THE romance of real life may be found in the lowest as well as the highest situations, although it is perhaps seldom dignified in the cottage of the peasant, or the garret of the artisan, with any distinguished appellation. The incident which in one situation would claim attention from the grave historian, or form a plot for the tragedian, in the other becomes merely an "unlucky affair," or "a comical job." That which I am about to relate was communicated to me by a most respectable D.D. who was a party concerned, in so far as will be seen, and therefore its truth, at least, is unimpeachable.

Sally Tapley, Dr. B's cook, had all the warm temperament common to persons of her profession, who inhale a sufficient portion of the element with which they deal to render them somewhat fiery in speech, and hasty in action. If, however, Sally had the faults of her caste, she had the virtues which belong to it-she was generous and warm-hearted, remarkable for that attachment which "no cold medium knows," not less than for the faculty Dr. Johnson liked, of being "a good hater," when in her opinion such an emotion was called for. She was the doating mother of two sons, both of whom followed their father's calling as sailors, in consequence of which a high wind never failed to portend a breeze in the doctor's family, for tempests were poor Sally's especial averMAY, 1832.

sion, and she generally commented upon them rather with sympathetic rage than sorrow. A dark cloud was a bad sign for a dinner party at the rectory, but a positive gust the certain forerunner of a domestic breeze, in which fellow-servants, culinary utensils, and crackling fires, were made to bear part in a Dutch concert, resembling, perhaps, to Sally's ears the grumbling, creaking, crashing sounds on which her imagination dwelt. To the gentle remonstrances of a mistress she idolized, or to the grave rebuke of his worship, at such a time, she would reply, triumphantly, "Do you hear that wind blow? do you see that flash of lightning? Just tell me if that's proper weather for folks at sea? is it proper weather for me to be quiet in? you know it is not!"

With this sample of Sally's reasoning and feeling we may conclude. She was, nevertheless, a true patriot, and, remembering her condition, suppose that her attachment was strictly local. At a distance of some twenty miles was her native village, and although she had lived, as maid, wife, and widow, now many years in Exeter, dear Wallowput, where not only herself but her Johnny were bred and born, remained, in her memory, her own country, par excellence. Never did she lose an opportunity of extolling its products of every kind: "where could butter be found so sweet, mutton so well fed, girls so

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Deeply wounded, therefore, was the pride of poor Sally, when the sniggering footman affirmed that a Wallowput man had been tried at the assizes then holding, and condemned to six months' imprisonment, for stealing the tools of his fellow-labourer in some road-mending concern. So loudly, indeed, was her grief and indignation expressed, that it reached the ears of her master, who greatly consoled her by the declaration, that he really believed the poor fellow in question to be guiltless of the charge for which he was (in consequence of many concurrent circumstances) convicted. "He has a very good character," said the doctor, "this Benjamin Buxton, and a very good countenance, too-as a justice of the peace I should hardly have committed him, but it is certain appearances were against him."

I'll be sworn he's as honest as the day, and, with your worship's leave, I'll go see him thof he be in the prison; for it shall never be said a realborn Wallowput man was forsaken by all the world while Sarah Tapley's above ground, 'specially when one knows him to be a poor injured creature; no, no, them as have tasted sorrow knows how bitter it is, and knows how to pity those that have got a great deal to swallow."

Accordingly Sally posted off on Sunday afternoon to see her countryman, taking, in her ample pocket, tea, sugar, and muffins, as the species of consolation she would have held most effective had their situations been reversed. So soothing was her kindness to the poor man, such a consolation was it to him to find that there existed any one who would credit his assertion of innocence, and condemn his accusers, that, of course, he greatly pressed her to return, told all the particulars of his little history over and over, and received most gratefully her assurance that whenever her mistress could spare her half an hour, she would devote it to him.

These visits had been repeated some three or four times, each of which

"And why not, I should be glad to know??

"Caze they've nailed him up in his coffin an hour past."

"Nail up a live man in his coffin? this beats all their former wickedness to him-the wretches!"

"Nay, he were dead enough, I promise ye."

"How can that be? was I not with him last Sunday, and didn't I say to him, says I-"

"All I know iz thiz-he began to be bad of an inflammation, az it were, on Tuezday night-Thurzday he were main worze-Zatterday he died—an to-morrow, at four o'clock, he'll be buried."

