SECTION II. by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow: Summary, Meaning & Analysis
This section of Longfellow's epic poem *Evangeline* depicts a vibrant Acadian farming community in autumn, filled with warmth, routine, and quiet happiness.
The poem
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, 150 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 forest, 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 155 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 160 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 farm-yards, Whir of wings in the drowsy air, and the cooing of pigeons 165 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. 170 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. 175 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, 180 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 when the shepherd slept; their protector, When from the forest at night, through the starry silence, the wolves howled. 185 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, 190 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 farm-yard, 195 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. In-doors, warm by the wide-mouthed fireplace, idly the farmer Sat in his elbow-chair, and watched how the flames and the smoke-wreaths 200 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 205 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, 210 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, 215 Footfalls are heard in the aisles, or words of 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, 220 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; 225 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:-- 230 "Benedict Bellefontaine, thou hast ever thy jest and thy ballad! Ever in cheerfullest 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, 235 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 240 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 untimely rains or untimelier heat have been blighted, 245 And from our bursting barns they would feed their cattle and children." "Not so thinketh the folk in the village," said warmly the blacksmith, Shaking his head as in doubt; then, heaving a sigh, he continued:-- "Louisburg is not forgotten, nor Beau Sejour, nor Port Royal. Many already have fled to the forest, and lurk on its outskirts, 250 Waiting with anxious hearts the dubious fate of to-morrow. Arms have been taken from us, and warlike weapons of all kinds; Nothing is left but the blacksmith's sledge and the scythe of the mower." Then with a pleasant smile made answer the jovial farmer:-- "Safer are we unarmed, in the midst of our flocks and our cornfields, 255 Safer within these peaceful dikes besieged by the ocean, Than 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 260 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 twelvemonth. Rene 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, 265 Blushing Evangeline heard the words that her father had spoken, And, as they died on his lips, the worthy notary entered.
This section of Longfellow's epic poem *Evangeline* depicts a vibrant Acadian farming community in autumn, filled with warmth, routine, and quiet happiness. A farmer named Benedict and his daughter Evangeline sit by the fire when their friend Basil the blacksmith arrives with troubling news: British ships have anchored nearby, and the villagers must gather at the church the following day. Despite the looming threat of displacement, Benedict chooses not to let fear ruin the evening — tonight marks Evangeline's betrothal contract.
Line-by-line
Now had the season returned, when the nights grow colder and longer, / And the retreating sun the sign of the Scorpion enters.
Such was the advent of autumn. Then followed that beautiful season, / Called by the pious Acadian peasants the Summer of All-Saints!
Now recommenced the reign of rest and affection and stillness. / Day with its burden and heat had departed, and twilight descending
In-doors, warm by the wide-mouthed fireplace, idly the farmer / Sat in his elbow-chair, and watched how the flames and the smoke-wreaths
Thus as they sat, there were footsteps heard, and, suddenly lifted, / Sounded the wooden latch, and the door swung back on its hinges.
Then with a pleasant smile made answer the jovial farmer:-- / "Safer are we unarmed, in the midst of our flocks and our cornfields,"
Tone & mood
The tone shifts in two directions at once, creating a powerful tension. For the first two-thirds, it feels warm, pastoral, and almost hypnotic — Longfellow takes his time, allowing you to soak in the weight of an autumn evening, the scent of salty hay, and the sound of a spinning wheel. But then Basil arrives, bringing a chill to the atmosphere. The tone turns anxious and even foreboding, although Benedict's cheerfulness keeps things looking bright on the surface. By the end, the reader experiences the sweetness of the betrothal scene alongside the dread of what’s to come. It captures the essence of something beautiful teetering on the brink of destruction.
Symbols & metaphors
- The Summer of All-Saints (Indian Summer) — This brief warm spell after autumn arrives captures the emotional core of this section. It represents the Acadian community — beautiful, peaceful, and fleeting. The peasants call it the "Summer of All-Saints," a name that holds religious significance and suggests innocence and purity, qualities that are soon to be disrupted.
- Evangeline's heifer — The snow-white heifer, proud and gentle, walks "as if she knows about human affection." She quietly represents Evangeline herself — pure, loved, and part of a world of pastoral order. The ribbon on her collar connects her to the domestic happiness of the betrothal night.
