MERRY CHRISTMAS, PROFESSOR MOORE.

I grew up deeply grateful to Professor Clement Clark Moore. In 500 delicately crafted words he created one of my most cherished childhood memories, which begins, “Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house”. But a disparaging voice has recently been heard, claiming the professor was a fraud. Do not believe it. You can no more separate Clement from his words than you can a father from his children or an author from the world he lived in.

“...Fond parents swayed my every thought;

No blame I feared, no praise I sought,

But what their love bestowed....

The best thing that ever happened to Clement Moore was his father's massive stroke early in 1811, forcing the old man to gradually relinquish control over his 31 year old son's life. Despite having suffered a stroke myself, I feel no sympathy for the Episcopalian Bishop. Six years earlier, when called to the bedside of the dying Alexander Hamilton, Bishop Benjamin Right Moore (above) forced the great man to beg three times, before providing the comfort of absolution. Witnesses described the Bishop's behavior as “cruel and unjustifiable”. I agree. And it is unfair to demand that Clement (below) carry his father's sins.

,,,Whene’er night’s shadows called to rest,

I sought my father, to request

His benediction mild.

A mother’s love more loud would speak;

With kiss on kiss she’d print my cheek,

And bless her darling child....”

To A Lady (1804) signed - “Simplicicus”. (Clement Clarke Moore above).

The young adult Clement saved the poet, born a Jew and forced to convert to Catholicism, Lorenzo Da Ponte. Twenty years earlier Da Ponte had written the libretto for three of Mozart's operas - “The Marriage of Figaro”, “Don Giovanni” and “Così fan tutte”. In 1805, broke and desperate, Da Ponte arrived on American shores with his mistress and 4 children. Clement hired him as an Italian teacher, and even secured him a position as a Professor of Italian Literature at Columbia – at once the first Catholic and the first Jewish faculty member.

The dreams of Hope that round us play,

And lead along our early youth,

How soon, alas! they fade away

Before the sober rays of Truth...

In 1812 the 35 year old Clement fell in the love with the slight and strong 19 year old Catharine Elizabeth Taylor. They were married on 27 November of 1813.

And yet there are some joys in life

That Fancy’s pencil never drew;

For Fancy’s self, my own dear wife,

Ne’er dreamt the bliss I owe to you.

In preparation for the wedding, his parents had finally transferred control of the Moore family estates in Manhattan, Brooklyn and New Jersey to Clement. And a third floor was added to Chelsea, the mansion on a hill two miles north of Greenwich village. And in early 1815, a daughter, Margaret Elliot, was born to the happy couple.

...When cruel Palsy’s withering blow

Had left my father weak, forlorn,

He yet could weep for joy, to know

I had a wish’d-for infant born.

And, as he lay in death’s embrace,

You saw when last on earth he smil’d;

You saw the ray that lit his face

When he beheld our darling child.”

From a Husband to a Wife.  (Clement Clarke Moore 1816)

To my ear this dutiful verse rings hollow with convention. But the sanctimonious domineering hypocrite Bishop Moore died in late February of 1816.  His home schooling had trained Clement, like the father, for the clergy. But Clement rejected that career.  That same year, Clement and Catherine had a second daughter, Charity Elizabeth Moore, and in 1818, a son, Benjamin Moore. It was his children who changed Clement.

On a warm sunny day, in the midst of July,

A lazy young pig lay stretched out in his sty,
Like some of his betters, most solemnly thinking
That the best things on earth are good eating and drinking....

As they grew, the children found, as love does, the chinks and cracks in their father's armor. And unlike his own father, Clement found the courage to tentatively lower his defenses and embrace the assault.

...When, at last, he thought fit to arouse from his bath,

A conceited young rooster came just in his path:
A precious smart prig, full in vanity drest,
Who thought, of all creatures, himself far the best.

More children followed, as the man who was an only child built the large family he had always wanted, with his beloved Caroline. There was Mary “Lil Sis” Clarke Moore, born in 1819.

