"I advise you to cut, or you'll be apt not to | Weir, nevertheless, saw Fisher's figure seated sleep soft to-night,' was all the answer that I received; and I confess it was rather humiliating to my diplomatic and Spanish dignity. I reflected a moment; then said: 'Sir, are you not the Surrogate ?' 'No,' roared the voice, 'I'm the Bell-ringer.' "But, sir, I understood that you combined with those duties the charge of the elephant?' on the rail. He pulled his old mare up, and called out, "Fisher, is that you?" No answer was returned; but there, still on the rail. sat the form of the man with whom he had been on the most intimate terms. Weir-who was not drunk, although he had taken several glasses of strong liquor on the road-jumped off his cart, and approached the rail. To his surprise, the form vanished. "Well," exclaimed old Weir, "this is very curious, anyhow ;" and, breaking several branches of a sapling, so as to mark the exact spot, he remounted his cart, put his old mare into a jogtrot, and soon reached his home. Ben was not likely to keep this vision a secret from his old woman. All that he had seen he faithfully related to her. "Upon that there came such an oath, that I am still astonished how a phrase of such dimensions could squeeze through so small a keyhole. It fairly blew me down stairs. When I gained the Park, I looked at the clock, and saw that it was half-past four. I devoted the next twenty minutes to wandering about that tranquil and shady retreat, and, far from the city's hum, collected my thoughts, and convicted myself of being the victim of an amiable deceit. I forgive you, my young friend, for I am aware that my conduct toward you has not been always perfectly transparent. I conceive that I have truly seen the elephant, under your auspices-if to see that animal means to cut the eye-teeth (doubtless from some occult allusion to his tusks) Will you now undertake to satisfy my other desire-like. that of marrying an heiress?" "I certainly will," answered I. "Well, then," said Don Bobtail, "let us drink, in an extra bottle, forgiveness all round, and the health of the Count Icthyosaurowski." "And the Surrogate ?"-asked I. The Spanish Embassador laughed pleasantly; and finishing our cigars, we strolled quietly up Broadway to the Opera. FISHER'S GHOST. "Hold your nonsense, Ben!" was old Betty's reply. "You know you have been a-drinking and disturbing of your imagination. Ain't Fisher a-gone to England? And if he had a-come back, do you think we shouldn't a-heard on it?" 66 Ay, Betty!” said old Ben, “but he'd a cruel gash in his forehead, and the blood was all fresh Faith, it makes me shudder to think on't. It were his ghost." "How can you talk so foolish, Ben?" said the old woman. "You must be drunk, sure-ly, to get on about ghostesses." "I tell thee I am not drunk," replied old Ben, angrily. "There's been foul play, Betty; I'm sure on't. There sat Fisher on the rail-not more than a matter of two mile from this. Egad, it were on his own fence that he sat. There he was, in his shirt-sleeves, with his arms a-folded; just as he used to sit, when he was a-waiting N the colony of New South Wales, at a place for any body coming up the road. Bless you, Nalled Penrith, distant from Sydney about Betty, I seed in till I was as close as I am to thirty-seven miles, lived a farmer named Fisher. He had been, originally, transported, but had become free by servitude. Unceasing toil, and great steadiness of character, had acquired for him a considerable property, for a person in his station of life. His lands and stock were not worth less than four thousand pounds. He was unmarried, and was about forty-five years old. thee; when, all on a sudden he vanished, like smoke." "Nonsense, Ben: "don't talk of it," said old Betty, or the neighbors will only laugh at you. Come to bed, and you'll forget all about it before to-morrow morning." Old Ben went to bed; but he did not next morning forget all about what he had seen on the previous night: on the contrary, he was more positive than before. However, at the earnest, and often-repeated request of the old woman, he promised not to mention having seen Fisher's ghost, for fear that it might expose him to ridicule. Suddenly Fisher disappeared; and one of his neighbors a man named Smith-gave out that he had gone to England, but would return in two or three years. Smith produced a document, purporting to be executed by Fisher; and, according to this document, Fisher had appointed Smith to act as his agent during his absence. Fisher was a man of very singular habits and eccentric character, and his silence about his departure, instead of creating surprise, was de-identical apparition. He had purposely abstained clared to be "exactly