tunes-and solemnly was that promise fulfilled.

For three years subsequent to their arrival at Madras, this affectionate mother was annually cheered by news of their welfare under their own hands, and by accounts of their well doing in letters from her relative, who seemed to have contracted for the youths a regard truly paternal.

As the fourth season approached a letter arrived from their protector; but it contained not the usual enclosure from her sons. For this disappointment she was, however, more than consoled, by learning that the eldest had been appointed master of one of his cousin's country ships, in which his brother sailed as clerk, and that, having considerable venture of their own on board, they would most probably realize a considerable profit.

Time wore away; the dreary season of winter came and disappeared, and May, with its sunshine and its flowers, again gladdened the face of nature, when the aged pastor of Bedrule, rode up one morning to the door of Mr. Elliott's humble dwelling. His presence, which had hitherto always diffused a gleam of gladness over the desolate heart of its mistress, now failed of its usual effect, and she felt as if it would prove the forerunner of more heavy misfortune. After the usual greetings, the divine led to the subject of the trials and crosses of life, and the instability of all sublunary blessings; when Mrs. Elliott, unable longer to repress her terrors, clasped her hands together, exclaiming, "You have heard bad news from India!"

It was but too true. The Nabob, after a prosperous voyage, sunk when almost in sight of Madras Roads, and every soul on board perished!

The sorrow of the bereaved mother was silent, but deep; and she clung with increased affection to her only remaining treasure, her last-born son.

This boy went daily to a school, about two miles distant from the cottage; and being too young at the time to retain any distant recollection of the more prosperous fortunes of his family, was joyous and gay as youth, health, and innocence, could render him. With the master he had the reputation of being an apt scholar, but somewhat inclined to neglect his book; whilst his schoolfellows regarded him as a kind of leader, wherever fun, frolic, or rare mischief was going forward. It was one of young Andrew Elliott's duties to go every Saturday to the neighbouring market-town, and bring

back the few luxuries which habit had rendered necessary to his father's comfort. On an inclement December morning, Andrew received the half-crown, which, as usual, had been saved at the expense of many privations to his mother, from the small sum settled on his parents by a few opulent relations, and had reached the threshold of the cottage, when he was stopped by Mrs. Elliott, who declared it would be madness to proceed.

The fall of snow had been incessant throughout the night, and lay many feet deep on the moor-land tract he had to traverse; but the adventurous youth, nothing daunted, kissed her affectionately, saying, "Never fear, mother," and bounded off, whistling a merry tune, ere she had time to utter another word.

Anxiously she gazed after her sole earthly treasure, till recalled by the querulous voice of her husband, who was incommoded by the inrush of cold air from the open door.

"John Elliott," said the meek wife, roused to resentment at his selfishness by fears for his son, "you have periled the life of Andrew for the gratification of a pampered appetite; and should aught that is evil befal him, miserable will be your latter end! Unfeeling man! surely the brown bread, which nourishes your wife and boy, might have sufficed you one day at least:" and covering her agonized features with her apron, she burst into tears.

It was the first reproachful word that had ever passed her lips, and it sounded in the ears of the astonished husband as prophetic of evil. Gladly, had it been possible, would he have recalled the boy; for, if he loved any thing on earth beyond his own ease, it was little Andrew; and the hours of this weary day were passed in torturing anxiety by the mother, and in fitful gloom and unkind fretfulness by the laird. In the meanwhile, Andrew, struggling with the bitter blast, at length reached the house of a lady nearly related to his father, half frozen with cold, and covered with snow. Here he received the utmost attention and kindness, and after dinner went out, as she thought, to purchase the few articles he wanted.

"Dinna idle away y'ere time, Andrew," said the old domestic of his relative, "or ye'll na see home this night."

"That's true, Janet," replied the boy, as he passed through the door he was never again fated to enter.

The idea of pushing his fortune abroad

had first occurred to Andrew, on the suggestion of apprenticing him to a wealthy tobacconist at Glasgow. He had often felt the Saturday marketing galling to his feelings; but it was for his father's comfort, or rather, to save a beloved mother from his repinings. But to become the drudge of a low trader! the proud spirit of his ancient race revolted at the anticipated degradation. "Rather, far rather, will I be a soldier," soliloquized the youth, as he buffeted the wintry blast on the Dunion-side. "Ah, no! not a soldier, but a sailor." At this moment the sound of cartwheels, dragging heavily along the deep road, attracted his notice, and he halted till the vehicle came in sight.

It was the minister's man of Bedrule, going to Ital for coals; the temptation was too powerful to be resisted. "As I am resolved to embrace a seafaring life, this day is as good as another," cogitated Andrew. "But, my mother—well, never could I take leave of my poor mother."