- The fireplace and the farmer's shadow — The fire is the heart of home and family. Benedict's shadow flickers and disappears on the wall, a reminder of how fleeting life is — the warmth and stability of this home will soon fade, leaving just a shadow of what once was.
- The Norman and Burgundian songs — Benedict's fragments of old French songs capture cultural memory and ancestral identity. The Acadians are a displaced community that has preserved their heritage. These songs are what the deportation seeks to silence.
- The British ships at anchor — The ships are only vaguely mentioned—they're positioned at the mouth of the Gaspereau with cannons aimed—but they symbolize the invasion of empire and violence into a tranquil, pastoral world. Their offstage presence adds to their threat instead of diminishing it.
- The spinning wheel — Evangeline's spinning wheel, humming along with her father's song, represents the enduring nature of home life and the diligent work of women. It also ties into the classical depiction of the Fates weaving the thread of life — a thread that is on the verge of being severed.
Historical context
This section is taken from *Evangeline: A Tale of Acadie* (1847), a narrative poem by Longfellow that recounts the expulsion of the Acadian people from Nova Scotia by British forces in 1755. The Acadians were French-speaking Catholic settlers who had lived in the area for generations. During the Grand Dérangement, around 10,000 of them were forcibly removed, leading to the destruction of their communities and the separation of families. Longfellow learned about this story from Nathaniel Hawthorne, who had heard it from a clergyman in Nova Scotia. The poem centers on Evangeline Bellefontaine, who is separated from her fiancé Gabriel on their wedding day and embarks on a journey to find him across the continent. Section II takes place on the eve of the deportation in the village of Grand-Pré. Longfellow chose to write in dactylic hexameter, the same meter used by Homer and Virgil, to elevate the Acadian tale to the status of a classical epic.
FAQ
It’s the Acadian term for Indian Summer — that warm, golden period that can unexpectedly appear after the first chill of autumn. Longfellow emphasizes it because it serves a symbolic purpose: this short, beautiful break before winter reflects the community’s final moments of tranquility before the British deportation. The more vividly he depicts this peace, the more heartbreaking its loss will be.
Benedict Bellefontaine is the father of Evangeline, a happy and successful Acadian farmer. His daughter, Evangeline, is the heroine of the poem, and she is on the verge of marrying Gabriel, who is Basil's son. Basil, the village blacksmith, is also a close friend of Benedict's. These three characters form the heart of the domestic world that the poem is set to disrupt.
The poem takes place right before the Grand Dérangement of 1755, when British colonial authorities forcibly expelled the French Acadian population from Nova Scotia. Thousands were crammed onto ships and spread across the Atlantic colonies, with many never coming back. Longfellow used this real historical tragedy as the backdrop for his fictional love story.
He references a story from Herodotus about the Persian king Xerxes, who was so taken by the beauty of a plane-tree that he adorned it with gold and jewels. By likening the Acadian forest to something a Persian king deemed worthy of decoration, Longfellow suggests that this everyday landscape is as grand as anything from the ancient world — and that the people who inhabit it deserve to be seen as the heroes of an epic, not merely as a footnote.
He employs dactylic hexameter, the same meter found in Homer's *Iliad* and *Odyssey*, as well as Virgil's *Aeneid*. This meter creates a long, flowing line reminiscent of waves. Longfellow's choice is intentional; he aimed to bestow the Acadian story with the same dignity and significance as the major epics of Western literature. Additionally, it lends the pastoral imagery a slow, almost hypnotic feel that matches the mood of this section.
Basil reports that British ships have been anchored for four days, arms have been confiscated, and everyone is ordered to the church the next day to hear a royal proclamation. The reader, aware of the history, realizes this is the calm before the storm of the deportation order. The villagers are still oblivious to the fact that they are about to lose everything. Benedict's misplaced optimism is heartbreaking.
Partly, it’s his character—Longfellow paints him as a man with a stubborn sense of good humor. But he also has a clear reason: tonight is the night of Evangeline's betrothal contract, a moment of family joy that he won’t let be ruined. His cheerfulness isn’t ignorance; it’s a deliberate choice to safeguard the happiness of the present. This makes him relatable and, looking back, tragic.
It is the formal betrothal agreement between Evangeline and Gabriel, who is Basil's son. According to Acadian custom, a notary prepares a legal document to formalize an engagement. Rene Leblanc, the notary, shows up just as this section is wrapping up. This contract — a commitment to a shared future — is set to be made on a night when the community's future is under threat.