like him." About six months after Fisher's disappearance, an old man called Ben Weir, who had a small farm near Penrith, and who always drove his own cart to market, was returning from Sydney, one night, when he beheld, seated on a rail which bounded the road-Fisher. The night was very dark, and the distance of the fence from the middle of the road was, at least, twelve yards. On the following Thursday night, when old Ben was returning from market-again in his cart-he saw, seated upon the same rail, the from drinking that day, and was in the full possession of all his senses. On this occasion old Ben was too much alarmed to stop. He urged the old mare on, and got home as speedily as possible. As soon as he had unharnessed and fed the mare, and taken his purchases out of the cart, he entered his cottage, lighted his pipe, sat over the fire with his better half, and gave her an account of how he had disposed of his pro duce, and what he had brought back from Sydney in return. After this he said to her, "Well, Betty, I'm not drunk to-night, any how, am I?" "No," said Betty. "You are quite sober, sensible like, to-night, Ben; and therefore you have come home without any ghost in your head. Ghosts! Don't believe there is such things." "Go home, Ben," said Mr. Grafton, "and let me see you to-morrow at sunrise. We will go together to the place where you say you saw the ghost." Mr Grafton used to encourage the aboriginal natives of New South Wales (that race which has been very aptly described as "the last link in the human chain") to remain about his premises. "Well, you are satisfied I am not drunk; but At the head of a little tribe then encamped on perfectly sober," said the old man. Mr. Grafton's estate, was a sharp young man named Johnny Crook. The peculiar faculty of "Yes, Ben," said Betty. "Well, then," said Ben, "I tell thee what, the aboriginal natives of New South Wales, of Betty, I saw Fisher to-night, agin!" tracking the human foot not only over grass but over the hardest rock; and of tracking the whereabouts of runaways by signs imperceptible to civilized eyes, is well known; and this man, Johnny Crook, was famous for his skill in this particular art of tracking He had recently been "You may say stuff," said the old farmer; "but I tell you what-I saw him as plainly as I did last Thursday night. Smith is a bad 'un! Do you think Fisher would ever have left this country without coming to bid you and me good-instrumental in the apprehension of several desby?" "I'm as fond of my grog and my pipe as most men," said old Ben; "but I'm not going to drink any thing to-night. It may be all fancy, as you call it, but I am now going to tell Mr. Grafton all I saw, and what I think ;" and with these words he got up and left the house. Mr. Grafton was a gentleman who lived about a mile from old Weir's farm. He had been formerly a lieutenant in the navy, but was now on half-pay, and was a settler in the new colony; he was, moreover, in the commission of the peace. When old Ben arrived at Mr. Grafton's house, Mr. Grafton was about to retire to bed; but he requested old Ben might be shown in. He desired the farmer to take a seat by the fire, and then inquired what was the latest news in Sydney. "The news in Sydney, sir, is very small," said old Ben; "wheat is falling, but maize still keeps its price-seven and sixpence a bushel: but I want to tell you, sir, something that will astonish you." "What is it Ben?" asked Mr. Grafton. "Why, sir,” resumed old Ben, “you know I am not a weak-minded man, nor a fool, exactly; for I was born and bred in Yorkshire." "No, Ben, I don't believe you to be weakminded, nor do I think you a fool," said Mr. Grafton; but what can you have to say that you come at this late hour, and that you require such a preface?" "That I have seen the ghost of Fisher, sir," said the old man; and he detailed the particulars of which the reader is already in possession. Mr Grafton was at first disposed to think, with old Betty, that Ben had seen Fisher's Ghost through an extra glass or two of rum on the first night; and that, on the second night, when perfectly sober, he was unable to divest himself of the idea previously entertained. But, after a little consideration, the words "How very singular!" involuntarily escaped him. perate bushrangers, whom he had tracked over twenty-seven miles of rocky country and fields, which they had crossed bare-footed, in the hope of checking the black fellow in the progress of his keen pursuit with the horse police. When old Ben Weir made his appearance in the morning at Mr. Grafton's house, the black chief, Johnny Crook, was summoned to attend. He came and brought with him several of his subjects. The party set out, old Weir showing the way. The leaves on the branches of the saplings which he had broken on the first night of seeing the ghost were withered, and sufficiently pointed out the exact rail on which the phantom was represented to have sat. There were stains upon the rail. Johnny Crook, who had then no idea of what he was required for, pronounced these stains to be "White man's blood;" and, after searching about for some time, he pointed to a spot whereon he said a human body had been laid. In New South Wales long droughts are not very uncommon; and not a single shower of rain had fallen for seven months previously-not sufficient even to lay the dust upon the roads. In consequence of the time that had elapsed, Crook had no small difficulty to contend with; but in about two hours he succeeded in tracking the footsteps of one man to the unfrequented side of a pond at some distance. He gave it as his opinion that another man had been dragged thither. The savage walked round and round the pond, eagerly examining its borders and the sedges and weeds springing up around it. At first he seemed baffled. No clew had been washed ashore to show that any thing unusual had been sunk in the pond; but, having finished this examination, he laid himself down on his face and looked keenly along the surface of the smooth and stagnant water. Presently he jumped up, uttered a cry peculiar to the natives when gratified by finding some long-sought object, clapped his hands, and, pointing to the middle of the pond, to where the decomposition of some sunken substance had produced a slimy coating streaked with prismatic colors, he exclaimed, White man's fat!" The pond was immediately search ed; and, below the spot indicated, the remains | by supernatural agency-and thus, by bringing of a body were discovered. A large stone and the murder voluntarily to light, hoped to stifle a rotted silk handkerchief were found near the all suspicion? But then he considered Weir's body; these had been used to sink it. excellent character, his kind disposition, and good-nature. These at once put to flight his suspicion of Weir; but still he was by no means satisfied of Smith's guilt, much as appearances were against him. That it was the body of Fisher there could be no question. It might have been identified by the teeth; but on the waistcoat there were some large brass buttons which were immediately recognized, both by Mr. Grafton and by old Ben Weir, as Fisher's property. He had worn those buttons on his waistcoat for several years. Leaving the body by the side of the pond, and old Ben and the blacks to guard it, Mr. Grafton cantered up to Fisher's house. Smith was not only in possession of all the missing man's property, but had removed to Fisher's house. It was about a mile and a half distant. They inquired for Mr. Smith. Mr. Smith, who was at breakfast, came out, and invited Mr. Grafton to alight; Mr. Grafton accepted the invitation, and after a few desultory observations said, "Mr. Smith, I am anxious to purchase a piece of land on the other side of the road, belonging to this estate, and I would give a fair price for it. Have you the power to sell?" "Oh, yes, sir," replied Smith. "The power which I hold from Fisher is a general power;" and he forthwith produced a document purporting to be signed by Fisher, but which was not witnessed. Fisher's servants were examined, and stated that their master had often talked of going to England on a visit to his friends, and of leaving Mr. Smith to manage his farm; and that though they were surprised when Mr. Smith came, and said he had "gone at last," they did not think it at all unlikely that he had done so. An inquest was held, and a verdict of willful murder found against Thomas Smith. He was thereupon transmitted to Sydney for trial, at the ensuing sessions, in the supreme court. The case naturally excited great interest in the colony; and public opinion respecting Smith's guilt was evenly balanced. The day of trial came; and the court was crowded almost to suffocation. The AttorneyGeneral very truly remarked that there were circumstances connected with the case which were without any precedent in the annals of jurisprudence. The only witnesses were old Weir and Mr. Grafton. Smith, who defended himself with great composure and ability, cross"If you are not very busy, I should like to examined them at considerable length, and with show you the piece of land I allude to,” said Mr. consummate skill. The prosecution having Grafton. closed, Smith addressed the jury (which consistOh, certainly, sir. I am quite at your serv-ed of military officers) in his defense. He adice," said Smith; and he then ordered his horse to be saddled. It was necessary to pass the pond where the remains of Fisher's body