"Where are you going?" asked his mother. "I hardly know," returned Jack; "but it's not safe for me to remain much longer here." I "True," replied the widow, upon whom all the terrible recollections of the day before crowded, "I know it isn't. won't keep you long. But tell me how have you escaped from the confinement in which you were placed-come and sit by me -here-upon the bed-give me your hand-and tell me all about it." Her son complied, and sat down upon the patch-work coverlet beside her. "Jack," said Mrs. Sheppard, clasping him with a hand that burnt with fever, "I have been ill-dreadfully ill-I believe delirious-I thought I should have died last night-I won't tell you what agony you have caused me I won't reproach you. Only promise me to amend to quit your vile companions—and I will forgive you-will bless you. Oh! my dear, dear son, be warned in time. You are in the hands of a wicked, a terrible man, who will not stop till he has completed your destruction. Listen to your mother's prayers, and do not let her die brokenhearted." "It is too late," returned Jack, sullenly; "I can't be honest, if I would." "Oh! do not say so," replied his wretched parent. "It is never too late. I know you are in Jonathan Wild's power, for I saw him near you in the church; and if ever the enemy of mankind was permitted to take human form, I beheld him then. Beware of him, my son! Beware of him! Beware of him! You know not what villainy he is capable of. Be honest, and you will be happy. You are yet a child; and though you have strayed from the right path, a stronger hand than your own has led you thence. Return, I implore of you, to your master-to Mr. Wood. Acknowledge your faults. He is all kindness, and will overlook them for your poor father's sake—for mine. Return to him, I say " "I can't," replied Jack, doggedly. 66 "Can't!" repeated his mother. Why not?" "I'll tell you," cried a deep voice from the back of the bed. And immediately afterwards the curtain was drawn aside, and disclosed the Satanic countenance of Jonathan Wild, who had crept into the house unperceived. "I'll tell you, why he can't go back to his master," cried the thieftaker, with a malignant grin." He has robbed him." "Robbed him!" screamed the widow. Her son averted his gaze. "Jack !" "Ay, robbed him," reiterated Jonathan. "The night before last, Mr. Wood's house was broken into and plundered. Your son was seen by the carpenter's wife in company with the robbers. Here," he added, throwing a handbill on the bed, "are the particulars of the burglary, with the reward for Jack's apprehension." "Ah!" ejaculated the widow, hiding her face. "Come," said Wild, turning authoritatively to Jack,—“ you have overstayed your time." "Do not go with him, Jack!" shrieked his mother. "Do not do not!" "He must!" thundered Jonathan, "or he goes to gaol." 66 If you must go to prison, I will go with you," cried Mrs. Sheppard: "but avoid that man as you would a serpent." "Come along," thundered Jonathan. "Hear me, Jack!" shrieked his mother. "You know not what you do. The wretch you confide in has sworn to hang you. As I hope for mercy, I speak the truth!-let him deny it if he can." "Pshaw!" said Wild. "I could hang him now if I liked. But he may remain with you if he pleases: I sha'n't hinder him." "You hear, my son," said the widow eagerly. "Choose between good and evil;— between him and me. And mind, your life, more than your life,-hangs upon your choice. "It does so," said Wild. "Choose, Jack." The lad made no answer, but left the room. "He is gone!" cried Mrs. Sheppard despairingly. "For ever!" said the thieftaker, preparing to follow. "Devil!" cried the widow, catching his arm, and gazing with frantic eagerness in his face," how many years will you give my son before you execute your terrible threat ?" "SEVEN," answered Jonathan sternly. END OF THE SECOND EPOCH. SONG. OH! Love is like the cistus flower, That blossoms for a day; Oh! Love is like the summer shower, 'Tis but a wild delusive dream, And woe be to those lonely hearts The feathery flake the snow-cloud darts The blighted hope, the ruin'd mind, Where passion's storm has past. VINCENT EDEN; OR, THE OXONIAN. BY QUIP. ILLUSTRATED BY GEORGE CRUIKSHANK. CHAPTER V. SUNDAY MORNING. AMONG the many dim reminiscences of our versifying schooldays, which float from time to time before us, is that of a certain fanciful figure of speech by which any astonishing change in the personal appearance of the poetical heroes of our creation was invariably summed up in a delicate hint as to the moral impossibility of any recognition of the heroes in question on the part of their own maternal parents. Whence the custom arose, whether it was merely a plagiarism from Byron's 66 "Christian or Moslem, which be they? Let their mothers see and say," or an original deduction from the bold fancy of some enterprising schoolboy, it would be of little avail now to inquire ;suffice it that we found it on our first arrival the established form of expression throughout the seminary, and such we left it at our departure. If Ulysses came home in an Alcaic ode with a swelled face, sea-sick, and, in short, looking altogether none the better for his voyage, why, his own mother would not have known him! If Achilles had been taking Hector's body for a quiet drive round the walls of Troy, throughout a copy of longs and shorts," it was sure to come out in the last couplet that Hecuba could not possibly have had the slightest suspicion of the deceased warrior ever having had the honour of belonging to the family. In short, there was no other mode of expressing any strange alteration in the looks of any lady or gentleman but this; and so fashionable had the hyperbolical figure at one time become, that we are to this day haunted by the poem of a cotemporary, commemorative of the "Expulsion from Paradise," in which the