This last idea was conclusive. Symie agreed to take him to Ital for a shilling; and, on leaving the house of his relative, the runaway found the man ready to start from the toll-house, where he had stopped to bait his horses. Many were the misgivings of the wanderer, as mile after mile intervened between him and the cottage of his parents, and sad became his heart as the image of his deserted mother rose to his mental vision.

But who can paint the anxiety of the bereaved mother through this wearisome day, or the agony she suffered during the lagging hours of the long dark night which succeeded? The image of her boy perishing with cold on the black Dunion's-side, or entombed beneath the deep wreaths of snow accumulated in the hollows of the road, was ever present to her imagination. Ere day-dawn she rose and made her way to the house of a neighbour, whom she entreated to accompany her to the town in search of her son. The track was nearly impassable by an additional fall of snow in the night; but the tears of the distracted parent prevailed, and they set out on one of Mr. Dickson's stoutest horses, slowly picking their way along the

road.

On alighting at the house of the lady already mentioned, suspense was at an end. The runaway had intrusted a line to one of the Berwick carriers whom they met at a hedge ale-house, and

which, though it allayed the terrors of Mrs. Elliott for the life of her son, overwhelmed her with affliction for the step he had taken.

She returned heart-stricken to her now solitary cottage, dreading to encounter alone the expected repinings of her husband; but John Elliott expressed an exultation at the spirit of his son, that sounded still more discordant in the ears of the surviving mother than would have done the most unseasonable complainings.

On reaching Berwick, the half-crown was nearly exhausted, and Andrew Elliott, perhaps, in the interior of his bosom, repented of the precipitancy of his flight. But he wandered to the shore; and gazing on the bay, the most extensive sheet of water that had yet met his eye, he forgot his destitute plight, and stood transfixed with delight, unheeding the approach of footsteps, till a rough hand was placed on his shoulder, and a man in a sailor's jacket exclaimed

"Hast got out of soundings, youngster? Would'st like to be a sailor?"

"That I would, above all things," answered the wanderer; and he looked wistfully towards the smacks in the offing.

"Jerry Ward's your man, then, my lad, if you're neither a runaway 'prentice nor a deserter."

The frankness of the skipper opened the heart of Andrew, and in a few minutes he was master of his history. The old seaman pondered a little; it was a moment of intense anxiety to the young adventurer.

The ponderings of Jerry ended, however, favourably to his wishes.

"Thou can'st not do better, boy; the sea will make a man of thee;" and bawling, "Boat, a-hoy!" the skipper and his protégé in a few minutes stood on the deck of the Tweed.

For the next two years the runaway accompanied the skipper in various trips to and from London, and once as far as the Baltic; first, as cabin-boy, and afterwards in various capacities as occasion required.

His scholarship and knowledge of arithmetic occasionally stood the skipper in good stead; in short, Andrew Elliott had grown a personage of no mean importance on board the smack; and Jerry Ward even contemplated promoting him to the dignity of mate, when a circumstance occurred that materially changed the colour of his destiny, and separated

him from his rough, though kind-hearted

master.

Shortly after the commencement of the revolutionary war in North America, the runaway encountered a press-gang at Wapping, and was taken on board the Tender moored opposite the Tower. Jerry Ward conjectured, from the unusual length of Andrew's absence, what had occurred; and though he could not claim him as an apprentice, still, if money could have redeemed him, it would not have been wanting; but the spirit of adventure being still strong in the mind of the youth, he unhesitatingly accepted the bounty, and was transferred to a frigate lying in the Downs.

After a six months' cruise in the Mediterranean, the vessel put into Gibraltar, where lay several vessels, one of which bore a commodore's flag.

Inquiring the name of this officer, the runaway heard with a feeling of unbounded rapture, the name of the gallant conqueror of Thurot. Obtaining leave to go on board the flag-ship, he sought and obtained an interview with Commodore Elliott, told his name, his lineage, and the motives that led him to leave his home and embrace the life of a sailor.

The gallant seaman was not unacquainted with the fallen fortunes of his former neighbour and namesake; and delighted with the bold, adventurous spirit of the youth, obtained his discharge from the frigate, and got him rated as a midshipman on board his own vessel.

Andrew Elliott was now in that rank of society he had for years panted to attain; and well worthy did he shew himself of his advancement. By the most rigid economy, he not only contrived to maintain the appearance of a gentleman, but to transmit to his parents a small token of his continued remembrance, whenever an opportunity offered.

Indefatigable in his endeavours to attain a knowledge of his profession-brave, even to rashness, in battle-he passed the period of his noviciate with much credit to himself, and greatly to the satisfaction of his superiors in command.

