"Autobiographies of great nations are written in three manuscripts – a book of deeds, a book of words, and a book of art. Of the three, I would choose the latter as truest testimony." - Sir Kenneth Smith, Great Civilisations
"I must write each day without fail, not so much for the success of the work, as in order not to get out of my routine." - Leo Tolstoy
I have never believed that one should wait until one is inspired because I think the pleasures of not writing are so great that if you ever start indulging them you will never write again. - John Updike
"The life of every man is a diary in which he means to write one story, and writes another; and his humblest hour is when he compares the volume as it is with what he vowed to make it." - J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan
Poetry is the shadow cast by our streetlight imaginations." - Lawrence Ferlinghetti
[Note - If any article requires updating or correction please notate this in the comment section. Thank you. - res]
There once was a lit'rary miss; And all that she needed for bliss Was some ink and a pen, Reams of paper, and then Thirty days to describe half a kiss.
The World's Way
by Anonymous
He wrote his soul into a book.
The world refused to turn and look.
He made his faith into a rhyme,
And still the world could spare no time.
But on the day when, dumb and dazed,
Despair-condemned, and blind and crazed,
By means most weird his life he took,
Behold, the world brought out his book!
The Letter
by Emily Dickinson
"Going to him! Happy letter! Tell him —
Tell him the page I didn't write;
Tell him I only said the syntax,
And left the verb and the pronoun out.
Tell him just how the fingers hurried,
Then how they waded, slow, slow, slow;
And then you wished you had eyes in your pages,
So you could see what moved them so.
"Tell him it wasn't a practised writer,
You guessed, from the way the sentence toiled;
You could hear the bodice tug, behind you,
As if it held but the might of a child;
You almost pitied it, you, it worked so.
Tell him — No, you may quibble there,
For it would split his heart to know it,
And then you and I were silenter.
"Tell him night finished before we finished,
And the old clock kept neighing 'day!'
And you got sleepy and begged to be ended —
What could it hinder so, to say?
Tell him just how she sealed you, cautious,
But if he ask where you are hid
Until to-morrow, — happy letter!
Gesture, coquette, and shake your head!"
Free Verses
by Sarah Kirsch
Last night I awoke knew
That I should say goodbye now
To these verses. That's how it always goes
After a few years. They have to get out
Into the world. It's not possible to keep them
Forever! here under the roof.
Poor things. They must set out for town.
A few will be allowed to return later.
But most of them are still hanging around out there.
Who knows what will become of them. Before they
Find their peace.
Introduction to Poetry
by Billy Collins
I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light like a color slide
or press an ear against its hive.
I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,
or walk inside the poem's room and feel the walls for a light switch.
I want them to waterski across the surface of a poem waving at the author's name on the shore.
But all they want to do is tie the poem to a chair with rope and torture a confession out of it.
They begin beating it with a hose to find out what it really means.
The Art of Poetry
by Jorge Luis Borges
To gaze at a river made of time and water
and remember Time is another river.
To know we stray like a river
and our faces vanish like water.
To feel that waking is another dream
that dreams of not dreaming and that the death
we fear in our bones is the death
that every night we call a dream.
To see in every day and year a symbol
of all the days of man and his years,
and convert the outrage of the years
into a music, a sound, and a symbol.
To see in death a dream, in the sunset
a golden sadnesssuch is poetry,
humble and immortal, poetry,
returning, like dawn and the sunset.
Sometimes at evening there's a face
that sees us from the deeps of a mirror.
Art must be that sort of mirror,
disclosing to each of us his face.
They say Ulysses, wearied of wonders,
wept with love on seeing Ithaca,
humble and green. Art is that Ithaca,
a green eternity, not wonders.
Art is endless like a river flowing,
passing, yet remaining, a mirror to the same
inconstant Heraclitus, who is the same
and yet another, like the river flowing.
The Author to Her Book
by Anne Bradstreet (1612-1672)
THOU ill-form'd offspring of my feeble brain,
Who after birth did'st by my side remain,
Till snatcht from thence by friends, less wise than true
Who thee abroad, expos'd to publick view,
Made thee in raggs, halting to th' press to trudge,
Where errors were not lessened (all may judg).