As the porter uttered the last words he closed the door of communication, and withdrew, foreseeing a dawning storm on Sally's brow, of which he was too likely to feel the effects, however innocent of the cause. The poor woman's warm heart was, indeed, deeply moved, and it is probable that judge and jury, gaoler and apothecary, would have been roundly accused of a hand in the prisoner's death, if any one would have listened to the denunciation. Compelled to unnatural silence, as thunder ends in rain, so did her mingled feelings find in tears their happiest vent, and she returned home weeping so sincerely as to awaken the sympathy of both Mrs. Band the doctor, who promised that on the following day she should satisfy her own ideas of compassion and friendship by following the corpse to the grave.

Before the hour appointed poor Sally, arrayed in all the mourning the short time and the already denuded state of her purse admitted, stood at

One day in March, when the poor cook was called upon for all her knowledge, which was great, and her selfcommand, which was little, in order to keep madam's birth-day with all due observance-when she was by turns scolding or coaxing those around her, and wishing for a dozen pair of hands, and a more perfect memory to employ them with-at the time when she was stirring her custards, and watching the awful symptoms of approaching ebullition, against which it was her duty to guard-even at that very moment, when engaged in that most delicate of all culinary distresses, a strange step entered the door, stood for a space, then slowly advanced towards her.

"If it be my lord bishop himself," thought Sally, "I won't turn my head just now, becase he can't go to expect I should both cook a dinner fit for he to eat, and be gabbling to him while my custards are spoiling."

"Sarah Tapley," said a low voice, close to her ear; and, despite her resolution, she started aside, and turned to see the speaker - that speaker was Benjamin Buxton.

A loud, shrill shriek-such a shriek as only terror could inspire-rang through the lower regions-the custards boiled up, while poor Sally stood transfixed with horror - her eyes staring, her teeth chattering, her face pale, despite of the fire, and her whole frame trembling, apparently nerveless, and on the verge of swooning.

The custards boiled over, and, with intuitive energy, the affrighted cook put forth her hand and snatched the saucepan from the fire; at the same time she gained power to exclaim, in broken accents, 66 'Avaunt, Satan! I never wronged ye !-go to your own grave again, honest man -in the name of the"

Before the adjuration could be uttered, the kitchen was entered by every one within hearing of Sally's late shriek, and although several looked alarmed at the strange man, their arrival served to satisfy Sally that he would not injure her; and supported by the presence of the family, and holding the smoking

saucepan betwixt herself and the ghost, she, in a loud voice, insisted on knowing "why he troubled her, and how he dared to enter a real clargimant's house?"

"I called," said the apparition, "to tell you that my time is up.'

"Your time was over five months since if all comes to that."

"And I wished to thank you for what kindness I had from ye, though ye've long forsaken me."

"Forsaken ye! Benjamin Buxton, dead or alive, I never did that. If I was not at your sick bed-side, 'twas 'cause I didn't know ye were ill, an I do think ye might speak handsomer, seeing not a creature on earth but me followed your funeral."

"Funeral! funeral! I am not yet ready for that, though I have pined away sadly, and may look like a corpse sure enough."

Sally set down the saucepan, and, placing her arms a-kimbo, she walked up to the poor man, who had reason to tremble in his turn, and looking him full in the eyes, exclaimed, “Do you dare to say that you didn't die of an inflammation one Saturday? and that you wasn't buried on the Monday after-do you go to say that?"

"To be sure I do the poor man who shared my bed, and that was imprisoned for the same term, died in that way, but not me. A sore loss I found him, for you, Sally, never looked in on me since; nor has my wife, or my neighbours, ever owned me from that very time, which has almost broken my heart."

The pitiable appearance of the poor man, and this explanation of Sally's affright, interested all around him; for although strangers to his person, they had heard more than enough of his melancholy story, and every one begun readily to console his affliction, inform him what they knew of his wife's sorrow for his supposed loss, her removal from his native village, and the mistake made between their master and the parson who performed the funeral ceremony over his cellmate. In the course of this information, the man learnt that he had now neither home nor wife to return to,