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TIIE SOUTHERN SENTINEL
IS PUBLIBHHD
EVERY THURSDAY MORNING,
MY
T. LOMAX & CO.
TEXNENT LOMAX, Principal Editor.
Otfice on Randolph street.
Citcvanj Department.
Conducted by CAROLINE LEE HENTZ.
[WRITTEN EXPRESSLY FOR TIIE SOUTHERN SENTINEL.]
BELL AND BOSE.
BY CAROLINE LEK HENTfc.
CHAPTER 111.
“Give me t!ie cot below the pine,
To tend the flocks or till the soil,
And every day have joys divine.
With the bonuie lass o’ Baliodornyle.”
[Burns.
“It happiness have not her seat
And centre in the breast,
We may be wise, or rich, or great,
But never can be blest.
Nae treasures, nne pleasures,
Could make us happy long—
The heart aye’s the part aye.
That makes us right or wrong.”—lbid.
Is it supposed that Frank submitted to ma
ternal authority, and never more returned to
the cottage, where the silver fountain gush
ed ? (Pit is, it is a great mistake, tie had
htade a promise to Rose, which he felt b >und,
as a mail of honor, not to violate. So, with an
elegant pocket edition of Shakespeare, which
he had employed at least a day in marking, j
he started for the farmer’s cabin, without j
warning even Bell of his design. As he rode j
iip to the door, fit? caught a glimpse of the j
blight face of Rose through the ligi t, droop- |
ing leaves of the acacia, and the tree seem- j
ed in rosy bloom. The flower exhibited still ;
deeper bloom as he entered. The spontane- j
oils delight which Rose felt on finding that
she was not forgotten, illumined her whole |
face. Frank wondered that he had thought j
her pretty before, she so infinitely transcend- j
ed her former self. Her dress, though still ,
the perfection of neatness, was far more be
coming. Perhaps Rose herself could hardly
analyze the motive that, induced her, since
the visit of the brother and sister, to pay more
attention to her toilet, especially in the after
part of the day. She discovered that a mod
est gingham frock was not too fine lor a far
mer's daughter, and then her father loved so
dearly to see her dressed with care! The
hue of her garment was blue—Frank’s
favorite color—and a wild flower, dyed in
sapphire, was set like a gem in her dark
brown hair.
Frank saw that he was welcome, and the
conviction that he was so, removed the slight
embarrassment he had felt on his entrance.
He had dreaded coldness and constraint, j
since he came unaccompanied by his sister; J
he had prepared himself for a refusal of his j
boon; he had thought it possible she could
not see him at all. Perhaps the farmer him
self might make his appearance, and tell him
to keep at a respectful distance from his J
daughter. After dwelling on the possibility, j
nay, even the probability of these things, it j
may be imagined how extremely pleasant it |
was to meet the bright smile, the kindling :
blush, that assured him of modest welcome. |
The volume he brought was illustrated, and !
this gave him an admirable excuse for sitting
down by the side of Rose to show her the
engravings. Then lie offered to read to her,
while she continued her sewing, combining,
in this way, tiie pleasures of literature and
industry. Frank was a magnificent reader,
and none hut such, should ever attempt the
dramas of Shakespeare. Rose had heard
them read before, by the brother of Mrs.
Chandler; but his voice, like the organ, was
fitted only for the sublime and majestic into
nations of the darker passions—it could not
play like Frank’s, from the light play of Mer
cutio’s wit, to the impassioned breathings of
Romeo’s love—then again from the insidious
malice of 1 ago, to tiie teriifie ravings of
Othello’s jealousy. Rose listened with a
charmed ear. Tiie work fell from her hands,
,'vhile her eye, fixed upon the reader, changed
its expression with every varying sentiment
It is no wonder that Frank felt inspired, w hen
ever and anon, looking up from his book, he
saw such eyes riveted with unconscious in
terest on his face.
“Have you never attended the theatre?”
3sked he, abruptly.
“Never.”
“You must go. Os how much pleasure
have you been robbed ! You must visit the
city—you must go to the theatre. You must
.see something of the woild, from which vou
shave been so long excluded. It is a sin and
a shame that you should be buried here in
this solitude. Are you contented, Rose ?
