"Enough of this:" 1828 has nearly got the "go-by" and we have outlived its pains and perils, its varied scenes of good or evil, and its pleasures too, for there is a bright side to human reverse and suffering, and we are ready at our posts to enact and stand another campaign in this "strange eventful history." We often find that the public discover virtues and good qualities in a man after his death, which they had previously given him no credit for; let this be as it may, 1828 may be deemed a very "passable" year. To use a simile, a sick man when recovering from a fever, makes slow progress at first; and we should fairly hope that the gallant ship is at last weathering the hurricane of the "commercial crisis," and that the trade-winds of prosperity will again visit us and extend their balmy influence over our shores; and to borrow a commercial phrase, we trust to be able to quote an improvement on this head next year.

I stood between the meeting years The coming and the past, And I ask'd of the future one Wilt thou be like the last? The same in many a sleepless night, In many an anxious day? Thank heaven! I have no prophet's eye, To look upon thy way!

L.E.L.

The march of mind is progressing, and the once boasted "wisdom of our ancestors" and the "golden days of good Queen Bess," are hurled with derision to the tomb of all the Capulets. We regret that we cannot chronicle a "Narrative of a first attempt to reach the cities of Bath and Bristol, in the year 1828, in an extra patent steam-coach, by Messrs. Burstall, or Gurney." The newspapers, however, still continue to inform us that such vehicles are about to start, so we may reasonably expect that Time will accomplish the long talked of event. Nay, we even hear it rumoured that the public are shortly to crest the billows in a steamer at the rate of fifty or a hundred miles an hour! and this is mentioned as a mere first essay, an immature sample of what the improved steam-paddles are to effect—also in Time; who after this can doubt the approaching perfectibility of Mars? Oh, steam! steam! but this is well ploughed ground.

Art, science, and literature, also progress, and we almost begin to fear we shall soon be puzzled where to stow the books, and anticipate a dearth in rags, an extinction of Rag-Fair! (which will keep the others in countenance,) the booksellers' maws seem so capacious. Christmas with its rare recollections of feasting (and their pendant of bile and sick headache) has again come round. New Year's Day, and of all the days most "rich and rare," Twelfth Day is coming! But it is in Scotland that the advent of the new year, or Hogmanay is kept with the most hilarity; the Scotch by their extra rejoicings at this time, seem to wish to make up for their utter neglect of Christmas. We may be induced to offer a few reminiscences of a sojourn in the north, at this period, on a future occasion. The extreme beauty of the following lines on the year that is past, will, we think, prove a sufficient apology for their introduction here:—

In darkness, in eternal space, Sightless as a sin-quenched star, Thou shalt pursue thy wandering race, Receding into regions far— On thee the eyes of mortal men Shall never, never light again; Memory alone may steal a glance Like some wild glimpse in sleep we're taking. Of a long perish'd countenance We have forgotten when awaking— Sad, evanescent, colour'd weak, As beauty on a dying cheek. Farewell! that cold regretful word To one whom we have called a friend— Yet still "farewell" I must record The sign that marks our friendship's end. Thou'rt on thy couch of wither'd leaves, The surly blast thy breath receives, In the stript woods I hear thy dirge, Thy passing bell the hinds are tolling Thy death-song sounds in ocean's surge, Oblivion's clouds are round thee rolling, Thou'lst buried be where buried lie Years of the dead eternity!

It is needless to add that our old friend will be succeeded in his title and estates by his next heir, eighteen hundred and twenty-nine, whose advent will no doubt be generally welcomed. We cannot help picturing to ourselves the anxiety, the singularly deep and thrilling interest, which universally prevails as his last hour approaches:—

"Hark the deep-toned chime of that bell As it breaks on the midnight ear— Seems it not tolling a funeral knell? 'Tis the knell of the parting year! Before that bell shall have ceas'd its chime The year shall have sunk on the ocean of Time!"

And shall we go on after this lone hour? no, we will even follow its course, draw this article to a close by wishing our readers, in the good old phrase, "a happy New Year and many of them;" and conclude with them, that

Our pilgrimage here By so much is shorten'd—then fare thee well Year!

VYVYAN.

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The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 12, No. 348, December 27, 1828

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