were then exposed. When they came near to the spot, Mr. Grafton, looking Smith full in the face, said, "Mr. Smith, I wish to show you something. Look here!" He pointed to the decomposed body, and narrowly watching Mr. Smith's countenance, remarked: "These are the remains of Fisher. How do you account for their being found in this pond?" Smith, with the greatest coolness, got off his horse, minutely examined the remains, and then admitted that there was no doubt they were Fisher's. He confessed himself at a loss to account for their discovery, unless it could be (he said) that somebody had waylaid him on the road when he left his home for Sydney; had murdered him for the gold and bank-notes which he had about his person, and had then thrown him into the pond. "My hands, thank Heaven!" he concluded," are clean. If my old friend could come to life again, he would tell you that I had no hand in this horrible murder." Mr. Grafton knew not what to think. He was not a believer in ghosts. Could it be possible, he began to ask himself, that old Weir had committed this crime, and—finding it weigh heavily on his conscience, and fearing that he might be detected-had trumped up the story about the ghost had pretended that he was led to the spot mitted that the circumstances were strong against him; but he most ingeniously proceeded to explain them. The power of attorney, which he produced, he contended had been regularly granted by Fisher, and he called several witnesses, who swore that they believed the signature to be that of the deceased. He, further, produced a will, which had been drawn up by Fisher's attorney, and by that will Fisher had appointed Smith his sole executor, in the event of his death. He declined, he said, to throw any suspicion on Weir; but he would appeal to the common sense of the jury whether the ghost story was entitled to any credit; and, if it were not, to ask themselves why it had been invented? He alluded to the fact-which in cross-examination Mr. Grafton swore to-that when the remains were first shown to him, he did not conduct himself as a guilty man would have been likely to do, although he was horror-stricken on beholding the hideous spectacle. He concluded by invoking the Almighty to bear witness that he was innocent of the diabolical crime for which he had been arraigned. The judge (the late Sir Francis Forbes) recapitulated the evidence. It was no easy matter to deal with that part of it which had reference to the apparition; and if the charge of the judge had any leaning one way or the other, it was decidedly in favor of an acquittal. The jury retired; but, after deliberating for seven hours, they returned to the court, with a verdict of Guilty. man. The judge then sentenced the prisoner to be hanged on the following Monday. It was on a Thursday night that he was convicted. On the Sunday, Smith expressed a wish to see a clergyHis wish was instantly attended to, when he confessed that he, and he alone, committed the murder; and that it was upon the very rail where Weir swore that he had seen Fisher's ghost sitting, that he had knocked out Fisher's brains with a tomahawk. The power of attorney, he likewise confessed, was a forgery, but declared that the will was genuine. This is very extraordinary, but is, nevertheless, true in substance, if not in every particular. Most persons who have visited Sydney for any length of time will no doubt have had it narrated to them. THER AND THEN? HE oracle of the beautiful sequestered little hamlet of Ambermead, was an old gentleman of unobtrusive and orderly habits, whose peculiar taciturnity had obtained for him the familiar cognomen of Two Words. Mr. Canute, alias Two Words, dwelt on the outskirts of the village, tended by an ancient housekeeper, almost as chary of speech as her worthy master. It was surmised that Mr. Canute had seen better days; but though his means were straitened, his heart was large, and his countenance expressed great benevolence. Notwithstanding the brief mode of speech which characterized him on all occasions, the advice of Mr. Canute was eagerly sought on every subject whereon it was presumed advice could be profitable; and the simple rustics of Ambermead perhaps valued it the more, because, though delivered without a particle of pomposity, the terseness and decision of the words expended, left an indelible impression, which long sermons often failed to convey. Mr. Canute lived on terms of intimacy with the family at the old Hall-an intimacy cemented by early association, for Mr. Harwell and Mr. Canute had been school-fellows; and when a painful and lingering illness attacked the squire, his ancient friend and crony felt deep anxiety as to the ultimate fate of Mr. Harwell's only