THIS is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks, Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight, 1 The concluding poem in the Belfry of Bruges vol ume. 2 The origin of 'Evangeline' is described as follows in the Life of Longfellow Mr. Hawthorne came one day to dine at Craigie House, bringing with him his friend Mr. H. L. Conolly, who had been the rector of a church in South Boston. At dinner Conolly said that he had been trying in vain to interest Hawthorne to write a story upon an incident which had been related to him by a parishioner of his, Mrs. Haliburton. It was the story of a young Acadian maiden, who at the dispersion of her people by the English troops had been separated from her betrothed lover; they sought each other for years in their exile; and at last they met in a hospital where the lover lay dying. Mr. Longfellow was touched by the story, especially by the constancy of its heroine, and said to his friend, "If you really do not want this incident for a tale, let me have it for a poem;" and Hawthorne consented.' (Life, vol. ii, pp. 70-71.) The account given by Hawthorne is substantially the same, but contains a somewhat fuller outline of the story: 'H. L. C. heard from a French Canadian a story of a young couple in Acadie. On their marriage-day all the men of the Province were summoned to assemble Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic, Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms. in the church to hear a proclamation. When assembled, they were all seized and shipped off to be distributed through New England, among them the new bridegroom. His bride set off in search of him-wandered about New England all her lifetime, and at last, when she was old, she found her bridegroom on his deathbed. The shock was so great that it killed her likewise.' (American Notebooks, vol. i, p. 203.) Another American poet, Whittier, had also thought of writing on the expulsion of the Acadians: Before Longfellow considered the matter of writing "Evangeline," Whittier had made a study of the history of the banishment of the Acadians, and had intended to write upon it, but he put it off until he found that Hawthorne was thinking about it, and had suggested it to Longfellow. After the appearance of "Evangeline," Mr. Whittier was glad of his delay, for he said: "Longfellow was just the one to write it. If I had attempted it I should have spoiled the artistic effect of the poem by my indignation at the treatment of the exiles by the Colonial Government." (Pickard's Life of Whittier, vol. i, p. 342). See also Whittier's poem, Marguerite,' and the note on it. Whittier welcomed the 'Evangeline' heartily when it appeared, in a review beginning Eureka! Here, then, Loud from its rocky caverns, the deepvoiced neighboring ocean Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest. This is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts that beneath it Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the huntsman? we have it at last, an American poem, with the lack of which British reviewers have so long reproached us.' (Prose Works, vol. iii, p. 365.) The historical basis which Longfellow used for his poem was somewhat scanty: For the history of the dispersion of the Acadians the poet read such books as were attainable; Haliburton, for instance, with his quotations from the Abbé Raynal. . . . Later investigations and more recent publications have shown that the deportation had more justification than had been supposed; that some, at least, of the Acadians, so far from being innocent sufferers, had been troublesome subjects of Great Britain, fomenting insubordination and giving help to the enemy. But if the expatriation was necessary, it was none the less cruel, and involved in suffering many who were innocent of wrong.' (Life of Longfellow, vol. ii, p. 71.) The exact title of Haliburton's book spoken of above is An Historical and Statistical Account of Nova Scotia. See also, on the poem, its subject, and its historical basis: Life, vol. ii, pp. 26-140. Hannay (James), The History of Acadia. Journal of Colonel John Winslow, in the Report and Collections of the Nova Scotia Historical Society, iii, 71-196. Gayarré, The History of Louisiana. Anderson (William James), Evangeline' and The Archives of Nova Scotia; or, the Poetry and Prose of History. Quebec, 1870. Porter (Noah), Evangeline, the place, the story, and the poem. New York, 1882. Sayler (H. L.) The Real Evangeline. In the Bookman, vol. xviii, p. 12; September, 1903. Whittier: Prose Works, vol. iii, pp. 365-373. Chasles (Philarète), Etudes sur la Littérature et les Maurs des Anglo-américains au XIXme Siècle, 1851. Longfellow himself never visited either Nova Scotia or the Mississippi. He actually seems to have got some of his conceptions