looked sorrowfully at Edward: he felt the force of that lock, but sneer ingly exclaimed, "Well, madam, and why reproach me? I pointed out to you the road to pleasure; if you are disappointed now, it was your own fault that you chose to follow it." Alice was exasperated, the tenderness of the moment had passed away. ""Tis false !" she exclaimed. "I

came to your house with a bosom as innocent as yours was guilty:-I came as a friend, an unsuspecting female, it was you who poisoned my mind, who corrupted my heart,—who, careless of my fair name or your injured wife's happiness, meanly yielded to selfishness, and ruined both ;—'twas low, very low."

"Peace, woman, and do not urge me to rashness. Did not I see in your eyes what were the warm wishes of your heart? and when I said it was pity that love should be tied by the fetters of marriage, you said, with a blush, that these chains were but formed of priest's words, and that a wish could at once break through them; and then when I kissed thee, were thy lips not glued to mine, as if thou would'st have drawn out my very soul?—and now dost thou reproach me for yielding to thine own wishes?-Peace," added he, as she was about to speak "peace! I am thy master, thy master, madam,- -say but another word, and I shall drive thee hence, and leave thee to perish on a dunghill."

Alice turned deadly pale; but it was not terror, it was deep and desperate hatred, which drove the blood from her cheeks. For a time, utterance was choked by the crowd of stormy passions which were raging within her grief, and hatred, and womanly shame, worked up her mind to delirium. "Thou my master!" she cried, with a fearful laugh, while scorn and resentment sat in her fine dark eyes; "thou, my master! 'tis I who am thine,-yes, thine, and the arbiter of thy fate. Leave me to perish on a dunghill! God! my bosom will choke! Reptile! thus I crush thee beneath my feet." As she said these words, she hurriedly threw up the window, and exclaimed to a party of soldiers who were passing, "Help! Help! Treason! 'Treason!" Edward rushed to her; but

she struggled, she still exclaimed for help, and in a few moments the room was filled with soldiers.

The phrenzy was now over which had driven her to this rash deed. With returning tenderness, she forgot his cruel upbraidings, and the keen sense she had felt of her wrongs was changed to pity for the man she loved, and whom she had delivered up to an ignominious death. She burst into tears, and besought them, with passionate eagerness, to let him escape; but her tears and entreaties were vain; they gave her their sympathy, they dared give no more, for they were soldiers, and soldiers are slaves even in a free land. When she saw that hope was vain, she looked at Edward for a moment, and then threw herself, weeping, into his arms. The fire flashed in his eyes, he grasped her tight, and wrenching a bayonet from a soldier, he struck it deep into her breast. Dashing her on the floor, he spurned the lifeless body with his foot. "Now, I am ready," said he ; " soldiers, lead on." The morning of her husband's elopement, Mary was found by her domestics, cold, and almost lifeless, and with her mind trembling on its very verge: the stroke was so unexpected, the blow so severe, that body and mind almost sunk beneath the shock. At length, however, the skill of physicians in some degree restored health to her frame, but there was a fixed sorrow in her eyes, which betokened a broken heart; she never spoke nor smiled, but wandered up and down her chamber like one forlorn-her only pleasure seemed to be in weeping over her child.

One morning she was awakened by a confused noise and hum which seemed close beneath her window. Starting from her bed, she glided to the window, and opened the windowshutter. Looking out, she perceived that the street was crowded with people, except a passage in the middle, which was guarded by soldiers. Every window, too, was choked with females and children, and even the roofs and chimney-tops of the lofty houses had afforded a perilous footing to many, more adventurous than prudent. Mary looked on with a vague feeling of terror. There is, indeed, something sublime in the ap

pearance of a multitude; to see such a vast assemblage of beings wedged together like a living-mass,—to see them heaving to and fro like the billows after a storm, and with almost the same resistless force; and then to hear their shrieks and groans; and to think that the mighty mass is perhaps trampling on some helpless wretch! The eyes of the multitude were directed to the further end of the street, where there was erected a scaffold, painted black.

