Sir Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

A Psalm of Life
Aside: I had heretofore been under the misguided impression that Fanny Longfellow died when her dress caught fire via candles from the Christmas tree! Imagine my chagrin.

I was most interested in this account of the actual event:

"The day before the accident, Fanny Longfellow recorded in her journal: "We are all sighing for the good sea breeze instead of this stifling land one filled with dust. Poor Allegra is very droopy with heat, and Edie has to get her hair in a net to free her neck from the weight." After trimming some of seven year old Edith's beautiful curls, Fanny decided to preserve the clippings in sealing wax. Melting a bar of sealing wax with a candle, a few drops fell unnoticed upon her dress. The longed for sea breeze gusted through the window, igniting the light material of Fanny's dress-- immediately wrapping her in flames. In her attempt to protect Edith and Allegra, she ran to Henry's study in the next room, where Henry frantically attempted to extinguish the flames with a nearby, but undersized throw rug. Failing to stop the fire with the rug, he tried to smother the flames by throwing his arms around Frances-- severely burning his face, arms, and hands. Fanny Longfellow died the next morning. Too ill from his burns and grief, Henry did not attend her funeral. (Incidentally, the trademark full beard of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow arose from his inability to shave after this tragedy.)"

A year later Longfellow writes: "I can make no record of these days. Better leave them wrapped in silence. Perhaps someday God will give me peace."

Amen and amen.

That unpleasantness being elucidated, on to the poem...

Aside: I was delighted to discover that Longfellow considered the title "A Psalm of Life" somewhat insipid or generic, for I always thought it a trucker's cap atop a king's head.

The poem is a glorious example of Longfellow's didacticisms which I love so well and which can be summed in two words: Press On! This is somewhat interesting in light of the fact that it was written after the death of his (gestating) child and first wife. We know that Longfellow was "rallying from depression" when the piece was wrought, and I am only guessing that it had anything to do with his profound loss.

The important thing is that, for all his erudition, for all the sumptuousness of his particular arrangement, he was every man. IMHO, A Psalm of Life was written for him; he was talking to himself. He only makes us privy, and we imagine that it was for us, because we have in common the human experience.

Now, I make you privy...
A Psalm of Life might be my favorite poem, although Longfellow is by no means my favorite author. Not only did it spur me on personally yet also did I use it much to my advantage. Having memorized, for its beauty, this poem from my mother's American Literature text (circa 1955), I was oft found to whisper it in its entirety into the ear of many a guiling young lover. None failed to tremble. (Henry, Henry... what an inadvertent lover you were!)

This poem also earned me an incredible, lasting point with a friend who imagined he'd surpassed me via his use of the term "bivouac". To this day he still comments, and I smile inwardly. To preface, there was much personal disappointment at never having posessed the intellectual wherewithal to gain access to the gifted classes, the ones which he attended, in Jr. High. Even unto adulthood there was an unspoken disadvantage perceived only by me yet, even so, perceived. (Please note my mental illness.) At any rate, Longfellow saved my ever-lovin' arse in the accidental dialogue with my friend (and I am ever grateful to have had him in my arsenal). Yes, I used him for all his chalking bones were worth and never gave a thought to the disdain he earned for being overplayed. It didn't and doesn't concern me in the least.

Lastly, Evangeline! EVANGELINE! "This is the forest primeval..." Say those words and surgery could be performed on me without the slightest discomfort.

Is it wrong to say that most will feel extraordinarily cheated after reading Evangeline? I can see it now... anthologies flung into the fire! However, it is an incredible delicacy. I have retitled it though, and thus is it known (to me) as "Lying On The Bed Without Touching". (Agony, agony, agony!) Granted, in the story, it is not a willing prevention. Twould be ailment were it! ha-HA!
But in earnest... how many have survived unrequitted love? How many now or ever have beheld a love that, for whatever reason, simply could not be? Evangeline tells us that all is not hopeless: love (unrequited) for the sake of love is a soundless amusement that sets the cheek aflame! It is its own persimmon, styptic and sweet.

Fair, fair Evangeline... what good company we are in!

Visit Longfellow's grave.