Where the directions for purses, slippers, and smoking-caps, in Berlin, Lady Betty, and beadwork? "Where?"

We are confounded and borne down: the needle, that loved companion and daintiest of darlings, of which far be it from us to babble indiscreetly, the minion of the lady and the gagne-mort of the poor shirtmaker, was glanced at in the long-winded "WORD," uttered oracularly "in the merrie month of May," one thousand eight hundred and sixty-two; yet, excepting to libel and speak scurrilously of the poor little implement, nothing throughout the whole eighteen numbers would lead the world to suspect that Thomas's Sewing Machine had not its own way, entirely to the total discomfiture of Redditch and Whitechapel.

The case is proven; and the suspiciously sentimental supplement to the title, which whispered to some elderly young ladies of love tales and pastorals, of conundrums and culinary receipts, of hints on etiquette, and of plates and full-size patterns of the last new fashions, as worn by that type of loveliness and grace, the EMPRESS EUGENIE," the Fair Daughters of Great Britain and Ireland" figures (Mrs. Triple-Genteel lifts her forefinger, and sotto-voce, cites the first rule of syntax from Murray's "Abridgment"),-figureS, Madam, no longer on the cover of "The Rose, The Shamrock, and The Thistle." We may remark en passant that that same cover is embellished with a device by R. Jefferson, not only appropriate, but admirable in point of design and execution.

Freed from the angry interpellation of the massive and excellent Mrs. B. and the pretty menace of Mrs. Triple-Genteel's ringlets, we cry Eureka, and hasten to make an end.

"Prose, poety; fact and fiction; tales and essays; biography and criticism." A cloud of contributors, earnest and sympathetic; all of talent; many of high mark.

"From grave to gay; from lively to severe ;"

something for every taste, honest, healthy, and refined; something not to be slighted by the lords nor yawned over by the ladies of creation; something to touch a chord and to find a welcome in the hearts of

"The English, the Irish, the Scotch,"

as roars the sturdy chorus of the song, spiced with the spirit of

John Bull; something, in short, for "THE THREE KINGDOMS," not forgetting the Ancient PRINCIPALITY from which the young and gallant Heir to the British Crown derives His title and His triple plume.

Finally, and if last not least, a Corps of Compositors and Printers, who, though women, hope not the less that, in their case, conduct, skill, and industry shall receive their just reward.

Such is the signalement of the Magazine, its wares, its faithful Friends and Servitors.

And our Public" ever kind, if sometimes "hard to please;" and those terrible fellows the Reviewers have chosen to attest its accuracy, and to shout uproariously—

"SUCCESS TO THE ROSE, THE SHAMROCK, AND THE THISTLE."

To thank her Contributors for their aid; her Employées for their zeal; the Three Kingdoms for their patronage; and the Press for its generous support, is the grateful devoir of the Editress in closing the Third and—

COMMENCING THE FOURTH VOLUME.

October 19, 1863.

THE LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF
JACOB MORRISTON.

CHAPTER XX.

AFTER A BRIEF HALT, FOR REFLECTION, THE STORY PROGRESSES.

I PAUSE here, chiefly out of sympathy for my friend Jacob, as we have all paused at some momentous period of our respective histories. I feel that Jacob is on the eve of a great change in his fortunes, and that the time has all but come when he will stand alone in the great world, with little choice in respect of the highway in which he will journey. Perhaps it is well, sometimes, that our selection of the paths that open up, at certain intervals in all our lives, should be restricted. It is hard choosing when you come to four cross-roads, in a new country, without guide posts. Some of us fancy we discover a sign which Fate has set up; but we are often deceived.

In looking back upon the past, my friend, do you not remember a period when it was necessary that you should select your path in life? You had left school, and it was necessary that you should decide. Or you had entered upon some deep and important enterprise-taken the rough and perilous road, when the quiet and easy one was equally accessible. Yes, and made a mistake," you may reply. I have just seen a poor curate, who entered the church with rosy hopes of patronage from a relative, and who, sorely disappointed for years, has at length learned "to labour and to wait." Steeped in respectable poverty, and on the verge of the grave, he has discovered that the only true wealth is the comfort of religious resignation.

How bitter disappointment must be, after a lifetime of hard and patient toil! The artist, standing within the walls of the Academy, year after year, and finding himself as low in public estimation as he is in the eyes of the hanging committee, knows how bitter! The poor author, in yon poor garret, surrounded by his oft rejected manuscripts, knows how bitter!