'Hey day! little grunter, why where in the world

Are you going so perfum'd, pomatum'd, and curl'd?
Such delicate odors my senses assail,
And I see such a sly looking twist in your tail,
That you, sure are intent on some elegant sporting;
Hurra! I believe, on my life, you are courting;

Clement Moore Jr. was born in 1821 with a birth impairment, perhaps cerebral palsy. Rather than isolate the child in an institution, Clement and Margaret kept the boy by their loving side for the rest of their lives.

'Well, said, master Dunghill,' cried Pig in a rage,

'You're doubtless, the prettiest beau of the age,
With those sweet modest eyes staring out of your head,
And those lumps of raw flesh, all so bloody and red.
Mighty graceful you look with those beautiful legs,
Like a squash or a pumpkin on two wooden pegs...

Like his father before him, Clement home schooled his children. But they were not forced to memorize Hebrew and Latin, as he had been. Instead the elder Clement set problems before them, such as the task to decide which life was to be preferred, that of a rooster or a pig. A fourth daughter, named Emily Moore, was born in 1822.

Hereupon, a debate, like a whirlwind arose,

Which seem'd fast approaching to bitings and blows;
'Mid squeaking and grunting, Pig's arguments flowing;
And Chick venting fury 'twixt screaming and crowing.
At length, to decide the affair, 'twas agreed
That to counselor Owl they should straightway proceed...

Catharine Van Cortalandt Moore was born in 1825.

...It seem'd to the judge a strange cause to be put on,

To tell which was better, a fop or a glutton;
Yet, like a good lawyer, he kept a calm face,
And proceeded, by rule, to examine the case;
With both his round eyes gave a deep-meaning wink,
And, extending one talon, he set him to think.

And finally there was Maria Thersea Barrington Moore, who was born in 1826.

“...Were each on the table serv'd up, and well dress'd,

I could easily tell which I fancied the best;
But while both here before me, so lively I see,
This cause is, in truth, too important for me;
Without trouble, however, among human kind,
Many dealers in questions like this you may find.
Yet, one sober truth, ere we part, I would teach --
That the life you each lead is best fitted for each.

Nine children in all, each an individual personality to be discovered, enjoyed and entertained. You can never lie to your children without lying to yourself'.

Thus ended the strife, as does many a fight;

Each thought his foe wrong, and his own notions right.
Pig turn'd, with a grunt, to his mire anew,
And He-biddy, laughing, cried -- cock-a-doodle-doo.

The Rooster and the Pig, Clement Clarke Moore

There is no question Clement Moore wrote the Rooster and the Pig.  But did it precede or follow 1823's  “A visit from St. Nicholas”?   Moore did not initially claim authorship of either, but that was not unusual for the man. And neither did Major John Livingston, the nominated challenger. However, no friends of Livingston ever claimed he wrote the greatest Christmas poem ever written. It would be a generation removed from that Knickerbocker Christmas before there was any attempt to reassign authorship to Livingston. Whereas, there was a chorus naming Clement Moore as the author, beginning almost on Boxing Day, 1823. And with what you now know of the oft demeaned Clement Clarke Moore, can there still be doubt?  He is the hero of everyone who loves Christmas.

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,

In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,

While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;

And mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap,

Had just settled down for a long winter's nap,

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,

I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.

Away to the window I flew like a flash,

Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow

Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below,

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,

But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer,

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,

I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,

And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;

"Now, Dasher! Now, Dancer! Now, Prancer and Vixen!

On, Comet! On Cupid! On, Donder and Blitzen!

To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!

Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!"

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,

When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,

So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,

With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof

The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.

As I drew in my hand, and was turning around,

Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,

And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;

A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,

And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.

His eyes -- how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!

His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!

His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,

And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow;

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,

And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath;

He had a broad face and a little round belly,

That shook, when he laughed like a bowlful of jelly.

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,

And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,

Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,

And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,

And laying his finger aside of his nose,

And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,

And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.

But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,

"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night."

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