Evangeline Read online

  Introductory

  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-Pre.

  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-Pre

  Lay in the fruitful valley. Vast meadows stretched to the eastward,

  Giving the village its name, and pasture to flocks without number.

  Dikes, that the hands of the farmers had raised with labor incessant,

  Shut out the turbulent tides; but at stated seasons the flood-gates

  Opened, and welcomed the sea to wander at will o’er the meadows.

  West and south there were fields of flax, and orchards and cornfields

  Spreading afar and unfenced o’er the plain; and away to the northward

  Blomidon rose, and the forests old, and aloft on the mountains

  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-Pre,

  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 snowflakes;

  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 hysop

  Sprinkles the congregation, and scatters blessings upon them,

  Down the long street she passed, with her chaplet of beads and her missal,

  Wearing her Norman cap, and her kirtle of blue, and the ear-rings,

  Brought in the olden time from France, and since, as an heirloom,

  Handed down from mother to child, through long generations.

  But a celestial brightness—a more 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 pent-house,

  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 farmyard.

  There stood the broad-wheeled wains and the antique plows and the harrows;

  There were the folds for the sheep; and there, in his feathered seraglio,

  Strutted the lordly turkey, and crowed the cock, with the selfsame

  Voice that in ages of old had startled the penitent Peter.

  Bursting with hay were the barns, themselves a village. In each one

  Far o’er the gable projected a roof of thatch; and a staircase,

  Under the sheltering eaves, led up to the odorous corn-loft.

  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-Pre

  Lived on his sunny farm, and Evangeline governed his household.

  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 footsteps,

  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 childhood

  Grew up together as brother and sister, and Father Felician,

  Priest and pedagogue both in the village, had taught them their letters

  Out of the selfsame book, with the hymns of the church and the plain-song.

  But when the hymn was sung, and the daily lesson completed,

  Swiftly they hurried away to the forge of Basil the blacksmith.

  There at the door they stood, with wondering eyes to behold him

  Take in his leathern lap the hoof of the horse as a plaything,

  Nailing the shoe in its place; while near him the tire of the cart-wheel

  Lay like a fiery snake, coiled round in a circle of cinders.

  Oft on autumnal eves, when without in the gathering darkness

  Bursting with light seemed the smithy, through every cranny and crevice,

  Warm by the forge within they watched the laboring bellows,

  And as its panting ceased, and the sparks expired in the ashes,

  Merrily laughed, and said they were nuns going into the chapel.

  Oft on sledges in winter, as swift as the swoop of the eagle,

  Down the hill-side 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 through 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 ice-bound,

  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 forests, 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 went 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,

  Rattled the wooden bars, and all for a season was silent.

  Indoors, 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 armchair

  Laughed in the flickering 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,r />
  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 cheerfulest 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 picked 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 mean time

  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,