Oh that I had never heard of Niagara till I beheld it! Blessed were the

wanderers of old, who heard its deep roar, sounding through the woods, as

the summons to an unknown wonder, and approached its awful brink, in all

the freshness of native feeling. Had its own mysterious voice been the

first to warn me of its existence, then, indeed, I might have knelt down

and worshipped. But I had come thither, haunted with a vision of foam and

fury, and dizzy cliffs, and an ocean tumbling down out of the sky,--a

scene, in short, which nature had too much good taste and calm simplicity

to realize. My mind had struggled to adapt these false conceptions to the

reality, and finding the effort vain, a wretched sense of disappointment

weighed me down. I climbed the precipice, and threw myself on the earth,

feeling that I was unworthy to look at the Great Falls, and careless about

beholding them again.

All that night, as there has been and will be for ages past and to come, a

rushing sound was heard, as if a great tempest were sweeping through the

air. It mingled with my dreams, and made them full of storm and whirlwind.

Whenever I awoke, and heard this dread sound in the air, and the windows

rattling as with a mighty blast, I could not rest again, till looking

forth, I saw how bright the stars were, and that every leaf in the garden

was motionless. Never was a summer night more calm to the eye, nor a gale

of autumn louder to the ear. The rushing sound proceeds from the rapids,

and the rattling of the casements is but an effect of the vibration of the

whole house, shaken by the jar of the cataract. The noise of the rapids

draws the attention from the true voice of Niagara, which is a dull,

muffled thunder, resounding between the cliffs. I spent a wakeful hour at

midnight, in distinguishing its reverberations, and rejoiced to find that

my former awe and enthusiasm were reviving.

Gradually, and after much contemplation, I came to know, by my own

feelings, that Niagara is indeed a wonder of the world, and not the less

wonderful, because time and thought must be employed in comprehending it.

Casting aside all preconceived notions, and preparation to be dire-struck

or delighted, the beholder must stand beside it in the simplicity of his

heart, suffering the mighty scene to work its own impression. Night after

night, I dreamed of it, and was gladdened every morning by the

consciousness of a growing capacity to enjoy it. Yet I will not pretend to

the all-absorbing enthusiasm of some more fortunate spectators, nor deny

that very trifling causes would draw my eyes and thoughts from the

cataract.

The last day that I was to spend at Niagara, before my departure for the

Far West, I sat upon the Table Rock. This celebrated station did not now,

as of old, project fifty feet beyond the line of the precipice, but was

shattered by the fall of an immense fragment, which lay distant on the

shore below. Still, on the utmost verge of the rock, with my feet hanging

over it, I felt as if suspended in the open air. Never before had my mind

been in such perfect unison with the scene. There were intervals, when I

was conscious of nothing but the great river, lolling calmly into the

abyss, rather descending than precipitating itself, and acquiring tenfold

majesty from its unhurried motion. It came like the march of Destiny. It

was not taken by surprise, but seemed to have anticipated, in all its

course through the broad lakes, that it must pour their collected waters

down this height. The perfect foam of the river, after its descent, and the

ever-varying shapes of mist, rising up, to become clouds in the sky, would

be the very picture of confusion, were it merely transient, like the rage

of a tempest. But when the beholder has stood awhile, and perceives no lull

in the storm, and considers that the vapor and the foam are as everlasting

as the rocks which produce them, all this turmoil assumes a sort of

calmness. It soothes, while it awes the mind.

Leaning over the cliff, I saw the guide conducting two adventurers behind

the falls. It was pleasant, from that high seat in the sunshine, to observe

them struggling against the eternal storm of the lower regions, with heads

bent down, now faltering, now pressing forward, and finally swallowed up in

their victory. After their disappearance, a blast rushed out with an old

hat, which it had swept from one of their heads. The rock, to which they

were directing their unseen course, is marked, at a fearful distance on the

exterior of the sheet, by a jet of foam. The attempt to reach it appears

both poetical and perilous to a looker-on, but may be accomplished without

much more difficulty or hazard than in stemming a violent northeaster. In a

few moments, forth came the children of the mist. Dripping and breathless,

they crept along the base of the cliff, ascended to the guide's cottage,

and received, I presume, a certificate of their achievement, with three

verses of sublime poetry on the back.

My contemplations were often interrupted by strangers who came down from

Forsyth's to take their first view of the falls. A short, ruddy,

middle-aged gentleman, fresh from Old England, peeped over the rock, and

evinced his approbation by a broad grin. His spouse, a very robust lady,

afforded a sweet example of maternal solicitude, being so intent on the

safety of her little boy that she did not even glance at Niagara. As for

the child,--he gave himself wholly to the enjoyment of a stick of candy.

Another traveller, a native American, and no rare character among us,

produced a volume of Captain Hall's tour, and labored earnestly to adjust

Niagara to the captain's description, departing, at last, without one new

idea or sensation of his own. The next comer was provided, not with a

printed book, but with a blank sheet of foolscap, from top to bottom of

which, by means of an ever-pointed pencil, the cataract was made to

thunder. In a little talk which we had together, he awarded his approbation

to the general view, but censured the position of Goat Island, observing

that it should have been thrown farther to the right, so as to widen the

American falls, and contract those of the Horseshoe. Next appeared two

traders of Michigan, who declared, that, upon the whole, the sight was

worth looking at; there certainly was an immense water-power here; but

that, after all, they would go twice as far to see the noble stone-works of

Lockport, where the Grand Canal is locked down a descent of sixty feet.

They were succeeded by a young fellow, in a homespun cotton dress, with a

staff in his hand, and a pack over his shoulders. He advanced close to the

edge of the rock, where his attention, at first wavering among the

different components of the scene, finally became fixed in the angle of the

Horseshoe falls, which is, indeed the central point of interest. His whole

soul seemed to go forth and be transported thither, till the staff slipped

from his relaxed grasp, and falling down--down--down--struck upon the

fragment of the Table Rock.

In this manner I spent some hours, watching the varied impression, made by

the cataract, on those who disturbed me, and returning to unwearied

contemplation, when left alone. At length my time came to depart. There is

a grassy footpath through the woods, along the summit of the bank, to a

point whence a causeway, hewn in the side of the precipice, goes winding

down to the Ferry, about half a mile below the Table Rock. The sun was near

setting, when I emerged from the shadow of the trees, and began the

descent. The indirectness of my downward road continually changed the point

of view, and showed me, in rich and repeated succession, now, the whitening

rapids and majestic leap of the main river, which appeared more deeply

massive as the light departed; now, the lovelier picture, yet still

sublime, of Goat Island, with its rocks and grove, and the lesser falls,

tumbling over the right bank of the St. Lawrence, like a tributary stream;

now, the long vista of the river, as it eddied and whirled between the

cliffs, to pass through Ontario toward the sea, and everywhere to be

wondered at, for this one unrivalled scene. The golden sunshine tinged the

sheet of the American cascade, and painted on its heaving spray the broken

semi-circle of a rainbow, heaven's own beauty crowning earth's sublimity.

My steps were slow, and I paused long at every turn of the descent, as one

lingers and pauses who discerns a brighter and brightening excellence in

what he must soon behold no more. The solitude of the old wilderness now

reigned over the whole vicinity of the falls. My enjoyment became the more

rapturous, because no poet shared it, nor wretch devoid of poetry profaned

it; but the spot so famous through the world was all my own!

HELPS TO STUDY.

Notes and Questions.

Why was Hawthorne's first impression of Niagara a disappointment?

How did Hawthorne come to know that Niagara is a wonder of the world?

What feelings did Niagara produce in Hawthorne?

What effect on the reader did Hawthorne seek in this story?

What does Hawthorne say is necessary in order to appreciate nature?

What relation has Niagara to the geography of the country, its animal and

vegetable life, its trade and industry?

What is the effect on one's feelings when he "considers that the vapor and

the foam are as everlasting as the rocks which produce them"?

Niagara _grew_ on Hawthorne. Justify this.

Note the comments of other observers based upon their interpretation of

Niagara.

Do you think one who sees nothing in Niagara except a mass of rock and

water, vapor and sunshine, could appreciate its beauty, grandeur, and

sublimity?

Words and Phrases for Discussion.

"insulated"

"rapturous"

"abyss of clouds"

"eddied and whirled"

"epicurism"

"convoluted"

"voice of ages"

"mysterious voice"

"unrivaled scene"

"Eternal Rainbow"

"majestic leap"

* * * * *

EDGAR ALLAN POE

So irregular was the life of Edgar Allan Poe and so strong were the

prejudices of his critics that not only his character and habits of life,

but even the simplest facts of his biography, are surrounded with mystery

and are subjects of doubt and dispute.

By everything, but the accident of birth, Poe belongs to the South. His

father was from Baltimore and his mother was of English birth. They were

both members of a theatrical company playing in Boston at the time of Poe's

birth, January 19, 1809. At the age of three he was left an orphan by the

death of his mother. A wealthy Scotchman of Virginia, Mr. John Allan,

adopted him and brought him up in luxury--a much spoiled child, everywhere

petted for his beauty and precocity.

He was sent to school in a suburb of London and upon his return to America

entered the University of Virginia, a proud, reserved, and self-willed

youth. Here he led an irregular life, so that Mr. Allan was forced to

withdraw him from school and gave him work in his office. The routine of

office work was very distasteful to Poe and he ran away to Boston, where he

published his first volume of poems. Here he enlisted in the army, but when

Mr. Allan heard of his whereabouts he secured his discharge and obtained an

appointment for him, as a cadet, at West Point. The severe discipline of

that school proved irksome to his restless nature and after a few months he

brought upon himself his dismissal. At the age of twenty-two he found

himself adrift with nothing further to expect from Mr. Allan.

Literature presented itself as his most natural vocation. He had written

poetry from the pure love of it, but now actual poverty drove him to the

more remunerative prose writing. He engaged in journalistic work in

Baltimore, living with his aunt, Mrs. Clemm, and her daughter, Virginia.