Forgive my familiarity, but I cannot help
calling you so.”
■*T suspect I have my share of content
ment,” she replied with a smile, though a
shade passed over her brow’. “I ought to be
‘is happy, I am sure, for I reign absolute Queen
ot this little realm. My wishes are laws as
absolute as those of the .Modes and Persians.
It I am tempted to sigh for pleasures beyond
my reaeh, I find an antidote for discontent in
m v books and flowers, and the music of the
singing fountain. Is your sister perfectly
happy ? Are you ?”
“\es! I am perfectly happy at this mo
ment. A rose leaf could not find room on
the brimming cup of my felicity. If I did not
look trom that window and see the sun sink
ing lower and lower, and know tiiere would
soon be a limit to my happiness, 1 could defv
the philosophy of Solon. Oh! for another
Joshua to stay the evolutions of von golden
wheel !”
Frank rose to depart. He felt that he
could not with propriety linger till a later
hour.
VOL 111.
“May I ask you to accompany me to the
: fountain ?” said he, glad to find an excuse to
! prolong his stay a little longer. “1 do not
understand its mysteries, and I cannot go
without a drink of its sparkling waters.”
Rose led the way to the fountain, bearing
! in her hand a silver cup, one of the costliest
; gifts of her beuefiyrtress. Frank thought it
was tin till he took it in his own hand, and
| then he wondered at the pure massive silver,
• on which the name of Rose was engraven, as
■ much as he did at the silvery refinement of
| her language and the grace of her manners.
“You were not educated in this cottage,
Rose?” said he, in a tone of earnest interest.
“Think me not too inquisitive and imperti
nent, but tell me where you have acquired
this mysterious grace and elegance, which
contrasts so strangely with every thing
around and about you ?”
“I’m sure nothing can be more graceful
than the fall of tiie fountain,” answered she
playfully, “or more elegant than this cluster
ing foliage. But,” added she in a tone of deep
feeling, “you are right in your supposition.
For more than ten years 1 was under the
guardianship of the best, the purest, the most
refined of human beings. All that lam in
heart and soul, I owe to her precepts and ex
ample. She is dead, but her memory is the
polar star of my existence, to which the mag
net of my spirit forever turns.”
She spoke with enthusiasm, ami tears
trembled bl ight as the spray of the fountain,
in the soft depths of her eyes.
“Oh ! that my mother could see her—could
hear her!” thought Frank. “She shall see
her—she shall hear her—and her aristocratic
prejudices shall be charmed away, by the
magic of her presence.”
Slowly they sauntered back to the cottage,
and very slowly did Frank mount his horse
for so young and gay a gentleman. Rose
stood in the door-way, in the mellow beams
of the setting sun. One of the sapphire cel
ored flowers fell from her hair as site leaned
against the frame-work. Frank sprang from
his horse and picking it up, hid it in the folds
of his vest.
“When 1 come again 1 will bring you some
flowers from Bell’s green-house,” said he, “to
indemnify you for the loss of this.”
“Will she never come again herself?” ask
ed Rose, pained at having received no mes
sage from the capricious beauty.
Frank blushed, remembering his mother’s
prohibition. He hardly knew what to eply.
“She did not know I was coming. 1 was
selfish, and wished no one to share the wel
come I was bold enough to think was in
store for me. She has not forgotten you, 1
assure you.”
When Frank returned home lie took very
good care to keep out of his mother’s way,
fearing she would ask him where he had
been. How often from this time he visited
the cottage, she never knew, and perhaps he
did not know himself. He learned to meas
ure time by anew chronometer—and that was
the old-fashioned hour glass on the farmer’s
old deal table.
One afternoon, just as he was turning into
the path which led to the farmer’s gate, he
was surprised by the approach of a gentle
man oil horseback, coming from the house,
and his surprise was not diminished when he
recognized the staff ly bearing, and dark,
Hashing countenance of Mr. Urvin. A glance
of mutual astonishment and dissatisfaction,
passed between them, as with rather a cold
bow, they rode by each other. Frank’s face
glowed with crimson as he saw Mr. Urvin
look sarcastically at the magnificent bouquet
\ which lie had fastened in some mvsterious
I manner to his saddle bow, and at the bundle
I of books which he carried under his left arm.
