CHAPTER III
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.