At thy return my blushing was not small,
My rambling brat (in print) should mother call,
I cast thee by as one unfit for light,
Thy Visage was so irksome in my sight;
Yet being mine own, at length affection would
Thy blemishes amend, of so I could:
I wash'd thy face, but more defects I saw,
And rubbing off a spot, still made a flaw.
I stretcht thy joynts to make thee even feet,
Yet still thou run'st more hobling then is meet;
In better dress to trim thee was my mind,
But nought save home-spun Cloth, i'th' house I find.
(intended to be played when reading all that is set below)
3 hours
Being the last day of 2022 I wish to remember the poems and songs of JRR Tolkien speaking of love and lost, wander and thrall. Within the sad tales of Middle Earth comes bred upon the human breast a wistfulness for better days when fellowship no longer strives with ruin and evil. Where the grand majesties set deep upon the hearts of all beings cannot undo themselves by heavy lost but finds within a deeper courage and longing to aright wrongs done and all be redeemed by torn atoning struggles for peace and justice founded upon the shattered halls of love unremitting its trials and longings.
"Under the fading trees the land was silent." - Elven Lady Arwen
Lady Arwen, upon leaving the side of her Thrane and husband, Aragorn, and the whiten fortresses of Gondolin - where lay his tomb in the Hallows of Minas Tirith - thence journeyed onwards across Middle Earth to Lady Galadriel's remembered forest realms of Lothlorien. Then onwards to her Elven father Elrond's hidden realms founded upon the rocky chasms of Rivendale. And therefrom her father's lands Arwen thence turned westward towards the greensward troves of the misty Grey Havens once abounding it's vast inland and coastal realms under the tendering care of Elvish hands. Yet thereto did Arwen behold the fey wastelands conscripted in deeper losts than its lores and legends. For all she surveyed leaned upon her heavy heart the fast retreats of man's fourth age whose rule and imagination languished before her renown predecessor's gifted domains once wrapped in light and life within the deep and purposeful care of their Elven lord's faded dominions. - R.E. Slater
For Tolkien, as for his magical realms of lore and wisdom, time may be slowed but never stopped. Vast realms and traditions, cherished friendships and places, may for a time be preserved and protected yet all will eventually succumb to death and soulful reprocessing into the unknown realms beyond death's fast holds where new life and purpose may be rebourne, long journeys emended and renewed, and perhaps bound to brighter promises and hopes thought lost to time and eternity at death's hands.
R.E. Slater
December 31, 2022
@copyright R.E. Slater Publications
all rights reserved
The White Towers of Minas Tirith of Gondolin
Faithful Arwen beside beloved Aragorn's side in his State of Rest
Aragon's Tomb in the Hallows before the Citadel of Minas Tirith
Enya - Arwen's Song of Aragorn
* * * * * * * * *
A Tolkien Ensemble - The Song of Beren and Lúthien
Eärendil was a mariner that tarried in Arvernien; he built a boat of timber felled in Nimbrethil to journey in; her sails he wove of silver fair, of silver were her lanterns made, her prow was fashioned like a swan, and light upon her banners laid.
Beneath the Moon and under star he wandered far from northern strands, bewildered on enchanted ways beyond the days of mortal lands. From gnashing of the Narrow Ice where shadow lies on frozen hills, from nether heats and burning waste he turned in haste, and roving still on starless waters far astray at last he came to Night of Naught, and passed, and never sight he saw of shining shore nor light he sought. The winds of wrath came driving him, and blindly in the foam he fled from west to east and errandless, unheralded he homeward sped.
There flying Elwing came to him, and flame was in the darkness lit; more bright than light of diamond the fire upon her carcanet. The Silmaril she bound on him and crowned him with the living light and dauntless then with burning brow he turned his prow; and in the night from Otherworld beyond the Sea there strong and free a storm arose, a wind of power in Tarmenel; by paths that seldom mortal goes his boat it bore with biting breath as might of death across the grey and long forsaken seas distressed; from east to west he passed away.
Through Evernight he back was borne on black and roaring waves that ran o'er leagues unlit and foundered shores that drowned before the Days began, until he heard on strands of pearl where ends the world the music long, where ever-foaming billows roll the yellow gold and jewels wan. He saw the Mountain silent rise where twilight lies upon the knees of Valinor, and Eldamar beheld afar beyond the seas. A wanderer escaped from night to haven white he came at last, to Elvenhome the green and fair where keen the air, where pale as glass beneath the Hill of Ilmarin a-glimmer in a valley sheer the lamplit towers of Tirion are mirrored on the Shadowmere.