In spite of all his efforts to resume his self
possession, it was with the air of an indignant
and deeply injured man, that he entered the
room, where Rose was seated, perfectly un
conscious of his approach or entrance. She
was leaning on the table, with her head
liowed down upon her hands while her bosom
heaved with suppressed sobs. Frank threw
J the books upon the table without speaking,
but the noise made her start and suddenly
lift her bead. She smiled through showering
tears, and hastily wiping her eyes with her
handkerchief, endeavored to efface tiie traces
of her deep emotion. Frank looked so cross
and sombre, that her smile vanished, and a
pause of mutual embarrassment succeeded.
“I fear 1 am an intruder this evening,”
said Frank, tossing the flowers on the table
instead of offering them to her with one of
his gracetul and gallant speeches. “You
| seem very much pre-oecupied.'’
“I must be pardoned, if l am so,” replied
Rose, surprised and wounded by his cold and
altered manner. “All the remembrances of
my childhood and earlier youth have been
j most powerfully and vividly awakened, by
| the visit of a friend from whom I have been
long separated. I did not know I was so
ranch of a child still.”
Again she paused and wiped her glistening
eves. “This friend is Mr. Urvin, I presume,
whom I met at your gate,” said Frank, in a
voice which had lost all its music.
“Yes! the brother of my benefactress—
j the guide, the counsellor, of mv youthful
mind. I have not seen him since the death
of his sister, and we both felt in all its first
force, our irreparable loss. It w*s mine,”
continued she, with quivering lip, “to repeat
to him the last words of this angelic woman.”
It was natural to suppose that Frank would
have sympathized in her sensibility, and exer
j ted himself in the task of consolation. But
he was possessed of that demon whose name
is Legion, and which human reason never
yet cast out. Never was a human being so
transformed. He could not sit still and talk
calmly, with such a lever burning i:i his veins.
He rose and went to the window, ami made
terrible destruction among the green leaves
that curtained tiie casement.
“Has any thing displeased you?” asked
Rose with inexpressible sweetness of man
ner, alter watching him for some time,
pulling off the leaves, crushing them in his
fingers and hurling them through the air, with
a look of determined hostilitv.
Ashamed of his rudeness, vet unable to
conquer the feeling which caused it, lie turn
ed round and took a seat. The flush had left
his cheek, and Rose was struck by his unu
sual paleness.
“You are not well,” she exclaimed, with
sudden apprehension. “How exceedingly
pale you look. Let me run to the fountain
and bring you some water.”
“No, no!” cried he, thoroughly ashamed
us the passion which had subdued him. “I
am well. It is nothing but a lit of ill-humor.
Can you forgive me for being so cross and
unamiable ?”
“Oil condition that you tell me the cause
of the phenomenon.”
“1 know 1 have no cause to be displeased,”
said Frank, and he had the grace to stam
mer a litile; “but knowing the perfect seclu
sion in which you live, you cannot wonder
at my astonishment, on seeing a man whose
splendid endowments are the admiration of
the fashionable world, your departing guest.
The deep emotions lie has called forth are an
other mystery. I dreamed not of this tirne
honored intimacy 7. 1 did not know that the
being existed who exercises such command
ing influence on your sensibilities.”
“That is, you find me not quite so lone
and friendless as you imagined me to be,”
said Rose, an unwonted fire sparkling in
lu-r eye.
“ And yet this friend has been for many
weeks in the city,” said Frank, as if struck
with a sudden thought, Ids countenance
brightening as he spoke. “And if I under
stand you right, this is the first time he has
visited you. Ho.v can you reconcile this
with his early friendship?”
“By his total ignorance of my abode.
When he left the country, 1 was ail inmate
of his sister’s family—at her death, I returned
to my own home. He knew not the loca
tion of that humble home, and though lie has
made constant enquiries, it was not till this
morning that be ascertained it. He is too
noble, too generous, too great in mind, and
too warm in heart, to forget those, however
lowly , whom he has once honored with his
regard.”