from a diorama of the Mississippi exhibited in Boston, which he eagerly went to see while writing the poem! (Life, vol. ii, pp. 67-68.) He also, as seems to be probable from letters recently published in the New York Times (February and March, 1905) wrote to Mr. Edouard Simon of St. Martinsville, a former student at the Harvard law school, with whom he had discussed the expulsion of the Acadians from Nova Scotia and their settlement in Louisiana, and obtained from him a description of the country along the Mississippi where they settled. It may also be suggested that he probably obtained some inspiration, and perhaps a great deal, from Chateaubriand's descriptions of America, especially of the primeval forests and the country along the Ohio and Mississippi rivers, in his Atala, René, and Voyages. Longfellow was reading Chateaubriand, and with enthusiasm, just at the time when he began to write 'Evangeline.' (Life, vol. ii, p. 27.) The metre of Evangeline has been much discussed. See the Life of Longfellow, vol. ii, pp. 26, 36, 66, 76, 107, etc.; Stedman's Poets of America, pp. 195-200; Scudder's Life of Lowell, vol. ii, p. 75, and Lowell's Fable for Critics'; Holmes's verdict, quoted in the Life of Longfellow, vol. iii, pp. 339-340; and Matthew Arnold's essays On Translating Homer. IN the Acadian land, on the shores of the Basin of Minas, Distant, secluded, still, the little village of Grand Pré Lay in the fruitful valley. Vast meadows stretched to the eastward, Giving the village its name, and pasture to flocks without number. Dikes, that the hands of the farmers had raised with labor incessant, Shut out the turbulent tides; but at stated seasons the flood-gates Opened, and welcomed the sea to wander at will o'er the meadows. West and south there were fields of flax, and orchards and cornfields Spreading afar and unfenced o'er the plain; and away to the northward Blomidon rose, and the forests old, and aloft on the mountains 10 Scarlet and blue and green, with distaffs spinning the golden Flax for the gossiping looms, whose noisy shuttles within doors Mingled their sounds with the whir of the wheels and the songs of the maidens. Solemnly down the street came the parish priest, and the children Paused in their play to kiss the hand he extended to bless them. Reverend walked he among them; and up rose matrons and maidens, Hailing his slow approach with words of affectionate welcome. Then came the laborers home from the field, and serenely the sun sank Down to his rest, and twilight prevailed. Anon from the belfry Softly the Angelus sounded, and over the roofs of the village 30 Columns of pale blue smoke, like clouds of incense ascending, Rose from a hundred hearths, the homes Dwelt in the love of God and of man. Alike were they free from Fear, that reigns with the tyrant, and envy, the vice of republics. Neither locks had they to their doors, nor bars to their windows; But their dwellings were open as day and the hearts of the owners; There the richest was poor, and the poorest lived in abundance. Dwelt on his goodly acres; and with him, directing his household, Gentle Evangeline lived, his child, and the pride of the village. Stalwart and stately in form was the man of seventy winters; Hearty and hale was he, an oak that is covered with snow-flakes; White as the snow were his locks, and his cheeks as brown as the oak-leaves. Fair was she to behold, that maiden of seventeen summers. Black were her eyes as the berry that grows on the thorn by the wayside, Black, yet how softly they gleamed beneath the brown shade of her tresses! Sweet was her breath as the breath of kine that feed in the meadows. When in the harvest heat she bore to the reapers at noontide 50 Flagons of home-brewed ale, ah! fair in sooth was the maiden. Fairer was she when, on Sunday morn, while the bell from its turret Sprinkled with holy sounds the air, as the priest with his hyssop Sprinkles the congregation, and scatters blessings upon them, Down the long street she passed, with her chaplet of beads and her missal, Wearing her Norman cap, and her kirtle of blue, and the ear-rings, Brought in the olden time from France, and since, as an heirloom, Handed down from mother to child, through long generations. But a celestial brightness a more ethe real beauty Shone on her face and encircled her form, when, after confession, 60 Homeward serenely she walked with God's benediction upon her. When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music. Firmly builded with rafters of oak, the house of the farmer Stood on the side of a hill commanding the sea; and a shady Sycamore grew by the door, with a woodbine wreathing around it. Rudely carved was the porch, with seats beneath; and a footpath Led through an orchard wide, and disappeared in the meadow. Farther down, on the