For a short time all was quiet enough; at length, however, the town-clock struck,-there was a pause, and then the large bell began to toll with deep and measured tones. Instantly there was a stir among the crowd, the mass heaved violently to and fro, and each one seemed leaping on tiptoe, and endeavouring to see beyond his neighbour; and a sort of confused stifled murmur arose, as if each one was speaking to himself. "There he is! poor fellow!-eh! sirs!" and such like exclamations reached Mary's ear, and she stretched involuntarily still farther forward. The mournful procession was approaching slowly down the street, and though she wished to retire, she could not draw her eyes from it. It came slowly on, and now the magistrates in their robes were passing the window, and now several other officials, and now the victim

drew near. He was sitting bound on a wretched sort of cart or hurdle, drawn by an old worn-out blind horse. He seemed to look stedfastly on the crowd; but as his back was to the horse, Mary could not see his countenance. As the cart passed the dwelling, his frame seemed agitated, and he looked wistfully up to the window where Mary was, their eyes met,—it was her husband they were leading to execution, and with a shriek she fell to the floor! Poor Edward! his face flushed, and a tear started to his eye, he tried to wipe it away, but his arms were bound to the cart, and he could only hold down his head.

When Mary recovered from her swoon, she eagerly ran to the window. The crowd seemed dispersing, for the deed was done; her husband was hanging by the fatal rope, his head reclined upon his breast, and his body slowly vibrating in the air. Edward Morland, the infidel, had expiated his crimes on the scaffold.

Mary Douglas is still living, but, alas! she is the inmate of a madhouse. Her daughter has been privately brought up by relations. She believes that her parents both died when she was young, and is ignorant of the crimes of her father, and the misfortunes of the infidel's wife.

neither of whom are ever mentioned

by their surnames. But this (as an Irishman would say) is digressing from my path, before I have entered upon the road. While you, Mr Editor, have been thinking of the Globe and Traveller Newspaper, your readers are perhaps expecting something of the Traveller light coach, licensed to carry four inside and six outside passengers, exclusive of guard and driver. If so, permit me to set you so far to rights, as to inform you that both are wrong.

I am, Sir, a Traveller, according to the definition of our great Lexicographer; and, according to the fashion of the day, I intend presenting the public with some of the incidents which occurred during my peregrinations, and propose making your Miscellany the vehicle of communication. It may perhaps be objected, that the title I have affixed is too vague and indefinite; that I ought to have said where I travelled, that the reader might have the alternative in his choice, either to accompany me, or enjoy a nap in his elbow-chair.

This, I acknowledge, is the general practice; but travellers are now so numerous, and the publication of their journeyings so common, that a Trip to Paris, or a Tour on the Continent, when advertised in the Newspapers, excites no more attention than Goss's Works, or Warren's Blacking; for, since the invention of steam-boats, and the cheapness of posting, have increased the rapidity of motion, and reduced the expense, every whipper-snapper of an Attorney's clerk after termtime, or newspaper-reporter when Parliament rises, crosses the Channel, dances to Paris, probably to the field of Waterloo,-passes a week or two, or, should his ways and means prove adequate, perhaps a month,-returns and publishes an octavo volume, to inform his countrymen that they speak bad English in Flanders, that the German and Scotch Highlander both talk in a guttural and disagreeable manner-and that the Parisians are better skilled in making fricassées than in cooking beef-steaks: even some who have extended their journeyings to the New World, afford little information, either new or important.

VOL. XV.

From this censure, however, there are some splendid exceptions; among which are Captain Hall's Voyage to South America, and a Tour in Germany, by an anonymous author. Of these, the first for accurate observation, candid reflection, and unaffected, perspicuous detail, would afford delight to the reader, were South America of as little interest to him as China or Kamtschatka; and the second displays a profundity of acute thinking, on the manners, institutions, and political economy of the country, which cannot fail of affording both pleasure and information. But I am no reviewer, neither do I wish to build my own reputation on the ruin of another's; I am merely a traveller, and that in a beaten track; yet I have the vanity to think I may present to the reader some things which have escaped the observation, or have had less attraction for my predecessors.

Some travel as Antiquarians, decyphering inscriptions, and sketching old ruins; some as Natural Philosophers, plucking flowers, collecting shells, or hammering rocks; while others observe the breed of sheep and black cattle, and note the modes of culture in the countries they traverse. My propensity is different from all these; I like to study the human character, and to examine its lights and shades in the different gradations of society. Like the bee, I love to ramble from the garden to the heath, and although often on the wing, sometimes prefer the wild flower of the glen to the gay blossom in the parterre.