author's fervid imagination had pictured the changed and panic-stricken features of the First Man as likely to have furnished a decided poser to any attempt on the part of his mother to establish the personal identity of her son, previous to his setting forth on his wanderings. To these reminiscences have we been led by the strange alteration which had taken place in the appearance of our own hero within the last twelve hours; and although we should be sorry to go so far as to express any doubt as to the likelihood of his recognition by the female head of the family, could she have beheld him in his present state, nevertheless, as faithful biogra phers, we feel bound to admit, that no two persons could be much more unlike each other than the Freshman of Saturday night and the Freshman of Sunday morning. His dreams throughout the night had, as we have before hinted, been as pleasant as the fancied presence of the antagonist of mankind in academical costume could be supposed to render them; nor had any peculiarly gratifying change come over the spirit of them, when towards morning they shifted to an imaginary expedition from Dover to Calais in a sleep-built steam-boat, with Raffleton singing "Rule Britannia" on the paddle-box, and all the accompanying sensations complete, the first long, dull, heavy swings of the chapel-bell easily identifying themselves with the motion of the engine, and the short hurried strokes indicating its close, and denominated by profane undergraduates "swearing," representing, by an equally natural analogy, the oaths and adjurations of the captain and ship's company. Quickly and quaintly did Sleep body forth its ever-varying figures to his view, like the forms displayed on the shifting sides of an Italian image boy's tray; till Fancy finished by conjuring up a ferocious-looking customhouse officer out of the diminutive figure of his scout, who had utterly forgotten his new master's existence till the bell ceased, and only roused him just in time to present himself in his shirt at the sitting-room window, and catch a glimpse of the last scholar, as he spread the wings of his white surplice, and flew furiously towards the already closing doors of the chapel. The Freshman returned to his bedroom, said it was pleasant, and looked as if it was anything but pleasant,-sighed, sate down, and rested his head on his hand for a few minutes. He then rose, looked in the glass, saw a very pale face, and a pair of eyes which looked like glazed miniatures of themselves,-rushed suddenly to the water-jug, poured its contents into the basin, inserted his head in it, and drank himself nearly high and dry before he withdrew it again, - sate down once more, sighed once more,commenced dressing very slowly,— made a most unsatisfactory bow to his neckcloth,-looked at his hand,-it was shaking,-so he shook his head to keep it company, and then tapped it gently with his fore-finger, as if he was knocking up Memory to consult her on the occurrences of the preceding evening. The attempt was a failure. There was no concealing the fact any longer,either the mulled claret had been too aristocratic, or the ginpunch too plebeian for him. He sank upon the sofa, and gazed out upon the quiet quadrangle and green garden beyond it. Above, around, beneath, all was sunny, and soft, and tranquil. The stillness of the Sabbath blended sweetly with the brightness of summer, and the Freshman's dim gaze roved vacantly over the broad beauty of earth and heaven, and his ear drank in half unconsciously the faint song of the distant spring-bird, till something seemed to tell him that his own feverish head and languid pulse were not exactly in keeping with the general harmony of the picture. Besides, the light hurt his eyes. He drew down the blind, and retired from the window to try and remember what great scholar it was of whom it was recorded, that having taken somewhat more than was good for him at some annual college festival, he was discovered in the morning with his night-cap placed on the candle by way of extinguisher. A knock at the door. "It must be the president and fellows come to ask why I wasn't at chapel," thought the Freshman to himself. Must he put on his gown to receive them? He half rose for the purpose. Another knock. "Come in," said Eden, scarcely daring to lift his eyes up. "Oh, how sick I do feel!" It was only the boy with the letters. One from home. Abstractedly he broke the seal, and released the folds of the letter from each other's embrace. The proctor could not have written home! How silly!-why, it was but last night,—and a two-days' post from Dover. Absurd! Besides, his mother had promised to write. He stretched the epistle on the mantelpiece, and read as follows: "MY DEAR VINCENT, "Riversleigh, near Dover, April 183. "I hope and trust, as well for your sake as mine, that this will find you safely arrived at Oxford, and also that your packet of sandwiches lasted till you got to London. What a day it turned out after you left us! The next, to be sure, was heavenly; but all this, of course, you know already, so it is of no use my telling you. Let me, however, entreat you, my dearest boy, to let no fine but fallacious weather induce you to leave off your flannel waistcoats, (of which you have left one behind,) or to begin your summer trousers too prematurely! Your absence has made a great blank in the old house, particularly in your bedroom; but I try to console myself by thinking, that however sorry we may be to lose you, we cannot be too grateful for the blessings we enjoy in those great and good institutions, which, by their strictness of discipline and soundness of learning, conduce so much to the morality of the youth of this favoured country! "We dined yesterday with Mrs. Myrtleby, who told us she could not expect that you would see much of her young friend, Mr. