hall of great length, with sentries pacing within, and the coverings of three or four gondolas arranged like coffins along the sides. The build. ing is laid out in public offices, that of the diligences being at one end of the hall, and the "Posta dalle Lettere" at the other.

I had already learned that there were three good hotels in Venice,— viz. the Leone Bianco, which I had just passed, almost adjoining the Posta, and commanding a fine view of the Rialto and Grand Canal,— the Albergo dell' Europa, at the mouth of the same canal, and near the Piazza of St. Mark and the Ducal Palace,-and the Albergo Reale, on the quay overlooking the port and shipping. Judging of their com parative advantages of situation by my map, I chose the second, and have had no reason to repent my choice.

Hiring a gondola-not one like that I had just quitted, but one of the ordinary canoe-like things, which scarcely seem to touch the waters as they glide over them, (not an omnibus, in fact, but a cab,)-I seated myself on the black leathern cushion. Oh, luxury of luxuries! Talk of sofas, of easy chairs, of air-cushions! Commend me to a gondola, with its deep, well-stuffed, springy seat, gently raised from the flooring, with its slightly sloping back against which to recline, and its two little footstools similarly padded, one on each side of the boat, on which to rest one's limbs, and enjoy one's otium cum dignitate. He must have been a very epicure in repose who contrived the internal arrange. ments of the gondola. Then you can see through the open windows all that is passing on both sides, or before you; or, if you would keep out the vulgar gaze, there are glass and wooden sliding shutters, to be shifted at pleasure, and suiting any degree of publicity or privacy you may desire. The gondola is the most delightful, commodious, and convenient of all vehicles, aquatic or terrene. You can make it your chamber what bed more luxurious than its cushions ?-your study,

Not that I have yet tried this experiment, but I have Shelley's authority that it may be done. But what may not be done in a gondola ?

On I floated between lines of palaces, solemnly gorgeous, and of every variety of architecture-Gothic, Saracenic, Greek, or Italian ;-towers and domes rising proudly behind. English-rigged vessels in full sail : other nondescript craft lying along the shore; gondolas shooting about in every direction, all reflected in the dark-green waters, and each object fixing my eye for a moment, till it was involuntarily drawn off by some other more novel and attractive. At length, just as I had begun to gaze with admiration on the sublime dome of the church of the Salute, which rose from the right bank of the canal, the gondola was steered up to the steps of an ancient Gothic palace on the opposite side; the rowers shipped their oars; I stept ashore, mounted the steps, and found myself within the vast hall of the Albergo dell' Europa, or Hotel of Europe.

COLIN CLINK.

BY CHARLES HOOTON.

BOOK THE SECOND.

CHAPTER V.

The doctor's reflections on his return.

"WHAT safer am I now?" thought the doctor, as he pursued his way home in the dark, and reflected on all that had just transpired, and on the probable consequences of it. "To-morrow there will be a jury, it cannot be avoided; and I shall be called to witness, and Fanny, who saw it all, will be called also. She suspects something, and may tell all until she raises suspicions in the minds of others. Would that she too were out of the way, and then-then, I should be finally secure!"

But as he thus thought on another death, the dread of the last came strongly upon him; and his skin seemed to creep upon his bones. He fancied there was a body lying on the road, and several times he checked his horse to avoid trampling upon it, or turned him suddenly aside in order to pass it by. He could see the shadowy lineaments of the man he had murdered flickering about in the doubtful air, with the very folds of the bed-clothes which his own hand had gathered round it, pictured in misty but accurate lines, like an artist's first sketch emerging from a ground of dark and indistinct space. He grew anxious to get home. He wondered how it was that never in his life before had any sight so haunted him, and yet he had seen many worse agonies than that,many. Yes; he had seen old sinners die,-stubborn and unrepentant to the last; he had seen them die and make no sign of hope of Heaven's grace. And he had seen young maids die of very terror at the thought and name of death. Yet these were nothing. They were happiness itself to what he had witnessed that night.

When he arrived at home, his wife remarked that he looked pale and ill.

"No, my dear," he replied, "I am very well indeed,-wonderfully well. I never felt better in my life. I can assure you, you are mistaken." He sat down to his supper; but as he tried to carve, his knife slipped, and he did not try it again. The face of the lawyer seemed to be over the table, dancing about it in the broad beams of the candle-light.

"You tremble, Harry!" cried his wife; "your hand shakes. How did you leave Skinwell?”

"Dead !"

"Yes, he is gone.

A concussion of the brain has taken him off.

It was a terrible fall indeed."

"But how sudden !" exclaimed she.

"People will die suddenly sometimes," replied the doctor; "and e specially when pitched headlong out of a gig on a stony road,

VOL. IV.

42

Now I think of it, let me tell you, my dear, that to-morrow, perhaps, or on some early day, I shall want you to show a young woman down in the village here, all over the house. I wish her to see the patients. Do not ask any questions now, I have particular reasons for it. I only have to request of you very particularly, when she does come, to make no inquiries of her of any kind, nor to answer any questions she may put to you. It is of great importance to yourself as well as to me; and more so indeed than you can be aware of just now, so that it is unnecessary to insist further upon

it."

The wife promised strict compliance with his injunctions, as it was no very unusual thing for her thus to be requested to take a blind part in the performance of some mystery or other in the establishment, of which no one knew the bottom save Dr. Rowel himself. By this combination of secresy with his wife, and of apparent openness and candour towards Fanny, he trusted to convince the latter young woman that the communication which the dying man had made respecting her father, was false and utterly without foundation. In adopting this bold course, it is evident that the doctor laid himself open to the possibility at least of a discovery; yet it was clearly the safest plan which, under the circumstances, he could adopt. The opinions which his wife entertained respecting the sanity of the unfortunate James Woodruff rendered it highly necessary, not only that the name and relationship of the visitor to whom he had promised an inspection of his house should be unknown to her, but also that no suspicion should be excited by any attempt on his part to prevent James Woodruff's being seen by Fanny along with all the other patients; since the very fact of one of them being purposely withheld would of itself give room for doubt; while, from an interview between them he had nothing to fear, since in his opinion it was a moral impossibility that either father or daughter should recognise the other.

CHAPTER VI.

A jury of blockheads sits on the body of Skinwell. Colin advises Fanny Woodruff upon a subject of some importance.

A CORONER'S jury was summoned to hold an inquest at the tavern at Bramleigh, on the body of Mr. Skinwell. The men composing this jury were such ignorant louts, that Doctor Rowel, on being called before them, soon succeeded in so far mistifying their perceptions, that they unanimously determined it to be quite useless to call any other witnesses than one or two of those who saw the accident. The coroner himself was an indolent and superficial person, and, under pretence of having other inquests to hold a few miles off, seemed anxious to hurry the present inquiry to a conclusion. Fanny remained outside during the deliberation, and though it was once or twice suggested that her evidence might prove important, the Coroner peremptorily refused to listen to it, and especially as Doctor Rowel took the liberty of hinting that any statement which she might make could not prove of the least value after his own lucid and professional exposition of the state of the deceased on his being brought home. Accordingly, a verdict of "Accidental Death" was

recorded; and Doctor Rowel returned to Nabbfield highly gratified in secret with the result of the inquiry.

But, as the success of guilt affords no pleasant matter for reflection, I will proceed to relate something concerning a better and more virtuous character.

The story of Lawyer Skinwell's death soon spread abroad, and reached the farm at Whinmoor in its progress. When Colin became acquainted with the facts, he necessarily concluded that Fanny would again be homeless, and that his advice and assistance might prove useful to her. He accordingly seized the first opportunity that presented itself for taking a walk to Bramleigh, which occurred about a week after the dreadful event just related. During that time Fanny had been wishing day and night to see him, but had been too much occupied amidst the circumstances which this unexpected change had brought about, to be enabled to do more than wish for his coming. Everything had, of course, been left in some confusion. Nor were there any known relations of her late master to whom application could be made to take his affairs under their management. Skinwell had come to the village, unknown, when a young man, and was generally understood to say that indeed, to the best of his knowledge and belief, he was the last of his family.

