1 Melchior Pfinzing was one of the most celebrated German poets of the sixteenth century. The hero of his Teuerdank was the reigning Emperor, Maximilian; and the poem was to the Germans of that day what the Orlando Furioso was to the Italians. (LONGFELLOW.)

The tomb of Saint Sebald, in the church which bears his name, is one of the richest works of art in Nuremberg. It is of bronze, and was cast by Peter Vischer and his sons, who labored upon it thirteen years. It is adorned with nearly one hundred figures, among which those of the Twelve Apostles are conspicuous for size and beauty. (LONGFELLOW.)

3 This pix, or tabernacle for the vessels of the sacra ment, is by the hand of Adam Kraft. It is an exquisite

And at night the swart mechanic comes to drown his cark and care, Quaffing ale from pewter tankards, in the master's antique chair.

piece of sculpture in white stone, and rises to the height of sixty-four feet. It stands in the choir, whose richly painted windows cover it with varied colors. (LONGFELLOW.)

4 The Twelve Wise Masters was the title of the original corporation of the Mastersingers. Hans Sachs, the cobbler of Nuremberg, though not one of the original Twelve, was the most renowned of the Mastersingers, as well as the most voluminous. He flourished in the sixteenth century; and left behind him thirtyfour folio volumes of manuscript, containing two hundred and eight plays, one thousand and seven hundred comic tales, and between four and five thousand lyric poems. (LONGFELLOW.)

5 Adam Puschman, in his poem on the death of Hans Sachs, describes him as he appeared in a vision:

Vanished is the ancient splendor, and before my dreamy eye

Wave these mingled shapes and figures, like a faded tapestry.

Not thy Councils, not thy Kaisers, win for thee the world's regard;

But thy painter, Albrecht Dürer, and Hans Sachs thy cobbler bard.

Thus, O Nuremberg, a wanderer from a region far away,

As he paced thy streets and court-yards, sang in thought his careless lay: 50

Gathering from the pavement's crevice, as a floweret of the soil,

The nobility of labor, - the long pedigree of toil.

Then, with deep sonorons clangor
Calmly answering their sweet anger,
When the wrangling bells had ended,
Slowly struck the clock eleven,
And, from out the silent heaven,
Silence on the town descended.
Silence, silence everywhere,
On the earth and in the air,
Save that footsteps here and there
Of some burgher home returning,
By the street lamps faintly burning,
For a moment woke the echoes
Of the ancient town of Bruges.

But amid my broken slumbers
Still I heard those magic numbers,
As they loud proclaimed the flight
And stolen marches of the night;
Till their chimes in sweet collision
Mingled with each wandering vision,

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Mingled with the fortune-telling
Gypsy-bands of dreams and fancies,
Which amid the waste expanses
Of the silent land of trances
Have their solitary dwelling;
All else seemed asleep in Bruges,
In the quaint old Flemish city.

And I thought how like these chimes
Are the poet's airy rhymes,
All his rhymes and roundelays,
His conceits, and songs, and ditties,
From the belfry of his brain,
Scattered downward, though in vain,
On the roofs and stones of cities!
For by night the drowsy ear
Under its curtains cannot hear,
And by day men go their ways,
Hearing the music as they pass,
But deeming it no more, alas!
Than the hollow sound of brass.
Yet perchance a sleepless wight,
Lodging at some humble inn
In the narrow lanes of life,
When the dusk and hush of night
Shut out the incessant din

Of daylight and its toil and strife,
May listen with a calm delight
To the poet's melodies,

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Till he hears, or dreams he hears,
Intermingled with the song,
Thoughts that he has cherished long;
Hears amid the chime and singing
The bells of his own village ringing,
And wakes, and finds his slumberous eyes
Wet with most delicious tears.

Thus dreamed I, as by night I lay

In Bruges, at the Fleur-de-Blé,

Listening with a wild delight

To the chimes that, through the night, Rang their changes from the Belfry Of that quaint old Flemish city.

1845.

DANTE

60

1845.1

TUSCAN, that wanderest through the realms of gloom,

With thoughtful pace, and sad, majestic

eyes,

1 The Belfry of Bruges volume bears the date 1846, and is listed as of that year in the bibliographies of Longfellow and in at least two books on the first editions of American authors; but it was actually published on December 23, 1845.

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.

2 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.

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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 ?" e 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. ii, 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.)

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.

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, Mra. 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,