Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow lived one hundred and twenty years ago. He was an American poet, educator, and linguist. I’ve tried to read some of his work, but my brain doesn’t comprehend some of that “ye old school prose.” However, I find Mr. Longfellow an interesting fellow. One thing he did write that we all know is,

Listen, my children, and you shall hear

Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,

On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-Five;

Hardly a man is now alive

Who remembers that famous day and year?

His first wife, Mary, at age twenty two had a miscarriage and died just three years into their marriage. Longfellow busied himself writing and teaching at Harvard. He became one of the first to publicly support abolitionism and wrote a book for the New England Anti-Slavery Association.

Longfellow found love again and married Frances Appleton on July 13th 1843. They had five children and for eighteen years Longfellow went about his business of father, writer, and teacher.

1861 would be a year he wouldn’t forget. In early spring his nation went to war. For the first time in the countries short history, Americans were killing Americans. While bloody battles covered his beloved land he witnessed an unthinkable event.

His wife was trimming their seven year old daughter’s hair. Afterwards, Frances wanted to save a few clippings. She tucked the hair in an envelope and grabbed candle used for sealing. Hot wax fell on her dress. Henry heard screams from the other room. He ran to find his wife engulfed in flames, grabbing a rug, he covered her up, but it was too late. She died a painful death and Henry was helpless only to watch her suffer. His burns were so bad he couldn’t attend his wife’s funeral. Now, not only was he a widower, he was a single dad who had to cope with a seven year old daughter who saw her mother die doing motherly things.

If you ever see a picture of Longfellow, you’ll notice his full beard. It’s not a fashion statement, it’s because the burns left his face too painful to shave.

The world went on and so did the war.

Henry always kept journal and the Christmas after his wife’s death he wrote, "How inexpressibly sad are all holidays."

The next Christmas Henry wrote, "'A merry Christmas' say the children, but that is no more for me."

I’m just speculating, but I bet Henry was sick of the war and tired with life. Americans were dying, his heart hurt, and his country was falling apart. Just before Christmas he received word that his son had been severely wounded in battle. A bullet went through his chest and left him with a spinal injury. On Christmas day, Henry wrote nothing in his journal. The man who found words so easy to come by was silent. His craft was no longer worth his time. He outlived two wives, his son shed blood in this never ending war and peace seemed only a dream.

I don’t know what demons he battled or how he overcame such a personal tragedy, Henry picked up his pen on Christmas Day, 1864.

These words were written in his journal.

I heard the bells on Christmas day their old familiar carols play and wild and sweet the words repeat of peace on earth, good will to men. I thought how, as the day had come, the belfries of all Christendom had rolled along the unbroken song of peace on earth, good will to men.

And in despair I bowed my head, “There is no peace on earth,” I said, “For hate is strong and mocks the song of peace on earth, good will to men.”

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep: “God is not dead, nor doth He sleep; the wrong shall fail, the right prevail with peace on earth, good will to men.'

Till ringing, singing on its way the world revolved from night to day, a voice, a chime, a chant sublime of peace on earth, good will to men.