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!