The poeta nascitur non fit of the Roman bard is, in my opinion, of general application to mankind in their different pursuits, being an innate propensity, which, if indulged, becomes a ruling passion; for my rambling propensities were, I am told, obvious even in my infant years, when it was nothing uncommon for me to give my nurse the slip, and cause much alarm to my parents, till I was found seated beside some old woman tending her cow, or probably laid on a green hillock, holding a tête-à-tête with a pedlar boy, or perhaps a gray-headed beggar-man. Ever since, I have felt the keenest and most exquisite plea◄ 3 K

sure in seeing new faces, and making discoveries of character; for which purpose, like young Rapid, I “keep moving.' Although I have not yet been beyond the bounds of our own "tight little island," this has not arisen from want of curiosity, but what I conceive prudential motives; for, to parody the advice of the poet, I have resolved

To let each foreign clime alone,

Till I have seen and known my own; and this were perhaps worthy of consideration by those who have travelled longer, and to a greater distance. With respect to the comparative utility of our labours, it is not my province to judge: in one particular I may, however, venture to affirm, that I am a better patriot; I spend my income in my own country; and if I have not enriched either myself or the British Museum, with Athenian marbles, I have loaded the mantel-piece in my parlour with shells and buckies from the Bullers of Buchan; and have presented one friend with a fragment chipped from the window-sill of John o' Groat's house, and another with wood for a snuff-box from the stool which Jenny Geddes flung at the Dean's head in the Church of St. Giles' nearly two centuries ago. If I have never gathered bays at the tomb of the Mantuan Bard, I have in my garden a fine luxuriant tuft of mountain daisy, the original plant of which, I, kneeling, dug from the grave of Coila's favourite bairn: I have never seen the Pantheon of Rome, nor the Parthenon of Athens; but I have visited Melrose Abbey by "fair moonlight," and also Roslin Chapel; and, for the Pass of Thermopyle, I have seen that of Killicrankie. If I have never seen the clustered isles in the Ægean Sea, I have sailed amidst those of Loch Lomond instead of the Falls of Niagara, I have seen Corra Linn; although I never saw the source of the Nile, I drank the King's health from that of the Forth, at the back of Benlomond; and although I cannot boast of having dreamed on Parnassus, I have made rhymes, and drank mountain-dew, on Mount Battock: I am also satisfied that the snow which I have seen on Bennevis

is as white as that on Mount Blanc ; and tell those travellers who talk of the Appian way, that I have trode the parallel roads of Glenroy.

But enough of boasting; although I must entreat you to bear with my egotism a little longer: I make this request with the greater confidence, as when I begin to relate my travels methodically, I shall by no means be the principal figure in the piece, and shall seldom appear in the foreground; and as we generally wish to know something of those with whom we associate, I shall enter a little more particularly into my own character.

There is so much of eccentricity about me, that some consult me as an oracle of wisdom, while others shun me as a giddy, hare-brained fool; and I believe, more than one of my relations have had thoughts of applying for a statute of lunacy against me. My father was a man of that property and rank in life which enabled him to keep good company; and he kindly furnished me with an education, which enables me to make a respectable figure in any class of society, where I may happen to be placed. He paid the debt of Nature just as I had attained my majority, having lived many years a widower. I was his only child, and found myself in possession of a fortune more than adequate to my wants, and, what may appear strange, equal to my wishes. Hence, I had neither inducement nor inclination to fatigue either body or mind with the drudgery of law, to which I had been bred by a prudent and indulgent parent. I am still young, blessed with good health and a muscular frame, that can endure no ordinary share of fatigue, and am, consequently, well adapted for the course of life I have chosennamely, seeing the world, or rather the dwellers therein, with whom, if my health continue, I hope to be still better acquainted; for, as I said before, my motto is, "keep moving;" yet my motion is neither rapid nor equable. This irregularity, united with my inclinations, makes me change my mode of travelling very frequently. When I come into a fine country, I do not like to be hurried over it in all the rapidity