Whilst I write there passes my window an old man, well to do, with creaking boots, and jingling seals hanging from his watch-chain. Follows him, one, gray and tottering, and leaning upon a staff; and then comes a slim, seedy gentleman, struggling with the demon called "keeping up appearances ;" and now a brougham rolls by, in which reclines a gentleman in the prime of life, and in the hey-day of prosperity. Which of these may represent my future, gentle reader, or your future, or Jacob's future? "Aye, there's the rub!" Some writers tell us that our future is of our own making. Those kind gentlemen who lecture "Young Men's Christian Societies," tell us that industry and perseverance will accomplish anything. And they set about proving their arguments by holding up successful men, who have

triumphed over gigantic obstacles. It is not an original thought, I know, to ask about the welfare of the unsuccessful men? But I feel a deep interest in them. The successful men have everybody's praises and admiration. Commend me to some of the unsuccessful, who have deserved the triumphs they have not obtained. They are as numerous as their more fortunate brethren, depend upon it. Look around amongst your acquaintances and see if you cannot discover, even in your own circle, men who have striven, and persevered, and been industrious all their lives, and had good abilities to back them, and yet have always been unsuccessful, and will ever be so to the end of the chapter. Who shall say that yon seedy man, and him with the staff, have not worked harder, and persevered more, and been aided throughout by better abilities than the gentleman of the brougham? Will any of my readers say that Mr. Augustus Morriston did not deserve to be successful? He toiled late and early, from infancy upwards. He was a good husband, a kind brother, and though he was not such an affectionate parent in Jacob's early youth as he might perhaps have been, my readers will not charge him with a want of parental regard. He was a conscientious man, had high feelings and good thoughts; his perseverance was unbounded, his industry was equally great, and his energy was tremendous. But he was not a successful man. When he paced to and fro upon the pavement in Trafalgar Square even his greatest foe might have pitied him, could he have known the bitterness of his disappointment.

In Jacob's pictures of the future there was no dream of failure. But he will quail before the prospect that is gradually opening up for him, as Will Tunster lashes his horse through half-lit villages, by flaming furnaces and colliery fires. His heart will throb, and he will bite his lips before the night is over, howsoever calmly the bright stars twinkle overhead. Already there have been several crises in his young life; and the looking back upon our turnings in life's great journey, and our selections of various paths, or our non-selections thereof, induces me briefly to contemplate a few incidents in Jacob's life. Like yours and mine, my friend, his career has been wonderfully influenced by apparently accidental circumstances. What would have been his lot now, supposing his mother had not died? What his fate had not a miller on a memorable day, years ago, gone forth to smoke his pipe beside a mill-dam, just when a youth paused on the deep pool's bank? Supposing a certain sweet face had not looked from the factory window? Supposing Mr. Spawling had never sent that advertisement to Middleton? Supposing Dorothy Cantrill had not been Mr. Spawling's housekeeper?

Perhaps one might go on speculating, in this fashion, to an absurd length; but have we not all looked back, in a similar manner, upon our own lives? Do we not all feel that there have been times when we seem to have brushed shoulders with fate, when an apparently trivial circumstance has turned out to have been a great event, and when our destiny has been influenced by a trifle?

Middleton-in-the-Water retained many old customs, and amongst them was that of tolling the curfew hour, as punctually as when the feudal law was in full operation. The bell was wailing on the breeze, as the mail cart passed the spot where Jacob had first seen aunt Keziah, bringing back strange memories of the past. The night was dark, and by some lucky accident the gas lamps were lighted, though in many instances they did but burn to make the darkness still more visible. Will Tunster's horse slackened its speed as they entered the town, and some boys who were going home after playing "hide-and-seek," or "last knock," up and down the streets, shouted "hurrah," in honour of "Will, the whip."

Strange sensations took possession of Jacob, as he neared home. Things seemed smaller than they had appeared when he last saw them, notwithstanding the darkness which strove hard to make everything big, and black, and shadowy.

Will Tunster, who had said but little during the journey, and had played "Tom Moody" more dolefully than was his wont, "hoped Jacob would not be down-hearted," as he pulled the horse up into a still steadier walk.

"Do you think I am down-hearted then, Will?" inquired Jacob.

"Thou mayn't be so much now as thou will be," said Will. "When a chap falls down and is badly hurt, he doesn't feel it so much just then as after."

Jacob made no reply, but he began to feel that he had not thought sufficiently about the letter which he had received that morning.

"I'd a talk wi' Dorothy about things afore I took up th' box at Mester Spawling's; and I've heard summat of what's been goin' on this day or two. Bad Luck always runs his cattle in pairs it's my opinion."

"Tell me what you mean, Will; let me know what you have heard and seen; I'm quite unprepared for the bad luck you talk about," said Jacob, rousing himself up, and getting nearer to the mail-driver.

"Well, it's a pity then. But keep up thy nerves. It's no good meeting a winter storm wi' one's jacket off, as if it wor' summer. I should ha' thowt Mester Spawling had prepared th' way according to what Dorothy towd me. But somebody else has put that out of thy head; no wonder, such a happy thing as she always is-snow canna stand sunshine."

"And I am sure the fears you are beginning to make me feel are worse than the reality; you weary me, Will, with your mysteries," said Jacob, impatiently, as the mail-driver turned his horse into the street where Jacob's home was situated.

"Hush! hush!" said Will; "don't be angry; for God's sake! hush!" The curfew bell had stopped, making the sudden cessation of the rattle of the wheels of the mail cart even more impressive than the unexpected silence would otherwise have been. Bark cuttings, from the tannery, were laid upon the road, which, so strong are local associations, immediately reminded Jacob of death and the quarter-sessions. For they had