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!