Two years later he married Virginia Clemm, a mere child; but Poe, whose

reverence for women was his noblest trait, loved her and cared for her

through poverty and ill-health, until her death eleven years later, a short

time before his own. His life was a melancholy one, a fierce struggle and

final defeat. In 1849, on his way to New York from Richmond, chance brought

him and election day together in the city of Baltimore. He was found in an

election booth, delirious, and died a few days later.

Poe was a keen critic of the literary men of his day, but he applied the

same standards to himself. He was constantly re-writing and polishing what

he had written. Poe's greatness lay in his imaginative, work--his tales and

his poems. The tales may be said to constitute a distinct addition to the

world's literature. From time immemorial, there have been tales in prose

and in verse, tales legendary, romantic, and humorous, but never any quite

like Poe's.

The appeal of his poetry is to the sentiment of beauty--the one appeal,

which according to his theory is the final justification of any poem.

Language is made to yield its utmost of melody. "The Raven" was first

published in January, 1845, and immediately became and remains one of the

most widely known of English poems. It can be mentioned anywhere, without

apology or explanation and there is scarcely a lover of melodious verse who

cannot repeat many of its lines and stanzas.

Every reader of Poe's prose will be impressed with the charm of the

language itself, the fascination of the vivid scenes and the magic touch

like the Necromancer's wand, which removes these scenes into the uncharted

realm of the supernatural and invests them with a kind of sacred awe.

* * * * *

A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTRÖM

EDGAR ALLAN POE

WE had now reached the summit of the loftiest crag. For some minutes the

old man seemed too much exhausted to speak.

"Not long ago," said he at length, "and I could have guided you on this

route as well as the youngest of my sons; but, about three years past,

there happened to me an event such as never happened before to mortal

man--or at least such as no man ever survived to tell of--and the six hours

of deadly terror which I then endured have broken me up body and soul. You

suppose me a _very_ old man--but I am not. It took less than a single

day to change these hairs from a jetty black to white, to weaken my limbs,

and to unstring my nerves, so that I tremble at the least exertion, and am

frightened at a shadow. Do you know I can scarcely look over this little

cliff without getting giddy?"

The "little cliff," upon whose edge he had so carelessly thrown himself

down to rest that the weightier portion of his body hung over it, while he

was only kept from falling by the tenure of his elbow on its extreme and

slippery edge--this "little cliff" arose, a sheer unobstructed precipice of

black shining rock, some fifteen or sixteen hundred feet from the world of

crags beneath us. Nothing would have tempted me to within half a dozen

yards of its brink. In truth so deeply was I excited by the perilous

position of my companion, that I fell at full length upon the ground, clung

to the shrubs around me, and dared not even glance upward at the sky--while

I struggled in vain to divest myself of the idea that the very foundations

of the mountain were in danger from the fury of the winds. It was long

before I could reason myself into sufficient courage to sit up and look out

into the distance.

"You must get over these fancies," said the guide, "for I have brought you

here that you might have the best possible view of the scene of that event

I mentioned--and to tell you the whole story with the spot just under your

eye.

"We are now," he continued, in that particularizing manner which

distinguished him--"we are now close upon the Norwegian coast--in the

sixty-eighth degree of latitude--in the great province of Nordland--and in

the dreary district of Lofoden. The mountain upon whose top we sit is

Helseggen, the Cloudy. Now raise yourself up a little higher--hold on to

the grass if you feel giddy--so--and look out, beyond the belt of vapor

beneath us, into the sea."

I looked dizzily, and beheld a wide expanse of ocean, whose waters wore so

inky a hue as to bring at once to my mind the Nubian geographer's account

of the _Mare Tenebrarum_. A panorama more deplorably desolate no human

imagination can conceive. To the right and left, as far as the eye could

reach, there lay outstretched, like ramparts of the world, lines of

horridly black and beetling cliff, whose character of gloom was but the

more forcibly illustrated by the surf which reared high up against it its

white and ghastly crest, howling and shrieking forever. Just opposite the

promontory upon whose apex we were placed, and at a distance of some five

or six miles out at sea, there was visible a small, bleak-looking island;

or, more properly, its position was discernible through the wilderness of

surge in which it was enveloped. About two miles nearer the land arose

another of smaller size, hideously craggy and barren, and encompassed at

various intervals by a cluster of dark rocks.

The appearance of the ocean, in the space between the more distant island

and the shore, had something very unusual about it. Although, at the time,

so strong a gale was blowing landward that a brig in the remote offing lay

to under a double-reefed trysail, and constantly plunged her whole hull out

of sight, still there was here nothing like a regular swell, but only a

short, quick, angry cross-dashing of water in every direction--as well in

the teeth of the wind as otherwise. Of foam there was little except in the

immediate vicinity of the rocks.

"The island in the distance," resumed the old man, "is called by the

Norwegians Vurrgh. The one midway is Moskoe. That a mile to the northward

is Ambaaren. Yonder are Iflesen, Hoeyholm, Kieldholm, Suarven, and

Buckholm. Farther off--between Moskoe and Vurrgh--are Otterholm, Flimen,

Sandflesen, and Skarholm. These are the true names of the places--but why

it has been thought necessary to name them at all is more than either you

or I can understand. Do you hear anything? Do you see any change in the

water?"

We had now been about ten minutes upon the top of Helseggen, to which we

had ascended from the interior of Lofoden, so that we had caught no glimpse

of the sea until it had burst upon us from the summit. As the old man

spoke, I became aware of a loud and gradually increasing sound, like the

moaning of a vast herd of buffaloes upon an American prairie; and at the

same moment I perceived that what seamen term the _chopping_ character

of the ocean beneath us, was rapidly changing into a current which set to

the eastward. Even while I gazed, this current acquired a monstrous

velocity. Each moment added to its speed--to its headlong impetuosity. In

five minutes the whole sea, as far as Vurrgh, was lashed into ungovernable

fury; but it was between Moskoe and the coast that the main uproar held its

sway. Here the vast bed of the waters, seamed and scarred into a thousand

conflicting channels, burst suddenly into frenzied convulsion--heaving,

boiling, hissing--gyrating in gigantic and innumerable vortices, and all

whirling and plunging on to the eastward with a rapidity which water never

elsewhere assumes, except in precipitous descents.

In a few minutes more there came over the scene another radical alteration.

The general surface grew somewhat more smooth, and the whirlpools, one by

one, disappeared, while prodigious streaks of foam became apparent where

none had been seen before. These streaks, at length, spreading out to a

great distance, and entering into combination, took unto themselves the

gyratory motion of the subsided vortices, and seemed to form the germ of

another more vast. Suddenly--very suddenly--this assumed a distinct and

definite existence, in a circle of more than a mile in diameter. The edge

of the whirl was represented by a broad belt of gleaming spray; but no

particle of this slipped into the mouth of the terrific funnel, whose

interior, as far as the eye could fathom it, was a smooth, shining and

jet-black wall of water, inclined to the horizon at an angle of some

forty-five degrees, speeding dizzily round and round with a swaying and

sweltering motion, and sending forth to the winds an appalling voice, half

shriek, half roar, such as not even the mighty cataract of Niagara ever

lifts up in its agony to Heaven.

The mountain trembled to its very base, and the rock rocked. I threw myself

upon my face, and clung to the scant herbage in an excess of nervous

agitation.

"This," said I at length, to the old man--"this _can_ be nothing else

than the great whirlpool of the Maelström."

"So it is sometimes termed," said he. "We Norwegians call it the

Moskoe-ström, from the island of Moskoe in the midway."

The ordinary accounts of this vortex had by no means prepared me for what I

saw. That of Jonas Ramus, which, is perhaps the most circumstantial of any,

cannot impart the faintest conception either of the magnificence or of the

horror of the scene--or of the wild bewildering sense of _the novel_

which confounds the beholder. I am not sure from what point of view the

writer in question surveyed it, nor at what time; but it could neither have

been from the summit of Helseggen, nor during a storm. There are some

passages of his description, nevertheless, which may be quoted for their

details, although their effect is exceedingly feeble in conveying an

impression of the spectacle.

"Between Lofoden and Moskoe," he says, "the depth of the water is between

thirty-six and forty fathoms; but on the other side, toward Ver (Vurrgh)

this depth decreases so as not to afford a convenient passage for a vessel,

without the risk of splitting on the rocks, which happens even in the

calmest weather. When it is flood, the stream runs up the country between

Lofoden and Moskoe with a boisterous rapidity; but the roar of its

impetuous ebb to the sea is scarce equaled by the loudest and most dreadful

cataracts, the noise being heard several leagues off; and the vortices or

pits are of such an extent and depth that if a ship comes within its

attraction it is inevitably absorbed and carried down to the bottom, and

there beat to pieces against the rocks; and when the water relaxes, the

fragments thereof are thrown up again. But these intervals of tranquillity

are only at the turn of the ebb and flood, and in calm weather, and last

but a quarter of an hour, its violence gradually returning. When the stream

is most boisterous, and its fury heightened by a storm, it is dangerous to

come within a Norway mile of it. Boats, yachts, and ships have been carried

away by not guarding against it before they were within its reach. It

likewise happens frequently that whales come too near the stream, and are

overpowered by its violence; and then it is impossible to describe their

howling and bellowings in their fruitless struggles to disengage

themselves. A bear once, attempting to swim from Lofoden to Moskoe, was

caught by the stream and borne down, while he roared terribly, so as to be

heard on shore. Large stocks of firs and pine trees, after being absorbed

by the current, rise again broken and torn to such a degree as if bristles

grew upon them. This plainly shows the bottom to consist of craggy rocks,

among which they are whirled to and fro. This stream is regulated by the

flux and reflux of the sea--it being constantly high and low water every

six hours. In the year 1645, early in the morning of Sexagesima Sunday, it

raged with such noise and impetuosity that the very stones of the houses on

the coast fell to the ground."

In regard to the depth of the water, I could not see how this could have

been ascertained at all in the immediate vicinity of the vortex. The "forty

fathoms" must have reference only to portions of the channel close upon the

shore either of Moskoe or Lofoden. The depth in the center of the

Moskoe-ström must be immeasurably greater; and no better proof of this fact

is necessary than can be obtained from even the sidelong glance into the

abyss of the whirl which may be had from the highest crag of Helseggen.

