CARRIER’S ADDRESS,

TO THE

PATRONS

OF THE

JOURNAL AND ADVERTISER,

JANUARY 1, 1841

As truly as the year rolls round,

The News-Boy at your door is found,

With muddy feet and frosted nose,

Exposed to every wind that blows,

Making his best---though awkward bow-

Exactly as you see me now.

'Tis usual in these annual rhymes,

To give some sketches of the times,

Animadverting as we may

Upon the business of the day,

And striving with best skill to mix

Our sentiments with politics.

We prize the privilege to be

Once, in a twelvemonth, fully free;

And, by your leave, we now will cast

A hasty glance upon the past;-

And as the Journal Editor

With Loco Focos is at war

The Printer's Devil his hand now tries

To act his part without disguise.--

One year ago we had some fears

Of clouds o'ershadowing future years;

For then the public mind was sunk

In Jacksonism, completely drunk,

And Jackson's little minded sage,

"Strutted his hour upon the stage."

Our SHIP of STATE, with every sail

Out-spread, was driv'n before the gale,

Falling to leeward every minute

As if Destruction's imps were in it;.

And midst reiterated shocks,

Must have been dashed upon the rocks,

Had not all hands sprung up on deck

To save the almost sinking wreck.

Van Buren was no pilot: He

Had not learned seamanship at sea,

And all his theoretic skill

Could not say to the waves, " be still !"

And though he called his spirits, they

Refused his biddings to obey,

And would not" from the vasty deep"

Budge forth to take the desperate leap;

Nor did they come to help him through

The breakers he had brought them to.

The vessel must have foundered soon

In spite of Amos. and Calhoun

And all the Globe's wise-acre Editors

Who are so much Van Buren's creditors,

Had not their panic-stricken gang

In wild afright the alarum rang,

Which wakened up the slumbering crew

That, like a streak of lightning few,

And snatch'd the helm from little Van

And stationed there a fitter man.--

Reader! I talk as to a friend

Who can this language comprehend ;

But, lest this metaphoric strain

Should be a puzzler to thy brain,

I'll drop the metaphor, and say,

At once in a familiar way,

That, by the waked-up slumbering crew

I mean, dear readers, me and you ;

And by the helmsman, it is seen

That HARRISON’S the man I mean.

On its beam ends the nation reeled,

'Till right about the PEOPLE wheeled

And through the BALLOT Box, proclaimed

As President, the man just named,

Who, (to resume the metaphor,)

Is now to be our commodore.

---With this commander, then, on board,

Our ship will be again unmoored,

And by the TRADE-WINDS' blessing, we

Shall shortly navigate the sea;

And with the help of COMMERCE, start

The life-blood in our country's heart,

Till, the PLOUGH, HAMMER, FORGE and LOOM

Their old activity assume.--

This is Columbia's hope-and 1

But put in rhyme the people's cry;

And, with the muses' help, my song

The PEOPLE'S clamour would prolong

Till every branch Of LABOUR'S stream

Should swell into a copious theme.

This may be whiggery, or what

You better like-it matters not;

For, LOVE OF COUNTRY so inflames

My muse she will not stoop to names.

-Too long the victims of sonic schism,

We have been test by partyism,

Until thy sinews, INDUSTRY!

Have been shrunk up by atrophy;

For COMMERCE, earls MECANIC ART,

And AGRICULTURE, sick at heart,

Grown languid bleed at every pore--

Not brisk and stout as heretofore.

Let then this party spirit die

And every citizen apply

His moral courage to withstand

That damning demon of the land

Which is to us as great a curse

As Egypt's plagues-or something worse.

We have no moral centre-hence

There can be no circumference,

For it is foolish to suppose

Life's current to the centre flows

Without an atmosphere that beams

May warns and cheer the far extremes.

Then let us hope that we may yet

Be favored with a CABINET,

Which like a galaxy of light

Shall make the sable prospect bright,

And pierce those shadows far and wide

Which every virtuous effort hide.

Who knows but Heaven in mercy, will

Its promised purposes fulfil,

By suffering us once more, to be,

In national prosperity,

Just as we were, when Jacksonisim

Began to preach that odious schism,

Which at Van Buren' court, best figures

In CUBA'S BLOOD-HOUNDS-CUBA'S NIGGERS.

The no plus ultra argument

Of our prince-aping President,

And his advisers, from the chary

Arch-fiend himself to Sam. Medary.

Here, now, would stop my faithful Clio,

Did I not think that our Ohio

Demands a line or two to mix

Her own with general politics.

Our governor Shannon (what a bore !)

Is now our Governor no more;

For, to the comfort of the nation,

Corwin has past his Corwination,

And gained all honest people's thanks

By telling what he thinks of BANKS,

That monstrous subject of the land

Which so few. Statesmen understand,

But which apprentice-boys can handle

As smartly as they do a candle-

A thing with them that's dark; for it

Can give no light-not being lit.

Ohio, forty years ago,

Had few resources, we all know;

But men had elbows and could work,

Since few or none were apt to shirk.

I mean to say, and what is truer'!

That our first settlers were quite poor.

Well! without capital, 'twould seem

They had to row against the stream;

And just so long as every neighbor

Had nothing to exchange, but labour

For coon-skins, cider and so forth

.Much surely he could not be worth;

And all, all dwelt in cabins, made

By individual strength or trade.

Thus TRADE-began. But when CANALS

And TURNPIKES needed capitals,

The enterprising citizens

Clubbed all their fips, in fives and tens,

Until the congregated stock,

Became, as ‘twere, a solid block,

Which had the means of helping such

Whose first beginnings were not much.

Hence the HIGHWAYS began to peer

Through swamps which people had to clear

And those CANALS, whose loaded boats

Bear of the FARMERS' corn and oats,

And bring the girls such pretty filings

For their domestic marketings-

For these, and our fine CHURCHES, thanks

Are due-to whom'?-why to our Banks--

Those libeled Banks which, in our needs,

Supplied to Trade the very seeds,

Until as every body knows,

Ohio blossomed as the rose!

But lo! a spectral apparition

Crosses my path, in opposition;

For, this once-thriving Dayton seems

To say these fights are poets' dreams.

Alas! alas! the printer's boy

Feels this a damper to his joy;

And in his patriotic sorrow,

If he the CASH could beg or borrow,

Large sums he readily would tend

To many an enterprising friend -

So much at least as would he meet

To raise some folks upon their feet

Whose undertakings have been dropt,

And their career to fortune stopt.

Yes! yes! one printer's devil feels

That he would gladly grease the wheels

Of all those FACTORIES and FOUNDBIES

Whose skeletons now haunt our boundaries,

Till Dayton with her water power,

Should spring to life this very hour,

And show herself in such a light,

As those who see her, know she might,

If like a BANK, I should bestow

Enough of cash to make her so.-

Then let us club our fips again,

And act like reasonable men

Who have the sinews, bone and heart

To labour--could they get a start-

That start which money in a mass

Alone can give, or bring to pass;

And money in a mass, I ween,

Is but a BANK: how plainly seen.

Here, as a postscript, we subjoin

An Irish hint-by way of sign--

To wit: that as the Dayton Journal

Is now both Weekly and Diurnal,

The expenses of our office call

Loudly upon our patrons, all,

To yield support to an endeavor

Which is, as some imagine, clever,

And will be as a feather, placed

In Dayton's cap-a mark of Taste-

This, if subscribers should be pleased at,

Proves Dayton is not to be sneered at.

We therefore beg the help of those,

Both far and near, whom we suppose

Able and willing to support

A Daily Paper of this sort;

And, for encouragement thus offered,

Comely acknowledgements are proffered.