOOLMASTER MARK.
A Spiritual Romance.

PART FIRST.

I.

The Court Chaplain Eisenhart walked up the village street towards the schoolhouse. It was April, in the year 1750, and a soft west wind was blowing up the street, across the oak woods of the near forest. Between the forest and the village lay a valley of meadows, planted with thorn bushes and old birch trees with snow-white stems: the fresh green leaves trembled continually in the restless wind. On the other side of the street a lofty crag rose precipitously above a rushing mountain torrent. This rock is the spur of other lofty hills, planted with oak and beech trees, through the openings of which a boy may frequently be seen, driving an ox or gathering firewood on his half-trodden path. Here and there in the distance the smoke of charcoal-burners ascends into the sky. Between the street and the torrent stand the houses of the village, with high thatched roofs and walls of timber and of mud, and, at the back, projecting stages and steps above the rushing water. A paradise in the late spring, in summer, and in autumn, these wild and romantic woods, traversed only by a few forest paths, are terrible in winter, and the contrast is part of their charm. The schoolhouse stands in the upper part of the village, on the opposite side of the street to the rest of the houses, looking across the valley to the western sun. Two large birch trees are before the open door. The Court Chaplain pauses before he goes in.

How it comes to pass that a Court Chaplain should be walking up the street of this forest village we shall see anon.

At first sight there does not seem to be much schoolwork going on. A boy, or we should rather say a child, of fifteen is seated at an open window looking over the forest. He is fair-haired and blue-eyed; but it is the deep blue of an angel's, not the cold gray blue of a courtier's eyes. Around him are seated several children, both boys and girls; and, far from teaching, he appears to be relating stories to them. The story, whatever it is, ceases as the Court Chaplain goes in, and both raconteur and audience rise.

"I have something to say to thee, schoolmaster," said the Chaplain, "send the children away. Thou wilt not teach them anything more to-day, I suspect."

The children went away lingeringly, not at all like children just let loose from school.

When they were gone the expression of the Chaplain's face changed—he looked at the little schoolmaster very kindly, and sat down on one of the benches, which were black and worn with age.

"Last year, little one," he said, "when the Herr Rector took thee away from the Latin school and from thy father's tailoring, and confirmed thee, and thou tookest thy first communion, and he made thee schoolmaster here, many wise people shook their heads. I do not think," he continued, with a smile, "that they have ceased shaking them when they have seen in how strange a manner thou keepest school."

"Ah, your Reverence," said the boy, eagerly, "the good people are satisfied enough when they see that their children learn without receiving much correction; and many of them even take pleasure in the beautiful tales which I relate to the children, and which they repeat to them. Every morning, as soon as the children enter the school, I pray with them, and catechise them in the principles of our holy religion, as God teaches me, for I use no book. Then I set the children to read and to write, and promise them these charming tales if they learn well. It is impossible to express with what zeal the children learn. When they are perverse or not diligent I do not relate my histories, but I read to myself."

"Well, little one," said the Court Chaplain, "it is a strange system of education, but I am far from saying that it is a bad one. Nevertheless it will not last. The Herr Rector has his eye upon thee, and will send thee back to thy tailoring very soon."

The tears came into the little schoolmaster's eyes, and he turned very pale.

"Well, do not be sad," said the Chaplain. "I have been thinking and working for thee. Thou hast heard of the Prince, though thou hast, I think, never seen the pleasure palace, Joyeuse, though it is so near."

"I have seen the iron gates with the golden scrolls," said the boy. "They are like the heavenly Jerusalem; every several gate is one pearl."

The Chaplain did not notice the confused metaphor of this description.

"Well," he said, "I have been speaking to the Prince of thee. Thou knowest nothing of these things, but the Prince has lived for many years in Italy, a country where they do nothing but sing and dance. He has come back, as thou knowest, and has married a wife, according to the traditions of his race. Since he came back to Germany he has taken a fancy to this forest-lodge, for at first it was little more, and has garnished it and enlarged it according to his southern fancies; that is why he likes it better than his princely cities. He has two children—a boy and a girl—eight and nine, or thereabouts. The Princess is not a good woman. She

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