Stern thoughts and awful from thy soul arise,

Like Farinata from his fiery tomb. Thy sacred song is like the trump of doom;

Yet in thy heart what human sympathies, What soft compassion glows; as in the skies

The tender stars their clouded lamps relume!

Methinks I see thee stand with pallid cheeks

By Fra Hilario in his diocese,

As up the convent-walls, in golden streaks, The ascending sunbeams mark the day's decrease;

And, as he asks what there the stranger seeks,

Thy voice along the cloister whispers 'Peace!'

1 Called 'The Bridge over the Charles,' in Longfellow's Journal, Oct. 9, 1845. In an earlier passage of his Journal, March 15, 1838, he speaks of his delight in walking to and from Boston, and says: 'I always stop on the bridge; tide-waters are beautiful. From the ocean up into the land they go, like messengers, to ask why the tribute has not been paid. The brooks and rivers answer that there has been little harvest of snow and rain this year.' Life, vol. i, p. 289.

An excellent example of the 'literary' character of Longfellow's inspiration. This is evidently a reminiscence of the German ballads, not of anything seen or conceived by the poet himself.

As, sweeping and eddying through them, Rose the belated tide,

And, streaming into the moonlight,

The seaweed floated wide.

And like those waters rushing

Among the wooden piers, A flood of thoughts came o'er me That filled my eyes with tears.

How often, oh how often,

In the days that had gone by, I had stood on that bridge at midnight And gazed on that wave and sky!

How often, oh how often,

I had wished that the ebbing tide Would bear me away on its bosom O'er the ocean wild and wide!

For my heart was hot and restless, And my life was full of care,

And the burden laid upon me

Seemed greater than I could bear.

But now it has fallen from me,
It is buried in the sea;
And only the sorrow of others
Throws its shadow over me.

Yet whenever I cross the river

On its bridge with wooden piers, Like the odor of brine from the ocean Comes the thought of other years.

And I think how many thousands
Of care-encumbered men,
Each bearing his burden of sorrow,
Have crossed the bridge since then.

I see the long procession

Still passing to and fro, The young heart hot and restless, And the old subdued and slow!

And forever and forever,

As long as the river flows,
As long as the heart has passions,
As long as life has woes;

The moon and its broken reflection
And its shadows shall appear,
As the symbol of love in heaven,
And its wavering image here.

1845.

20

30

40

50

60 1845.

1 Longfellow wrote in his Journal under the date of November 12, 1845: Began a poem on a clock, with the words "Forever, never," as the burden; suggested by the words of Bridaine, the old French missionary, who said of eternity, C'est une pendule dont le balancier dit et redit sans cesse ces deux mots seulement dans le silence des tombeaux,- Toujours, jamais! Jamais, toujours! Et pendant ces effrayables révolutions, un réprouvé s'écrie, "Quelle heure est-il ?" et la voix d'un autre misérable lui répond, "L'Eternité." ↑

The old-fashioned country-seat,' where the clock stood, is in Pittsfield, Mass. Mr. and Mrs. Longfellow visited it on their wedding journey in 1843. (Life, vol. î, pp. 2, 24, 25.) The house belonged to relatives of Mrs. Longfellow, and when it was sold in 1853, the 'old clock was alone reserved by the family. (Life, vol. ii, p. 259.)

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 assembla

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 Longfollow. 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?

Iwe 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 (Philarėte), 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.

Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of Acadian farmers,

Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the woodlands,

Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an image of heaven?

Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers forever departed! Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts of October

Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far o'er the ocean. Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful village of Grand-Pré.

Ye who believe in affection that hopes, and endures, and is patient, Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of woman's devotion,

List to the mournful tradition, still sung by the pines of the forest;

List to a Tale of Love in Acadie, home of the happy.

PART THE FIRST

I

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

Sea-fogs pitched their tents, and mists from the mighty Atlantic

Looked on the happy valley, but ne'er from their station descended.

There, in the midst of its farms, reposed the Acadian village.

Strongly built were the houses, with frames

of oak and of hemlock, Such as the peasants of Normandy built in the reign of the Henries. Thatched were the roofs, with dormer-windows; and gables projecting Over the basement below protected and shaded the doorway.

There in the tranquil evenings of summer, when brightly the sunset Lighted the village street, and gilded the vanes on the chimneys,

Matrons and maidens sat in snow-white caps and in kirtles

20

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 of peace and contentment.

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 real beauty

a more ethe