Looking down from this pinnacle upon the howling Phlegethon below, I could

not help smiling at the simplicity with which the honest Jonas Ramus

records, as a matter difficult of belief, the anecdotes of the whales and

the bears; for it appeared to me, in fact, a self-evident thing that the

largest ships of the line in existence, coming within the influence of that

deadly attraction, could resist it as little as a feather the hurricane,

and must disappear bodily and at once.

The attempts to account for the phenomenon--some of which, I remember,

seemed to me sufficiently plausible in perusal--now wore a very different

and unsatisfactory aspect. The idea generally received is that this, as

well as three smaller vortices among the Feroe Islands, "have no other

cause than the collision of waves rising and falling, at flux and reflux,

against a ridge of rocks and shelves, which confines the water so that it

precipitates itself like a cataract; and thus the higher the flood rises,

the deeper must the fall be, and the natural result of all is a whirlpool

or vortex, the prodigious suction of which is sufficiently known by lesser

experiments."--These are the words of the "Encyclopaedia Brittanica."

Kircher and others imagine that in the center of the channel of the

Maelström is an abyss penetrating the globe, and issuing in some very

remote part--the Gulf of Bothnia being somewhat decidedly named in one

instance. This opinion, idle in itself, was the one to which, as I gazed,

my imagination most readily assented; and, mentioning it to the guide, I

was rather surprised to hear him say that, although it was the view almost

universally entertained of the subject by the Norwegians, it nevertheless

was not his own. As to the former notion he confessed his inability to

comprehend it; and here I agreed with him--for, however conclusive on

paper, it becomes altogether unintelligible, and even absurd, amid the

thunder of the abyss.

"You have had a good look at the whirl now," said the old man, "and if you

will creep round this crag, so as to get in its lee, and deaden the roar of

the water, I will tell you a story that will convince you I ought to know

something of the Moskoe-ström."

I placed myself as desired, and he proceeded.

"Myself and my two brothers once owned a schooner-rigged smack of about

seventy tons burden, with which we were in the habit of fishing among the

islands beyond Moskoe, nearly to Vurrgh. In all violent eddies at sea there

is good fishing, at proper opportunities, if one has only the courage to

attempt it; but among the whole of the Lofoden coastmen we three were the

only ones who made a regular business of going out to the islands, as I

tell you. The usual grounds are a great way lower down to the southward.

There fish can be got at all hours, without much risk, and therefore these

places are preferred. The choice spots over here among the rocks, however,

not only yield the finest variety, but in far greater abundance; so that we

often got in a single day what the more timid of the craft could not scrape

together in a week. In fact, we made it a matter of desperate

speculation--the risk of life standing instead of labor, and courage

answering for capital.

"We kept the smack in a cove about five miles higher up the coast than

this; and it was our practice, in fine weather, to take advantage of the

fifteen minutes' slack to push across the main channel of the Moskoe-ström,

far above the pool, and then drop down upon anchorage somewhere near

Otterholm, or Sandflesen, where the eddies are not so violent as elsewhere.

Here we used to remain until nearly time for slack-water again, when we

weighed and made for home. We never set out upon this expedition without a

steady side wind for going and coming--one that we felt sure would not fail

us before our return--and we seldom made a miscalculation upon this point.

Twice, during six years, we were forced to stay all night at anchor on

account of a dead calm, which is a rare thing indeed just about here; and

once we had to remain on the grounds nearly a week, starving to death,

owing to a gale which blew up shortly after our arrival, and made the

channel too boisterous to be thought of. Upon this occasion we should have

been driven out to sea in spite of everything (for the whirlpools threw us

round and round so violently that, at length, we fouled our anchor and

dragged it) if it had not been that we drifted into one of the innumerable

cross currents--here to-day and gone to-morrow--which drove us under the

lee of Flimen, where, by good luck, we brought up.

"I could not tell you the twentieth part of the difficulties we encountered

'on the ground'--it is a bad spot to be in, even in good weather--but we

made shift always to run the gauntlet of the Moskoe-ström itself without

accident; although at times my heart has been in my mouth when we happened

to be a minute or so behind or before the slack. The wind sometimes was not

as strong as we thought it at starting, and then we made rather less way

than we could wish, while the current rendered the smack unmanageable. My

eldest brother had a son eighteen years old, and I had two stout boys of my

own. These would have been of great assistance at such times, in using the

sweeps, as well as afterward in fishing--but, somehow, although we ran the

risk ourselves, we had not the heart to let the young ones get into the

danger--for, after all said and done, it _was_ a horrible danger, and

that is the truth.

"It is now within a few days of three years since what I am going to tell

you occurred. It was on the tenth of July, 18--, a day which the people of

this part of the world will never forget--for it was one in which blew the

most terrible hurricane that ever came out of the heavens. And yet all the

morning, and indeed until late in the afternoon, there was a gentle and

steady breeze from the southwest, while the sun shone brightly, so that the

oldest seaman among us could not have foreseen what was to follow.

"The three of us--my two brothers and myself--had crossed over to the

islands about two o'clock P.M., and soon nearly loaded the smack with fine

fish, which, we all remarked, were more plenty that day than we had ever

known them. It was just seven, _by my watch_, when we weighed and

started for home, so as to make the worst of the Ström at slack water,

which we knew would be at eight.

"We set out with a fresh wind on our starboard quarter, and for some time

spanked along at a great rate, never dreaming of danger, for indeed we saw

not the slightest reason to apprehend it. All at once we were taken aback

by a breeze from over Helseggen. This was most unusual--something that had

never happened to us before--and I began to feel a little uneasy, without

exactly knowing why. We put the boat on the wind, but could make no headway

at all for the eddies, and I was upon the point of proposing to return to

the anchorage, when, looking astern, we saw the whole horizon covered with

a singular copper-colored cloud that rose with the most amazing velocity.

"In the meantime the breeze that had headed us off fell away, and we were

dead becalmed, drifting about in every direction. This state of things,

however, did not last long enough to give us time to think about it. In

less than a minute the storm was upon us--in less than two the sky was

entirely overcast--and what with this and the driving spray, it became

suddenly so dark that we could not see each other in the smack.

"Such a hurricane as then blew it is folly to attempt describing. The

oldest seaman in Norway never experienced anything like it. We had let our

sails go by the run before it cleverly took us; but, at the first puff,

both our masts went by the board as if they had been sawed off--the

mainmast taking with it my youngest brother, who had lashed himself to it

for safety.

"Our boat was the lightest feather of a thing that ever sat upon water. It

had a complete flush deck, with only a small hatch near the bow, and this

hatch it had always been our custom to batten down when about to cross the

Ström, by way of precaution against the chopping seas. But for this

circumstance we should have foundered at once--for we lay entirely buried

for some moments. How my elder brother escaped destruction I cannot say,

for I never had an opportunity of ascertaining. For my part, as soon as I

had let the foresail run, I threw myself flat on deck, with my feet against

the narrow gunwale of the bow, and with my hands grasping a ringbolt near

the foot of the foremast. It was mere instinct that prompted me to do

this--which was undoubtedly the very best thing I could have done--for I

was too much flurried to think.

"For some moments we were completely deluged, as I say, and all this time I

held my breath, and clung to the bolt. When I could stand it no longer I

raised myself upon my knees, still keeping hold with my hands, and thus got

my head clear. Presently our little boat gave herself a shake, just as a

dog does in coming out of the water, and thus rid herself, in some measure,

of the seas. I was now trying to get the better of the stupor that had come

over me, and to collect my senses so as to see what was to be done, when I

felt somebody grasp my arm. It was my elder brother, and my heart leaped

for joy, for I had made sure that he was overboard--but the next moment all

this joy was turned into horror--for he put his mouth close to my ear, and

screamed out the word '_Moskoe-ström!_'

"No one will ever know what my feelings were at that moment. I shook from

head to foot as if I had had the most violent fit of the ague. I knew what

he meant by that one word well enough--I knew what he wished to make me

understand. With the wind that now drove us on, we were bound for the whirl

of the Ström, and nothing could save us!

"You perceive that in crossing the Ström _channel_, we always went a

long way up above the whirl, even in the calmest weather, and then had to

wait and watch carefully for the slack--but now we were driving right upon

the pool itself, and in such a hurricane as this! 'To be sure,' I thought,

'we shall get there just about the slack--there is some little hope in

that'--but in the next moment I cursed myself for being so great a fool as

to dream of hope at all. I knew very well that we were doomed, had we been

ten times a ninety-gun ship.

"By this time the first fury of the tempest had spent itself, or perhaps we

did not feel it so much as we scudded before it; but at all events the

seas, which at first had been kept down by the wind, and lay flat and

frothing, now got up into absolute mountains. A singular change, too, had

come over the heavens. Around in every direction it was still as black as

pitch, but nearly overhead there burst out, all at once, a circular rift of

clear sky--as clear as I ever saw--and of a deep bright blue--and through

it there blazed forth the full moon with a luster that I never before knew

her to wear. She lit up everything about us with the greatest

distinctness--but, oh God, what a scene it was to light up!

"I now made one or two attempts to speak to my brother--but, in some manner

which I could not understand, the din had so increased that I could not

make him hear a single word, although I screamed at the top of my voice in

his ear. Presently he shook his head, looking as pale as death, and held up

one of his fingers, as if to say _listen!_

"At first I could not make out what he meant--but soon a hideous thought

flashed upon me. I dragged my watch from its fob. It was not going. I

glanced at its face by the moonlight, and then burst into tears as I flung

it far away into the ocean. _It had run down at seven o'clock! We were

behind the time of the slack, and the whirl of the Ström was in full

fury!_

"When a boat is well built, properly trimmed, and not deep laden, the waves

in a strong gale, when she is going large, seem always to slip from beneath

her--which appears very strange to a landsman--and this is what is called

_riding_, in sea phrase.