She spoke with warmth, and every glow
ing word fell cold as ice on the heart of
Frank. She loved him. How could she
help it? Was not the apparently heartless
Bell herself enthralled bv the fascinations of
this man ? and what was he in comparison ?
a mere mote in a sunbeam. He had been in
dulging in a charming dream, but it was past.
He had deceived himself with the idea that
Rose liked him ; that she regarded him with
a growing preference. Her smiles and blush
es were so elegant—and then hov often had
he imagined he had seen the love-light beam
ing in her modest tint expressive eyes! Yet
he could not accuse her of art or coquetry.
He had so far mastered the demon within
him, as to do justice to her worth, and was
magnanimous enough even to justify her
choice.
“II ore are some books which I have brought
you, ’ said he; “you may find something to
interest you in their pages. I hope so, at
least, as it is not likely I shall see you again
very soon.”
“Why not?” ejaculated Rose, in alow
voice.
“I do not feel as if my presence here
could impart much pleasure, or my absence
regret. A <>u have other dearer friends, with
whose claims ! would not interfere, even if I
had the presumption to believe that I had any
counter influence.”
“I am not so rich in friends that I can af
ford to lose one as soon as 1 have formed
another,” said Rose, giving him a glance of
mingled reproach and displeasure, “’['here
are no claims with which your kindness could
interfere—there is no influence hostile to vour
own.”
“Ah! but there are some feelings which
will not bear partnership,”exclaimed he, with
a kindling countenance.
Just at this moment a side gate opened,
and Farmer Mayfield was seen approaching,
with his shirt sleeves rolled above his elbows,
and his gleaming scythe cradled on his shoul
der. Rose started and drew back with a
heightened color. Frank bade her a hasty
adieu, mounted his horse, and was out of siMit
of the cottage before the farmer had hung liis
scythe in its accustomed place. Then he re
pented the hasty impulse which had led him
to avoid the father, as if ashamed of himself
or the honest and hard-laboring man. Slack
ening his pace, he rode leisurely along, try
ing to cool the fever of his thoughts. He
hung his hat on the pommel of the saddle, so
that the twilight breeze could blow upon his
fervid brow, and fixing his eye on the eve
ning star—that fairest gem in the resplendent
diadem of night—watched the little white
fleecy clouds, one by one, glide over it, turn
ing to silver as they passed, then melt away
in the soft tranquility of the azure firmament.
[TO BE CONTINUED.j
COLUMBUS, GEORGIA, THURSDAY MORNING, OCTOBER 7, 1852.
[From the North British Review.]
AMERICAN POETRY.
Hknry Wadsworth Loxgff.llow. —lt
is the unhappy error of nearly till recent crit
icism of art—of poetry especially—that its
judgments have been formed without refer
ence to any high or very distinct standard of
what it is desirable and right that poetrv
should be. A poem is praised because it is
well finished, or because it has been dashed
off’ in a masterly way, or because it is “orig
inal,” “pathetic,” or “lyrical,” or “well con
structed or on account of some other prop
erly secondary quality, quite compatible with
general worthlessness or positive demerit.
We cannot help thinking that a sounder tone
of criticism would produce, indirectly, a
sounder tone of art than that which at pres
ent prevails. It is certain that no artist, —
poet or otherwise, —will ever be made or
marred by reading good criticism; but it is
equally certain that the weeds which flourish
under the encouragement of a lax critical
system do discourage and tend to choke the
flower of true art; and that these might, in
a great measure, be uprooted and done away
with, if we would ascertain and ruthlessly de
clare their worthless and noxious character.
In the art and criticism of America we gen
erally behold the errors of our own art and
criticism exaggerated. Happily for the hopes
of the world, America has a filial—almost
more than filial—affection and reverence for
Britain and the “Britishers.” But this at”
taehrnent is not without its disadvantages:
affection and reverence beget imitation ; and
the imitator is always more or less blind, and
most often, is found to copy the deformities of
his model first. In commenting upon the
shortcomings of American poetry and criti
cism of poetry, let us adopt a tone of self
reproval ; for, if we have taught errors by
our example, we should set the example of
repentance. In endeavoring, therefore, to
heighten, as far as we can, tiie common es
timate of what poetry ought to be, and in
pronouncing American poetry, generally, to
be an example of what poet y ought not to
he, we would have it undei stood that we have
no intention of implying a favorable contrast
upon the side of our own modern writers.
