Rousseau, brought up amid a moral contagion, lured to vice by the seductive promises of a painless indolence, contrasted with the hardships of her child-servitude, she might have been an ornament of grace to her home, and made some happy hearth glow with deep and true affection.

Born, as far as it is possible to fix the date, in 1764, she commenced a life of toil at an age when children of more fortunate parentage, are dressing their dolls, and reading their first books. She was first engaged to assist in nursing an infant, by a Mrs. Thomas, of the village in which her mother resided; but the intervals in this employment appears to have been filled up with household duties of a more laborious nature. However the duties of a nurse-maid, and especially the restraint of authority, were sufficiently irksome to the freespirited child. Sometimes she fretted, sometimes for a moment she rebelled; but her winning looks and manner enticed forgiveness for the one, and from the other she had a refuge in her own boundless hilarity, which poured itself out in songs, and tunes, and efforts of rude music, and the little devices of her youthful coquetry. In this way she passed some time; but how she was obliged to leave, whether through some misconduct on her own part, or the caprice of her mistress, or from her services being no longer required—which is most probable-she herself, with each of her biographers, has failed to tell.

CHAPTER III.

The next passage in her career, was one which exerted great influence upon her. Through the recommendation of the person in whose service she had lately been employed, she was engaged in the same capacity of nursery-maid, by Doctor Budd, of Chatham Place, Blackfriars, one of the Physicians of St. Bartholomew's Hospital. Now then, she left home in reality she left the scenes of her rural life, and came into the noisy wilderness of London. Naturally affectionate, she is stated to have exhibited at parting much childish tenderness towards her mother, for she clung to her, kissed her, promised to behave well, and talked of coming back soon, with money and clothes, as the reward of her faithful and obedient services. Who that saw her leaving the obscure Flintshire village, could have imagined her rebuking Nelson in his cabin, defying the Neapolitan Queen in her own apartment, triumphing amid troops of Sybarits, in revels of Indian richness, compelling councils of State to revoke their resolves, standing on the poop of a ship to see Caracioli hanged? Who

that saw the poor girl coming to Chatham Place with her bundle, and courtseying to the servant who opened the door, would have dreamed of seeing at her feet, the hero to whom all England offered homage, and who bequeathed her as his last treasure to the country, whose gratitude he claimed? But so it was. Alone, unknown, dependant, she found herself in London, engaged in nursing a baby in the house of Doctor Budd. That good man had the fortune to have in his service another person, famous in her day, though not so renowned as the daughter of the Preston's labourer. This was Mrs. Powell, the celebrated actress, who used to play nightly at Drury Lane, amid the plaudits of that fashionable connoisseurship in the metropolis. The court went to see and praise her; the aristocracy brought their trains of carriages to the ugly porter; the town, in dutiful imitation, admired; and Mrs. Powell looked in the sunshine of her prosperity. At the time when her acting produced its greatest and most exciting effect, Emma, then the wife of Sir William Hamilton, visited the theatre. In the height, at that period, of her own celebrity, and in the full bloom and ripeness of her beauty, she was not careful to place herself in the shade, but occupied a seat almost as conspicuous as that of the accomplished actress, who had been her fellow-servant. The audience recognised her, and scarcely could the interest of the tragedy, with its wonderfully passionate interpretations, withdraw their gaze from the too famous woman, who sat so proud in her loveliness, so delicate, sweet-faced and youthful still, and if fallen, fallen like an angel, without the punishment of a less rare and radiant' countenance, or a less exquisitely moulded form. Not in the history of domestic servitude is there a parallel coincidence; but these ancillary beauties were both of matchless talent, both actresses; both trod a stage; both personified characters which they were not, and both knew what it was to step out of the theatrical palace, to strip off the mimic purple, to be forsaken by the salaried air of flatterers, and to descend into the cold, poor world, so dismal in its reality, because there had been a long pageant of false splendour to render those realities distasteful.

(To be continued.)