child, the good and lovely Clara Harwell. The disease was an incurable one; though the suffering might be protracted, there was no hope of ultimate recovery, and an air of gloom reigned over the village of Ambermead, where once the sweet spring and summer tide brought only sport and glee. Ambermead was noted for a profusion of rich red roses, exhaling delicious fragrance; and for the song of innumerable nightingales, whose harmonious concerts resounded amid the umbrageous groves, sheltering the hamlet on every side, and extending beyond the old Hall of Ambermead. But now, although the roses bloomed and the birds sang, serious faces looked from the cottage doors; and while the younger villagers forgot their usual pastimes, the elders conversed apart in whispers, always directing their glances toward the Hall, as if the sufferer within those thick walls could be disturbed by VOL. VI.-No. 36.—3 D their conversation. This sympathy was called forth, not only by the circumstance of Mr. Harwell being their ancestral landlord, the last of an impoverished race, but from his always having lived among them as a friend and neighbor-respected as a superior, and beloved as an equal. Their knowledge, also, of the squire's decayed fortunes; and that, on his death, the fine old place must become the property of a stranger, whom rumor did not report favorably of greatly enhanced the concern of these hereditary cultivators of the soil; and many bright eyes grew dim thinking of poor Miss Clara, who would so soon be fatherless, and almost penniless. The estate of Ambermead was strictly entailed in the male line, and the next heir was of distant kin to the Harwells. A combination of misfortunes, and no doubt of imprudence in years long bygone, had reduced the present proprietor to the verge of ruin, from which he was to find refuge only in the grave. The Harwell family had lived for centuries in Ambermead. They seemed so much to belong to their poor neighbors, who always sympathized most fully in all the joys and sorrows of the "Hall folk," that now, when there was a certain prospect of losing them forever as it seemed, the parting became more than a common one between landlord and tenant, between rich and poor-it was the parting of endeared friends. They watched and waited for Mr. Canute passing to and fro, as he did every day, and more than once a day; and on his two words they hung, as if life or death were involved in that short bulletin. "How is the squire to-day ?" said one. "No better,” replied Mr. Canute, mildly, without stopping. "And how's Miss Clara?" inquired another, with deep pity in his looks. "Very patient," responded the old man, still moving slowly on with the aid of his stout staff. "Patient!" repeated several voices when he was out of hearing. "Yes, yes, patient enough; and Master Canute means a deal when he says patient. Bless her young sweet face! there's patience in it if ever there was in mortal's." Mr. Canute's patience was sorely taxed by questioning at all hours; he was waylaid first by one, then by another, on his way from his own cottage to the Hall, but with unfailing goodnature and promptitude, he invariably satisfied the affectionate solicitude of his humble neighbors-in his own quaint way, certainly-never wasting words, yet perfectly understood. The summer-tide was waning into autumn, and the squire of Ambermead faded more gradually than autumn leaves, when late one evening a way arer stopped at Mr. Canute's cottage, which was on the roadside, and requested permission to rest, asking for a draught of water from the well before the porch, 66 Most welcome," said Two Words, scanning the stranger, and pleased with his appearance, for youth and an agreeable countenance are sure passports; perhaps, too, Mr. Canute discerned gentle breeding in his guest, despite travel-soiled | a bit reckless and wild. But he has heard of habiliments, and a dash of habitual recklessness Clara Harwell's beauty and goodness from his in his air. At any rate, the welcome was heartily given, and as heartily responded to; and when Mr. Canute left his dwelling, in order to pay his usual evening visit at the Hall, he merely said, addressing his young visitor: "Soon back;" and turning to Martha, the careful housekeeper, added: "Get supper;" while on stepping over the threshold, second thoughts urged him to return and say to the young man : "Don't go." "No, that I won't," replied he frankly, "for I like my quarters too well. I'll wait till you come back, governor; and I hope you won't be long, for my mouth waters for the supper you spoke of." cousin, Lady Ponsonby (she's Clara's cousin, too, you know); and he is really quite sorry to think that such a lovely creature should be turned out of the old Hall to make room for him. He wants to know what will become of her when old Harwell dies, for all the world knows he's ruined. It's a pretty place this old Ambermead -a paradise, I should say. I know what I'd do, if I was ever lucky enough to call it mine." The youth rubbed his hands gleefully. "I should be a happy dog, then!" "And then?" said Mr. Canute, smiling. "Why, then, I'd pull down the rickety old house up there, and build a palace fit for a prince; I'd keep nothing but the old wine; I'd have lots of prime fellows to stay with me; and I should sport the finest horses and dogs in the country!" The speaker paused out of breath. "And then?" said Mr. Canute, quietly. 