LONGFELLOW’S BOYHOOD
Our poet seems to have been a quiet, well behaved child, rather slight,
but always standing up perfectly straight. He was careful of his clothes,
and learned his lessons well. Some people seem to think that a very
good little boy will never grow up to be worth anything. Certainly it
is a good thing to have plenty of spirit and energy; but Longfellow is
an example of a boy who was as good as George Washington is said to
have been, and he grew up to be the greatest poet in America, just as
Washington grew up to be the greatest president.
When he was three years old little Henry was sent to school. For a
many years a certain Ma’am Fellows had kept a school in a little brick
schoolhouse not far from the Wadsworth mansion, and it was she who taught
the poet his first lessons. Ma’am Fellows was a firm believer in the
doctrine that “one should never smile in school hours.” Years afterward
Longfellow told what he remembered of her. “My recollections of my
first teacher,” said the poet, “are not vivid: but I recall that she was
bent on giving me a right start in life; that she thought that even very
young children should be made to know the difference between right and
wrong; and that severity of manner was more practical than gentleness of
persuasion. She inspired me with one trait,—that is, a genuine respect
for my elders.”
He afterward went to several other schools, including one in Love Lane.
When he grew a little older he had to write compositions, and there is a
story about the first one he ever wrote. His teacher told him to write a
composition; but he thought he couldn’t do it.
“But you can write words, can you not?” asked the teacher.
“Yes,” was the response.
“Then you can put words together?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then,” said the instructor, “you may take your slate and go out behind
the schoolhouse, and there you can find something to write about; and
then you can tell what it is, what it is for, and what is to be done
with it; and that will be a composition.”
Henry took his slate and went out. He went behind Mr. Finney’s barn,
which chanced to be near; and, seeing a fine turnip growing, he thought
he knew what it was, what it was for, and what would be done with it.
A half hour had been allowed young Henry for his first undertaking in
writing compositions. Before that time had expired he carried in his
work, very neatly written on his slate. It was so well done that his
teacher was both surprised and pleased.
There has been published in the newspapers a very funny poem about a
turnip, and some have said that it is the one which Longfellow wrote
at this time. But the truth is, he never wrote it, for that first
composition was rubbed off the slate and lost forever. This other poem
was written years afterward by somebody for a joke. Here is the poem,
however, for you to laugh about. You will clearly see that Longfellow
could not have written it himself.
MR. FINNEY’S TURNIP
Mr. Finney had a turnip,
And it grew, and it grew;
And it grew behind the barn,
And the turnip did no harm.
And it grew and it grew,
Till it could grow no taller;
Then Mr. Finney took it up,
And put it in the cellar.
There it lay, there it lay,
Till it began to rot;
When his daughter Susie washed it,
And put it in the pot.
Then she boiled it, and she boiled it,
As long as she was able;
Then his daughter Lizzie took it,
And she put it on the table.
Mr. Finney and his wife
Both sat down to sup;
And they ate, and they ate,
Until they ate the turnip up.
When he was only thirteen years old Longfellow wrote a real poem, which,
though it has never been published, is said to have been preserved in
manuscript. It was entitled “Venice, an Italian Song.” The manuscript is
dated “Portland Academy, March 17, 1820,” and is signed with the full
name of the writer.
It was not long after this that his first published poem appeared. It was
entitled “The Battle of Lovell’s Pond,” and was printed in one of the
newspapers of Portland.
There were only two papers in that city then. Having written the
ballad very carefully and neatly, Henry thought he would like to see
it in print; but he was afraid to take it to the editor. One of his
school-mates persuaded him, however, and he stole up one night and
dropped it into the editorial box.
He waited patiently for the next issue of the paper, and then scanned
its columns for his poem, which he thought surely would be there. But
it wasn’t. Many weeks passed and it did not appear. At last he went and
asked to have his manuscript returned.
It was given him and he took it over to the other paper, the _Portland
Gazette_, by whose editor it was accepted and immediately published over
the signature “Henry.” Here are the first two stanzas:
Cold, cold is the north wind and rude is the blast
That sweeps like a hurricane loudly and fast,
As it moans through the tall waving pines, lone and drear,
Sighs a requiem sad o’er the warrior’s bier.
The war-whoop is still, and the savage’s yell
Has sunk into silence along the wild dell;
The din of the battle, the tumult is o’er,
And the war-clarion’s voice is now heard no more.
After that the young poet could have his verses printed in that paper as
often as he liked, and he wrote a number of pieces for this purpose.
He went to Portland Academy, and was ready to enter college at fourteen.
One of his teachers at the academy, who, no doubt, did a great deal
to impress his young mind, was Jacob Abbott, the author of the “Rollo
Books.” Some years ago these were the most popular books for boys and
girls then known, and perhaps some of the young people of this generation
have read them. If they have, they will know what fine books they are.