Newport, 12 August, 1861.
My Dear Mrs. Gaskell,
— . . . Your note came to me just at the
time of a great sorrow in the sudden and terrible death of our dear friend Mrs.
Longfellow. You have no doubt seen some notice of it. The fatal accident took
place on one of our hot summer days in July. It was in the afternoon. She was
with her two youngest little girls in the library, and having just cut the hair
of one of them she was amusing them by sealing up some packets of the pretty
curls. By some unexplained accident one of the wax tapers she was using set fire
to her dress. It was of the lightest muslin, and the flame almost instantly
spread beyond her power to extinguish it. Her first thought was to save her
little girls from harm, and she fled from them into her husband's study, where
he was lying asleep on a sofa. Hearing her call to him he sprang up, seized a
rug from the floor, wrapped it round her and tried in vain to put out the fire.
Before he could succeed the flames had done their work. She was taken upstairs,
and the physicians were very soon with her. There was nothing to be done but to
alleviate her suffering which for an hour or two was intense. She was rendered
unconscious by ether, — and when its use was discontinued the suffering was
over and did not return. Through the night she was perfectly calm, patient and
gentle, all the lovely sweetness and elevation of her character showing itself
in her looks and words. In the morning she lost consciousness and about eleven
o'clock she died. Poor Longfellow had been very severely burned in trying to
put out the flames, and for several days was in a state of great physical
suffering and nervous prostration. I have never known any domestic calamity so
sad and tragic as this. Of all happy homes theirs was in many respects the
happiest. It was rich and delightful not only in outward prosperity but in
intimate blessings. Those who loved them could not wish for them anything
better than they had, for their happiness satisfied even the imagination.
Mrs. Longfellow was very beautiful, and her beauty was but
the type of the loveliness and nobility of her character. She was a person whom
everyone admired, and whom those who knew her well enough to love loved very
deeply. There is nothing in her life that is not delightful to remember. There
was no pause and no decline in her. It was but a very few days before her death
that Lowell and I, as we came out from a morning party where we had met her,
agreed that she had never been more beautiful or more charming. She had a fine
stateliness and graciousness of manner. Reserved in expression, but always
sweet and kind, it was only those who knew her well who knew how quick and deep
and true her sympathies were, how poetic was her temperament, how pure and
elevated her thoughts. Longfellow was worthy of such a wife.
Ever since I was a very little boy he has been one of our
nearest friends, and for many years our lives have been closely connected with
theirs. Their home is a little more than a mile from ours, but in affection
they have been our nearest neighbours. It was a touching coincidence that her
funeral took place on the eighteenth anniversary of her wedding day. Such a
short time as it seemed! Such a happy time as it had been!
The next week we came to Newport, and here we have been
living for the last four weeks very quietly, — save that I went to Cambridge a
fortnight ago to see Longfellow. He was still confined to his bed, but his
hands, which had been most badly burned, were becoming serviceable once more;
and he was suffering more from feebleness than from pain. I have never seen any
one who bore a great sorrow in a more simple and noble way. But he is very
desolate, — and, however manfully and religiously he may bear up, his life must
hereafter be desolate. I hope he may find happiness in his children; his three
little girls are very dear and charming, and his two boys are just growing into
young-manhood.
I have never known a private sorrow affect the community as
this did. It went to the heart of every person, — and for a time even the
pressing interest of our public affairs seemed remote. . .
SOURCE: Sara Norton and M. A. DeWolfe Howe, Letters
of Charles Eliot Norton, Volume 1, p. 238-41
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