over; he had been a king during his appointed time, and according to the laws of succession, thy hour of triumph drew near. Go back to that hour—rememberest thou not how unreasonable thou deemed thy predecessor? Now, tell me if thou wilt yet madly cling to a sceptre, which must pass from thee.”
A shade of sadness rested on the face of the Old Year, for those moments passed in bright array before him. The guardian angel of the Years marked the shadow, and caught the sigh that escaped from his troubled breast.
“Why art thou sorrowful, oh Forty-Nine?” said he.
“Ah,” he replied, “I feel that my glory is over. A young aspirant presents his claims to my throne, and the truth bursts upon me, that they are equitable and right. Alas! alas! must I pass away and be forgotten? must the beauties and glories that I have lavished upon the earth vanish for ever!”
“Be comforted,” said the Angel, “be of good cheer! thou shalt have power, and life, equal to thy successor, but it shall be in a different realm. I will remove thee from the land of Hope to that of Memory. There shalt thou be a monarch; thy subjects as numerous as they now are, and with its placid moonlight and fade less verdure around thy path, thou shalt live for ever.”
Turning to the New Year, the Angel bade him ascend the throne of nature, giving him sage counsel and advice, as to his future course. A monarch’s feelings stole over him, and with a new lustre in his eyes, and with the bright sunshine of Hope streaming around him, he “went on his way rejoicing.”
A tranquil smile rested on the face of the Old Year, as he slowly tied on his sandals, equipping himself for his journey. He cast one long, lingering look behind him, and then with his staff in his hand, and with a cheerful soul and trusting heart, departed. The blessed angel was at his side, uttering words of love and comfort, nor paused he until the land of Memory met his eyes, fairer than his wildest imaginings had ever portrayed.
THE END.
C. SHERMAN, PRINTER. E. B. HEARS, STEREOTYPER.
