BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH LONGFELLOW Henry Wadsworth Longfellow belongs to that small band of truly cultivated men of letters, of whom America may justly be proud. From his early youth he was a scholar and his keenest pleasure was in hard study or in delightful musings over his books. Longfellow was born in Portland, Maine, on the twenty-seventh of February, 1807. He early showed a remarkable power of acquiring languages and was ready to enter Bowdoin College at fourteen. Here he devoted himself chiefly to languages and literary studies. A foreign tongue, once mastered, was always at his command, even though he had not used it for years. During the four years in college he wrote his first poems, many of which were printed in The United States Literary Gazette. The first poem he ever wrote was called "The Battle of Lovell's Pond," and was published in a Portland newspaper. In spite of adverse criticism, the young author had determined upon a literary career, and when his college life was over, he persuaded his father to let him spend another year of study at Harvard, instead of beginning the study of law, as the latter wished. Fortunately for him, a new professorship of languages had recently been established at Bowdoin College and the position was offered to Longfellow with the proposal that he should spend a year abroad in study before commencing his new duties. The offer was gladly accepted and Longfellow spent more than three years in France, Spain, Italy, Germany, Holland and England, before he finally settled at Bowdoin, at the age of twentytwo. Here he remained for two years, and married the daughter of Judge Potter of Portland. At the end of that time he was appointed to the professorship of modern languages at Harvard and again went abroad to become more familiar with German. Here he suffered a terrible sorrow, for his beautiful young wife died at Rotterdam, and he was left to come home alone, and enter upon a solitary life at Cambridge. He chose the fine old Craigie House as his residence and soon gathered about him a delightful company of friends. His life was full of work and everything from his pen was eagerly welcomed, but still he felt keenly the need of a home and so, after many years of loneliness, he married Frances Appleton, a very beautiful and cultivated woman. Craigie House soon became noted as a delightful centre of hospitality, not only for the many friends at home, but for all the noted foreigners who visited this country. There were books everywhere and, although no catalogue was ever made of this library, the owner was never at a loss where to look for a needed volume. But it was the poet himself that attracted people, and not the books, the home, nor the delightful guests who assembled there. "His dignity and grace," says Mr. Winter, "and the beautiful refinement of his countenance, together with his perfect taste in dress and the exquisite simplicity of his manners, made him the absolute ideal of what a poet should be. His voice, too, was soft, sweet, and musical, and, like his face, it had the innate charm of tranquillity. His eyes were blue-gray, very bright and brave, changeable under the influence of emotion but mostly calm, grave, attentive and gentle. The habitual expression of his face was not that of sadness, and yet it was pensive. Perhaps it may best be described as that of serious and tender thoughtfulness. He had conquered his own sorrows thus far; but the sorrows of others threw their shadow over him. There was a strange touch of sorrowful majesty and prophetic fortitude commingled with the composure and kindness of his features. His spontaneous desire, the natural instinct of his great heart, was to be helpful to lift up the lowly, to, strengthen the weak, to bring out the best in every person, to dry every tear, and make every pathway smooth." Here in Cambridge the poet passed the rest of his life, although he visited Europe again, but after the death of his wife he aged rapidly and he resigned his professorship in 1854. His chief love was for music and little children, and he had many small friends. One day a little boy, who often came to see him, after examining the great library carefully asked, "Have you got 'Jack the Giant-Killer'?" Longfellow was obliged to confess that he had not. The little boy looked very sorry and presently went away; but next morning he returned and gravely handed the poet two cents with which he was to buy a "Jack the Giant-Killer" for his own. In March, 1882, the poet passed quietly away, leaving the legacy of a beautiful, scholarly life, which is even more to be treasured than his poetry. EVANGELINE: A TALE OF ACADIE NOTE Acadia or Acadie (the ancient name of Nova Scotia) is an extensive peninsula on the coast of British North America, originally settled by the French, and after varying fortunes finally ceded to the British by the peace of Utrecht in 1713. At this time the population consisted chiefly of French Acadians, whose wishes seem to have been little consulted in the change of government, and who were with difficulty induced to take the oath of allegiance. Special privileges were conferred upon them by the British government, and in 1749 they had increased to 18,000 persons, living in comparative comfort, and owning sixty thousand head of cattle. In the wars afterwards waged between the British and French in Canada, however, the Acadians were accused of having