We regret that we cannot fully join in the
popular applause of Mr. Longfellow’s poems.
In what we are about to say of them, it must
be understood that we dwell more upon the
faults of these poems than we should have
done, were it not that their merits have al
ready enjoyed more than a fair share of pub
lic attention.
In criticizing Mr. Longfellow, we have a
part to play that requires some boldness.
We must speak ill of his model, Goethe, who,
by a most strange injustice, has of late been
permitted to usurp a throne in the seventh
heaven of fame, with Shakspeare, Dante,
and Homer.
Goethe was probably the greatest critic
that ever lived ; but we are convinced that
the next generation will be astonished at the
admiration with which his poetry has come
to he regarded by us. In our opinion,
Goethe’s poetry is always more or less heart
less. His minor poems are full of warm
fancy, exquisitely expressed; but there is
more heart in half a dozen of Burns’ songs
than in all Goethe’s minor poems put togeth
er. Faust, we venture to think, is immense
ly overrated. Ever} 7 body praises it, and
calls it profound, because there is much of it
that nobody understands, or was intended to
understand. It abounds with deep lines and
pictmesque passages, but it has no claim to
be regarded as the great symbolical poem
which it pretends to be. This is proved by
what we know of its history. Large portions
are unmodified transciiptions of literal sto
ries; the track of light that follows the wake
of the black dog turns out to bean optical
fact which had been observed by Goethe.
Other incidents are anecdotes of the poet’s
youth ; and in the “Intermezzo” there are nu
merous allusions of a personal and temporary
character, confessedly to he understood only
by those uho were in the secrets of a narrow
literary coterie. Goethe felt this, but had
not the boldness to undeceive his numerous
admirers. At an early stage of the compo
sition of “Faust,” he saw the prudence of
postponing the discovery of its essential de
fects by allowing it always to remainas a
fragment. Os the wickedness and vulgarity
for which Coleridge has condemned this po
em, we do not speak; for Mr. Longfellow has
not so much imitated these, its worst quali
ties, as its lighter sins of false pretension
and charlatanism.
“Hermann and Dorothea” is a charming
work, full of profound and simple wisdom,
and of clear and sweet descriptive power;
hut in reading it, we are somehow made to
think much more of the skillful author than of
the hero and heroine. The warmth is always
of the fancy, never of the heart.
Judging from Mr. Longfellow’s works,
“The Golden Legend,” “Evangeline,” and
his miscellaneous verses, we feel pretty well
convinced that his ideal of a great poet is
Goethe, and that trie poems of Goethe that
we have named are his favorite models. If
so, he has perfectly succeeded in copying
many of their iaults, though he has seldom
attained to their merits of admirable finish
and most delicate sensual perception.
M e have space to notice, in detail, ouly a
tew minor pieces of Mr. Longfellow’s, to
gether with his best known poem, “Evange
line/’ which woqjd certainly have been a
notable work had “Hermann and Dorothea”
never been written.
“Evangeline” is evidently an ambitious
work, and its great popularity has perhaps
persuaded Mr. Longfellow that he has suc
ceeded in his attempt to write a great poem.
We have, however, to bring against it a few
complaints, which will probably smite Mr.
Longfellow’s artistical conscience with a
sense of their truth; for we have much re
spect for this gentleman’s understanding, al
though we decidedly dissent from the public
voice, which would place him, we sincerely
believe, against his own cool estimate of
himself, in tire rank of the great abiding pe
els. As “Evangeline” is commonly, perhaps
justly, regarded as being, on the whole, the
most notable work in verse hitherto produced
by an American, we shall make a somewhat
detailed inquiry into its merits and demerits.