He tarried there from errantry, and melodies they taught to him, and sages old him marvels told, and harps of gold they brought to him. They clothed him then in elven-white, and seven lights before him sent, as through the Calacirian to hidden land forlorn he went. He came unto the timeless halls where shining fall the countless years, and endless reigns the Elder King in Ilmarin on Mountain sheer; and words unheard were spoken then of folk of Men and Elven-kin, beyond the world were visions showed forbid to those that dwell therein.
A ship then new they built for him of mithril and of elven-glass with shining prow; no shaven oar nor sail she bore on silver mast: the Silmaril as lantern light and banner bright with living flame to gleam thereon by Elbereth herself was set, who thither came and wings immortal made for him, and laid on him undying doom, to sail the shoreless skies and come behind the Sun and light of Moon.
From Evereven's lofty hills where softly silver fountains fall his wings him bore, a wandering light, beyond the mighty Mountain Wall. From World's End there he turned away, and yearned again to find afar his home through shadows journeying, and burning as an island star on high above the mists he came, a distant flame before the Sun, a wonder ere the waking dawn where grey the Norland waters run.
An Elven-maid there was of old, A shining star by day: Her mantle white was hemmed with gold, Her shoes of silver-grey.
A star was bound upon her brows, A light was on her hair As sun upon the golden boughs In Lórien the fair.
Her hair was long, her limbs were white, And fair she was and free; And in the wind she went as light As leaf of linden-tree.
Beside the falls of Nimrodel, By water clear and cool, Her voice as falling silver fell Into the shining pool.
Where now she wanders none can tell, In sunlight or in shade; For lost of yore was Nimrodel And in the mountains strayed.
The elven-ship in haven grey Beneath the mountain-lee Awaited her for many a day Beside the roaring sea.
A wind by night in Northern lands Arose, and loud it cried, And drove the ship from elven-strands Across the streaming tide.
When dawn came dim the land was lost, The mountains sinking grey Beyond the heaving waves that tossed Their plumes of blinding spray.
Amroth beheld the fading shore Now low beyond the swell, And cursed the faithless ship that bore Him far from Nimrodel.
Of old he was an Elven-king, A lord of tree and glen, When golden were the boughs in spring In fair Lothlórien.
From helm to sea they saw him leap, As arrow from the string, And dive into the water deep, As mew upon the wing.
The wind was in his flowing hair, The foam about him shone; Afar they saw him strong and fair Go riding like a swan.
But from the West has come no word, And on the Hither Shore No tidings Elven-folk have heard Of Amroth evermore.
Galadriel's Song of Eldamar
(Sung by Galadriel to the Fellowship of the Ring)
I sang of leaves, of leaves of gold, and leaves of gold there grew: Of wind I sang, a wind there came and in the branches blew. Beyond the Sun, beyond the Moon, the foam was on the Sea, And by the strand of Ilmarin there grew a golden Tree. Beneath the stars of Ever-eve in Eldamar it shone, In Eldamar beside the walls of Elven Tirion. There long the golden leaves have grown upon the branching years, While here beyond the Sundering Seas now fall the Elven-tears. O Lórien! The Winter comes, the bare and leafless Day; The leaves are falling in the stream, the river flows away. O Lórien! Too long I have dwelt upon this Hither Shore And in a fading crown have twined the golden elanor. But if of ships I now should sing, what ship would come to me, What ship would bear me ever back across so wide a Sea?
Actual Verse *Or there maybe 'tis cloudless night and swaying beeches bear the Elven-stars as jewels white amid their branching hair.
Stephen Oliver - Bilbo's Last Song
(from the BBC Radio Adaptation of the LOTRs)
Bilbo's Last Song
(At the Grey Havens)
Day is ended, dim my eyes, but journey long before me lies. Farewell, friends! I hear the call. The ship's beside the stony wall. Foam is white and waves are grey; beyond the sunset leads my way. Foam is salt, the wind is free; I hear the rising of the Sea.
