On Christmas Day 1863, American poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow had every reason to feel discouraged and withdrawn. His second wife, Frances (Fanny), had died two years earlier, and he was still reeling from her loss. Henry had worked hard to earn Fanny’s affection (courting her for seven years before they married), and their 18-year marriage had been the happiest years of his life.
But in 1961, while she was sealing envelopes with melted wax, Fanny’s clothes caught fire and the flames enveloped her. Henry rushed to extinguish the flames, but he was too late. Fanny’s burns mortally wounded her and badly disfigured Henry’s face in the process. She died the next day, and Henry was too injured to attend her funeral. Afterward, he slipped into a depression that lasted for years.
Longfellow’s professional life changed after that. He had once been a prolific writer of original works, but after Fanny’s death, he primarily spent his professional time translating other writers’ work (most notably Dante’s Divine Comedy). He grew out his now-iconic beard to hide the scars that lingered after his face was burned.
Two years later, Longfellow found himself with more reasons to be discouraged. He had been a staunch abolitionist for decades, and in 1863 he found the United States embroiled in a Civil War that had started in 1861 when the Confederate slaveholding states decided to secede from the Union. The conflict killed hundreds of thousands of Northern and Southern soldiers, and its violence was as deep culturally and psychologically as it was physically. The nation was being torn apart, literally and ideologically.
In March of 1863, Longfellow’s son Charley traveled to Washington and enlisted in the 1st Massachusetts Army against the wishes of his father. Shortly after he left, he wrote this letter to his father:
Dear Papa,
You know for how long a time I have been wanting to go to the war. I have tried hard to resist the temptation 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,
Charley
Though Charley’s intentions were admirable, 1863 was a fraught year – both for him and for his father. Charley fell ill with a severe case of camp fever in June, and Henry had to travel to Washington to retrieve him. Charley recovered in Massachusetts and returned to the battlefield in August, but many of his illusions about the war quickly faded. After seeing the brutality of battle up close (including witnessing a soldier lose his leg), he wrote “They may talk about the gaiety of a soldier’s life, but it strikes me as pretty earnest work when shells are ripping and tearing your men to pieces.”
In November, Charley was shot during a battle in Virginia. A bullet entered his back, glanced his spine, and exited his shoulder. Henry once again had to retrieve his son and nurse him back to health at their Cambridge, Massachusetts home. By the time they arrived in Cambridge on December 8th, Henry was emotionally exhausted and distraught from bearing two years of pain and grief.
On Christmas Day a couple weeks later, though, Longfellow heard the bells ringing in the steeple of a nearby church, and he had a moment of clarity. His personal life had become anguished and his country was collapsing from within, but the bells he heard ringing in the church cut through the despair and inspired in him a sense of hope he had not felt in some time. He took up a pen and wrote the following poem that day:
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! And 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! 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 men! It was as if an earthquake rent The hearth-stones of a continent, And made forlorn The households born 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."
Nine years later, English organist John Baptiste Calkin set parts of Longfellow’s poem to music, and the resulting carol became known as “I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day.” It’s a familiar standard – a carol about hope and peace that fits neatly into the holiday season. (Here are a few pretty famous versions, if you want to stop for a minute and listen):
The song is fine, but the personal impact of Longfellow’s poem tends to get lost in the familiar, rote singing of a standard melody that sometimes comes across as a dirge. When we understand the origins of its sentiment, though, and we stop to really parse its words, it’s a revelatory poem – one borne of Longfellow’s personal pain and depression, but one that counters the darkness all around him with hope. He was in an incredibly difficult place, but the chimes he heard were able to pull out of him an optimism that had been absent for years.
It’s a timely poem to revisit, especially as we near the end of 2020. America is not currently in the middle of a Civil War, but we’re certainly in one of the most divided and contentious times in this country’s history. Unfortunately, it seems like that’s not letting up anytime soon. We haven’t lost hundreds of thousands of soldiers to battle, but we have lost hundreds of thousands of our fellow Americans to a pandemic that’s still raging out of control and only getting worse (even as vaccines are within reach).
Since February, many of us have lost jobs or income or housing or food security. We’ve lost friends and/or family for a variety of reasons. We’ve fallen out of touch, created our own limited social bubbles out of circumstances or necessity, said a distanced goodbye to friends or family who have passed away in the middle of all this. We’ve assessed what we’re willing and unwilling to tolerate and accept in our relationships, and we’ve adjusted our lives accordingly. That’s a painful thing to do. It’s been an incredibly difficult year in so many ways.
And yet.
I’m not a very religious person. I doubt hearing bells chiming in a church steeple would inspire in me the same reaction it did for Longfellow. That was a singular experience.
But I am a hopeful person. I want to believe that I can be better and do better...that we all can. This has been a dark year, but there’s still a lot of light out there – especially this time of year. Maybe it’s found in the Christmas lights that illuminate houses and yard and parks. Or it’s found in fireplaces and fire pits, or the first sip of a morning mimosa, or a crisp twilight walk, or a fresh snowfall, or a random text from a good friend, or an ornament that triggers a happy memory, or the stars in the winter sky.
Whatever it is that sparks it, my hope in the coming year is hope. I don’t think we should ignore or suppress the heartache and loss and pain we’ve experienced this year. That’s not healthy or honest. But I do hope that we’re able to balance it with hope, love, compassion, peace, and courage. I have to believe there’s something better on the other side of this – that we’re not mired in despair, but pulled and pushed forward by the possibilities of a better world.
So no – I don’t hear the bells on Christmas Day. But I do find promise in what they mean. And I hope you find that today, too.
Your writing is always amazing and I particularly love this Blog. It speaks volumes to me. Bless you and your family