The hour of breakfast arrived at Gourock. The fresh herrings were already on the table, and the tea had been infused for nearly twenty minutes; but what was become of Miss Sanderson and Mr. Dempster? They were surely ignorant of the time of day, yet Mr. Dempster's seals and blue ribbon had seemed to indicate that he possessed a watch. There was something mysterious in their protracted absence. The breakfast passed over in silence. Little, indeed, was eaten. Macalpin could hardly finish his second herring. At length the wooden clock in the lobby struck twelve. The distress of the party was at its height, and some faint suspicions of the truth began to dawn upon them. Just then, Mr. Lochead, a very worthy old gentleman, an upholsterer, called upon Mr. Sanderson, and in the course of conversation (which, was almost entirely on his side) he happened to mention, as a circumstance of which Mr. Sanderson was no doubt perfectly aware, that he had seen Miss Arabella and Mr. Dempster start that morning in the Inverary Castle for Glasgow from the steamboat quay at Greenock.

Here was at once" confirmation strong as proofs from holy writ!" The scene that followed, no pen could do justice to. Macalpin was the chief object in the group. It was not so much the loss of his intended bride that affected him, as the insult offered to his Highland pride. His face became

first white, then red, and at length blue—a pale determined blue. He did not speak much, but he went up to his bed-room, and brought down in his hand a brace of long old-fashioned pistols, which were evidently loaded to the muzzle. "Cot tam !" said he, "he will take ta life, if she pe take ta wife;" and he concluded by taking in the mean time a huge pinch of snuff. In less than half an hour he was on his way to Glasgow, accompanied by Mr. and Mrs. Sanderson.

Samuel and Arabella became one flesh on the very day of their elopement. I need not describe to my intelligent readers their mutual raptures. The only thing which threw a cloud over their happiness was the dread of pursuit and a whole volley of reproaches. But though they had boldly and openly taken possession of Mr. Dempster's house in Virginia Street, the day passed over without interruption. The next came and departed in the same way, and the next, and the next. At length, on the fourth or fifth, the button-maker and his spouse made their appearance. They were in black, and their countenances were in sorrow than in anger." They spoke not a word of reproach, for the good people plainly perceived that matters could not now be altered, and were not displeased to see their child so respectably settled for life. It is true that one little circumstance had probably no slight influence in bringing them

more

to this wholesome mode of thinking. An apoplectic fit had removed the worthy Macalpin from this life just as he was stepping ashore with his pistols in his hand, at the Broomielaw. Whether or not this consummation was hurried on by the effects of his passion, it is at all events certain that he was buried at Kilmun with great solemnity, and that more whisky was drunk at his funeral than had ever been drunk on any similar occasion in the memory of the "oldest inhabitant."

Mr. and Mrs. Dempster live in the greatest possible felicity; while the former continues to be looked up to by all the young haberdashers of Glasgow, as affording the best instance now extant of the inaccuracy of Shakespeare's apophthegm, that

"The course of true love never did run smooth."

DICKY CROSS, THE IDIOT OF EXETER.*

"This is the foul fiend Flibbertigibbet: he begins at curfew, and walks till the first cock."-SHAKESPEARE.

It was the king's birth-day, and Exeter was in a prodigious bustle, for Exeter is one of the most loyal towns in England. There was to be an illumination in the evening, and the mayor and corporation were to drink his majesty's health, and all the little boys were carrying green boughs through the streets, and cracking pistols, and shouting, and looking as happy as dirty hands and faces would let them. Some "shows" too-huge caravans drawn by eight horses-had arrived, and had taken up their station in the open space near the cathedral. Thither, by the aid of sufficiently loud, if

* Should this volume be fortunate enough to find any readers in Exeter, they will doubtless perceive that the above story is by no means a mere fiction.

not very harmonious music, and many a square yard of painted canvas, and some histrionic performances, exhibited gratis to beget a feeling of confidence and a sense of liberality, a crowd of gaping spectators was attracted, many of whom stood looking and gaping the whole day, unable to make up their minds whether they should expend four-pence to obtain a view of those inner wonders of which the external allurements were but as types and symbols.

There was only one person in Exeter capable of diverting the attention of a considerable portion of the community from these "shows." This formidable rival was Dicky Cross, the Idiot. Whenever he made his appearance, he was watched by everybody with a sort of suppressed murmur, half of fear and half of curiosity. Dicky Cross was indeed the lion of Exeter-the most remarkable character which that good town ever produced. He was no common idiot, and his exterior was well calculated to sustain the interest which the many rumours and mysterious whispers concerning his character and mode of life could not fail to excite. He was a man apparently between the age of thirtyfive and forty. He was considerably above the middle height, and, though awkwardly, was powerfully made. His shoulders were broad, and his ungainly limbs were brawny and muscular. To see