"Well, so far we had ridden the swells very cleverly; but presently a

gigantic sea happened to take us right under the counter, and bore us with

it as it rose--up--up--as if into the sky. I would not have believed that

any wave could rise so high. And then down we came with a sweep, a slide,

and a plunge, that made me feel sick and dizzy, as if I was falling from

some lofty mountain-top in a dream. But while we were up I had thrown a

quick glance around--and that one glance was all-sufficient. I saw our

exact position in an instant. The Moskoe-ström whirlpool was about a

quarter of a mile dead ahead--but no more like the everyday Moskoe-ström,

than the whirl as you now see it is like a mill-race. If I had not known

where we were, and what we had to expect, I should not have recognized the

place at all. As it was, I involuntarily closed my eyes in horror. The lids

clenched themselves together as if in a spasm.

"It could not have been more than two minutes afterwards until we suddenly

felt the waves subside, and were enveloped in foam. The boat made a sharp

half turn to larboard, and then shot off in its new direction like a

thunderbolt. At the same moment the roaring noise of the water was

completely drowned in a kind of shrill shriek--such a sound as you might

imagine given out by the waterpipes of many thousand steam vessels, letting

off their steam all together. We were now in the belt of surf that always

surrounds the whirl; and I thought, of course, that another moment would

plunge us into the abyss--down which we could only see indistinctly on

account of the amazing velocity with which we were borne along. The boat

did not seem to sink into the water at all, but to skim like an air-bubble

upon the surface of the surge. Her starboard side was next the whirl, and

on the larboard arose the world of ocean we had left. It stood like a huge

writhing wall between us and the horizon.

"It may appear strange, but now, when we were in the very jaws of the gulf,

I felt more composed than when we were only approaching it. Having made up

my mind to hope no more, I got rid of a great deal of that terror which

unmanned me at first. I suppose it was despair that strung my nerves.

"It may look like boasting--but what I tell you is truth--I began to

reflect how magnificent a thing it was to die in such a manner, and how

foolish it was in me to think of so paltry a consideration as my own

individual life, in view of so wonderful a manifestation of God's power. I

do believe that I blushed with shame when this idea crossed my mind. After

a little while I became possessed with the keenest curiosity about the

whirl itself. I positively felt a _wish_ to explore its depths, even

at the sacrifice I was going to make; and my principal grief was that I

should never be able to tell my old companions on shore about the mysteries

I should see. These, no doubt, were singular fancies to occupy a man's mind

in such extremity--and I have often thought since, that the revolutions of

the boat around the pool might have rendered me a little light-headed.

"There was another circumstance which tended to restore my self-possession;

and this was the cessation of the wind, which could not reach us in our

present situation--for, as you saw yourself, the belt of surf is

considerably lower than the general bed of the ocean, and this latter now

towered above us, a high, black, mountainous ridge. If you have never been

at sea in a heavy gale, you can form no idea of the confusion of mind

occasioned by the wind and spray together. They blind, deafen, and strangle

you, and take away all power of action or reflection. But we were now, in a

great measure, rid of these annoyances--just as death-condemned felons in

prisons are allowed petty indulgences, forbidden them while their doom is

yet uncertain.

"How often we made the circuit of the belt it is impossible to say. We

careered round and round for perhaps an hour, flying rather than floating,

getting gradually more and more into the middle of the surge, and then

nearer and nearer to its horrible inner edge. All this time I had never let

go of the ringbolt. My brother was at the stern, holding on to a small

empty water-cask which had been securely lashed under the coop of the

counter, and was the only thing on deck that had not been swept overboard

when the gale first took us. As we approached the brink of the pit he let

go his hold upon this, and made for the ring, from which, in the agony of

his terror, he endeavored to force my hands, as it was not large enough to

afford us both a secure grasp. I never felt deeper grief than when I saw

him attempt this act--although I knew he was a madman when he did it--a

raving maniac through sheer fright. I did not care, however, to contest the

point with him. I knew it could make no difference whether either of us

held on at all; so I let him have the bolt, and went astern to the cask.

This there was no great difficulty in doing; for the smack flew round

steadily enough, and upon an even keel--only swaying to and fro, with the

immense sweeps and swelters of the whirl. Scarcely had I secured myself in

my new position, when we gave a wild lurch to starboard, and rushed

headlong into the abyss. I muttered a hurried prayer to God, and thought

all was over.

"As I felt the sickening sweep of the descent, I had instinctively

tightened my hold upon the barrel, and closed my eyes. For some seconds I

dared not open them--while I expected instant destruction, and wondered

that I was not already in my death-struggles with the water. But moment

after moment elapsed. I still lived. The sense of falling had ceased; and

the motion of the vessel seemed much as it had been before, while in the

belt of foam, with the exception that she now lay more along. I took

courage and looked once again upon the scene.

"Never shall I forget the sensations of awe, horror, and admiration with

which I gazed about me. The boat appeared to be hanging, as if by magic,

midway down, upon the interior surface of a funnel vast in circumference,

prodigious in depth, and whose perfectly smooth sides might have been

mistaken for ebony, but for the bewildering rapidity with which they spun

around, and for the gleaming and ghastly radiance they shot forth, as the

rays of the full moon, from that circular rift amid the clouds which I have

already described, streamed in a flood of golden glory along the black

walls, and far away down into the inmost recesses of the abyss.

"At first I was too much confused to observe anything accurately. The

general burst of terrific grandeur was all that I beheld. When I recovered

myself a little, however, my gaze fell instinctively downward. In this

direction I was able to obtain an unobstructed view, from the manner in

which the smack hung on the inclined surface of the pool. She was quite

upon an even keel--that is to say, her deck lay in a plane parallel with

that of the water--but this latter sloped at an angle of more than

forty-five degrees, so that we seemed to be lying upon our beam-ends. I

could not help observing, nevertheless, that I had scarcely more difficulty

in maintaining my hold and footing in this situation, than if we had been

upon a dead level; and this, I suppose, was owing to the speed at which we

revolved.

"The rays of the moon seemed to search the very bottom of the profound

gulf; but still I could make out nothing distinctly, on account of a thick

mist in which everything there was enveloped, and over which there hung a

magnificent rainbow, like that narrow and tottering bridge which Mussulmans

say is the only pathway between Time and Eternity. This mist, or spray, was

no doubt occasioned by the clashing of the great walls of the funnel, as

they all met together at the bottom--but the yell that went up to the

heavens from out of that mist, I dare not attempt to describe.

"Our first slide into the abyss itself, from the belt of foam above, had

carried us to a great distance down the slope; but our farther descent was

by no means proportionate. Round and round we swept--not with any uniform

movement, but in dizzying swings and jerks, that sent us sometimes only a

few hundred yards--sometimes nearly the complete circuit of the whirl. Our

progress downward, at each revolution, was slow, but very perceptible.

"Looking about me upon the wide waste of liquid ebony on which we were thus

borne, I perceived that our boat was not the only object in the embrace of

the whirl. Both above and below us were visible fragments of vessels, large

masses of building timber and trunks of trees, with many smaller articles,

such as pieces of house furniture, broken boxes, barrels, and staves. I

have already described the unnatural curiosity which had taken the place of

my original terrors. It appeared to grow upon me as I drew nearer and

nearer to my dreadful doom. I now began to watch, with a strange interest,

the numerous things that floated in our company. I _must_ have been

delirious--for I even sought _amusement_ in speculating upon the

relative velocities of their several descents toward the foam below. 'This

fir tree,' I found myself at one time saying, 'will certainly be the next

thing that takes the awful plunge and disappears,'--and then I was

disappointed to find that the wreck of a Dutch merchant ship overtook it

and went down before. At length, after making several guesses of this

nature, and being deceived in all--this fact--the fact of my invariable

miscalculation, set me upon a train of reflection that made my limbs again

tremble, and my heart beat heavily once more.

"It was not a new terror that thus affected me, but the dawn of a more

exciting _hope_. This hope arose partly from memory, and partly from

present observation. I called to mind the great variety of buoyant matter

that strewed the coast of Lofoden, having been absorbed and then thrown

forth by the Moskoe-ström. By far the greater number of the articles were

shattered in the most extraordinary way--so chafed and roughened as to have

the appearance of being stuck full of splinters--but then I distinctly

recollected that there were _some_ of them which were not disfigured

at all. Now I could not account for this difference except by supposing

that the roughened fragments were the only ones which had been

_completely absorbed_--that the others had entered the whirl at so

late a period of the tide, or, from some reason, had descended so slowly

after entering, that they did not reach the bottom before the turn of the

flood came, or of the ebb, as the case might be. I conceived it possible,

in either instance, that they might thus be whirled up again to the level

of the ocean, without undergoing the fate of those which had been drawn in

more early or absorbed more rapidly. I made, also, three important

observations. The first was, that as a general rule, the larger the bodies

were, the more rapid their descent; the second, that, between two masses of

equal extent, the one spherical, and the other of _any other shape_,

the superiority in speed of descent was with the sphere; the third, that,

between two masses of equal size, the one cylindrical, and the other of any

other shape, the cylinder was absorbed the more slowly. Since my escape, I

have had several conversations on this subject with an old schoolmaster of

the district; and it was from him that I learned the use of the words

'cylinder' and 'sphere.' He explained to me--although I have forgotten the

explanation--how what I observed was, in fact, the natural consequence of

the forms of the floating fragments, and showed me how it happened that a

cylinder, swimming in a vortex, offered more resistance to its suction, and

was drawn in with greater difficulty, than an equally bulky body, of any

form whatever.

"There was one startling circumstance which went a great way in enforcing

these observations, and rendering me anxious to turn them to account, and

this was that, at every revolution, we passed something like a barrel, or

else the yard or the mast of a vessel, while many of these things, which

had been on our level when I first opened my eyes upon the wonders of the

whirlpool, were now high up above us, and seemed to have moved but little

from their original station.

