History That Doesn't Suck - 53: A Civil War Christmas with Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Episode Date: December 9, 2019

“Our dispatches state that Lieut. Longfellow of First Mass. Cavalry was severely wounded.” This is the story of a son nearly lost and a poet in a dark place.  Young, idealistic Charley Longfellow loves his country and is ready to fight and die for it. His father—the former Harvard College Professor of English and Literature, celebrated author, and grieving widower, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow—fears losing his son in the Civil War and doesn’t want him to enlist. But Charley does. A bullet rips through the youth soon thereafter. 1863 has truly been a terrible year for Henry. Mourning the loss of his wife, praying for his son’s recovery, and anxious about the war-torn nation’s future, Christmas feels hollow as he listens to bells ring that day. But he believes better days are to come. He expresses his pain and hope for a future peace by penning a poem future generations of Americans will cherish as the Christmas Carol, “I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day.” ____ Connect with us on HTDSpodcast.com and go deep into episode bibliographies and book recommendations join discussions in our Facebook community get news and discounts from The HTDS Gazette  come see a live show get HTDS merch or become an HTDS premium member for bonus episodes and other perks. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

What did it take to survive an ancient siege? Why was the cult of Dionysus behind so many slave revolts in ancient Rome? What's the tragic history and mythology behind Japan's most haunted ancient forest? We're Jen and Jenny from Ancient History Fangirl. Join us to explore ancient history and mythology from a fun, sometimes tipsy, perspective. Find us at ancienthistoryfangirl.com or wherever you get your podcasts. From the creators of the popular science show with millions of YouTube subscribers comes the MinuteEarth podcast. Every episode of the show dives deep into a science question you

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with no agenda other than making the past come to life as you learn. If you'd like to help support this work, receive ad-free episodes, bonus content, and other exclusive perks, I invite you to join the HTDS membership program. Sign up for a seven-day free trial today at htdspodcast.com slash membership, or click the link in the episode notes. Merry Christmas and happy holidays. As you longtime fans know, we've got a tradition of telling a Christmas story that ties into whatever phase of American history we're currently covering.

Today, that means jumping ahead one year to 1863 for the touching, heart-wrenching, but hopeful tale of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow channeling his personal pain and loss to write one of the most famous poems slash Christmas carols ever penned by an American. This is a Civil War Christmas. Let's go. Welcome to History That Doesn't Suck. I'm your professor, Greg Jackson, and I'd like to tell you a story. It's November 27th, 1863. The Union Army of the Potomac slowly marches across the muddy terrain on the southern banks of the Rapidan River in Virginia. In this part of the country, winter has come early.

Yesterday, dense fog made army movements, and more importantly, recon missions, nearly impossible. This morning, the fog has been replaced by Biden cold. But unfortunately for Union General George Meade's boys in blue, it's not quite cold enough to freeze the muddy roads. Men, wagons, and animals slip and slide in the oozing, mucky pathways they are trying to traverse. These men are supposed to be marching double time to attack the nearby Confederate army, but bad roads and inaccurate maps cause one delay after another. Federal soldier Charles Wainwright puts it bluntly, quote,

We plunged blindly into an unknown, densely wooded country with no guides except perhaps an old country map. Close quote. The maps are so useless that an entire division of Yankees gets lost in the woods. And the narrow roads are barely wide enough for a single wagon, let alone an army trying to move quickly. Federal Lieutenant Theodore Lyman recounts that his division can only march in a column up to four men wide. Another soldier, Sam Fisk, grumbles that, quote, we would march about a rod, then wait five minutes, when we could march a rod more, and then wait another five minutes. Close quote.

This march through the woods sounds almost as bad as standing in a line to buy a last-minute present on Christmas Eve. But these Union soldiers can't look forward to a calm ride home in a heated car with a cup of fresh coffee. No, they're marching right into an enemy force. One Yankee reports that he is, quote, marching quietly along, not expecting any trouble just then, when suddenly, like a clap of thunder out of a clear sky,

our ambulance train was fired into and for a little while all was confusion. Close quote. In fact, Confederate General Edward Johnson is just as surprised to find a Yankee army in these woods as the Yankees are to be found. In his later report of this battle, Confederate Commander Robert E. Lee explains that, quote, Owing to the character of the country, the presence of the enemy was not discovered, close quote. That's his professional way of saying that the close growing trees, narrow roads, and dense underbrush completely hid the two forces from one another, even though they are probably

close enough to smell each other. But now that rebel and Yankee soldiers have literally stumbled into a battle, they quickly form lines and open fire with reckless abandon. Soon, the boys in gray are pushing the federal lines back. In the confusion of battle, one Union soldier, Charlie Longfellow, tries to get a safer position. He mounts his horse and rides out of a thicket, but the dark-haired soldier's nearly new blue cavalry jacket with its gold braiding on the shoulders and distinctive buttons identify him as a lieutenant to enemy sharpshooters. Before Charlie gets very far, a shot tears through him. The injured cavalryman bleeds profusely from both shoulders as medics evacuate him to their

battlefield hospital at nearby New Hope Church. A doctor quickly examines Charlie and determines that the bullet passed under both shoulder blades, nicking the spine but missing Charlie's lungs and heart. It will take four days for the War Department to get word of Charlie's injury to his father, the famous poet, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Want to learn how you can make smarter decisions with your money? Well, I've got the podcast for you. I'm Sean Piles, and I host NerdWallet's Smart Money Podcast. On our show, we help listeners like you make the most of your finances. I sit down with NerdWallet's team of nerds, personal finance experts in credit cards,