Farewell, friends! The sails are set, the wind is east, the moorings fret. Shadows long before me lie, beneath the ever-bending sky, but islands lie behind the Sun that I shall raise ere all is done; lands there are to west of West, where night is quiet and sleep is rest.
Guided by the Lonely Star, beyond the utmost harbour-bar I'll find the havens fair and free, and beaches of the Starlit Sea. Ship, my ship! I seek the West, and fields and mountains ever blest. Farewell to Middle-Earth at last.
'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 our brains 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 head, 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 pedler 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."
O'er the hill and o'er the vale, Come three kings together, Caring nought for snow and hail, Cold and wind and weather; Now on Persia's sandy plains, Now where Tigris swells with rains, They their camels tether; Now through Syrian lands they go, Now through Moab, faint and slow, Now o'er Edom's heather.
O'er the hill and o'er the vale, Each king bears a present; Wise men go a Child to hail, Monarchs seek a peasant: And a star in front proceeds, Over rocks and rivers leads, Shines with beams incessant: Therefore onward, onward still! Ford the stream and climb the hill: Love makes all things pleasant.
He is God ye go to meet: Therefore incense proffer: He is King ye go to greet; Gold is in your coffer. Also Man, He comes to share Ev'ry woe that man can bear; Tempter, railer, scoffer: Therefore now, against the day In the grave when Him they lay, Myrrh ye also offer.
Christmas Bells
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet
The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along
The unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
Till, ringing, singing on its way
The world revolved from night to day,
A voice, a chime,
A chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
Then from each black, accursed mouth
The cannon thundered in the South,
And with the sound
The Carols drowned
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
And in despair I bowed my head;
‘There is no peace on earth,’ I said;
‘For hate is strong,
And mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!’
Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
‘God is not dead; nor doth he sleep!
The Wrong shall fail,
The Right prevail,
With peace on earth, good-will to men!’
Christmas Day
by R.E. Slater
We squealed and slid across the wandering creek bed's overflows, upon our little legs and shiny skates, desperately trying to stay upright, o'er frozen pools of gathered water held fast in windage ripples and protruding branches, navigating as we could the wooded stream's winding length swept bare the cold December winds one happy Christmas Day.
Across the frozen fields we glimpse our dairy farm upon its rounded hills, and grandma's aged house nearby our own, who, as a little girl did skate as we this day, sliding upon our feet and bellies, laughing as we slid and fell - or muttering a few cross words in pain - while brothers, mom and dad darted about, grinning our wizened collie's splaying legs, like my own, seeking purchase upon stilled land and wind and water.
R.E. Slater
November 26, 2022
@copyright R.E. Slater Publications
all rights reserved
Merry Christmas
by Nicholas Gordon
Merry Christmas!
Isn't it fun
To say "Merry Christmas"
to everyone?
Time for a party
And presents and things
That make children happy
And give their hearts wings!
Silent Night
by Joseph Mohr
Silent night, holy night All is calm, all is bright Round yon Virgin Mother and Child Holy Infant so tender and mild Sleep in heavenly peace Sleep in heavenly peace
Silent night, holy night! Shepherds quake at the sight Glories stream from heaven afar Heavenly hosts sing Alleluia! Christ, the Saviour is born Christ, the Saviour is born
Silent night, holy night Son of God, love's pure light Radiant beams from Thy holy face With the dawn of redeeming grace Jesus, Lord, at Thy birth Jesus, Lord, at Thy birth "
Cradle Hymn or "Away in a Manger"
by Martin Luther
Away in a manger, no crib for a bed, The little Lord Jesus laid down His sweet head. The stars in the bright sky looked down where he lay— the little Lord Jesus asleep on the hay.
The cattle are lowing, the baby awakes, But little Lord Jesus, no crying He makes. I love thee, Lord Jesus! look down from the sky, And stay by my cradle till morning is nigh.
Christmas Long Ago
by Jo Geis
Frosty days and ice-stilled nights,
Fir trees trimmed with tiny lights.
Sound of sleigh bells in the snow,
That was Christmas long ago.
Tykes on sleds with shouts of glee,
Icy-window filigree.
Sugarplums and candle glow,
Part of Christmas long ago.
Footsteps stealthy on the stair,
Sweet-voiced carols in the air.
Stocking hanging in a row,
Tell of Christmas long ago.