The subject is decidedly a fine one, and was
probably fixed upon by Mr. Longfellow in con
sequence of the outcry which had been rais
ed by critics in England and America for a
poem that should Ire truly American in sub
ject and scenery. The historical foundations
of the poem are these facts:—ln 171 TANARUS, before
Great Britain had established her great co
lonial empire in North America, Acadia, the
province now called Nova Scotia, was ceded
to her by France. The inhabitants, who
seem to have been little studied throughout
the whole transaction, were soon induced to
swear allegiance to their new masters, upon
the sole condition that they should he exempt
from bearing arms against the French or In
dians, in defence of the province ; the former
being, as it were, their countrymen, and the
latter connected with them by alliances and
by the private bonds of friendship. The Eng
lish Government objected to this condition,
but though some alteration was intended to
he made, no new oath was administered, and
the old oath, therefore, remained valid. Be
fore the termination of the “war of succes
sion,” when Acadia was annexed to the Brit
ish settlements, and the English extended
their possessions in that quarter by the cap
ture of Fort Beau Sejour, the Acadiaus were
accused of having forfeited their neutrality
by supplying intelligence, provisions, and
quarters, to the French and Indians, at Beau
Sejour. It is by no means certain how far this
charge was just- It was, however, followed
by a severe chastisement upon the simple
minded Acadiaus. The punishment ws de
layed, and any announcement of its nature
avoided, till the harvests were gathered in,
that the British Army might seize on the
grain. The villagers were thee called, on a
particular day, church anda 1 Grand Pie,
to hear the orders of ti/u^ A£, * jt >rnor, the
king of England. It was
that all the lands, tenements, herds, g;V' J
and other effects, except money and house
hold goods, of the people, were forfeited to
the crown, and themselves to be removed to
distal.t colonies. This precaution of distrih
using the Acadiaus among English settlers
was taken to prevent the possibility of their
joining with the French against their new
masters, whom they iiad now so little cause
to love. Ships and soldiers were on the spot
to execute this abominable decree. The
whole number of persons collected together
at Grand Pre on this occasion was somewhat
under t wo thousand, and these were hurried on
shipboard with the most cruel confusion, and
disastrous and life-long separations of child
from parent, husband from wife, and lover
from lover. A disaster of the last kind fur
nishes the story. Evangeline is about to be
married to Gabriel Lujeuncsse. In the hur
ry of deportation they are separated by hun
dreds of miles, and have no means of dis
covering each other’s destination. Gabriel
takes to the wandering life of a huntsman in
prairie and mountain. Evangeline lives on,
moving, according to opportunity, from one
place to another, in the hope of finding him.
At one moment he passes her on the river,
hut she is sleeping, and does not hear of his
having done so till it is too late to overtake
him. Site does, however, follow him, and is
on his track for months and years. Finally
she gives up the search in despair; and in
the last scene we find her an old woman,
tending the sick in an hospital, to which an
old man, Gabriel, is brought to die. They
recognize each other, and he expires in try
ing to pronounce her name.
“Evangeline” is written in hexameters, or
at least in lines that are intended to pass for
hexameters, for real hexameters are next to
impossible in a language like ours, which
owes nearly all its capacity for versification
to accent, and not to quantity ; while, how
ever, true hexameters are almost impossible
in English, pseudo-hexameters, like those of
Mr. Clough and Mr. Longfellow, are so easy
that they entirely miss the great end of me
tre, namely, that ot imposing a severe exter
nal law upon the otherwise rank exuberance
ol poetical feeling and expression. Such
hexameters are, indeed, nothing more than
the revival of the “measured prose” which
was thought so much of in the days of our
grandmothers, and which chiefly consisted in
the recurrence, at intervals of from fourteen
to eighteen syllables, of the monotonous ca
dence that alone distinguishes Mr. Longfel
low’s verses from ordinary prose.
We commence our extracts from “Evan
geline” with the description of the heroine :
‘'Fair was she to behold, that maiden of seventeen
summers.
Black were her eye* 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 washer breath as the breath of kins that food in
the meadows.
When in the harvest heat, she bore to the reapers, at
noontide,
Flagons of home-brewed ale; ah! lair, in sooth, was
the maiden.
Fairer was she 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
her ear-rings,
Brought in the olden time from France, and since, as an
heir-loom.
Handed down from mother to child, through long gen
erations.
But a celestial brightness, a more ethereal beauty,
Shone on her face, and encircled her form, when after
confession,
Homeward serenely sire walked, with God’s benedic
tion upon her.
When she had past, it seemed like the ceasing of ex
quisite music.”
