Thanks mairdie! There's quite an active controversy about this, not sure I'd known that before.
BTW, it sounds like the first person in the poem and his mate were, uh, having a different kind of celebration when there arose such a clatter. :^)
Posted on 12/15/2024 12:00:28 PM PST by mairdie
A 30 min documentary put together for a charitable event in Troy NY, where Night Before Christmas was first published in the Troy Sentinel on December 23, 1823. For years it was assumed to be written by Clement Moore, a professor at a theology school and one of the richest men in NYC. Then, in 1859, the family of Henry Livingston began making known the family story of having seen the poem written and heard it performed by their father and grandfather years before the publication. Every 20 years the media rediscovers the controversy between a poet with no other decent poetry and an obscure Revolutionary War major who spent his spare time writing and drawing for anonymous publication.
New York Times, 2000
https://henrylivingston.com/xmas/publicity/images/nytimes2000.htm
People Magazine, 2000
https://henrylivingston.com/xmas/publicity/images/people2000.htm
The Trial Before Christmas, 2014
https://henrylivingston.com/xmas/publicity/trial/index.htm
Who Wrote “The Night Before Christmas”?: Analyzing the Clement Clarke Moore vs. Henry Livingston Question, McDonald Jackson
https://www.amazon.com/Who-Wrote-Night-Before-Christmas/dp/1476664439
Henry Livingston, Jr.: The Christmas Poet You Always Loved, Mary S. Van Deusen
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01NAGIDZL
Ping - Night Before Christmas Documentary
Thanks mairdie! There's quite an active controversy about this, not sure I'd known that before.
BTW, it sounds like the first person in the poem and his mate were, uh, having a different kind of celebration when there arose such a clatter. :^)
Have a Merry Christmas!
The original version goes like this:
"A Marine Corps Christmas
T'was the night before Christmas and all through the Corps,
Not a soul had liberty, the troops were all sore.
They were all sacked out, every man in the lot,
On racks of nails, called Marine Corps cots.
When out on the grinder, I heard such a clatter,
I sprang from my rack to see what was the matter.
With bayonet in hand I moved to the door
I cautiously waited to see if there was more.
All of sudden I felt the air grow colder
when I saw four stars on his shoulder
It was Wilson, of course, there was never a doubt
For he had on his poncho, green side out.
He tiptoed around to each mans rack
he carefully inspected each rifle and pack
to a chosen few he gave a 96 chit
but the majority of us got a ration of s*it
As he pulled away in his gold plated tank
pulled by ten colonels all bucking for rank
I heard him exclaim, and he said with a shout
"Merry Christmas you Bastards you'll never get out".
So there!
Clapping enthusiastically.
Me, too. Miss you, Aqua. Always warming to see your name.
That wasn’t the only time Henry wrote about a night vision.
His usual poem was for New Year’s. It was given out by the postboy (who might be a 50 year old delivering rural on horseback) as a single page stuck into the newspaper. Very long. Basically asking for a tip while summarizing the news from the new country, as well as Europe and Africa.
Anyway, one of the ones that we found with the “Black Box” Mac developed for me to identify Henry’s anonymous work was about a man awakened by a night spectre.
Northern Whig 1812
GOOD Morning dear patrons — I’ve come do you see,
With bowing and singing to levy a fee,
I’ll give you good verse — and believe me sincere,
When I wish you long life — and a happy New-Year.
News-Boys just like Lawyers, will promise you fair,
They’ll give for your money, their Lingo so rare —
And I, (lawyer like) though the best of the throng,
“Full costs” mean to “charge” for my excellent song.
Three days had I labour’d — and in verbage sublime,
I’d scribbed nine sheets — but the Devil a rhyme
Would appear in the whole — so all in a huff,
I sent to the flames a whole volume of stuff,
As smooth, at the least, as that lullaby trash,
Which Osander has publish’d — “to compass the cash.”
Having burnt myself out — last night much oppress’d,
I went to my garret and soon was at rest;
Not thinking, at all, that Hobgoblins or Elves
‘Bout poor little News-Boys would trouble themselves;
Or dreaming that fate had a vision design’d
To enliven my muse and enlighten my mind.
The clock sounded twelve — And awaked by the chime,
I raised up my head — and beheld FATHER TIME
Approaching my bed through the dusk of the night;
In one hand his scythe — in the other a SPRIGHT!!!
Whom leading right to me — He spoke with a leer:
“My Lads be you friends — this is little NEW-YEAR!
“And this is YOUNG WHIG!! Now walk hand in hand
“Stick close to each other — in unity stand —
“And then, though from Clermont again shall appear,
“A Juror like Capron, you’ve nothing to fear:
“For when he beholds this young Spright at your side,
“Like Peter the honest from court you shall glide —
“Your pocket unpick’d — nor two hundred expose,
“To purchase some salve for an editor’s nose —
“And then, though brave Matty his bristles should rear,
“And the honest old Sheriff in rage should appear —
“Though all the fell tribe who compose the wise club
“Where Dayton presides and holds forth to his mob,
“Should like savages yell - yet feel no alarm,
“This honest young spright will protect you from harm.
