On Longfellow’s Bridge at Midnight

ON LONGFELLOW^S BRIDGE AT MIDNIGHT. ANON.

"I stood on the bridge at midnight, As the clocks were striking the hour, And the moon rose o'er the city, Behind the dark church tower." —Longfellow. A week's visit at Cambridge, the home of Howard, the location of Washington's elm, the residence of poets and philosophers, can scarcely be considered complete, unless one stands at midnight on the bridge rendered famous by Longfellow's touching poem. Four of us young Utahns, enthusiastic students, and ardent admirers of the Cambridge poet, thus rounded out a brief stay in the university town last summer. But our visit to the bridge needs some introduction. A Welsh rare-bit is a fitting introduction to any noctural adventure, from sleeping the sleep of the just, to mingling with the grave and gay on the banks of the classic Charles River. We had spent the day in Boston sight-seeing. In the vicinity of "Paul Revere's church," we had met plenty of "walking encyclopedias," who were willing for a penny, to tell us all the ins and outs of its history. Feigning an ignorance which was exaggerated, even for us, we asked one of these, a boy about eight years old, who this Paul Revere was. "Don't you know?" he asked in surprise. "Why, he was the fellow that hung some lanterns out of the church during the civil war." "Why did he do such an absurd thing as that?" we asked.

580 IMPROVEMENT ERA.

That question stumped him. Other tourists, it would seem, had been content with paying their penny and going into the church, but we had already been there. He stammered some irrelevant reply, and asked us to go in. We told him we had seen much larger churches for nothing. He was now pretty thoroughly disgusted with our lack of appreciation, and proceeded to furnish us with a fund of most astonishing information. After amusing ourselves long enough with his earnest ignorance, we retaliated by telling him the true story of Paul Revere, handing him a penny, and leavhim, a richer — — by a penny and wiser boy. Our guide and hostess then invited us to her home in Cambridge, to pass a pleasant evening in social converse. A delicately served rare-bit, with perfectly harmless home-made root beer, was the feature of the evening. I was really ashamed of the appetites of my companions. In spite of my proper precept and example, they continued to eat until I suggested a midnight visit to the

Longfellow bridge. In order to follow the suggestion, they had to quit eating by ten p. m.; otherwise, they might have continued till midnight. I believe they owe me a debt of gratitude for saving

them from chronic dyspepsia, but the debt remains uncollected. Leaving the quiet precincts of Cambridge, we walked down Cambridge Street toward Boston, seeing on the way as much of the "seamy side" of New England life as forced itself on our view. It was a typical summer night. The darkness was relieved only by the glittering of the stars, which seemed to be sinking farther and farther into the hazy blue. A mist sprang up from the river, and was wafted into our faces by the soft breeze. The excessive heat of summer was tempered by the refreshing zephr, and the balm of evening fell upon our spirits. We were, therefore, in a fit frame of mind, on our arrival at the bridge, to put ourselves into sympathy with the poet. At length we stood on the bridge. Our spirits were calm, and our minds were gradually sinking into the true poetic, contemplative state, when one of our number exclaimed, "Thunder! this is the wrong bridge " ! It was too true. In our contemplative self-confidence, we had struck a bridge a mile too far down the river. I think our friend Mac was to blame for the mistake. Irish "bulls" are proverbial.

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ON LONGFELLOW'S BRIDGE AT MIDNIGHT. 581

But we freely forgave him in the enjoyment of the walk along the river bank. The lights which twinkled on the bridges and at the moorings of the small river craft, were reflected with the stars in the mirror of the stream. The towers, spires, and domes of the great city rose in gloomy majesty in the darkening distance. The rising tide, meeting the sluggish current, agitated the dark water into gentle ripples, which trembled into alternate light and shade. The well-kept parks on the river bank were occupied by men and women of every condition, from the pessimistic, phlegmatic tramp to the vivacious, hopeful pair of lovers. Bits of song and scraps of conversation mingled with the gentle rustling of the night wind. These sights and sounds, in combination, produced a soothing calm and pleasant peace of mind, which prepared us for the enjoyment of our poetic contemplations. Standing at length, upon the bridge, we leaned over the rails, welcoming the stiffening gale and enjoying the salt-foam from the ocean, as it was blown into our faces. How dark and gloomy the water looked! Standing directly above it, we missed the glimmering ripples a more distant view had revealed, and we saw nothing but the depth and the darkness.

"And like those waters rushing Among the wooden piers, A flood of thoughts came o'er me That filled my eyes with tears.

"How often, how often, I had wished that the ebbing tide Would bear me away on its bosom To the ocean wild and wide!"

Thoughts came to us, also, as we saw and heard the rushing of the waters. We thought of the despondent lover, the hopeless financier, the trusting, betrayed out-cast, the sin-stained debauchee, who might have stood above the stream, contemplating a last plunge into its sluggish depths; calling upon it in tones of hopeless entreaty "0 bear me away on your bosom To the ocean wild and wide!"

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582 . IMPROVEMENT ERA.

And we could enter with hearty sympathy into the feelings of the poet, who had borne his share of grief, in enduring the agonizing death of his wife by fire, and the carrying away of children and friends from his side, by the hands of the "grim reaper." And we could echo his plaint

"For my heart was hot and restless. And my life was full of care, And the burdens laid upon me Seemed greater than I could bear."

My feelings were so wrought upon by these thoughts that I could have melted into tears, had not one of my companions suddenly pointed toward the west and asked if that was the tower over which

the moon rose. The idea of his presuming that in Boston, which is one of the most exact and precise of cities, the moon should rise

in the west, was so ridiculous as to upset all gravity, and interfere with our coveted "poetic contemplation." Of course the rest of us were "turned around," as well as he, but we were too wise to betray the fact, and we proceeded with mock seriousness to lecture him on the elementary principles of astronomy. But in the midst of the associations of time, place, and recollection, it was impossible for levity to last. Our thoughts returned instinctively to the master mind of our poet, and to the beautiful similes he had drawn from just such scenes as those we gazed upon. The poet of the human heart, with all its loves and longings, its hopes and disappointments, seemed to look down through the vista of years, upon the stream and the bridge he had immortalized, and on the little group of devotees standing there. His spirit was faintly reflected in us, like the light of the sun on the face of the moon; and though we could not put into language such thoughts as he had expressed, we could at least acquiesce in the beautiful comparison the reflection of the moon in the dimpled waters of the Charles had put into tis thoughts:

"Forever and forever, As long as the river flows, As long as the heart has passions, As long as life has woes,