Under these circumstances both Fanny and the poor clerk would have felt somewhat embarrassed in what manner to proceed, had not Mr. Longstaff, the steward, and the landlord of the Cock and Bottle, taken an early opportunity, after the lawyer's death, to call at the house, and formally announced to the poor clerk himself that they were legal witnesses to a will which the deceased had made some time ago in his favour; and which, after providing for all debts and expenses, left to him the residue and the business together. The document thus spoken of was soon found amongst his private papers; and, as nobody came forward to dispute and litigate over the poor man's corpse, as is usually the case when anybody has a small matter to leave behind him, the affairs of the household were soon placed in a way for being carried on as usual; and, especially as Fanny consented to remain for the present with the lawyer's successor on the same terms as she had formerly agreed upon with him.

These arrangements had been made when Colin arrived; and, therefore the difficulties in which he expected to find Fanny were entirely obviated. But there was another and a far more dreadful subject to engage his attention, which he could not possibly have anticipated, namely, the communication made by the dying man respecting her father, and the horrible scene which she had witnessed at the time that communication was made. Partly from a conscientious fear of doing any one an injustice, and partly from doubt whether, after all, the doctor really was or was not guilty, she had not hitherto mentioned the subject to any one, though it lay on her mind like a burden which would allow no rest until it was shaken off. If the lawyer had spoken truth, was it not unjust to his memory to make no use of what he had spoken? And if she really had a father living, and that father was confined in a madhouse, what could she think of herself were she not to make an effort for his deliverance?

On his arrival, Colin thought Fanny looked ill and anxious; and

that she spoke less freely to him than heretofore. He felt surprised to hear her allude to Doctor Rowel in a manner so changed from that in which she had always spoken of him formerly. Then it was as a friend, a helper; one from whom, above all others living, she had the most to hope for, and to whom she ought to feel most grateful. But now she mentioned the very name with dread, and seemed to shudder whenever the recollection of his presence in that house came across her mind. All this raised Colin's curiosity, and stimulated his inquiries. Question after question did he put to her, until the vivid recollection of the scene that had passed, and the keener sense of her father's situation, which this conversation awakened, brought her again to tears, and amidst many sobs and interruptions she at last related to the horrorstricken youth the whole story of her late master's death-bed communication. During the recital Colin turned pale as ashes, and when it was done,

"I'm sure he murdered him!" he exclaimed, "and we shall find it all true about your father. Think as you like about it, but that doctor tried to stop his mouth only to prevent him telling you. Take him at his word, Fanny, and let him show you over his house."

Fanny made no reply. She scarcely heard his words, for in imagi. nation she fancied herself before the little cell that held her father; she thought of him as a madman whom she dared not touch, and scarcely even look at; one who, though her own parent, had not sense enough left to talk even like a little child. And as she thus thought, the tears silently rolled down her cheeks. She longed for the time to arrive, but dreaded the trial to which it might expose her.

Having arranged that they should meet again as early as possible after her visit to the madhouse, Colin Clink took his farewell of Fanny; and, on quitting the house, proceeded immediately in the direction of the old hall of Kiddal, with the intention of carrying out another part of his plan.

CHAPTER VII.

Colin seeks an interview with Squire Lupton. An unexpected adventure takes place, which raises him to the station of a hero, and promises great things to

come.

WHEN Colin arrived at Kiddal Hall, Mr. Lupton was quietly repos. ing himself on a small couch placed near the wide-opened window of his drawing-room, and inhaling the fragrance of the great "wicked weed" from a long Turkish pipe, whose voluminous folds lay like a sleeping serpent on the ground beside him. At some distance from him, close to the door, and unperceived by the squire, stood an individual of short stature, dressed in a coat that reached nearly to his knees; inexpressibles that descended to the same point, blue worsted stockings, and laced-up boots. His hat was placed upon its crown on the floor beside him, as though the owner, in so disposing of it, meditated a stay of some duration.

"Is that Mr. Lupton ?" demanded a gruff Johnsonian voice.

"Who the d- is that?" exclaimed the Squire, puffing the smoke away from his mouth, and looking eagerly in the direction whence the voice proceeded.