The six old books described above have been lately printed, in such a way that the print resembles exactly the writing of the old books themselves. The printed volumes are now to be found in libraries in several parts of Ireland, as well as in England and on the Continent; so that those desirous of studying them need not go to Dublin, as people had to do formerly. Many people are now eagerly studying these books; and men often go to Ireland from France, Germany, Norway and Sweden, Russia, and other countries, in order to learn the Irish language so as to be able to read them. But this requires much study, even from those who know the Irish of the present day; for the language of those books is old and difficult. In many National and Intermediate schools in Ireland, the Irish language is now taught; and no doubt some of the pupils who attend the Irish classes will continue their studies after they leave school, till they come to be able to read the old books. A great many old Irish tales and histories have been printed and translated, and some of them are very beautiful and instructive. Every individual has a place to fill in the world and is important in some respects whether he chooses to be so or not. HAWTHORNE. VI THE SABOTS OF LITTLE WOLFF A Christmas Story FRANÇOIS COPPÉE FRANÇOIS COPPÉE, a Parisian, is a distinguished dramatist and poet. His art is at its best in the conte, or short story, whether in prose or in verse. It is generally the lowly and the neglected whom he describes; and always with a simplicity and sympathy unmixed with maudlin sentimentality. He is an active and outspoken Catholic. He was born in 1842. In 1884 he was elected a member of the French Academy. He has published four volumes of plays. FRANÇOIS COPPÉE Once upon a time-it was so long ago that the whole world has forgotten the date-in a city in the north of Europe-whose name is so difficult to pronounce that nobody remembers it-once upon a time there was a little boy of seven, named Wolff, an orphan in charge of an old aunt who was hard and avaricious, who only embraced him on New-Year's Day, and who breathed a sigh of regret every time that she gave him a porringer of soup. But the poor little chap was naturally so good that he loved the old woman just the same, although she frightened him very much, and he could never see without trembling the great wart, ornamented with four gray hairs, which she had on the end of her nose. As the aunt of Wolff was known through all the village to have a house and an old stocking full of gold, she did not dare to send her nephew to the school for the poor. But she so schemed to obtain a reduction of the price with the schoolmaster whose school little Wolff attended, that the bad teacher, vexed at having a scholar so badly dressed and who paid so poorly, punished him very often and unjustly, and even stirred his fellow-pupils against him, all sons of well-to-do men, who made the orphan their scapegoat. The poor little fellow was therefore as miserable as the stones in the street, and hid himself in out-of-theway corners to cry when Christmas came. The night before Christmas the schoolmaster was to take all of his pupils to the midnight mass, and bring them back to their homes. Now, as the winter was very severe that year, and as for several days a great quantity of snow had fallen, the scholars came to the rendezvous warmly wrapped and bundled up, with fur caps pulled down over their ears, double and triple jackets, knitted gloves and mittens, and good thick boots with strong soles. Only little Wolff came shivering in the clothes that he wore week-days and Sundays, and with nothing on his feet but coarse Strasbourg socks and heavy sabots, or wooden shoes. sabots: wooden shoes worn by peasants in some parts of Europe. His thoughtless comrades made a thousand jests over his sad looks and his peasant's dress. But the orphan was so occupied in blowing on his fingers, and suffered so much from his chilblains, that he took no notice of them; and the troops of boys, with the master at the head, started for the church. It was fine in the church, which was resplendent with wax candles; and some of the scholars, excited by the pleasant warmth, profited by the noise of the organ and the singing to talk to each other in a low voice. They boasted of the fine suppers that were waiting for them at home. The son of the burgomaster had seen, before he went out, a monstrous goose that the truffles marked with black spots like a leopard. At the house of the first citizen there was a little firtree in a wooden box, from whose branches hung oranges, sweetmeats, and toys. And the cook of the first citizen had pinned behind her back the two strings of her cap, as she only did on her days of inspiration when she was sure of succeeding with her famous sugar-candy. And then the scholars spoke, too, of what the Christ-child would bring to them, of what he would put in their shoes, which they would, of course, be very careful to leave in the chimney before going to bed. And the eyes of those little chaps, lively as a parcel of mice, sparkled in advance with the joy of seeing in their imagination pink paper bags of burgomaster: mayor of the district. truffles: a fungus that grows in the earth. It is used for flavoring and it is highly esteemed. Pigs are trained to scent it in the ground and to root it up with their snouts. burnt almonds, lead soldiers drawn up in battalions in their boxes, menageries smelling of varnished wood, and magnificent jumping-jacks covered with purple and bells. Little Wolff knew very well by experience that his old miserly aunt would send him supperless to bed. But in the simplicity of his soul, and knowing that he had been all the year as good and industrious as possible, he hoped that the Christ-child would not forget him, and he, too, looked eagerly forward by-and-by to putting his wooden shoes in the ashes of the fireplace. The midnight mass concluded, the faithful went away, anxious for supper, and the band of scholars, walking two by two after their teacher, left the church. Now, under the porch, sitting on a stone seat under a Gothic niche, a child was sleeping-a child covered by a robe of white linen, and whose feet were bare, notwithstanding the cold. He was not a beggar, for his robe was new and nice, and near him on the ground were seen, lying in a cloth, a square, a hatchet, a pair of compasses, and the other tools of a carpenter's apprentice. Under the light of the stars, his face, with its closed eyes, bore an expression of divine sweetness, and his long locks of golden hair seemed like an aureole about his head. But the child's feet, blue in the cold of that December night, were sad to see. The scholars, so well clothed and shod for the winter, passed heedlessly before the unknown child. Gothic niche: a nook with a pointed arch. |