66 'Why, then, I'd hunt, and shoot, and ride, and drink, and smoke, and dance, and keep open house, and enjoy life to the full-feasting from year's end to year's end-the feast of reason and the flow of soul, you know, in old Ambermead!" "And then?" Mr. Canute smiled, and walked away more briskly than usual; and after sitting for some time beside the sick man's bed, and bidding "good-night" and "bless you," to sweet Clara Harwell, he retraced his steps homeward, and found supper ready, and the handsome stranger so obviously ready to do justice to the frugal fare, that Mr. Canute jocularly remarked: "Keen air;" to which the stranger replied in the same strain : Fine scenery;" on which the host added: "An artist ?" when the youth, laughing outright, said: "An indifferent one, indeed." 'Why, then, I suppose that in time I should After a pause, and suffering his mirth to sub-grow old, like other people, and cease to care side, he continued: "Are you always so eco- for all these things, so much as I did when nomical in words, sir? Don't you sometimes strength and youth were mine." find it difficult to carry on conversation in this strain ?" "You don't," replied Mr. Canute smiling, and imperturbably good-natured. "Not I," cried the youth, "and I want to ask you half a hundred questions. Will you answer me?" "I'll try," replied Mr. Canute." "I've not long to stay, for I'm on a walking tour with a friend; but I diverged to Ambermead, as I was anxious to see it. I've had a curiosity to see it for a long while; but my friend is waiting for me at the market-town, eight miles off, I think, and I shall strike across the country when the moon is up, if you'll give me a rest till then." "Most welcome," said Mr. Canute, courteously. "Ah, ha!" quoth the stranger, "if that's the way you pursue your discourse, I don't think I shall learn much from you. I hope, however, that I may get a wife who will follow your example-a woman of two words, in short; she'll be a rare specimen of her sex!" 66 And then?" said Mr. Canute, more slowly. "Why, then"—and the stranger hesitated— "then, I suppose, like other people, in the course of nature, I should have to leave all the pleasures of this life, and, like other people-die." "And then?" said Mr. Canute, fixing his eyes, glittering like diamonds, on the young man's face, which flushed up, as he exclaimed, with some irritation:. "Oh, hang your and thens! But the moon is well up, I see, so I'm off. Good-night, and thank you." And without further parley, he started off on his walk over the hills; and Mr. Canute silently watched his guest's retreating figure till, in the deep shadows of the surrounding groves, he was lost to view. In the moonlight, in the darkness, in the valley, and on the hillside, these words haunted the wayfarer, and he kept repeating to himself, "And then?" Thoughts took possession of his mind that never before had gained entrance there, or at least they arranged themselves in a sequence which gave them quite a new significance. His past life presented itself to him for the first time as a coherent chain of events, exemplifying cause and effect; and if his plans for the future did not at that moment receive any determinate change, he still kept repeating, anxiously and "Ah, ha!" ejaculated Mr. Canute. "But come, tell me, for time presses," said the young man, suddenly becoming grave-" tell me all about Ambermead, and the squire-how long he's likely to last. For, in fact, the friend I mentioned, who is with me during this walk-inquiringly, as he wandered on in the mooning tour, is vastly interested in all that concerns the place and property. "The heir?" whispered Mr. Canute, mysteriously. "Well, well, suppose we say he is; he's not altogether a bad fellow, though he is considered light, the two strangly-suggestive words: "And then?" It proved a long and a toilsome night's journey for that belated traveler; for he had left Mr. Canute's cottage so hastily, that he had omitted to ask for certain landmarks on the hills leading to the place whither he was bound. In |