“These Gentry all worship little NEW-YEAR’S gold wand
“And its sight will unnerve every Democrats hand;
“And thus LITTLE WHIG it shall no more be said
“That you print sacred truth at the risk of your head.”
He ended — And spreading his pinions for flight,
Left little NEW-YEAR and MYSELF for the night.
And now raking open the embers, the light
A Goblin most horrible shew’d to my sight,
In stature a Dwarf — but in visage so fell
He seem’d a dark spirit — just issued from Hell.
He glittered in diamonds — of gold was his wand,
And a purse of “Napoleons” was held in each hand.
He ey’d me askant — and threw open his robe,
Displaying embroider’d a Map of the Globe.
I saw there old Germany struck from her seat,
And Russia bow’d down at an Usurper’s feet,
And places where states in old Europe had stood,
We’re buried, deep buried, in oceans of blood:
And o’er them I read on a label enrolled,
“The CONQUESTS of France and her Tyrant behold.” —
I look’d to the south — a new scene struck my eye —
A kingdom “in armour” — And “freedom” the cry —
From her snow cover’d Mountains, her brave sons again,
As, erst with Pelagius, rush down to the plain;
And there fixed as fate — with dread purpose they stand,
To die, or deliver, their dear native land.
And there I beheld from the Isles of the west,
A band all heroic — at Freedom’s behest
Rush forth to the battle — with banners unfurl’d,
And snatch from the Tyrant a tottering world —
“And O” I exclaimed “if the councils above,
“Are guided by Justice, sweet Mercy and Love,
“Sure, sure, here the Tyrants proud arm shall be stay’d,
“His armies shall fly, and his laurels shall fade;
“The blood of such Patriots shall not flow in vain,
“And the world be preserved by the Heroes of Spain!!”
As I spoke, the fell Spright, with a grin further drew
His mantle aside — and the West met my view —
There drawn at full length, young Columbia I spied,
But ah! how disordered, how humbled her pride —
She seemed like a young man, in vigour and bloom,
By the nostrums of quackery swept to the tomb —
She seem’d a young Giant, unnerved by strong wine,
At her length all extended, inactive, supine —
Her Ports and her Cities how desolate all,
MEMENTOS alike of her rise and her fall.
Indignant I turn’d from this view, to my guest
And “THE LEGION OF HONOR,” appear’d on his breast.
Hah! a Frenchman! I cried — and not the New-Year!
And I shrunk from the wretch with disgust and with fear —
His eyes flashing vengeance — with shrugs and with sneers
He shrieked forth his “foutres” his “pests” and “Monsieurs.”
Of Orders and Edicts his gibberish ran
Of Rambouillet, and Berlin and also Milan —
He pointed to Canada — chattered of Blood!
And shew’d on the map where free Switzerland stood!
He talk’d of embargos and other such stuff,
And “foutred” them all to the shades with a puff.
Our “restrictions” and threat’nings, he sent to “Diable,”
And Damn’d all our Gun-Boats — as tubs for the rabble.
Of the “love of Napoleon” he gabbled an hour,
Of his kindness, and justice, his friendship and power —
Of La Franchise, La Vengeance and other such trash —
And closed by an offer to lend me some cash.
I shrunk from his offer — I spit in his face —
And told him, indignant, his conduct was base —
That though a poor NEWS-BOY, I scorned to do evil,
And him and his master consign’d to the Devil.
Enrag’d, the foul dwarf, wildly flourish’d his wand —
And nine empty purses appear’d in each hand —
Then full in my view, with triumph he rear’d,
On each, at full length, an inscription appear’d.
On the first, “Baptiste Irvine,” was written alone;
The second, “To Dunn,” shew’d its Contents had gone —
On the rest, lofty names, in plain characters glare,
Of statesmen, who rule, and who clamour for war:
The fire flash’d new light — and as nearer I drew;
A purse of small size — was develop’d to view —
It seem’d that some Cents had once lodged therein,
And shillings and sixpences there had been seen,
And on it was written, in characters meet,
“For Captain Stargazer — the tool of De Witt.”
WIth a scowl he, exclaimed — “You see my young friend,
“We ne’er want borrowers, while we’ve money to lend,
“And mark me, YOUNG WHIG — ere long you shall rue,
“This saucy refusal to join the French crew.”
Indignant I view’d him and swore to his head,
I’d publish this day ev’ry word he had said:
Nor would I one word from his gib’rish retrench;
But the shy little Devil spoke wholly in French.
