"The Night Before Christmas" by Henry Livingston to the music of The Trail Band

I began researching the authorship of "Night Before Christmas" in 1999, and pulled Vassar professor Don Foster into the attribution quest. Don came out for Henry in 2000 to massive publicity with Bryant Gumbel and in People Magazine and The New York Times. But there was a gentleman trying to sell a manuscript copy of the poem from Moore and our research made the value of his document drop, so he hired a paranormal investigator to challenge us.

About a decade later, one of the preeminent names in attribution research, Emeritus Professor Mac Jackson, contacted me to say that he believed he could prove the issue with statistical analysis, if I'd help him. That turned into three solid years of analysis and yet another book on the topic. Mac's work was strong and definitive. Henry Livingston WAS the author of "Night Before Christmas." There are still Moore scholars who dispute Mac - their fundamental argument being that Moore said he wrote it and they are unwilling to call Moore a liar.

From my anapest poem - Moore's adoption of the poem brought by a mutual friend of the Moores and Livingstons, a governess:

"Dear Benji, I'm sure you want Santa to know
"That you've been a good boy when his toys he'll bestow,
"But if you will take the new ball from your brother
"It seems that I'll have to tell Santa another
"Young boy would perhaps deserve his toys more
"While you should find only black coal in your drawer."
Putting down his neat pen, with its tip finely cut,
Clement grinded his teeth and compress'd his lips shut.
Boing, boing, bang! Boing, boing, bang! Down the hall came the sound
That was causing the pain in his head to hard pound.
"Nurse Burnett! It's past time that the children should be
"Up attending to afternoon toast and to tea."
A flurry of footsteps outside of his door
Indicated that soon the young man would be bore
With his ball to the heights of the mansion so tall
That the blessings of silence were sure soon to fall.
And soon stillness, how blessed the sound of the word,
Now descended till all that was heard was a bird.

With reluctance did Clement return to his task.
'Twas the night before Christmas and his time to bask
In the smiles of his children, well, all but for one,
His protagonist often seem'd out of the fun.
Taking up pen again Clement read what he'd writ.
He was sorely afraid mother wouldn't admit
That a child of her own would deserve such a fate.
In her eyes they were angels, there was no debate.
She was soft with the children. Yes, soft with him, too,
And he smiled at the thought soon to smell her shampoo.
For he loved her as much as the day they'd been wed
And his joy Christmas Eve was to hold her in bed.
He was sure she'd be pleased with her gift in the morn
They'd to Paris late summer, his love to adorn
In the silks and the fashions that ladies did love
And the perfumes annointing her breast and her glove.
It was thoughts such as these that enraptured his mind
Till the chimes of a clock his confusion did find.

Six o'clock! Where did time with its scepter so swift
Go when soon he'd be call'd, dinner jacket to lift;
And then children would riot with tummies replete
Of a nursery meal and excited to meet
And to hear their own father's new Santa Claus poem.
Why poor Benji - guilt bottled the words in their home.
After all, little Benjamin, namesake of pere,
Truly look'd like an angel when put to his prayer.
There was time, wasn't there, for the poem to be done?
For no man should be less in the eyes of his son.
Sending prayers of his own Clement paus'd as his hand
Moving randomly brought out a paper he scann'd.
What was this? 'Twas a poem. About Santa, in fact.
But from where and from who his poor memory lack'd.
Only doggeral, nary a moral in sight
But a poem, none-the-less, that could save him tonight.
Surely heaven-sent gifts t'were a sin to despise
And besides, who would know that he'd borrow'd the prize?

*********

Think this possibility is overly cruel to Moore? Read the Christmas poem that Moore wrote to his little daughter, whose crying angered him so.

What! My sweet little Sis, in bed all alone;
No light in your room! And your nursy too gone!
And you, like a good child, are quietly lying,
While some naughty ones would be fretting or crying?
Well, for this you must have something pretty, my dear;
And, I hope, will deserve a reward too next year.
But, speaking of crying, I'm sorry to say
Your screeches and screams, so loud ev'ry day,
Were near driving me and my goodies away.
Good children I always give good things in plenty;
How sad to have left your stocking quite empty:
But you are beginning so nicely to spell,
And, in going to bed, behave always so well,
That, although I too oft see the tear in your eye,
I cannot resolve to pass you quite by.
I hope, when I come here again the next year,
I shall not see even the sign of a tear.
And then, if you get back your sweet pleasant looks,
And do as you're bid, I will leave you some books,
Some toys, or perhaps what you still may like better,
And then too may write you a prettier letter.
At present, my dear, I must bid you good bye;
Now, do as you're bid; and, remember, don't cry.

You misconstrued me; I was not implying anything pejorative: I appreciate the proper use of an exotic word, if a more common one does not suffice (especially when I have taken the time to learn it).

I actually first heard it during a lecture by Bob Larson about 1972, on his book, Rock and the Church. His thesis was that the waltz was in harmony with the body’s heart pulse, but that the anapestic beat (the rock beat) was in opposition to it, physiologically and spiritually.

It did not convince me to give up Larry Norman or (later) Daniel Amos, but I remember looking up the word. I did not have use of it until I began studying classical music in my forties.