in various ways assisted the French, from whom they were descended. On this account, and at the earnest solicitation of the British colonists, it was resolved by the government to confiscate the property of the Acadians, and to banish them from their homes. This resolution was not communicated to the people until everything was ready to carry it into effect, when the governor issued a summons calling the inhabitants together, and informed them that their whole lands, tenements, and cattle were forfeited to the crown, and that they themselves were to be conveyed in vessels to other British colonies. About seven thousand were thus forcibly removed: the rest fled to the woods with their wives and families," where numbers perished by cold and hunger, and others managed to escape to neighboring French settlements. The poet Longfellow has founded his story of Evangeline upon this expulsion of the Acadians. The poem opens with a description of the Acadian land, and the little village of Grand Pré on the shores of the Basin of Minas, where dwelt Benedict Bellefontaine, a well-to-do farmer, and his friend and neighbor, Basil Lajeunesse, the blacksmith, together with their children, Evangeline, the daughter of Benedict, and Gabriel, the son of Basil. The young people were lovers, and upon the day when their friends are assembled at the house of Benedict to celebrate their betrothal, the summons comes for the assembling in the village church of all the men, to hear the royal commission for the expulsion of themselves and their families and the confiscation of their property. They are kept close prisoners in the church for four days, and on the fifth are marched down to the beach amid great confusion, hurried on board the transports, together with their wives and children, taking with them only what goods they could hastily collect. The day closes before the whole of the exiles have been shipped, and those who are left have to encamp on the shore: behind them they behold their village in flames. Overcome with grief, the father of Evangeline dies during the night and in the morning he is buried on the beach by his neighbors and the village priest. Basil, Gabriel, and Evangeline are embarked in separate ships, and landed in different parts of the southern states of America. For many years Evangeline wanders over the continent, with the priest and 98 some of her companions in exile, seeking for Gabriel. In one of her journeys down the Mississippi to the town of St. Maur, where she has heard that Gabriel, with his father, has found a residence, her boat is passed in the night by that of her lover, who, tired of life without his betrothed, has set out on a hunting expedition to the Western Prairies. When Evangeline and her companions reach the home of Basil the blacksmith, they find him prosperous, being possessed of large flocks and herds, and known to all around as Basil the herdsman. Upon hearing of the departure of Gabriel, Evangeline is inconsolable, until Basil promises to start with her the next day in pursuit of his son, and to bring him back. They set out upon their journey, and after a long and fruitless search, arrive at the foot of the Rocky Mountains, where they find a Jesuit Mission, and hear from the priest that some days before their arrival Gabriel had left that place to go far into the northern wilds, but that he will return in the autumn. Upon hearing this Evangeline begs to stay at the Mission until the return of her lover, her wish is granted, and Basil returns alone. After long and patient waiting, Evangeline hears that Gabriel will not return, but has gone farther still into the wilds. Leaving the Mission along with some guides returning to the lakes of the St. Lawrence, the sorrowful maiden continues her search, and on arriving at the hut of Gabriel, she finds it deserted and in ruins. For long years she pursues her fruitless inquiries, and at length finds a home in Pennsylvania, where she becomes a Sister of Mercy. Here she has resided for many years engaged in works of charity, when a dreadful pestilence breaks out in the city, and in one of her visits to the almshouse she finds her lover stricken down by the fever. After mutual recognition Gabriel expires upon the bosom of his betrothed, while she meekly bows her head and murmurs, “Father, I thank Thee!" Some few of the Acadian exiles found their way back to their old home, and their descendants still tell the tale of Evangeline by the evening fire. This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks, Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight, Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic, Stand like harpers hoar with beards that rest on their bosoms. 5 Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced 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? Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of Acadian farmers 10 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 GrandPré. Ye who believe in affection that hopes, and endures, and is patient, 5 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, 10 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. 15 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 Sea-fogs pitched their tents, and mists from the mighty Atlantic Looked on the happy valley, but ne'er from their station descended. 20 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. 25 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 |