If you want to know what generation someone is, just start reciting Paul Revere's Ride by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. If they continue reciting it after you finish the second line, they are a Boomer. We are the ones who believed every myth and exaggeration our teachers told us. Did George really chop down a cherry tree? Did Abe really help his brother make footprints on the ceiling? Did ole Dan'l really kill a bear with his bare hands? Did Paul Revere really shout, "The British are coming! The British are coming!" as he spread the alarm?
I don't know about the first few questions, but since America250 is upon us and so is the eighteenth of April, I decided to investigate Paul and the claims made about him. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow immortalized this act of patriotism in his classic poem (the bane of schoolchildren of my era), Paul Revere's Ride. Check it out on this site, the real story. The facts weren't like I remembered. It was more like history vs literature. Longfellow took liberties with history in order to make a good story. "One if by land and two if by sea, and I on the opposite shore shall be." Not accurate. Close. Two lanterns only before Paul stopped off at his house and picked up his boots before he took the rowboat to ride to the other shore. In 1931, artist Grant Wood painted The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere. He said the poem inspired him. I wonder if he also had to memorize it.
All this is leading up to the celebration of America's fight to be free two hundred fifty years ago. I've been surprised at the number of people who had to memorize it from top to bottom. I didn't go all out. I learned enough to count for credit and then stopped. Reading through it now, however, I wish I had continued. It graphically describes each stop along the way, the passion of the people, and the desperation in the countryside. A must read!! I'm posting the full poem at the bottom of this; no copyright since it was published well over a hundred years ago. Give it a read...and a memory test. How much do you remember?
Catch of the day,
Gretchen
Paul Revere's Ride
The Landlord's Tale
Henry
Wadsworth Longfellow
Listen,
my children, and you shall hear
Of
the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On
the eighteenth of April, in 'Seventy-five;
Hardly
a man is now alive
Who
remembers that famous day and year.
He
said to his friend, "If the British march
By
land or sea from the town to-night,
Hang
a lantern aloft in the belfry arch
Of
the North Church tower as a signal light, --
One,
if by land, and two, if by sea;
And
I on the opposite shore will be,
Ready
to ride and spread the alarm
Through
every Middlesex village and farm,
For
the country folk to be up and to arm."
Then
he said, "Good night!" and with muffled oar
Silently
rowed to the Charlestown shore,
Just
as the moon rose over the bay,
Where
swinging wide at her moorings lay
The
somerset, British man-of-war;
A
phantom ship, with each mast and spar
Across
the moon like a prison bar,
And
a huge black hulk, that was magnified
By
its own reflection in the tide.
Meanwhile,
his friend, through alley and street,
Wanders
and watches with eager ears,
Till
in the silence around him he hears
The
muster of men at the barrack door,
The
sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
And
the measured tread of the grenadiers,
Marching
down to their boats on the shore.
Then
he climbed the tower of the Old North Church
By
the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
To
the belfry-chamber overhead,
And
startled the pigeons from their perch
On
the somber rafters, that round him made
Masses
and moving shapes of shade, --
By
the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
To
the highest window in the wall,
Where
he paused to listen and look down
A
moment on the roofs of the town,
And
the moonlight flowing over all.
Beneath,
in the churchyard, lay the dead,
In
their night-encampment on the hill,
Wrapped
in silence so deep and still
That
he could hear, like a sentinel's tread,
The
watchful night-wind, as it went
Creeping
along from tent to tent,
And
seeming to whisper, "All is well!"
A
moment only he feels the spell
Of
the place and the hour, and the secret dread
Of
the lonely belfry and the dead;
For
suddenly all his thoughts are bent
On a
shadowy something far away,
Where
the river widens to meet the bay, --
A
line of black that bends and floats
On
the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.
Meanwhile,
impatient to mount and ride,
Booted
and spurred, with a heavy stride,
On
the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
Now
he patted his horse's side,
Now
gazed at the landscape far and near,
Then,
impetuous, stamped the earth,
And
turned and tightened his saddle-girth;
But
mostly he watched with eager search
The
belfry-tower of the Old North Church,
As
it rose above the graves on the hill,
Lonely
and spectral and somber and still.
And
lo! As he looks, on the belfry's height
A
glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
He
springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
But
lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
A
second lamp in the belfry burns!
A
hurry of hoofs in a village street,
A
shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
And
beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
Struck
out by a steed flying fearless and fleet:
That
was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
The
fate of a nation was riding that night;
And
the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
Kindled
the land into flame with its heat.
He
has left the village and mounted the steep,
And
beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
Is
the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
And
under the alders, that skirt its edge,
Now
soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
Is
heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.
It
was twelve by the village clock
When
he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
He
heard the crowing of the cock,
And
the barking of the farmer's dog,
And
felt the damp of the river fog,
That
rises after the sun goes down.
It
was one by the village clock
When
he galloped into Lexington.
He
saw the gilded weathercock
Swim
in the moonlight as he passed,
And
the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,
Gaze
at him with a spectral glare,
As
if they already stood aghast
At
the bloody work they would look upon.
It
was two by the village clock
When
he came to the bridge in Concord town.
He
heard the bleating of the flock,
And
the twitter of birds among the trees,
And
felt the breath of the morning breeze
Blowing
over the meadows brown.
And
one was safe and asleep in his bed
Who
at the bridge would be first to fall,
Who
that day would be lying dead,
Pierced
by a British musket-ball.
You
know the rest. In the books you have read,
How
the British Regulars fired and fled, --
How
the farmers gave them ball for ball,
From
behind each fence and farm-yard wall,
Chasing
the redcoats down the lane,
Then
crossing the fields to emerge again
Under
the trees at the turn of the road,
And
only pausing to fire and load.
So
through the night rode Paul Revere;
And
so through the night went his cry of alarm
To
every Middlesex village and farm, --
A
cry of defiance and not of fear,
A
voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
And
a word that shall echo forevermore!
For
borne on the night-wind of the Past,
Through
all our history, to the last,
In
the hour of darkness and peril and need,
The
people will waken and listen to hear
The
hurrying hoof-beats of that steed
And
the midnight message of Paul Revere.