For about ten months he had been acting-lieutenant on board the Bwhen peace was concluded with the United States of America, and he was once more set adrift in the world, without being entitled to even the small pittance of lieutenant's half-pay.

But the spirit of adventure was not extinguished in his breast: he did not even gratify himself by a visit to his

home, but understanding that the Em press of Russia offered great encouragement to British officers to enter her navy, he hurried to London, tendered his services to the Russian ambassador, which were accepted; and carrying with him letters of introduction to the late Admiral Grieg, was appointed to the same rank in the Russian navy which he had held in that of Britain.

In the meantime a knowledge of the virtues and prosperity of her boy consoled his affectionate mother for his absence, while his more selfish father dwelt with delight on the hope that he would one day return to re-purchase the lands of his ancestors, and restore the fallen fortunes of his race. But this day the aged laird was never fated to behold; a few months after the death of his faithful partner, he also was consigned to the last resting-place of his fathers, their latter days having been spent in ease and comfort by the liberal bounty of their son.

Years sped on, and, at the death of the Empress, the runaway was high in command in the Russian navy. He had no ties in his native land, and had besides married a lady of rank in his adopted country. He never returned to Scotland-never re-purchased his ancestral lands; and the once ancient race of the lairds of Swingdale is unknown, except in the tradition of the Scottish border. AN OLD TRUE BLUE.

Edinburgh.

THE SPIRIT OF NAPOLEON,

AT THE BIER OF HIS SON.

(For the Parterre).

Hush'd were the watchers of the dead, and in that silent room,

The funeral lights shone dim and faint on the

'scutcheons of the tomb.

A fair hair'd boy lay calm in death with royal blazons round,

Oh! who could think that pallid brow was in its cradle crown'd?

The cold, the still, the passionless, could never sure have known

The martyr wreath of thorns that wait the winner of a throne.

Calm as a peasant child he lay in that unbroken rest,

And the tri-colour as peacefully was folded on his breast.

Through the regal chamber of the dead a low and moaning sigh,

And a wailing wind that shook the plumes swept cold and rustling by.

The silent watchers' hearts grew faint with a As the floating plumes waved wildly up-then strange and fearful thrill,

sank-and all was still!

But another form stood by that bier, dim, shadowy, and pale,

A shape half hid and half disclosed as through a cloudy veil;

WE are surprised that people do not follow our example in other things, and adapt their appearance and costume of body, at least, to the different seasons of the year, if they cannot, like us, change the shape and fashion of their thoughts. We beheld a man, the other day, fluttering along Prince's-street, with light jean trowsers, and a white straw hat. Has the animal no perception of changes in the atmosphere; or, as we rather suspect, has he only one pair of nether habiliments in the world? However it may be, he ought to be kept in solitary confinement; for the man who would outrage public decorum in this way, would have little scruple in murdering his nearest relation. We are offended every time we walk the streets, with a thousand instances of similar insanity. A person, in the heats of June or July, comes sweltering up to us buckled in a prodigious great-coat, which he probably terms a surtout; and carries his head

tight on his shoulders by the aid of two or three neckcloths, which would smother an ordinary mortal in December. Another fellow hobbles past us in a pair of immense Wellington boots, or, at least, with his ankles thickly enveloped in prodigious gaiters-an article of wearing apparel which is at once the most snobbish and disagreeable. We ourselves are of a peculiarly delicate constitution, and, above all, are liable to sore throats from the easterly winds. But what is the use of all the precautions we can use, if fellows will wriggle past us dressed so thinly that their own miserable bloodless bodies chill the air more completely than Eurus himself could, with Leslie's freezing machine in his hand, and an iceberg in each pocket? We are convinced that our last cough, from which, indeed, we are scarcely yet recovered, was inflicted on us by a man in Nankeen trowsers, who stood beside us several minutes as we waited for a friend by the Glasgow mail. These things ought to be looked to a little more closely; and if people would only have the sense to dress by a thermometer, it would shew more wisdom than we are at present disposed to slight change of the present style, be a allow them. There might, by a very graduated scale of dress. In summer, instead of having the thermometer at eighty in the shade, the mercury might be made to rise to the words silk stockings and nankeens-as it gradually descended, it might point to cotton stockings, boots, cloth trowsers, drawers, and jackets, till at last it sunk fairly down to great-coats, worsted gloves, and Belcher fogles. As to the colour of the habiliments, that, of course, ought to be left to the taste of the individual; but all men should not wrap themselves in windings of exactly the same tints and shades. No sooner does some colour come down strongly recommended from some London candidate for the Fleet, than universal Edinburgh appears in the same hue. Say the colour fixed upon is green-forth stalks a writer's clerk, fresh from the Orkneys, with a back as broad as his desk, and whiskers as red as his sealing-wax, and struts about for a few days in the livery of Oberon and the Fairies. People with faces more lugubrious than if their aunts had recovered from a fever, make up, by the gaiety of their dress, for the fnnereal expression of their features. White hats are cocked up with a ludicrous jauntiness over grizzled locks, on which a nightcap would be more becoming; and, in short, with