"I no longer hesitated what to do. I resolved to lash myself securely to

the water-cask upon which I now held, to cut it loose from the counter, and

to throw myself with it into the water. I attracted my brother's attention

by signs, pointed to the floating barrels that came near us, and did

everything in my power to make him understand what I was about to do. I

thought at length that he comprehended my design--but, whether this was the

case or not, he shook his head despairingly, and refused to move from his

station by the ringbolt. It was impossible to reach him; the emergency

admitted of no delay; and so, with a bitter struggle, I resigned him to his

fate, fastened myself to the cask by means of the lashings which secured it

to the counter, and precipitated myself with it into the sea, without

another moment's hesitation.

"The result was precisely what I had hoped it might be. As it is myself who

now tell you this tale--as you see that I _did_ escape--and as you are

already in possession of the mode in which this escape was effected, and

must therefore anticipate all that I have farther to say-I will bring my

story quickly to conclusion. It might have been an hour, or thereabout,

after my quitting the smack, when, having descended to a vast distance

beneath me, it made three or four wild gyrations in rapid succession, and,

bearing my loved brother with it, plunged headlong, at once and forever,

into the chaos of foam below. The barrel to which I was attached sunk very

little farther than half the distance between the bottom of the gulf and

the spot at which I leaped overboard, before a great change took place in

the character of the whirlpool. The slope of the sides of the vast funnel

became momently less and less steep. The gyrations of the whirl grew,

gradually, less and less violent. By degrees, the froth and the rainbow

disappeared, and the bottom of the gulf seemed slowly to uprise. The sky

was clear, the winds had gone down, and the full moon was setting radiantly

in the west, when I found myself on the surface of the ocean, in full view

of the shores of Lofoden, and above the spot where the pool of the

Moskoe-ström _had been._ It was the hour of the slack, but the sea

still heaved in mountainous waves from the effects of the hurricane. I was

borne violently into the channel of the Ström, and in a few minutes was

hurried down the coast into the 'grounds' of the fishermen. A boat picked

me up--exhausted from fatigue--and (now that the danger was removed)

speechless from the memory of its horror. Those who drew me on board were

my old mates and daily companions, but they knew me no more than they would

have known a traveler from the spirit-land. My hair, which had been

raven-black the day before, was as white as you see it now. They say, too,

that the whole expression of my countenance had changed. I told them my

story--they did not believe it. I now tell it to you--and I can scarcely

expect you to put more faith in it than did the merry fishermen of

Lofoden."

HELPS TO STUDY.

Notes and Questions.

Locate the scene of this story on your map.

How does the hero account for his apparent age?

What do you learn from Jonas Ramus's description of the whirlpool?

How does the "Encyclopedia Britannica" account for the vortex?

What was the theory of Kircher?

Briefly relate in your own words the hero's story of his experience in the

Maelström.

What tempted him into the whirlpool?

Account for his miscalculation as to the time of the slack.

What three observations did the hero make?

How did he make his escape?

From this story what do you think of Poe's powers of imagination and

description?

What other authors have you read that have similar powers?

Words and Phrases for Discussion.

"circumstantial"

"bleak-looking"

"double-reefed"

"gyrating"

"prodigious"

"impetuosity"

"promontory"

"encompassed"

"inevitably"

"deplorably desolate"

"gleaming spray"

"boisterous rapidity"

"fruitless struggles"

"desperate speculation"

"terrific grandeur"

"frenzied convulsions"

"precipitous descents"

"sufficiently plausible"

"belt of foam"

"collision of waves"

"flood of golden glory"

"wild waste of liquid ebony"

"chaos of foam"

"the gyrations of the whirl"

* * * * *

THE RAVEN

EDGAR ALLAN POE

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,--

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door:

Only this and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

Eagerly I wished the morrow;--vainly I had sought to borrow

From my books surcease of sorrow--sorrow for the lost Lenore,

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore:

Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

Thrilled me--filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating

"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door,

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door:

This it is and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you"--here I opened wide the door:--

Darkness there and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;

But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,

And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?"

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore":

Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.

"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;

Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore;

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore:

'Tis the wind and nothing more."

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore.

Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door,

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door:

Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,--

"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,

Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore:

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning--little relevancy bore;

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door,

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,

With such name as "Nevermore."

But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour,

Nothing further then he uttered, not a feather then he fluttered,

Till I scarcely more than muttered,--"Other friends have flown before;

On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before."

Then the bird said, "Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,

Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster

Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore:

Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore

Of 'Never--nevermore.'"

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;

Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of 'yore,

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore

Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;

This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,

But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er

She shall press,' ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer

Swung by seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.

"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee by these angels he hath sent thee

Respite--respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!

Quaff, oh, quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!"

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! prophet still, if bird or devil!

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted

On this home by Horror haunted--tell me truly, I implore:

Is there, is there balm in Gilead?--tell me--tell me, I implore!"

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! prophet still, if bird or devil!

By that Heaven that bends above us, by that God we both adore,

Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,

It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore:

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore!"

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting:

"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!

Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

Leave my loneliness unbroken! quit the bust above my door!

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,

And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor:

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

Shall be lifted--nevermore!

HELPS TO STUDY.

Notes and Questions.

What is the theme of this poem?

What gives it its musical quality?

Mention parts that you think are especially beautiful.

Find examples of alliteration.

What does the refrain add to this poem?

What is the meaning of "Night's Plutonian shore"?

Of what is the raven a symbol?

Why does the poet call the bust of Pallas "pallid"?

What is the significance of the last stanza?

From this poem, in what would you say Poe's poetry excels?

Which stanza do you like best?

Why?

Words and Phrases for Discussion.

"ghost"

"surcease"

"entreating"

"obeisance"

"craven"

"ominous"

"censer"

"seraphim"

"nepenthe"

"dying ember"

"fantastic terrors"

"saintly days"

"tufted floor"

"pallid bust"

"radiant maiden"

"dirges of his Hope"

"bird of yore"

"balm in Gilead"

* * * * *

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

In "The Courtship of Miles Standish" Longfellow has made us acquainted with

his ancestors, John Alden and Priscilla Mullens, passengers of the

Mayflower. Of such ancestry Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was born in

Portland, Maine, February 27, 1807. His birthplace was at that time a

beautiful and busy town, a forest city with miles of sea beach and a port

where merchant vessels from the West Indies exchanged sugar and rum for the

products of the forest and the fisheries of Maine.

We are told that he was a boy "true, high-minded and noble"; "active,

eager, often impatient"; "handsome in appearance" and the "sunlight of the

home." His conduct at school was "very correct and amiable"--he read much

and was always studious and thoughtful. The first book which fascinated his

imagination was Irving's "Sketch-Book." Indeed there is a resemblance

between the gentle Irving and the gentle Longfellow which is expressed in

the prose of one and the poetry of the other.

Longfellow's education was obtained in Portland and at Bowdoin College,

Brunswick, Maine, where he had for classmates several youths who afterward

became famous, Nathaniel Hawthorne, J. S. C. Abbott, and Franklin Pierce.

Upon Longfellow's graduation, the trustees of the college, having decided

to establish a chair of modern languages, proposed that this young

graduate, of scholarly and literary tastes, should fit himself for this

position. Three years, therefore, he spent in delightful study and travel

in France, Spain, Italy, and Germany. Here was laid the foundation for his

scholarship, and, as in Irving on his first European trip, there was

kindled that passion for romantic lore which followed him through life and

which gave color and direction to much of his work. He mastered the

language of each country visited in a remarkably short time, and many of

the choicer poems found in these languages he has given to us in the

English.

After five years at Bowdoin, Longfellow was invited in 1834 to the chair of

modern languages in Harvard College. Again he was given an opportunity to

prepare himself by a year of study abroad. In 1836 he began his active work

at Harvard and took up his residence in the historic Craigie House,

overlooking the Charles River--a house in which Washington had been

quartered for some months when he came to Cambridge in 1775 to take command

of the Continental forces. Longfellow was thenceforth one of the most

prominent members of that group of men including Sumner, Hawthorne,

Agassiz, Lowell, and Holmes, who gave distinction to the Boston and

Cambridge of earlier days.

For twenty years Longfellow filled the professorship of modern languages at

Harvard and was one of the best beloved instructors at the university. He

resigned that he might devote himself to writing and was succeeded at

Harvard by James Russell Lowell.

Though Longfellow wrote in prose and is the author of many shorter poems,

his reputation is mainly based upon his longer poems. Longfellow was a

great admirer of the German poet, Goethe, to whose "Hermann and Dorothea"

we are indebted for much of the form and no doubt some of the story of

Evangeline. The story of Acadie was told first to Hawthorne by a friend of

both authors; but the tale was hardly dark enough to suit the fancy of

Hawthorne, whereas to Longfellow it seemed to have in it precisely those

elements of faith and devotion that make the widest appeal. In a collection

of poems published in 1850 appeared the poem of Longfellow's highest

patriotic reach, the allegory of "The Building of the Ship." A friend of

Lincoln recited this poem to him, and when the lines of its closing

apostrophe to the ship of state were reached, with tears in his eyes the

president said, "It is a great gift to be able to stir men like that." In

his poem, "Hiawatha," Longfellow chose the metre of the Finnish epic

"Kalevala," which is peculiarly suited to the tales of primitive people.

The worthiest and most picturesque traditions of the American Indian are

woven into a connected story whose charm is greatly heightened by the novel

melody of the verse.

In 1861 the happiness of Longfellow's home life was broken by the death of

his wife, who was fatally burned. He turned from this sorrow and the

anxieties of the Civil War to the more mechanical work of writing tales and

making translations. The "Tales of a Wayside Inn" appeared in 1863, and

seven years later he published his translation of Dante's "Divine Comedy."

On Longfellow's seventy-second birthday the children of Cambridge presented

him with a chair made from the wood of the "Village Blacksmith's" chestnut

tree. He died March 24, 1882, aged seventy-five. In 1884 a bust of him was

placed in the Poets' Corner of Westminster Abbey--England's gracious

tribute to the renown of America's best loved poet.

EVANGELINE: A TALE OF ACADIE

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

PRELUDE

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.

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,--

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 floodgates

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

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 chestnut,

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

Scarlet and blue and green, with distaffs spinning the golden

Flax for the gossiping looms, whose noisy shuttles within doors

Mingled their sound 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

Columns of pale blue smoke, like clouds of incense ascending,

Rose from a hundred hearths, the homes of peace and contentment.