O, TELL ME OF SOME LEGEND RARE.

BY MARIE J. EWEN.

O, tell me a tale this twilight hour, for my heart is sad and lone,
And hearing of another's grief perchance may soothe mine own.
I care not what the story be, or sorrowful, or gay,

If only from myself it bear my lonely hours away.

O, tell me a tale of the Minster church, with its carvings quaint and old,
And the oriel fair, with the virgin there in purple and in gold;
How on Christmas festival the joyous bells were rung,

And the priests in long procession came, and a solemn mass was sung.

O, tell me a tale of the ocean blue, of the proudly foaming sea,
Of goodly ships, and lordly fleets, and the empire of the free;
Of palm-trees tall, and cocoa groves, in far-off western isles,
Upon whose sunlit mountain tops the summer radiance smiles.

O, tell me a tale of the forest lone, when the eye of day is dim,
And the waving trees their voices blend in one solemn vesper hymn;
Where the distant sound of evening chimes come faintly o'er the lea,
And melancholy tunes float by, like spirits on the sea.

O, tell me a tale of a starlit eve, and the breath of the perfumed air, of the silver moon, and the balcony, and the two who were standing

there;

Of the warm heart tinge on beauty's cheek, and her spirit-lighted eyes; Of whispered vows of honeyed love, and softly-breathed replies.

O, tell me a tale of the minstrel's harp, as it rings through the lordly hall,

Where the guests are met, and their glancing feet to its silvery echoes fall;

While lights are flashing all around, and shadowy plumes are there, And diamonds gleam, with starlike glow, through the light of ravenhair.

O, tell me a tale of the coming time, and its bow of promise bright,
If heavenly peace and love shall dwell beneath its noontide light;
If the Iris hues and fancy sees on trembling rain-drops there,
Shall e'er be fashioned into gems of beauty rich and rare.

O, tell me the tale of Tancred's woes-a story deep in tears-
Of his devotion deep and pure, and the well-tried faith of years;
Of young Lavinia's changeless love that still burned bright for him,
Although it won no echo back, and the star of hope grew dim.

O, tell me a tale of the lighted dome, and the hush of the mighty throng,
When a thousand hearts throbbed wild response to the thrilling gush of

song;

Of fair Corinna's crowned brows, and of the loud acclaim

That greeted her, as through the streets her prancing jennets came.

O, tell me a tale of the poet's soul, where the lamp of genius gleams; Of the seraph forms of dazzling light that haunt his lonely dreams; Of the light celestial harmonies unto his spirit given,

Whose songs of joy come floating down through the opened gates of heaven.

O, tell me of some legend rare-some tale of daring wild,
Such as of old hath oftentimes our homely hearths beguiled.

I care not what the story be, or sorrowful, or gay,

If only from myself it bears my lonely dreams away.

one.

CHAPTERS FOR CHILDREN.-CHAPTER I.
PRETTY STORIES.

THE ECHO.

LITTLE boy, whose name was George, as yet knew nothing of the echo. On one occasion, when left alone in a meadow, he cried out loudly, 'O! O!' when he was directly answered from the hill close by, 'O! O!' Surprised to hear a voice without seeing any person, he cried out, "Who are you?' The voice replied, "Who are you?' He then screamed out, You are a silly fellow,' and 'Silly fellow was answered from the hill.

This only made George more angry, and he went on calling the person, whom he thought he heard, nicknames, which were all repeated exactly as he uttered them. He then went to look for the boy, in order to strike him, but he could find no So he ran home, and told his mother an impudent fellow had hid himself behind the trees on the hill, and called him nicknames. Having explained to his mother what had taken place, she said to him, George, my boy, you have deceived yourself. You have heard nothing but the echo of your own words; if you had called out a civil word towards the hill, a civil word would have been given back in return.' 'O, said George, 'I will go down to-morrow and say good words, and get good words from the echo.'

'So it is,' said the mother, 'in life, with boys and girls, and