This damsel had, of course, many wooers,
but
“Among all who came, young Gabriel only was wel
come :
Gabriel Lajeunesse, the son of Basil the blacksmith,
Who was a mighty man in the village, and honored of
ail men;
bor since the birth of time, throughout all ages and na
tions,
Has the craft of the smith been held in repute by the
people.
Basil was Benedict’s friend. Their children, from earli
e.t childhood,
Grew up together as brother and sister ; and Father Fe
lieian,
Driest and pedagogue both in the village, had taught
them their letters
Out of the self-same book, with the hymns of the Church
and the plain song.
But when the hymn was sung, and the daily lesson com
pleted,
Swiftly they burred away to the forge of Basil the
blacksmith.
There, at the door, they stood with wandering eyes, to
behold him
Take in his leathern lap the hoof of the horse as a play
thing,
Nailing the shoe in its place; while near him the tire of
the cart wheel
Bay like a fiery snake, curled round in a circle of cin
ders.
Oft in 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.”
! iie evening of the lover’s formal betroth
al is ushered in by some extremely pleasing
description:
“Day with its burden and heat had departed, and twi
light 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,
Anu with their nostrils distended, inhaling the freshness
of evening.
rJfc 11 paring the bell, Evangeline’s beautiful heiier,
... ‘"re hide, and the ribbon that wav
“> he pleased t<jsee old friends .
Quietly e- -w*. inquirer—fe of human af
leotion. , j ,
Then came the shepherd
from the sea-side, ff a a /sa
Where was their favorite ua-ture. .T*o; j ‘Ajj y •
ed the wa teh dog, ‘f J \ J g
Patient, full ol importance, and grand in the , -
his instinct,
Walking from side to side with a lordly air, and superbly
Waving his bushy tail, and urging forward the strag
glers.”
The scenery of village, forest, and prairie,
are given with breadth and distinctness
enough to please, though with none of that
more than scientific accuracy of observation
and description which is characteristic of the
great poet. The author is profuse in illus
trations, which, although they are often strik
ing, are seldom harmonious, or in keeping
with the feeling of the passage into which
they are introduced. The following lines af
ford one out of scores of examples which we
could bring forward to prove the fault in
question :
“In doors, warm by the wide-mouth'd fire-place, idly
the farmer
Sat in his elbow-chair, and watched how the flame and
the smoko 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 flickering light; and the pewter plates
on the dresser
Caught and reflected the. flame.es shields of armies the
sunshine !”
Here is a piece of singularly good descrip
tion quite ruined, as far as regards unity of
feeling, by the last half line. What in the
world have “shields of armies” to do with a
farmer’s cosy kitchen in Acadia Ia place
which probably never saw a soldier till the
day upon which a small detachment arrived
to put an end to the quiet little common
wealth which had established itself there.
Mr. Longfellow seems to think that an illus
tration from the Bible will make up in sa
credness for any degree of inaptitude. The
following are a few instances of this mistake.
Evangeline was looking at the evening skv :
“And as she gasted from the window, she saw serenely
the moon pa3s
Forth from the folds of a cloud, and one star followed
her footsteps,
As out of Abraham’s tent young Ishmael wandered
with lagar!”
Again, when Evangeline, on learning that
her lover passed her on the river while she
was sleeping, sets out with the blacksmith in
pursuit of him ; the “priest,” b v way, we sup
pose, ot keeping up his sacerdotal character,
bids Basil farewell, exclaiming,
“see that you bring back the prodigal son from his
lasting and famine,
And, too, the foolish virgin, who slept when the bride
groom was coming.”
Now there is nothing whatever in Gabriel’s
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NO. 41.
behavior or position to assimilate him to “the
prodigal son and the inaptness of the allu
sion in the second line is only surpassed by
its irreverence. At another time the villagers
were assembled on the beach, waiting for
the embarkation of themselves and their
goods: and among them wandered the faith
ful jfHest, consoling, and blessing, and cheer
ing*
“Like unto shipwrecked Paul on Melita’s de3olato
sea-strand.”
But not more like unto Paul on that occa
sion than any other religious person, walking
on any other sea-coast, and under any cir
cumstances whatever, would have been. In
another place,
“with the winds of September
Wrestled the trees of the forest, as Jacob of old with
the angel.”