Thus dwelt together in love these simple Acadian farmers,--

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.

Somewhat apart from the village, and nearer the Basin of Minas,

Benedict Bellefontaine, the wealthiest farmer of Grand-Pré,

Dwelt on his goodly acres; and with him, directing his household,

Gentle Evangeline lived, his child, and the pride of the village.

Stalworth 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

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 heir-loom,

Handed down from mother to child, through long generations.

But a celestial brightness--a more ethereal beauty--

Shone on her face and encircled her form, when, after confession,

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.

Under the sycamore-tree were hives overhung by a penthouse,

Such as the traveler sees in regions remote by the roadside,

Built o'er a box for the poor, or the blessed image of Mary.

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 farm-yard;

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 self-same

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 cornloft.

There too the dove-cot stood, with its meek and innocent inmates

Murmuring ever of love; while above in the variant breezes

Numberless noisy weathercocks rattled and sang of mutation.

Thus, at peace with God and the world, the farmer of Grand-Pré

Lived on his sunny farm, and Evangeline governed his house-hold.

Many a youth, as he knelt in the church and opened his missal,

Fixed his eyes upon her as the saint of his deepest devotion;

Happy was he who might touch her hand or the hem of her garment!

Many a suitor came to her door, by the darkness befriended,

And, as he knocked and waited to hear the sound of her foot-steps,

Knew not which beat the louder, his heart or the knocker of iron;

Or, at the joyous feast of the Patron Saint of the village,

Bolder grew, and pressed her hand in the dance as he whispered

Hurried words of love, that seemed a part of the music.

But among all who came young Gabriel only was welcome;

Gabriel Lajeunesse, the son of Basil the blacksmith,

Who was a mighty man in the village, and honored of all men;

For since the birth of time, throughout all ages and nations,

Has the craft of the smith been held in repute by the people.

Basil was Benedict's friend--Their children from earliest child-hood

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 cartwheel

Lay like a fiery snake, coiled round in a circle of cinders.

Oft on autumnal eyes, 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!

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;

She too would bring to her husband's house delight and abundance,

Filling it full of love and the ruddy faces of children.

II.

Now had the season returned, when the nights grow colder and longer,

And the retreating sun the sign of the Scorpion enters.

Birds of passage sailed through the leaden air, from the icebound,

Desolate northern bays to the shores of tropical 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.

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 farmyards,

Whir of wings in the drowsy air, and the cooing of pigeons,

All were subdued and low as the murmurs of love, and the great sun

Looked with the eye of love through the golden vapors around him;

While arrayed in its robes of russet and scarlet and yellow,

Bright with the sheen of the dew, each glittering tree of the forest

Flashed like the plane-tree the Persian adorned with mantles and jewels.

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,

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 and ponderous saddles,

Painted with brilliant dyes, and adorned with tassels of crimson

Nodded in bright array, like hollyhocks heavy with blossoms.

Patiently stood the cows meanwhile, and yielded their udders

Unto the milkmaid's hand; whilst loud and in regular cadence

Into the sounding pails the foaming streamlets descended.

Lowing of cattle and peals of laughter were heard in the farmyard,

Echoed back by the barns. Anon they sank into stillness;

Heavily closed, with a jarring sound, the valves of the barn doors,

Battled the wooden bars, and all for a season was silent.

In-doors, warm by the wide-mouthed fireplace, idly the farmer

Sat in his elbow-chair, and watched how the flames and the smoke-wreaths

Struggled together like foes in a burning city. Behind him,

Nodding and mocking along the wall with gestures fantastic,

Darted his own huge shadow, and vanished away into darkness.

Faces, clumsily carved in oak, on the back of his arm-chair

Laughed in the nickering light, and the pewter plates on the dresser

Caught and reflected the flame, as shields of armies the sunshine.

Fragments of song the old man sang, and carols of Christmas,

Such as at home, in the olden time, his fathers before him

Sang in their Norman orchards and bright Burgundian vineyards.

Close at her father's side was the gentle Evangeline seated,

Spinning flax for the loom that stood in the corner behind her.

Silent awhile were its treadles, at rest was its diligent shuttle,

While the monotonous drone of the wheel, like the drone of a bagpipe,

Followed the old man's song, and united the fragments together.

As in a church, when the chant of the choir at intervals ceases,

Footfalls are heard in the aisles, or words of the priest at the altar,

So, in each pause of the song, with measured motion the clock clicked.

Thus as they sat, there were footsteps heard, and, suddenly lifted,

Sounded the wooden latch, and the door swung back on its hinges.

Benedict knew by the hob-nailed shoes it was Basil the blacksmith,

And by her beating heart Evangeline knew who was with him.

"Welcome!" the farmer exclaimed, as their footsteps paused on the threshold,

"Welcome, Basil, my friend! Come, take thy place on the settle

Close by the chimney-side, which is always empty without thee;

Take from the shelf overhead thy pipe and the box of tobacco;

Never so much thyself art thou as when, through the curling

Smoke of the pipe or the forge, thy friendly and jovial face gleams

Round and red as the harvest moon through the mist of the marshes."

Then, with a smile of content, thus answered Basil the blacksmith,

Taking with easy air the accustomed seat by the fireside:--

"Benedict Bellefontaine, thou hast ever thy jest and thy ballad!

Ever in cheerfullest mood art thou, when others are filled with

Gloomy forebodings of ill, and see only ruin before them.

Happy art thou, as if every day thou hadst packed up a horseshoe."

Pausing a moment, to take the pipe that Evangeline brought him,

And with a coal from the embers had lighted, he slowly continued:--

"Four days now are passed since the English ships at their anchors

Ride in the Gaspereau's mouth, with their cannon pointed against us.

What their design may be is unknown; but all are commanded

On the morrow to meet in the church, where his Majesty's mandate

Will be proclaimed as law in the land. Alas! in the meantime

Many surmises of evil alarm the hearts of the people."

Then made answer the farmer:--"Perhaps some friendlier purpose

Brings these ships to our shores. Perhaps the harvests in England

By the untimely rains or untimelier heat have been blighted,

And from our bursting barns they would feed their cattle and children."

"Not so thinketh the folk in the village," said warmly the blacksmith,

Shaking his head as in doubt; then, heaving a sigh, he continued:--

"Louisburg is not forgotten, nor Beau Séjour, nor Port Royal.

Many already have fled to the forest, and lurk on its outskirts,

Waiting with anxious hearts the dubious fate of tomorrow.

Arms have been taken from us, and warlike weapons of all kinds;

Nothing is left but the blacksmith's sledge and the scythe of the mower."

Then with a pleasant smile made answer the jovial farmer:--

"Safer are we unarmed, in the midst of our flocks and our cornfields,

Safer within these peaceful dikes besieged by the ocean,

Than were our fathers in forts, besieged by the enemy's cannon.

Fear no evil, my friend, and tonight may no shadow of sorrow

Fall on this house and hearth; for this is the night of the contract.

Built are the house and the barn. The merry lads of the village

Strongly have built them and well; and, breaking the glebe round about them,

Filled the barn with hay, and the house with food for a twelvemonth.

Bené Leblanc will be here anon, with his papers and inkhorn.

Shall we not then be glad, and rejoice in the joy of our children?"

As apart by the window she stood, with her hand in her lover's,

Blushing Evangeline heard the words that her father had spoken,

And, as they died on his lips, the worthy notary entered.

III

Bent like a laboring oar, that toils in the surf of the ocean,

Bent, but not broken, by age was the form of the notary public;

Shocks of yellow hair, like the silken floss of the maize, hung

Over his shoulders; his forehead was high; and glasses with horn bows

Sat astride on his nose, with a look of wisdom supernal.

Father of twenty children was he, and more than a hundred

Children's children rode on his knee, and heard his great watch tick.

Four long years in the times of the war had he languished a captive,

Suffering much in an old French fort as the friend of the English.

Now, though warier grown, without all guile or suspicion,

Ripe in wisdom was he, but patient, and simple, and childlike.

He was beloved by all, and most of all by the children;

For he told them tales of the Loup-garou in the forest,

And of the goblin that came in the night to water the horses,

And of the white Létiche, the ghost of a child who unchristened

Died, and was doomed to haunt unseen the chambers of children;

And how on Christmas eve the oxen talked in the stable,

And how the fever was cured by a spider shut up in a nutshell,

And of the marvelous powers of four-leaved clover and horseshoes,

With whatsoever else was writ in the lore of the village.

Then up rose from his seat by the fireside Basil the blacksmith,

Knocked from his pipe the ashes, and slowly extending his right hand,

"Father Leblanc," he exclaimed, "thou hast heard the talk in the village,

And, perchance, canst tell us some news of these ships and their errand."

Then with modest demeanor made answer the notary public,--

"Gossip enough have I heard, in sooth, yet am never the wiser;

And what their errand may be I know not better than others.

Yet am I not of those who imagine some evil intention

Brings them here, for we are at peace; and why then molest us?"

"God's name!" shouted the hasty and somewhat irascible blacksmith;

"Must we in all things look for the how, and the why, and the wherefore?

Daily injustice is done, and might is the right of the strongest!"

But, without heeding his warmth, continued the notary public,--

"Man is unjust, but God is just; and finally justice

Triumphs; and well I remember a story, that often consoled me,

When as a captive I lay in the old French fort at Port Royal."

This was the old man's favorite tale, and he loved to repeat it

When his neighbors complained that any injustice was done them.

"Once in an ancient city, whose name I no longer remember,

Raised aloft on a column, a brazen statue of Justice

Stood in the public square, upholding the scales in its left hand,

And in its right a sword, as an emblem that justice presided

Over the laws of the land, and the hearts and homes of the people.

Even the birds had built their nests in the scales of the balance,

Having no fear of the sword that flashed in the sunshine above them.

But in the course of time the laws of the land were corrupted;

Might took the place of right, and the weak were oppressed, and the mighty

Ruled with an iron rod. Then it chanced in a nobleman's palace

That a necklace of pearls was lost, and ere long a suspicion

Fell on an orphan girl who lived as maid in the household.