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you make the smartest financial decisions for your life. Listen to NerdWallet's Smart Money Podcast wherever you get your podcasts. Yes, that Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Sound familiar? For any of you listeners who took an American lit class in high school or college, his name probably came up a few times. In the 21st century, Henry Longfellow will be considered one of the greatest American authors ever. Even here in 1863,

Henry's a well-known, well-connected, and well-paid writer. So how does his oldest son Charlie end up as an obscure, injured cavalry lieutenant in the even more obscure battle of Mine Run? That's the first thing we'll cover. I'll take you back several months for some background on Henry and Charlie Longfellow. But in truth, that's all in service to today's real story. The tale of how Charlie's injury impacts Christmas at the Longfellow house, and ultimately, Christmas for countless Americans in the generations to come as the poet Longfellow's pain produces what will become a treasured carol.

Ready? Let's get started by heading back to the start of this year. Rewind. It's March, 1863. Henry's a few years into his early retirement from working as a professor of English and literature at Harvard College. He left to hang out his own shingle as a full-time writer, and it's gone rather well for him. Books, translations, poetry, you name it, he's done it. He's published several well-known books and poetry collections, but his bestseller is the epic poem, The Song of Hiawatha. Henry and his six children live in the historic Craigie House located in Cambridge, Massachusetts.

Just a short jaunt up Brattle Street from Harvard Square, the two-story Georgian-style residence served as General George Washington's military headquarters for a while back in 1775. But this clappered mansion, with dark shutters and impressive columns flanking the whitewashed front door, holds significant sorrow for Henry. Only two years earlier, Henry's second wife, Fanny, died from several burns when her dress caught fire. Henry tried to put out the flames with a rug and badly burned his own face and hands in the process. The front hall rug still has the burn marks on it from that terrible day. Grief-stricken Henry hasn't written much in the two years since he buried his beloved wife

and began to raise his six kids all alone. And it's under these circumstances that his oldest son, impetuous, dark-haired Charlie, runs away to join the Union army. The father and son had talked about his interest in joining the fight, but Henry certainly didn't expect Charlie would abscond without warning. Yet that's exactly what the youth did. Charlie only sends a short note to his father explaining his decision after the fact on March 14, 1863. The letter reads, of going without your leave, but I cannot any longer. I feel it to be my first duty to do what I can for my country, and I would willingly lay down my life for it if it would be of any good. God bless you all. Yours affectionately, Charlie. With those four lines, 19-year-old Charlie enters

the war. Henry understands his son's patriotic zeal, but he's worried sick. So the well-connected father pulls every string and writes to every friend of a friend he can in an effort to keep Charlie safe. The influential poet is able to get his inexperienced boy a commission as a lieutenant in the Massachusetts 1st Cavalry Regiment. Henry can only pray that this position will keep him safe, but that's far from a guarantee in this brutal, deadly civil war ravaging the country. As you heard about earlier in this episode, Charlie gets shot on November 27th. Four days later, on December 1st, Henry receives a telegram as he sits down to dinner. Quote, Our dispatches state that Lieutenant Longfellow of

1st Massachusetts Cavalry was severely wounded at Mount New Hope Church on Friday, November 27th. No chance of wounded being sent at present. The middle-aged single father is beside himself. Charlie is badly wounded and the army can't even send the boy home to recover? Immediately, Henry decides to go to the nation's capital and bring his son home himself. He takes a train and steamer to Washington, D.C. that night. In fact, the worried New Englander moves faster than the Union army could ever hope to, and Henry arrives in D.C. days before medics can get Charlie there. Finally, on December 5th, the father and son are reunited. After a few days rest, doctors give wounded Charlie permission to travel home.

On December 9th, Henry sends a quick telegram to his kids waiting back at home. Quote, Shall be home at 10. Have Dr. Wyman there. Close quote. Henry is wealthy enough to afford quality medical care for his son, but the young lieutenant is in rough shape. That bullet may have missed his lungs and heart, but it ripped through several muscles as it traveled from one side of his body to the other, and Charlie is in constant pain. It will be months before he can function on his own again. And so, Charlie's short time in the army ends. On December 22nd, only three days before Christmas, Henry writes to a friend,

quote, the lieutenant has his ups and downs, but upon the whole, he is getting on very well. Close quote. Charlie wanders from his upstairs bedroom to his father's main floor study almost every day, probably to get a change of scenery. Henry enjoys the company and sets Charlie up with his softest cushion and best chair. Henry describes the scene to another friend. Quote, Your lotus leaf pillow is now giving comfort to a younger head than mine. The wounded officers. He comes down into my study every day and is propped up with it in a great chair. How brave these boys are. Not a single murmur or complaint, though he has a wound through him a foot long.