out reference to age, size, character, or profession, every man struts forth as nearly in the fashion as he can. But "what have we with men to do?" Let us advert to the ladies-Not unto thee, O thin-lipped and narrow-shouldered virgin, blooming on, like the other evergreens, in thy fifty-second winter, with a nose thin and blue as a darning-needle, and a countenance with the amiable expression of a bowl of skim milk, are these observations directed; useless were any care upon thy toilet, unnoticed the elegance of thy head-dress, unremarked the beauty of thy gown. For thee the plainest and least distinguished garments are the most appropriate, and those,

"Like thine own planet in the west, When half conceal'd, are loveliest." So, beware of low necks, short sleeves, or petticoats one inch above thy shoe. But to you, ye maids and matrons, from sixteen up to sixty, would an old man offer gentle and friendly advice; and, we beseech you, lay it seriously to your hearts, whether they beat in the gaiety and gladness of youth and beauty, behind the folds of a snowy muslin kerchief, or rest quiet and contented in married and matronly sedateness, beneath the warm Chinchilla tippit, and comfortable and close-pinned India shawl.

In the first place, let no one look, unless with loathing and contempt, at the fashions for the month. Let every one be her own pattern, and dress according to her figure, size, and complexion, and not according to the caprice or whim of another. If a great leviathan, who happens to set the mode, chooses to envelope her acres of back and bosom in drapery so wide as to make it impossible to discover where the apparel ends, and where the natural contour begins; why, oh why, our own dear Jane, should you hide the fall of your shoulders, or the symmetry of your waist, in the same overwhelming and fantastic habiliments? Why change the rounded elegance of your own white and beautiful arm for the puffed-out, pudding-shaped sleeves which the sapient in millinery call gigot de mouton? Consult your mirror only for one single moment, and ask yourself, if a stiff, frumpt-up Queen-Mary frill suit with the laughing playfulness of your eyes, or the gay and thoughtless expression of your mouth. By no means. Leave that and all other stiff articles of apparel to the large hazel-eyed imperial sort of beauties; but let one simple string of pearls hang on your blueveined neck, and a thin gauze handker

chief rest carelessly on your shoulders. Hast thou dark waving ringlets? maid, whose eyes now cast a halo of their own light over our pages, let red roses and pale honeysuckle nestle amid their tresses! Do thy blue eyes shine, like stars of joy, beneath the fleecy clouds of thy light-falling hair? Twine a green wreath to encircle thy brow, of the leaves of the lemon-plant, holly, or even the cypress-tree. But why should a gentle young maiden wear any ornaments in her hair at all? Far better, and far lovelier, are her simple tresses. The days of diamond combs and pearl circlets have luckily gone by; and pure is the delight to behold a face, radiant with smiles and beauty, half hid, in its playfulness and mirth, beneath a veil of falling curls, loose, wandering, and unconfined. There are some figures which dress cannot spoil, but there are none which dress may not improve. We have before us now at the table on which we write, a girl, beautiful, indeed, in herself, but so plainly, and yet so tastefully dressed, as to add to her natural loveliness. She has light brown hair, clustering thickly down her cheek; her blue eyes are fixed intently on a book, while her rosy lips seem to move unconsciously, and her brow to assume an appearance of intense excitement under the inspiration of what she is reading. She wears a plain white gown; a pinkcoloured kerchief in vain endeavours to conceal the heavings of her breast; no necklace is round her throat-and, above all, none of those revolting remnants of barbarity-ear-rings-destroying the chaste simplicity of her cheek and neck. And what is there in all that? A thousand girls dress simply and elegantly in white gowns, a thousand wear no ornaments in their hair, and thousands upon thousands submit to no manacles in their ears; and yet, with many, this unadorned style would not be the most becoming. Give bracelets on the wrist, and aigrettes in her locks, to the flashingeyed flirt; dress her in gay-coloured silks, and let rings sparkle on every finger as she lifts it in playful and heartless gaiety to captivate some large-eyed, wide-mouthed Spoon, who thinks she cares only for him;-but to the meek and gentle daughters of our hearts, the noiseless spirits of our homes, give drapery pure and spotless as their thoughts, and white as the snowy bosoms which it covers.

And yet, since truth must be spoken, the style of dress in the present day is