SOURCE: “Evangeline,” in North Granville Quarterly, January, 1865, pp. 208-09. Reprinted in Longfellow among His Contemporaries: A Harvest of Estimates, Insights, and Anecdotes from the Victorian Literary World and an Index, by Kenneth Walter Cameron, Transcendental Books, 1978, pp. 77-78.

[In the following essay, the author gives a summary of Evangeline and examines Longfellow's love of nature as evidenced in the poem.]

Longfellow ranks among the best of our American poets. Ever since his first appearance before the public, he has been slowly growing nearer and nearer the popular heart. To-day he stands as the representative of our own poets. He took this stand through no sudden brilliant outburst of genius. His truthfulness and simplicity met appreciation slowly, until now his volumes are found almost by every fire-side.

His poems display no depth of thought, no grand portraiture of character; but through every one there is that perfect harmony with nature rarely gained.

He loves nature and sympathizes with her in all her moods. He finds the soul which lies back of the surface beauty.

In his poems we almost hear the waving of trees and the murmuring of brooks. This beauty pervades the whole of “Hiawatha.” In it no great attempt is made to startle the reader with profound thought; but the simple habits of the Redman among the forests are charmingly depicted. The parts of the poem blend so harmoniously that it soothes and pleases just as nature does.

It is this same quality which gives its fascination to Evangeline. The poem opens with a sketch of the lives of the farmers in Acadia, where long ago they lived in the village of Grand Pre among the pines of the forests. Their broad farms stretching to the eastward, gave the village its name. Secluded from the world by the waves of the ocean, they tended their flocks and their cattle, and gathered from the ground food for their simple wants.

They were free from the envy of republics or the tyranny of kingdoms—a universal brotherhood. The days passed in earnest labor for the general good, and the evenings in social enjoyment. There was no need of bolts or bars, for even the poorest had an abundance.

The sabbaths were spent in the worship of God. These people lived pure, natural lives—lives actuated by love toward God and toward man.

Suddenly strange ships gathered in the harbor. Even while they were wondering whence they came and whither they were bound, the stern edict of George of England startled them. They were to be torn from their homes and scattered abroad in the world. The strong men rebelled at the command, but they were few in number, and were forced to see their happy homes destroyed to gratify a tyrant's will.

It was on the evening of Evangeline's betrothal that the startling message came. She was the loved of all the village for her gentleness and meekness. She was young and fair, the keeper of her father's house and home. Many a woman may learn a lesson of filial love from the gentle maiden. Her meekness and simplicity of character is in perfect harmony with the whole poem—a character which none but a poet thoroughly imbued with the spirit of nature, could have drawn. It is rest to think of a woman so pure as she.

Her father died by the sea-side as the unhappy people were leaving the village. The sight of their blazing homes dazzled his dying eyes and they buried him by the ocean. These unhappy villagers were left

To wander friendless, homeless, helpless, from city to city,
From the cold lakes of the North to sultry Southern savannas.
Friends they sought and homes; and many despairing, heart-broken,
Asked of the earth but a grave, and no longer friends nor a fire-side.

Evangeline was separated from her lover and wandered long among them with a mournful face. She was fair and young but the life before her seemed dreary.

There was something in her life incomplete, imperfect, unfinished,
As if a morning of June, with all its music and sunshine,
Suddenly paused in the sky, and fading slowly, descended
Into the east again, from whence it late had arisen.

She wandered from place to place, sometimes in the towns, sometimes in the country, but always with a restless longing. Many loved her and besought her to leave her search and find happiness in quiet homes. But she always answered, “I cannot.”—

Whither my heart has gone, there follows my hand, and not elsewhere.

So she sought her lover many a weary year. Now cheered by the story of one who had seen him, then disconsolate to find that he had passed beyond her reach. Once he passed so near her that his breath brushed her cheek, and she lay asleep with no angel of God near to awaken her.

At last when the fruitless search, the disappointed endeavor was ended, she came to live in Philadelphia, the city of Quakers.

Now she cared only to follow the steps of her Savior and meekly to endure all things. She was a sister of mercy, and her name was ever spoken with a blessing by the poor and afflicted.

On one Sabbath morning, as she came to the alms-house with a flower to relieve the pain of the dying, listening to the distant chime of the church bell, mingled with the chanted psalm, she felt that at length her trials were ended. She passed on, giving comfort to many a sufferer. Suddenly her step was arrested, and a cry of anguish quivered upon her lips. Before her she saw her lover motionless, senseless, dying! Her search was ended.

Side by side in their nameless graves, the lovers are sleeping,
Under the humble walls of the little Catholic church yard;
In the heart of the city they lie, unknown and unnoticed.

Evangeline is not the highest type of womanhood. She does not possess the noblest traits of character; but the most pure and gentle are hers.

There is an elevating influence about her that even the cynic could not resist; an influence of which peace is born.

The measure of the poem is musical; in harmony with the sentiment and better suited to the narrative than any other. The words are so simple that even a child might understand them—and artless simplicity is the perfection of art. You may search the poetry of the English language to find more beautiful passages than these:

Silently, one by one, in the infinite meadows of Heaven,
Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels.

Or,

Beautiful was the night Behind the black wall of the forest,
Tipping its summit with silver, arose the moon. On the river
Fell here and there, through the branches, a tremu'ous gleam of the moonlight,
Like the sweet thoughts of love on a darkened and devious spirit

We are glad Longfellow wrote Evangeline, and proud that he is an American. We love our own.