Starry nights so still and blue,
Good friends calling out to you.
Life, so fact, will always show...
Dreams of Christmas on long ago.
Let Every Day Be Christmas
by Norman W. Brooks
Christmas is forever,
not for just one day,
for loving, sharing, giving,
are not to be put away,
like bells and lights and tinsel,
in some box upon a shelf,
no, the good you do for others
is the good you do yourself.
Mom is Making Christmas
by Vicky A. Luong
Cookies baking in the kitchen -
The smell floating through the air;
Mom is making Christmas
with her usual Merry flair!
The house is gaily decorated,
Each gift she stitched with love;
We'll gather around the Christmas tree
for an evening of old-fashioned fun.
This evening she'll sing carols for us
With her angel's voice and smile;
Yes, Mom is making Christmas -
A true reason to rejoice!
O Little Town of Bethlehem
O little town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie!
Above thy deep and dreamless sleep the silent stars go by.
Yet in thy dark streets shineth the everlasting Light;
The hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight.
For Christ is born of Mary, and gathered all above,
While mortals sleep, the angels keep their watch of wondering love.
O morning stars together, proclaim the holy birth,
And praises sing to God the King, and peace to men on earth!
How silently, how silently, the wondrous Gift is giv’n;
So God imparts to human hearts the blessings of His Heav’n.
No ear may hear His coming, but in this world of sin,
Where meek souls will receive Him still, the dear Christ enters in.
Where children pure and happy pray to the blessèd Child,
Where misery cries out to Thee, Son of the mother mild;
Where charity stands watching and faith holds wide the door,
The dark night wakes, the glory breaks, and Christmas comes once more.
O holy Child of Bethlehem, descend to us, we pray;
Cast out our sin, and enter in, be born in us today.
We hear the Christmas angels the great glad tidings tell;
O come to us, abide with us, our Lord Emmanuel!
Love Came Down at Christmas
by Christina Rossetti
Love came down at Christmas,
Love all lovely, Love Divine;
Love was born at Christmas,
Star and angels gave the sign.
Worship we the Godhead,
Love Incarnate, Love Divine;
Worship we our Jesus:
But wherewith for sacred sign?
Love shall be our token,
Love be yours and love be mine,
Love to God and all men,
Love for plea and gift and sign
A Song Was Heard At Christmas
by Timothy Dudley Smith
A Song was heard at Christmas
To wake the midnight sky;
A Savior's birth and peace on earth
And praise to God on high.
The angels sang at Christmas
with all the hosts above.
And still we sing the newborn King
His glory and his love.
Let us end these "Stories of Christmas" with prayer and purpose for the war torn people of the Ukraine harmed and broken by the terrorism of a solitary Russian leader who defies his people and those nations around him with defilement across all he deigns.
Like the abolitionist minister of old, Thomas Hill, we prayer and act on behalf of the Ukrainian people who now suffer winter's brutal cold, starvation, no medicines, and loss of family and friends. We now pray and purpose a Second Advent upon the evils of this world which refuse to love and share humanity's feep need for living altars and remembered sepulchre's as reminders that we each share the other's burdens.
R.E. Slater
November 26, 2022
THE SECOND ADVENT
by Thomas Hill
Not in a humble manger now, Not of a lowly virgin born, Announced to simple shepherd swains, That watch their flocks in early morn ;
Nor in the pomp of glory, come, While throngs of angels hover round, Arrayed in glittering robes of light, And moving to the trumpet’s sound ;
But in the heart of every man, O, Jesus, come, and reign therein, And banish from the human breast The darkening clouds of guilt and sin.
Come, spread thy glory over earth, Fill every heart with truth and love, Till thy whole kingdom here below Be filled with peace like that above.
For such a glory, when on earth, Thou prayedst to thy Father, God ; He heareth thee, and soon will spread Thy glory and thy truth abroad.
Then shall no more by brothers’ hands The blood of brother men be spilled, Nor earth’s fair scenes with captives’ tears And groans of dying slaves be filled.
Postscript:
“Few if any persons in the community had so great cause for sorrow as the Abolitionists. One of the towers of our strength had fallen. The greatness of our loss was dwelt upon at the annual meeting of the Massachusetts Society a few days afterward, and it was unanimously voted :
‘That an address on the life and character of Charles Follen, and in particular upon his early and eminent services to the cause of abolition, be delivered by such person and at such time and place as the Board of Managers shall appoint.’