At which growing angry — I bade him Adieu,
And wrote just at day light, this VISION for you.
Quite a bit longer too. It’s good to have a longer text for the comparison.
There’s no doubt in my mind that Mr. Livingston was the author. Enjoyed the video! Thanks for the ping, and Happy Christmas!
Active indeed.
When we came out in 2000, we didn’t know that a paper collector had purchased a handwritten copy Moore had made for over 250K. He was expecting a doubling profit. Don’s book did in his market. He hired a paranormal investigator who wrote a 2 part article attacking Don. On some small points, his attack was right. Don can be sloppy. But on the big points, he was wrong. Just the way they’d go after Trump on something small and say that obviated the whole topic, they used that to attack Henry.
The big problem we have is that museums own copies of Moore stuff. And the more they have, the more they NEED the poem to be by Moore. I was contacted over and over again by editors who desperately wanted to put Henry’s name on their book but were stopped by their publishers, who were afraid that people searching for the book by Moore’s name and not finding this book would lower their sales and profits.
The next problem came when I worked with Mac. Mac is meticulous. I believe he’s corrected Don in the past. One of the major big names. But he’s pure academic and when he first sent me a draft of his book, I sent it back with suggestions on how to make it more readable to the general public. He never sent me another draft. Sigh. And his writing was completely aimed at his academic peers.
That’s why I wrote my big book. I translated Mac into people-speak.
But statistics is naturally difficult for laymen to follow and almost no one who looks into it, follows the MASSIVELY YUGE statistical research we did for years. I tried a bit of baby talk on my Henry website.
https://www.henrylivingston.com/data/
The most fun one to me is one of my earliest apps for Mac. It lists EVERY WORD IN EVERY POEM by Henry, Moore and NBC Poet. Color coded and linked to the original use.
Surprising how many times I’ve used that darn app.
https://www.henrylivingston.com/data/countablepoems/merge/manycolors.cgi
One of Don Foster's proofs was that Merry Christmas was the term used in literature commonly at the time. But here is Henry with his Happy Christmas to his new fiancee, my 5th great grandmother in December of 1773.
Henry and Moore both wrote long poems. Henry’s were usually amusing, Moore’s moralizing and stultifying. Henry was playful and filled his poems with flying and miniatures. Moore filled his with sarcasm, and looking down on people.
“Invitation to a Ball” by Clement Moore
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5EbJ4gADHBs
“Letter to My Brother Beekman” by Henry Livingston (1786) - Guardian Angels
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hB-uHg9QTc8
“The Crane and Fox” by Henry Livingston, Jr. (1827)
This was written the year before he died, aged 78. Still bright and clear and writing.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dHNfAp9uGxQ
Wow!
Interesting. This is the first I’ve read about the questions about who wrote the poem.
We went to the Coeur d’Alene Symphony Orchestra Christmas Performance last night and a guy who looks like Santa Clause sat next to the conductor and recited the poem during one song. The conductor would bring the orchestra volume down and he would recite a passage at the conductor’s command. Then the orchestra came back up until he read the next passage. It was delightful!
It was a great concert. It was started off by a Chamber Orchestra from a Central High School in Spokane Valley, WA. Gosh, those kids were good! That was about one-quarter of the program, then the full orchestra played. After intermission, the high school musicians sat in with the full orchestra and played with them. What a great evening!
https://www.henrylivingston.com/xmas/
links to the Christmas poem part of Henry’s story. I keep two websites - one for Henry and one for me. Henry’s has a lot more than the Christmas poem. I go thru his family, his mapmaking, his drawings, all of his writing - poetry, prose and letters. I’m totally drawn to the man. I love his goodness and his love of family, friends and mankind in general. His sense of humor. His playfulness. I’ve managed to transcribe about half of his music manuscript from late 18th c but never finished. His brother was a major theologian and president of Rutgers. Another brother voted for the US Constitution for NY. Henry was always right in the middle of New York and the Revolution.
That sounds like fun!
We did a lot of choir in high school as our nun had trained in Rome. (Had very bad feelings about pigeons). It was so joyous when the audience had as good a time as we did. Always want to applaud enthusiastically when I see any grammar school or high school music group.
The Central Valley HS Chamber Orchestra got a standing O after their performance. It was note-perfect, full of life. Just an amazing performance from kids probably 16-18 years old.
At our CA Bay Area home, a chamber orchestra would be about 90% Asian kids. Their mom’s & dad’s are VERY serious about their kids mastering music as well as their studies and most of the Asian students play strings. It was a bit odd last night not seeing a single Asian student in the chamber orchestra.
Frequently in the Chinese dramas I watch the participants are expected to play usually the violin. Sometimes the piano. Special is playing historical instruments. But it’s one of those classes in childhood that indicate a parent that pushes education.
Here in the Boston area, special KGs advertise they speak Chinese.
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