I started out as a biology major, took physics for majors, and, of course, organic chemistry and genetics, so I can somewhat relate. I was very adept at them, but they did not really satisfy me - and my burgeoning health problems (which led me into diet and nutrition as my vocation) were already making life onerous. I back-doored into music when I was laid off in 1999.

The music literature class was taught by a Ph.D. She was intelligent and knowledgeable, but she was an extreme Marxist who frequently digressed into screeds against white males, which made it unpleasant for me. You might have enjoyed some of the focus on libretti and poetry, e.g., W. H. Auden (who was a student of J.R.R. Tolkien).

The focus was on literary analysis, and writing papers with proper documentation, and without plagiarism. It was rather dry. I think a good music history course, Renaissance, Baroque, Classical, or Romantic, is actually more informative and enjoyable.

I honestly enjoyed The History of Jazz and The History of Rock more than the Music Literature course; both were taught by a journeyman jazz musician (who also directed the jazz choir in which I sang). Although I perform classical choral works, I am a pop guy at heart.

Oh, I did so enjoy your post. I’ve never heard the theory that anapestic beat was the rock beat. I’m going to have to look into that. Absolutely fascinating.

My roommate in college was a bio major who took all sorts of organic chem courses. I remember that her clothes will covered with little holes from the acids she kept pipetting. I wondered she didn’t poison herself. I remember losing an entire grade in biology because I refused to do a chromozone squash on this lovely translucent larva. It died anyway on the slide. Sigh. But I couldn’t kill it.

Fascinating how you found your career, but what a shame to go through health problems to get there. I hope what you learned solved a lot of those problems for you. We’ve got several people on FR whom I know are into health study. Best set of specialties anywhere!

I couldn’t have tolerated being taught by a Marxist. Stubborn streak a mile wide. I look back on college and I can’t remember anyone trying to push me into anything - thank goodness. And that was even when U of Chicago had a progressive reputation. I certainly never heard a progressive syllable in any of my arts classes. And I was a flaming republican even then, so I’d remember if they’d tried.

What I remember most about Learning To Look, Learning to Listen and Learning to Litter was that our final exam was Brahms Tragic Overture. Some sadist opened their dorm room window and played it through loudspeakers afterwards.

Waltz: long, short, short: dum-da-da.

Rock [ostensibly anapestic]: short, short, long: da-da-dum.

You are obviously more gentle than most science majors, if you spared the larva.

Yes, I nearly died at 32, after a long decline. I actually gave up and expected to die. My recuperation took three years, after which I went into the nutritional supplementation field. (I had never used drugs, had never smoked, and was never drunk even once; it was mostly a result of lifelong poor diet from birth, coupled with chronic bronchitis.)

When I spoke to that teacher after class one day about Auden, and mentioned his connection to Tolkien, she aggressively asserted that Tolkien was a racist, then stalked away. Since I have read the trilogy over two dozen times, and know a great deal about the author - and know that he in fact denounced all racism - I was incensed. Although I forced myself to be civil, I was not high on her list by the end of term (not that I started out very high, being a white male).

My best choral conductor loved to assign Brahms choral pieces to us, in German of course.

I love Tolkien. I’m just finishing the audio book where the Hobbits return to the Shire. I’ve been falling asleep to it the last few weeks.

I remember being very upset when feminism arose because I believed EQUALITY meant just that. That men and women both needed to have freedom to act as they chose. I was raised in a time when I couldn’t give Zeiss Planetarium lectures because I was a woman. When I couldn’t use a female narrator on a computer movie. It was always economic excuses. A woman couldn’t be an authority figure and audiences wouldn’t accept one and people wouldn’t buy the video with a female narrator. But it quickly became clear that they meant for women to dominate, not reach equality. That infuriated me and I lost all interest in feminism that day.

I went to a convention that had Marion Zimmer Bradley as a speaker. She turned out to be a flaming feminist who insulted a meek young man who wanted to join in one of her workshops meant just for women. That was horrendous.

VERY glad to hear that you recuperated from that bad situation. Remember hearing Adele Davis talk. Unfortunately, she also insulted a questioner. Not a nice lady.

You may know this already, but:

Tolkien wrote The Silmarillion - the First Age (and Akallabeth - the Second Age) as feigned histories of a world to provide a place for his invented languages to exist.

It was never published while he lived.

Then he wrote The Hobbit, set in the Third Age, for his kids, and it got published.

Next he wrote the trilogy, set shortly after The Hobbit, at the end of the Third Age.

It was modestly published in hardback in the 50s, but did not become a phenomenon until the 60s, when its paperback edition became the campus rage.

The history in the chapter, The Council of Elrond, harks back to the early works.

They were eventually edited and published by his son, Christopher, after his father died.

Someone put together a master poly-geneology of the major characters and their bloodlines. A friend sent me this link a week ago:

https://www.reddit.com/r/lotr/comments/8q0goj/definitive_family_tree_of_the_tolkien_legendarium/

It has only one glaring omission that I can see: Glorfindel, a high elf of Elrond’s household, obviously related to Galadriel (Elrond’s mother-in-law, and Arwen’s grandmother), since he is First-Born and blonde (only Galadriel’s close kin among the Noldor are blonde, since they are of the House of Finarfin, and thus part Vanyar). He features prominently in The Silmarillion, The Lord of the Rings, and the Appendices.

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