She, after form of trial condemned to die on the scaffold,

Patiently met her doom at the foot of the statue of Justice.

As to her Father in heaven her innocent spirit ascended,

Lo! o'er the city a tempest rose; and the bolts of the thunder

Smote the statue of bronze, and hurled in wrath from its left hand

Down on the pavement below the clattering scales of the balance,

And in the hollow thereof was found the nest of a magpie,

Into whose clay-built walls the necklace of pearls was inwoven."

Silenced, but not convinced, when the story was ended, the blacksmith

Stood like a man who fain would speak, but findeth no language;

All his thoughts were congealed into lines on his face, as the vapors

Freeze in fantastic shapes on the window-panes in the winter.

Then Evangeline lighted the Brazen lamp on the table,

Filled, till it overflowed, the pewter tankard with home-brewed

Nut-brown ale, that was famed for its strength in the village of Grand-Pré;

While from his pocket the notary drew his papers and inkhorn,

Wrote with a steady hand the date and the age of the parties,

Naming the dower of the bride in flocks of sheep and in cattle.

Orderly all things proceeded, and duly and well were completed,

And the great seal of the law was set like a sun on the margin.

Then from his leathern pouch the farmer threw on the table

Three times the old man's fee in solid pieces of silver;

And the notary rising, and blessing the bride and the bridegroom,

Lifted aloft the tankard of ale and drank to their welfare.

Wiping the foam from, his lip, he solemnly bowed and departed,

While in silence the others sat and mused by the fireside,

Till Evangeline brought the draught-board out of its corner.

Soon was the game begun. In friendly contention the old men

Laughed at each lucky hit, or unsuccessful manoeuvre,

Laughed when a man was crowned, or a breach was made in the king-row.

Meanwhile apart, in the twilight gloom of a window's embrasure,

Sat the lovers and whispered together, beholding the moon rise

Over the pallid sea and the silvery mist of the meadows.

Silently one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven,

Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels.

Thus was the evening passed. Anon the bell from the belfry

Rang out the hour of nine, the village curfew, and straightway

Rose the guests and departed; and silence reigned in the household.

Many a farewell word and sweet good-night on the door-step

Lingered long in Evangeline's heart, and filled it with gladness.

Carefully then were covered the embers that glowed on the hearth-stone,

And on the oaken stairs resounded the tread of the farmer.

Soon with a soundless step the foot of Evangeline followed.

Up the staircase moved a luminous space in the darkness,

Lighted less by the lamp than the shining face of the maiden.

Silent she passed through the hall, and entered the door of her chamber.

Simple that chamber was, with its curtains of white, and its clothes-press

Ample and high, on whose spacious shelves were carefully folded

Linen and woollen stuffs, by the hand of Evangeline woven.

This was the precious dower she would bring to her husband in marriage,

Better than flocks and herds, being proofs of her skill as a house-wife.

Soon she extinguished her lamp, for the mellow and radiant moonlight

Streamed through the windows, and lighted the room, till the heart of the maiden

Swelled and obeyed its power, like the tremulous tides of the ocean.

Ah! she was fair, exceeding fair to behold, as she stood with

Naked snow-white feet on the gleaming floor of her chamber!

Little she dreamed that below, among the trees of the orchard,

Waited her lover and watched for the gleam of her lamp and her shadow.

Yet were her thoughts of him, and at times a feeling of sadness

Passed o'er her soul, as the sailing shade of clouds in the moonlight

Flitted across the floor and darkened the room for a moment.

And, as she gazed from the window, she saw serenely the moon pass

Forth from the folds of a cloud, and one star follow her footsteps,

As out of Abraham's tent young Ishmael wandered with Hagar.

IV.

Pleasantly rose next morn the sun on the village of Grand-Pré.

Pleasantly gleamed in the soft, sweet air the Basin of Minas,

Where the ships, with their wavering shadows, were riding at anchor.

Life had long been astir in the village, and clamorous labor

Knocked with its hundred hands at the golden gates of the morning.

Now from the country around, from the farms and neighboring hamlets,

Came in their holiday dresses the blithe Acadian peasants.

Many a glad good-morrow and jocund laugh from the young folk

Made the bright air brighter, as up from the numerous meadows,

Where no path could be seen but the track of wheels in the greensward,

Group after group appeared, and joined, or passed on the highway.

Long ere noon, in the village all sounds of labor were silenced.

Thronged were the streets with people; and noisy groups at the house-doors

Sat in the cheerful sun, and rejoiced and gossiped together.

Every house was an inn, where all were welcomed and feasted;

For with this simple people, who lived like brothers together,

All things were held in common, and what one had was another's

Yet under Benedict's roof hospitality seemed more abundant:

For Evangeline stood among the guests of her father;

Bright was her face with smiles, and words of welcome and gladness

Fell from her beautiful lips, and blessed the cup as she gave it.

Under the open sky, in the odorous air of the orchard,

Bending with golden fruit, was spread the feast of betrothal.

There in the shade of the porch were the priest and the notary seated;

There good Benedict sat, and sturdy Basil the blacksmith.

Not far withdrawn from these, by the cider-press and the beehives,

Michael the fiddler was placed, with the gayest of hearts and of waistcoats.

Shadow and light from the leaves alternately played on his snow-white

Hair, as it waved in the wind; and the jolly face of the fiddler

Glowed like a living coal when the ashes are blown from the embers.

Gayly the old man sang to the vibrant sound of his fiddle,

_Tous les Bourgeois de Chartres,_ and _Le Carillon de Dunkerque,_

And anon with his wooden, shoes beat time to the music.

Merrily, merrily whirled the wheels of the dizzying dances

Under the orchard-trees and down the path to the meadows;

Old folk and young together, and children mingled among them.

Fairest of all the maids was Evangeline, Benedict's daughter!

Noblest of all the youths was Gabriel, son of the blacksmith.

So passed the morning away. And lo! with a summons sonorous

Sounded the bell from its tower, and over the meadows a drum beat.

Thronged ere long was the church with men. Without, in the churchyard,

Waited the women. They stood by the graves, and hung on the headstones

Garlands of autumn-leaves and evergreens fresh from the forest.

Then came the guard from the ships, and marching proudly among them

Entered the sacred portal. With loud and dissonant clangor

Echoed the sound of their brazen drums from ceiling and casement,--

Echoed a moment only, and slowly the ponderous portal

Closed, and in silence the crowd awaited the will of the soldiers.

Then uprose their commander, and spake from the steps of the altar,

Holding aloft in his hands, with its seals, the royal commission.

"You are convened this day," he said, "by his Majesty's orders.

Clement and kind has he been; but how you have answered his kindness

Let your own hearts reply! To my natural make and my temper

Painful the task is I do, which to you I know must be grievous.

Yet must I bow and obey, and deliver the will of our monarch:

Namely, that all your lands, and dwellings, and cattle of all kinds

Forfeited be to the crown; and that you yourselves from this province

Be transported to other lands. God grant you may dwell there

Ever as faithful subjects, a happy and peaceable people!

Prisoners now I declare you, for such is his Majesty's pleasure!"

As, when the air is serene in the sultry solstice of summer,

Suddenly gathers a storm, and the deadly sling of the hailstones

Beats down the farmer's corn in the field, and shatters his windows,

Hiding the sun, and strewing the ground with thatch from the house-roofs,

Bellowing fly the herds, and seek to break their enclosures;

So on the hearts of the people descended the words of the speaker.

Silent a moment they stood in speechless wonder, and then rose

Louder and ever louder a wail of sorrow and anger,

And, by one impulse moved, they madly rushed to the door-way.

Vain was the hope of escape; and cries and fierce imprecations

Bang through the house of prayer; and high o'er the heads of the others

Rose, with his arms uplifted, the figure of Basil the blacksmith,

As, on a stormy sea, a spar is tossed by the billows.

Flushed was his face and distorted with passion; and wildly he shouted,--

"Down with the tyrants of England! we never have sworn them allegiance!

Death to these foreign soldiers, who seize on our homes and our harvests!"

More he fain would have said, but the merciless hand of a soldier

Smote him upon the mouth, and dragged him down to the pavement.

In the midst of the strife and tumult of angry contention,

Lo! the door of the chancel opened, and Father Felician

Entered, with serious mien, and ascended the steps of the altar.

Raising his reverend hand, with a gesture he awed into silence

All that clamorous throng; and thus he spake to his people;

Deep were his tones and solemn; in accents measured and mournful

Spake he, as, after the tocsin's alarum, distinctly the clock strikes.

"What is this that ye do, my children? what madness has seized you?

Forty years of my life have I labored among you, and taught you,

Not in word alone, but in deed, to love one another!

Is this the fruit of my toils, of my vigils and prayers and privations?

Have you so soon forgotten all lessons of love and forgiveness?

This is the house of the Prince of Peace, and would you profane it

Thus with violent deeds and hearts overflowing with hatred?

Lo! where the crucified Christ from His cross is gazing upon you!

See! in those sorrowful eyes what meekness and holy compassion!

Hark! how those lips still repeat the prayer, 'O Father, forgive them!'

Let us repeat that prayer in the hour when the wicked assail us,

Let us repeat it now, and say, 'O Father, forgive them!'"

Few were his words of rebuke, but deep in the hearts of his people

Sank they, and sobs of contrition succeeded the passionate outbreak,

And they repeated his prayer, and said, "O Father, forgive them!"

Then came the evening service. The tapers gleamed from the altar;

Fervent and deep was the voice of the priest, and the people responded,

Not with their lips alone, but their hearts; and the Ave Maria

Sang they, and fell on their knees, and their souls, with devotion translated,

Rose on the ardor of prayer, like Elijah ascending to heaven.

Meanwhile had spread in the village the tidings of ill, and on all sides

Wandered, wailing, from house to house the women and children.

Long at her father's door Evangeline stood, with her right hand

Shielding her eyes from the level rays of the sun, that, descending,

Lighted the village street with mysterious splendor and roofed each

Peasant's cottage with golden thatch, and emblazoned its windows.

