"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."

Nor is the picture of Gabriel's sire unworthy to be placed by its side:

"Thus as they sat, 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 black

smith,

Taking with easy air the accustomed seat by the fireside."

The blacksmith comes to announce the arrival of a fleet from England with hostile intentions.

The incredulity of the old farmer is admirably described.

"Then with a pleasant smile made answer the jovial farmer:

'Safer we are unarmed, in the midst of our flocks and our corn

fields,

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 to-night 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 twelve

month.

René 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."

The decision of the English Government is that the inhabitants of this happy village shall be scattered. Mr. Longfellow paints with great force, beauty, and tenderness, the departure of the villagers.

"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 woodland.

Close at their sides their children ran, and urged on the oxen,

Clasping still in their little hands some fragments of playthings."

There is a simplicity about many of the descriptions in Evangeline which is very seldom apparent in his other poems. Our readers will, of course, remember how well the English hexameter sounds for a dozen lines or so, but a poem in that measure is insufferably tedious.

The lovers are separated, and the end of the first part closes with the following beautiful lines:

"Lo! with a mournful sound, like the voice of a vast congregation, Solemnly answered the sea, and mingled its roar with the dirges. "T was 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."

The second part does not seem to be equal to the first. Still it has pieces of painting worthy of any poet, and every fine image makes us regret the injudicious metre it is written in. The wanderings and patient enduring of Evangeline are told with great pathos. Finally, after many sore heart-wastings she meets her lover, but it is in old age, and on his death-bed. This scene is thus described :

"Suddenly, as if arrested by fear or a feeling of wonder, Still she stood, with her colorless lips apart, while a shudder Ran through her frame, and, forgotten, the flowerets dropped from her fingers,

And, from her eyes and cheeks, the light and bloom of the

morning.

Then there escaped from her lips a cry of such terrible anguish,
That the dying heard it, and started up from their pillows.

On the pallet before her was stretched the form of an old man.
Long, and thin, and grey were the locks that shaded his temples;
But, as he lay in the morning light, his face for a moment
Seemed to assume once more the forms of its earlier manhood;
So are wont to be changed the faces of those who are dying.
Hot and red on his lips still burned the flush of the fever,

As if life, like the Hebrew, with blood had besprinkled its portals,
That the Angel of Death might see the sign, and pass over,
Motionless, senseless, dying, he lay, and his spirit exhausted
Seemed to be sinking down through infinite depths in the darkness,
Darkness of slumber and death, for ever sinking and sinking.
Then through those realms of shade, in multiplied reverberations,
Heard he that cry of pain, and through the hush that succeeded,
Whispered a gentle voice, in accents tender and saint-like,
'Gabriel! O my beloved!' and died away in silence."

The concluding scene of this tale of Faithful Love is exquisitely done. It is a perfect gem!

"Then he beheld, in a dream, once more the home of his childhood; Green Acadian meadows, with sylvan rivers among them, Viilage, and mountain, and woodlands; and, walking under their shadow,

As in the days of her youth, Evangeline rose in his vision. Tears came into his eyes; and as slowly he lifted his eyelids, Vanished the vision away, but Evangeline knelt by his bedside. Vainly he strove to whisper her name, for the accents unuttered

Died on his lips, and their motion revealed what his tongue would

have spoken.

Vainly he strove to rise; and Evangeline, kneeling beside him,

Kissed his dying lips, and laid his head on her bosom.

Sweet was the light of his eyes; but it suddenly sank into darkness,

As when a lamp is blown out by a gust of wind at a casement.”

Thus ends the most elaborated of Mr. Longfellow's poems, and it is one, perhaps, on which he most prides himself. We do not set the high estimate on it which many of his admirers do, but we think we have quoted enough to convince the reader that it is full of poetical thought and feeling. We cannot help thinking that the author has missed a great success by embodying this conception in hexameters.

The next production on which Mr. Longfellow has lavished his greatest care is the play entitled "The Spanish Student." As a dramatist he has signally failed. He lacks nerve and condensation. The story is very prettily told by the actors, but beyond the dialogue form it has no pretensions to be called a Drama. You are informed, but not roused. The progress is pleasant, the speeches are elegant, and there is an external of velvet thrown over the form which is fatal to its interest, individuality, and vigor. The actors are masks, and not men. It is a refined conversation, and not a human group working to an intelligible end, moved by their own foibles and pursuits, but determined by some master passion in the superior mind of the one man, round whom the others revolve, by the force of a psychological gravitation, as unerring as that natural law by