The Way the "New Year's Review" was Done in 1803

Newspapers in late 1700s/early 1800s were delivered by postboys on horseback. In the New Year's edition, there would often be a single page poem insert that summarized the news of the year in a humorous way. This was exchanged by the postboy with his customers for a tip. Henry Livingston, Jr., argued by his family to be the actual author of Night Before Christmas, wrote Carrier Addresses for a variety of New York newspapers from 1787 to at least 1823. The 1803 Political Barometer Carriers Address gives a brief overview of news after an introduction and before a request for the tip.

I do admit that I don’t recognize many of the names from the news of those days, but then I frequently have the same problem in the current year.

Here’s one identified as Henry’s from the Poughkeepsie Journal 1811. I asked Mac, the prof emeritus I worked with, if we could make a black box. Put in a poem and have it come out if it was Henry’s or not. We made a stab at it with multiple tests done on Henry vs anonymous newspaper poets of the same dates and newspapers. We had previously done that for Henry vs Moore. Then we set levels for By Henry or NOT. 1811 got a good YES.

There’s a lovely patriot section that reminds me of FR. Henry and his entire family were dedicated patriots. He was a major who invaded Canada with Montgomery in 1775.

...
My greetings well over — let’s light our cigars
And talk of Europa, its squabbles and wars.
In the front rank of carnage conspicuous is seen
That scourge of mankind the accurst Napoleon;
Like a comet erratic he shines but to burn,
From the glare of his splendour palid virtue must turn;
The nations around him submissively bend,
Look pale at his frown and each mandate attend.
Great Britain alone has the javelin hurl’d,
Stop’t the torrent of death, and kep’t Hope in the world;
May her arm energetic, grow stronger and stronger,
Till the Demon of Corsica rages no longer.
Deceived, betrayed, and much injur’d Spain
Resisted alas ! but resisted in vain :
The struggle ne’er over, while panting for breath,
She frowns on her murderer even in death.
The Portuguese cup of distress overflows!
Expiring she lies in the midst of her foes:
One friend for a moment, averts the dread blow,
And sheds a kind tear at her sad overthrow.
Batavis is lost and her name is no more;
Her page from the volume of nations is tore:
Her Tromps and her Evertsons triumph’d in vain,
For gone is the nations, its virtues and fame.
The Germanic Eagle no longer will soar,
He grovels in dust, to be heard of no more.
The sceptre of Vasa a Gallic hand grasps,
And old Swedish glory in agony gasps.
E’en the monarch of Russia enthroned on snow
Sets the deluge advance with an aspect of woe.
And hopes by submission to ward off the blow.
His meanness a few coward moments may gain,
But sooner or later his doom is a chain.
The Turk with his turban, his sofa and pipe,
For his last degradation already is ripe;
Like the Greek he once vanquish’d, he sinks in disgrace,
Forgot his past valor his name and his place.
My long tale of mischiefs is now nearly o’er;
I’ll only just mention one tragedy more:
— This greatest of Merces, this Chief of renown,
Who sets monarchs up and who pulls monarchs down,
Can boast at the close of a prodigy life,
That he grappled in battle and conquer’d — HIS WIFE.

My country kind patrons, my country’s a theme,
On which I can prattle, and scribble, and dream,
In rapture forever — Hail land of my birth!
The far happiest portion of this lovely earth;
A grace and a majesty marks every feature
And stamps Thee the fav’rite and darling of nature.
No despot of Europe shall mar thy fair face,
Thy heroes can never endure the disgrace;
Those heroes who once chas’d thy foes to the main,
Will combat and conquer again and again.
Thy statesmen mayhap, like the rest of mankind,
May now and then prove to thy interest blind;
But the mass of thy children are fill’d with a spirit
That will always secure the fair soil they inherit.

Sounds of music strike my ear!
There, my joyous Chums appear,
Beck’ning me to come away
Joining in their festive play.
Happy boys — the dance is in it
If you cannot wait one minute,
See my patron with good nature,
Smiling on my New-Year’s paper
See his hand, already FUMBLING!
Soon the shiners will be TUMBLING.
Bless your honour — Now my hearties,
I’ll be one in all your parties.

*********

Comic book illustrated version of the Carrier Address after the New Year’s Review.

https://henrylivingston.com/writing/poetry/xmasdecorated/carriersaddress1811.htm

Governor Lewis Morris of New Jersey was complaining of the same thing years before that. Morris co-wrote the first play in America. It’s in his handwriting in the Princeton Archives.

Address to Lord Lovelace
Lewis Morris, March 12, 1708/9

If th’ Addressers are Angry ‘tis by no means unfit
That at once they discharge both their Spleen and their witt,
Since the Town is obliged they’le thank ‘em no less
For a Scurvy Lampoon than a Fawning Address;
They’re both helps to discourse, and though never so mean
The world can discern ‘twixt the Witt and the Spleen;
And Honest Will Bradford is not so Morose
But he’le publish their Talents in Verse and in Prose;
That the Town mayn’t be wanting to render due praise
To those who So justly meritts the Bayes.

As Ravens and Night-owls their Voices betray
So Asses are certainly known when they bray.
And Spight of the Noise and bustle they’ve made
Mankind will believe that a Spade is a Spade.
That Bullies and Bankrupts, and Men without Store
Dull wretches that have not one Virtue or More,
The Pests of the Country, whose Practice has been
To flatter the Governor, and Lie to the Queen,
Have right to no favour in a Well-govern’d State
But to Swing in an Halter, or peep through a Grate.

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