Long within had been spread the snow-white cloth on the table;

There stood the wheaten loaf, and the honey fragrant with wild flowers;

There stood the tankard of ale, and the cheese fresh brought from the dairy;

And at the head of the board the great arm-chair of the farmer:

Thus did Evangeline wait at her father's door, as the sunset

Threw the long shadows of trees o'er the broad ambrosial meadows.

Ah! on her spirit within a deeper shadow had fallen,

And from the fields of her soul a fragrance celestial ascended,--

Charity, meekness, love, and hope, and forgiveness, and patience!

Then, all forgetful of self, she wandered into the village,

Cheering with looks and words the disconsolate hearts of the women,

As o'er the darkening fields with lingering steps they departed,

Urged by their household cares, and the weary feet of their children.

Down sank the great red sun, and in golden, glimmering vapors

Veiled the light of his face, like the Prophet descending from Sinai.

Sweetly over the village the bell of the Angelus sounded.

Meanwhile, amid the gloom, by the church Evangeline lingered.

All was silent within; and in vain at the door and the windows

Stood she, and listened and looked, until, overcome by emotion,

"Gabriel!" cried she aloud with tremulous voice; but no answer

Came from the graves of the dead, nor the gloomier grave of the living.

Slowly at length she returned to the tenantless house of her father.

Smouldered the fire on the hearth, on the board stood the supper untasted.

Empty and drear was each room, and haunted with phantoms of terror.

Sadly echoed her step on the stair and the floor of her chamber.

In the dead of the night she heard the whispering rain fall

Loud on the withered leaves of the sycamore-tree by the window.

Keenly the lightning flashed; and the voice of the echoing thunder

Told her that God was in heaven, and governed the world He created!

Then she remembered the tale she had heard of the justice of Heaven;

Soothed was her troubled soul, and she peacefully slumbered till morning.

V.

Four times the sun had risen and set; and now on the fifth day

Cheerily called the cock to the sleeping maids of the farm-house.

Soon o'er the yellow fields, in silent and mournful procession,

Came from the neighboring hamlets and farms the Acadian women,

Driving in ponderous wains their household goods to the sea-shore,

Pausing and looking back to gaze once more on their dwellings,

Ere they were shut from sight by the winding road and the wood-land.

Close at their sides their children ran, and urged on the oxen,

While in their little hands they clasped some fragments of playthings.

Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth they hurried; and there on the sea-beach

Piled in confusion lay the household goods of the peasants.

All day long between the shore and the ships did the boats ply;

All day long the wains came laboring down from the village.

Late in the afternoon, when the sun was near to his setting,

Echoing far o'er the fields came the roll of drums from the churchyard.

Thither the women and children thronged. On a sudden the church-doors

Opened, and forth came the guard, and marching in gloomy procession

Followed the long-imprisoned, but patient, Acadian farmers,

Even as pilgrims, who journey afar from their homes and their country,

Sing as they go, and in singing forget they are weary and wayworn,

So with songs on their lips the Acadian peasants descended

Down from the church to the shore, amid their wives and their daughters.

Foremost the young men came; and, raising together their voices,

Sang they with tremulous lips a chant of the Catholic Missions:--

"Sacred heart of the Saviour! O inexhaustible fountain!

Fill our hearts this day with strength and submission and patience!"

Then the old men, as they marched, and the women that stood by the wayside

Joined in the sacred psalm, and the birds in the sunshine above them

Mingled their notes therewith, like voices of spirits departed.

Half-way down to the shore Evangeline waited in silence,

Not overcome with grief, but strong in the hour of affliction,--

Calmly and sadly waited, until the procession approached her,

And she beheld the face of Gabriel pale with emotion.

Tears then rilled her eyes, and, eagerly running to meet him,

Clasped she his hands, and laid her head on his shoulder, and whispered,--

"Gabriel! be of good cheer! for if we love one another

Nothing, in truth, can harm us, whatever mischances may happen!"

Smiling she spake these words; then suddenly paused, for her father

Saw she, slowly advancing. Alas! how changed was his aspect!

Gone was the glow from his cheek, and the fire from his eye, and his footstep

Heavier seemed with the weight of the weary heart in his bosom.

But with a smile and a sigh, she clasped his neck and embraced him,

Speaking words of endearment where words of comfort availed not.

Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth moved on that mournful procession.

There disorder prevailed, and the tumult and stir of embarking.

Busily plied the freighted boats; and in the confusion

Wives were torn from their husbands, and mothers, too late, saw their children

Left on the land, extending their arms, with wildest entreaties.

So unto separate ships were Basil and Gabriel carried,

While in despair on the shore Evangeline stood with her father.

Half the task was not done when the sun went down, and the twilight

Deepened and darkened around; and in haste the refluent ocean'

Fled away from the shore, and left the line of the sand-beach

Covered with waifs of the tide, with kelp and the slippery seaweed.

Farther back in the midst of the household goods and the wagons,

Like to a gypsy camp, or a leaguer after a battle,

All escape cut off by the sea, and the sentinels near them,

Lay encamped for the night the houseless Acadian farmers.

Back to its nethermost caves retreated the bellowing ocean,

Dragging adown the beach the rattling pebbles, and leaving

Inland and far up the shore the stranded boats of the sailors.

Then, as the night descended, the herds returned from their pastures;

Sweet was the moist still air with the odor of milk from their udders;

Lowing they waited, and long, at the well-known bars of the farm-yard,--

Waited and looked in vain for the voice and the hand of the milkmaid.

Silence reigned in the streets; from the church no Angelus sounded,

Rose no smoke from the roofs, and gleamed no lights from the windows.

But on the shores meanwhile the evening fires had been kindled,

Built of the drift-wood thrown on the sands from wrecks in the tempest.

Found them shapes of gloom and sorrowful faces were gathered,

Voices of women were heard, and of men, and the crying of children.

Onward from fire to fire, as from hearth to hearth in his parish,

Wandered the faithful priest, consoling and blessing and cheering,

Like unto shipwrecked Paul on Melita's desolate seashore.

Thus he approached the place where Evangeline sat with her father,

And in the flickering light beheld the face of the old man,

Haggard and hollow and wan, and without either thought or emotion,

E'en as the face of a clock from which the hands have been taken.

Vainly Evangeline strove with words and caresses to cheer him,

Vainly offered him food; yet he moved not, he looked not, he spake not,

But, with a vacant stare, ever gazed at the flickering fire-light.

_"Benedicite!"_ murmured the priest, in tones of compassion.

More he fain would have said, but his heart was full, and his accents

Faltered and paused on his lips, as the feet of a child on a threshold,

Hushed by the scene he beholds, and the awful presence of sorrow.

Silently, therefore, he laid his hand on the head of the maiden,

Raising his eyes full of tears to the silent stars that above them

Moved on their way, unperturbed by the wrongs and sorrows of mortals.

Then sat he down at her side, and they wept together in silence.

Suddenly rose from the south a light, as in autumn the blood-red

Moon climbs the crystal walls of heaven, and o'er the horizon

Titan-like stretches its hundred hands upon mountain, and meadow,

Seizing the rocks and the rivers, and piling huge shadows together.

Broader and ever broader it gleamed on the roofs of the village,

Gleamed on the sky and the sea, and the ships that lay in the roadstead.

Columns of shining smoke uprose, and flashes of flame were

Thrust through their folds and withdrawn, like the quivering hands of a martyr.

Then as the wind seized the gleeds and the burning thatch, and, uplifting,

Whirled them aloft through the air, at once from, a hundred house-tops

Started the sheeted smoke with flashes of flame intermingled.

These things beheld in dismay the crowd on the shore and on shipboard.

Speechless at first they stood, then cried aloud in their anguish,

"We shall behold no more our homes in the village of Grand-Pré!"

Loud on a sudden the cocks began to crow in the farmyards,

Thinking the day had dawned; and anon the lowing of cattle

Came on the evening breeze, by the barking of dogs interrupted.

Then rose a sound of dread, such as startles the sleeping encampments

Far in the western prairies of forests that skirt the Nebraska,

When the wild horses affrighted sweep by with the speed of the whirlwind,

Or the loud bellowing herds of buffaloes rush to the river.

Such was the sound that arose on the night, as the herds and the horses

Broke through their folds and fences, and madly rushed o'er the meadows.

Overwhelmed with the sight, yet speechless, the priest and the maiden

Gazed on the scene of terror that reddened and widened before them;

And as they turned at length to speak to their silent companion,

Lo! from his seat he had fallen, and stretched abroad on the seashore

Motionless lay his form, from which the soul had departed.

Slowly the priest uplifted the lifeless head, and the maiden

Knelt at her father's side, and wailed aloud in her terror.

Then in a swoon she sank, and lay with her head on his bosom.

Through the long night she lay in deep, oblivious slumber;

And when she woke from the trance, she beheld a multitude near her.

Faces of friends she beheld, that were mournfully gazing upon her,

Pallid, with tearful eyes, and looks of saddest compassion.

Still the blaze of the burning village illumined the landscape,

Reddened the sky overhead, and gleamed on the faces around her,

And like the day of doom it seemed to her wavering senses.

Then a familiar voice she heard, as it said to the people,--

"Let us bury him here by the sea. When a happier season

Brings us again to our homes from the unknown land of our exile,

Then shall his sacred dust be piously laid in the churchyard."

Such were the words of the priest. And there in haste by the sea-side,

Having the glare of the burning village for funeral torches,

But without bell or book, they buried the farmer of Grand-Pré.

And as the voice of the priest repeated the service of sorrow,

Lo! with, a mournful sound like the voice of a vast congregation,

Solemnly answered the sea, and mingled its roar with the dirges.

'Twas the returning tide, that afar from the waste of the ocean,

With the first dawn of the day, came heaving and hurrying landward.

Then recommenced once more the stir and noise of embarking;

And with the ebb of that tide the ships sailed out of the harbor,

Leaving behind them the dead on the shore, and the village in ruins.

PART THE SECOND.

I.