“Their appointment fell upon me, and I was requested to give notice so soon as my eulogy should be written. I gave such a notice early in February, when I was informed by the managers that they had not yet been able to procure a suitable place, for such a service as they wished to have in connection with my discourse. They had applied for the use of every one of the Unitarian and for several of the Orthodox churches in Boston, and all had been refused them. It was said that Dr. Channing did obtain from the trustees of Federal Street Church consent that the eulogy on Dr. Follen, whom he esteemed so highly, might be pronounced from his pulpit. But another meeting of the trustees, or of the proprietors, was called, and that permission was revoked. More sad still the meeting-house at East Lexington, which had been built under his direction, which he was coming from New York to dedicate, and in which he was to have preached as the pastor of the church if his life had been spared, — even that meeting-house was refused for a eulogy and other appropriate exercises in commemoration of the early and eminent services of Dr. Follen to the cause of freedom and humanity in Europe, and more especially in our country. Such was the temper of that time, such the opposition of the people in and about the metropolis of New England to Mr. Garrison and his associates. …”
Eliza Lee Follet published her husband’s memoirs after his death, wrote and edited children’s publications and continued to support anti-slavery causes. She died at age 72 at her home in Brookline, MA. on January 26, 1860 before the Civil War began.
Thomas Hill earned his Bachelor of Arts degree from Harvard the same year that he wrote this poetry pamphlet which ended with the Christmas poem above. In 1845, Thomas Hill earned a Doctor of Divinity degree. He was installed as pastor at the Unitarian Church in Waltham, MA., and 14 years later, took the position of President of Antioch College, Ohio, as well as pastor of the Church of the Redeemer in Cincinnati.
Dr. Hill was chosen to be President of Harvard in 1862, a position he held throughout the Civil War. He had occasion that same year to write to President Lincoln to advise that his son, Robert, whom Dr. Hill referred to as “Lincoln, Junior,” would be publicly admonished for smoking in Harvard Square.
Hill resigned from Harvard in 1868 for health reasons and spent his remaining years as pastor of the First Unitarian Church in Portland, ME.
Loss of Steamer Lexington: Power for Sanity: Selected Editorials of William Cullen Bryant, 1821-1861, by William Cullen Bryant, Fordham Univ. Press (1994):
At his death in 1878 William Cullen Bryant had been, for fifty-one years, the chief editor and a principal owner of the New York Evening Post. The paper had been started in 1801 by lawyer William Coleman in association with the Federalist political Alexander Hamilton. In 1826, Coleman hired Bryant as a reporter. Although Coleman may have engaged his services because of his growing distinction as a poet, Bryant was also by then an experienced writer of prose, having published more than fifty critical and familiar essays. He had been both editor of and most frequent writer for the monthly New York Review and the United State Review, and was known widely for his lectures on poetry before the New York Athenaeum. By the time he assumed the direction of the Evening Post after Coleman's death in 1829 he had proved himself, in three annual volumes of the holiday gift book The Talisman, to be proficient in a wit and irony soon reflected in his editorials.
Bryant brought the conservative journal to the support of the Democratic Party of President Andrew Jackson, and held it thereafter to liberal principles, advocating free trade, free labor, and Free Soil. Except for the years from 1829 to 1836, Bryant held the editorial pen largely alone until after the Civil War. Occasional contributors formed a representative roster of leaders in many fields: Charles Francis Adams, Thomas Hart Benton, Francis P. Blair, Salman P. Chase, Thomas Cole, James Fenimore Cooper, Hamilton Fish, Parke Godwin (Bryant's son-in-law), Bret Harte, James K. Paulding, John Randolph, Samule J. Tilden, Martin and John Van Buren, Artemus Ward, Gideon Wlles, Walt Whitman, and Silas Wright. And now and then there were articles by British Parliamentarian Richard Cobden and artist-economist George Harvey, and the French critic Charles Sainte-Beuve.
Bryant's editorials after 1860 suggest separate treatment. The present volume traces the growth of his political and social maturity as he made of a conservative, parochial, small-city newspaper into a national organ which Charles Francis Adams in 1850 called the best daily journal in the United States.