Our last example of this painfully mistaken
kind of illustration is from the death bed of
Gabriel:
“Hot and rod on his lips still burned the flush of tho
lever,
As if life, tike the Hebrew, with biood had besprinkled
the portals,
That the angel of death might see the sign, and pass
over.”
This, if it can be called an illustration at
all, is an illustration “by contraries,” seeing
that, in this instance, the angel of death did
not pass over, and that the flushed lips were
a sign rather of Gabriel’s being a fit victim
for the destroyer, than one who was freo
from his power. Another effect of Mr. Long
fellow’s want of true poetical sincerity is seen
in a class of similes, which, by the conspicu
ous position given to them, are evidently fa
vorites with luni, but which seem to us to be
conceits, often, of scarcely a first rate allium
rank. The stars, for example, are called
“the forget-me-nots of the angels.”
Mr. Longfellow, we believe, makes no se
cret of his being a Socinian ; but wo should
have guessed him to be such, from the air of
unreality about all the portions of “Evange
line” in which the life and doctrines of Chris*
! tianitv are brought in for artistical effect.
The inhabitants of Grand Pie are a great
deal too good. They “lack gall to make op
pression bitter,” and are robbed of their most
sacred rights, for which they are bound, as
good Christians, to fight to the death, as easi
ly as a flock of sheep are brought to tho
slaughter. There are occasions when Chris
tians, as members of a community, are bound
to do their very best towards confounding
and slaying tiieir fellow creatures by whom
they are attacked. Such an occasion was
that which is represented by Mr. Longfellow
as having happened to the inhabitants of
Acadia. Let any Christian—English, Scot
tish, or Irish—fancy that the news had reached
him, one fine morning, that a French army
had taken steps towards “deporting” him and
I his from their rightful soil, and assuming pos
i session of his property—wife and daughters
perhaps included —would his wrath be calm
ed and his resistance stopped by such words
embracing- tFelieian’s address to the simple
try, from whom o,„_.
count made.
August 27 1852. ■ . ... r
f “ifo of angry con-
Muscogee Rail-Roan.
cian ‘ ■
Raising hi* reverend hand, with a gS L\E
silence
All that ciamnroua throng; and thus he spake te qo
people; —.
Deep were his tones, and solemn ; in accents measured
and mournful
Spake lie, as after the tocsin’s alarum, distinctly the
clock strikes:
“What is this that ye do, my children? what madness
has seized yon ?
Forty years of rny life have I labored among you and
taught you,
Not in the word alone, but in deed, to love one another!
Is this the fruit of niv toils, of my vigils, and prayere,
and privations?
Have you so soon forgotten all lessons of love and for
giveness ?
This is the house of the Prince of Peace, aDd would
you profane it
Thus with violent deeds, and words overflowing with
hatred ?
Lo ! where the crucified Saviour, from his cross, is gaz
ing upon you!
See! in those sorrowful eyes, what meekness and holy
compassion!
Hark, how those lip* 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 the people
Sank they, and sobs of contrition succeeded that pas
sionate outbreak;
And they repeated his prayer, and said, “O Father, for
give them!”
If any preacher were foolish enough thus
to address good Christians so situated, we
trust that he would get well laughed at for his
pains, and duly censured by bis authorities,
for his gross misinterpretation and misap
plication of Scriptural precepts: but the
foolish Acadiaus repented them forthwith of
their righteous wrath and impulse to resist
ance, and
“Responded
Not with their lips alone, but their hearts; and the
Avo Maria fj
Sang they, and fell on their knees; aud their souls with
d#\ lotion transported
Rose, on the ardor of prayer, like Elijah ascending’ to
Heaven,”
Our pity for Gabriel, the betrothed of the
fair maiden, Evangeline, is certainly much
diminished by knowing that he is one of this
congregation of spoonies.
From the extracts we have given, our
readers will see that the language of “Evan
geline” is very far from answering to Cole
ridge’s standard of poetical phraseology—
“the best words in the best places.” Mr.
Longfellow’s words are commonly about as
well chosen as those of a first-rate novgl wri
ter. The true poet’s invincible determine*