slope of the hill, was the well with its moss-grown Bucket, fastened with iron, and near it a trough for the horses. Shielding the house from storms, on the north, were the barns and the farmyard. There stood the broad-wheeled wains and the antique ploughs and the harrows; There were the folds for the sheep; and there, in his feathered seraglio, Strutted the lordly turkey, and crowed the cock, with the selfsame Voice that in ages of old had startled the penitent Peter. Bursting with hay were the barns, themselves a village. In each one Far o'er the gable projected a roof of thatch; and a staircase, Under the sheltering eaves, led up to the odorous corn-loft. 80 Grew up together as brother and sister; and Father Felician, Priest and pedagogue both in the village, had taught them their letters Out of the selfsame book, with the hymns of the church and the plain-song. But when the hymn was sung, and the daily lesson completed, Swiftly they hurried away to the forge of Basil the blacksmith. There at the door they stood, with wondering eyes to behold him Take in his leathern lap the hoof of the horse as a plaything, Nailing the shoe in its place; while near him the tire of the cart-wheel Lay like a fiery snake, coiled round in a circle of cinders. Oft on autumnal eves, when without in the gathering darkness Bursting with light seemed the smithy, through every cranny and crevice, Warm by the forge within they watched the laboring bellows, And as its panting ceased, and the sparks expired in the ashes, Merrily laughed, and said they were nuns going into the chapel. Oft on sledges in winter, as swift as the swoop of the eagle, Down the hillside bounding, they glided away o'er the meadow. Oft in the barns they climbed to the populous nests on the rafters, Seeking with eager eyes that wondrous stone, which the swallow Brings from the shore of the sea to restore the sight of its fledglings; Lucky was he who found that stone in the nest of the swallow! 120 Thus passed a few swift years, and they no longer were children. He was a valiant youth, and his face, like the face of the morning, Gladdened the earth with its light, and ripened thought into action. She was a woman now, with the heart and hopes of a woman. 'Sunshine of Saint Eulalie' was she called; for that was the sunshine Which, as the farmers believed, would load their orchards with apples; 1 She, too, would bring to her husband's house delight and abundance, Filling it with love and the ruddy faces of children. Birds of passage sailed through the leaden air, from the ice-bound, Desolate northern bays to the shores of trop ical islands. Harvests were gathered in; and wild with the winds of September Wrestled the trees of the forest, as Jacob of old with the angel. All the signs foretold a winter long and inclement. Bees, with prophetic instinct of want, had hoarded their honey Till the hives overflowed; and the Indian hunters asserted Cold would the winter be, for thick was the fur of the foxes. 140 Such was the advent of autumn. Then followed that beautiful season, Called by the pious Acadian peasants the Summer of All-Saints ! Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light; and the landscape Lay as if new-created in all the freshness of childhood. Peace seemed to reign upon earth, and the restless heart of the ocean Was for a moment consoled. All sounds were in harmony blended. Voices of children at play, the crowing of cocks in the farm-yards, 1 From the old Norman-French proverb: Si le soleil rit le jour Sainte-Eulalie Il y aura pommes et cidre à folie. Now recommenced the reign of rest and affection and stillness. Day with its burden and heat had departed, and twilight descending Brought back the evening star to the sky, and the herds to the homestead. Pawing the ground they came, and resting their necks on each other, And with their nostrils distended inhaling the freshness of evening. Foremost, bearing the bell, Evangeline's beautiful heifer, Proud of her snow-white hide, and the ribbon that waved from her collar, Quietly paced and slow, as if conscious of human affection. Then came the shepherd back with his bleating flocks from the seaside, 160 Where was their favorite pasture. Behind them followed the watch-dog, Patient, full of importance, and grand in the pride of his instinct, Walking from side to side with a lordly air, and superbly Waving his bushy tail, and urging forward the stragglers; Regent of flocks was he when the shepherd slept; their protector, When from the forest at night, through the starry silence the wolves howled. Late, with the rising moon, returned the wains from the marshes, Laden with briny hay, that filled the air with its odor. Cheerily neighed the steeds, with dew on their manes and their fetlocks, While aloft on their shoulders the wooden |