Last night， between eleven and twelve o’clock， when theOld Year was leaving her final footprints on the bordersof Time’s empire， she found herself in possession of a fewspare moments， and sat down—of all places in the world—on the steps of our new city-hall. The wintry moonlightshowed that she looked weary of body and sad of heart，like many another wayfarer of earth. Her garments， havingbeen exposed to much foul weather and rough usage，were in very ill condition， and， as the hurry of her journeyhad never before allowed her to take an instant’s rest， hershoes were so worn as to be scarcely worth the mending.
But after trudging only a little distance farther this poorOld Year was destined to enjoy a long， long sleep. I forgotto mention that when she seated herself on the steps shedeposited by her side a very capacious bandbox in which，as is the custom among travellers of her sex， she carried agreat deal of valuable property. Besides this luggage， therewas a folio book under her arm very much resemblingthe annual volume of a newspaper. Placing this volumeacross her knees and resting her elbows upon it， with herforehead in her hands， the weary， bedraggled， world-wornOld Year heaved a heavy sigh and appeared to be taking novery pleasant retrospect of her past existence.
While she thus awaited the midnight knell that was tosummon her to the innumerable sisterhood of departedyears， there came a young maiden treading lightsomely ontip-toe along the street from the direction of the railroaddép.t. She was evidently a stranger， and perhaps had cometo town by the evening train of cars. There was a smilingcheerfulness in this fair maiden’s face which bespoke herfully confident of a kind reception from the multitude ofpeople with whom she was soon to form acquaintance.
Her dress was rather too airy for the season， and wasbedizened with fluttering ribbons and other vanities whichwere likely soon to be rent away by the fierce storms or tofade in the hot sunshine amid which she was to pursue herchangeful course. But still she was a wonderfully pleasantlookingfigure， and had so much promise and such an
indescribable hopefulness in her aspect that hardlyanybody could meet her without anticipating some verydesirable thing—the consummation of some long-soughtgood—from her kind offices. A few dismal charactersthere may be here and there about the world who have sooften been trifled with by young maidens as promising asshe that they have now ceased to pin any faith upon theskirts of the New Year. But， for my own part， I have greatfaith in her， and， should I live to see fifty more such， stillfrom each of those successive sisters I shall reckon uponreceiving something that will be worth living for.
The New Year—for this young maiden was no less apersonage—carried all her goods and chattels in a basketof no great size or weight， which hung upon her arm. Shegreeted the disconsolate Old Year with great affection， andsat down beside her on the steps of the city-hall， waitingfor the signal to begin her rambles through the world. Thetwo were own sisters， being both granddaughters of Time，and， though one looked so much older than the other， itwas rather owing to hardships and trouble than to age， sincethere was but a twelvemonth’s difference between them.
“Well， my dear sister，” said the New Year， after the firstsalutations， “you look almost tired to death. What haveyou been about during your sojourn in this part of infinitespace？”
“Oh， I have it all recorded here in my book of chronicles，”
answered the Old Year， in a heavy tone. “There is nothingthat would amuse you， and you will soon get sufficientknowledge of such matters from your own personalexperience. It is but tiresome reading.”
Nevertheless， she turned over the leaves of the folioand glanced at them by the light of the moon， feeling anirresistible spell of interest in her own biography， althoughits incidents were remembered without pleasure. Thevolume， though she termed it her book of chronicles，seemed to be neither more nor less than the Salem Gazettefor 1838； in the accuracy of which journal this sagacious OldYear had so much confidence that she deemed it needlessto record her history with her own pen.
“What have you been doing in the political way？” askedthe New Year.
“Why， my course here in the United States，” said theOld Year— “though perhaps I ought to blush at theconfession—my political course， I must acknowledge， hasbeen rather vacillatory， sometimes inclining toward theWhigs， then causing the administration party to shout fortriumph， and now again uplifting what seemed the almostprostrate banner of the opposition； so that historians willhardly know what to make of me in this respect. But theLoco-Focos—”
“I do not like these party nicknames，” interrupted hersister， who seemed remarkably touchy about some points.
“Perhaps we shall part in better humor if we avoid anypolitical discussion.”
“With all my heart，” replied the Old Year， who hadalready been tormented half to death with squabblesof this kind. “I care not if the name of Whig or Tory，with their interminable brawls about banks and the subtreasury，abolition， Texas， the Florida war， and a millionof other topics which you will learn soon enough for yourown comfort， —I care not， I say， if no whisper of thesematters ever reaches my ears again. Yet they have occupiedso large a share of my attention that I scarcely know whatelse to tell you. There has， indeed been a curious sort ofwar on the Canada border， where blood has streamed inthe names of liberty and patriotism； but it must remainfor some future， perhaps far-distant， year to tell whetheror no those holy names have been rightfully invoked.