He pretends it does not hurt him. Close quote. Truth be told it does not hurt him. Close quote. Truth be told, Henry is struggling too. His oldest son is wounded and all six of his kids, ages 8 to 20, are preparing for another Christmas without their mother. Understandably, Henry hasn't been able to write much of anything in his still raw grief. Damn. Looks like it will be a dreary Christmas at the Longfellow house this year. On Friday, December 25th, 1863, Henry slips into his office. Charlie's upstairs, so the study is quiet except for the distant sound of church

bells playing a Christmas hymn. Henry sighs and begins to write. I heard the bells on Christmas day, their old familiar carols play, and wild and sweet the words repeat Of peace on earth, goodwill to men. And thought how, as the day had come, The belfries of all Christendom Had rolled along the unbroken song Of peace on earth, goodwill 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, goodwill to men. Henry looks at the stanzas on the page. It feels good to write something original, not just the translations of Dante he's been working on lately. Nevertheless, these words don't express any of the anguish that has colored his life for the last two and a half years. His wife's death, his own painful injuries, the civil war, and his son's terrifying part, however small, in that deadly fight.

Henry keeps writing. He paints a verbal picture of deadly balls flying from the mouths of cannons on the battlefield. Then from each black, accursed mouth, the cannon thundered in the south, and with the sound, the carols drowned, of peace on earth, goodwill to men. It was as if an earthquake rent

the hearthstones of a continent and made forlorn the households born of peace on earth, goodwill to men. Could Henry be recalling President Lincoln's 1861 inaugural address as he writes these words? Lincoln said, The mystic chords of memory stretching from every battlefield and patriot grave to every living heart and hearthstone all over this broad land will yet swell the cords of the union. In his hopeless melancholy, Henry seems to be implying that Lincoln's cords of memory that bind American hearthstones are broken beyond repair. The poet keeps writing,

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, goodwill to men. The distant church bells are still ringing. Henry scans through his words again as he listens to their sound. He seems to see a glimmer of hope through the gloom in his life and nation and finishes the poem with one more stanza, then peeled 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, goodwill to men. Henry puts down his pen. He's produced a seven stanza work that reflects fears and trepidation his fellow mid-century Americans will certainly

find relatable. But despite his own deep pain, loss, and uneasiness about his country's fate, Henry's ended on a more positive note with the hope of a brighter future. One in which the right prevail. Where the promise of a loving God doesn't seem so distant. Is that his honest opinion? Is it simply hope? An act of faith? Your guess is as good as mine. These seven stanzas won't see the light of day immediately, though. Henry places the poem, simply entitled Christmas Bells, in a drawer for now. And with it tucked away, he leaves his study to join his family in their Christmas celebrations. Henry won't publish this morning's work until 1865. Nearly a decade later, in 1872, composer John Baptiste Kalkin sets the words to music. There's a good chance you're familiar with

the poem turned beloved Christmas carol, now titled, I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day, but John chooses to leave out stanzas four and five. I don't know what John was going for. Was the song just too long for his liking? Did he hope to shed the memory of the painful recent war? Intentional or not, John's decision effectively erased the Civil War, arguably the crux of Henry's poem, from the song. I'd like for you to hear this carol the way Henry first wrote it. Now, I'm not aware of any group that sings it that way. Then there's that whole copyright thing. So I've teamed up with my cellist brother, Brad, and vocalist, Cason Renshaw, to perform a simple, humble arrangement of Henry Longfellow's Christmas Bells for you. By the way, if you enjoy Cason's voice, check out his YouTube channel. His name is spelled C-A-Y-S-O-N

R-E-N-S-H-A-W. And please note, I've slowed the tempo down on verses 3 through 6 to give you some extra time to soak in Henry's long discarded stanzas of civil war, turmoil, and grief before I pick up with the poet's final, hopeful lines. Lastly, a Merry Christmas and Happy Holiday season to you and yours from the whole HTDS fam. Alright then, with no further ado, here we go. I heard the bells on Christmas Day, their old familiar carols play And wild and sweet the words repeat Of peace on earth, goodwill to men

And thought how as the day had come The belfries of all Christendom Had rolled along the unbroken song Of peace on earth, goodwill 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

Then from each black accursed mouth The cannon thundered in the south And with the sound the carols drowned Of peace on earth, good will to man. It was as if an earthquake rent the hearthstones of a continent and made forlorn the households born of peace on earth, goodwill 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, goodwill 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, goodwill to men. Longfellow. Music composed by John Baptiste Kalkin. Arranged by Greg Jackson and Susan Jackson. Performance by Greg Jackson, Bradford Jackson, and Kacen Renshaw. History That Doesn't Suck is created and hosted by me, Greg Jackson. Research and writing, Greg Jackson and C.L. Salazar. Production and sound design, Josh Beatty of J.B. Audio Design. Musical score, composed and performed by Greg Jackson and Diana Averill. For a bibliography of all primary and secondary sources consulted in writing this episode, visit historythatdoesntsuck.com. Join me in two weeks, where I'd like to tell you a story. HTDS is supported by premium membership fans.

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