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 hemlock,
Such as the peasants of Normandy built in the reign
of the Henries.
Thatched were the roofs, with dormer-windows; and
gables projecting
Over the basement below protected and shaded the doorway.
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 their 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
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 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 penthouse,
Such as the traveller 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 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 hillside hounding, 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.
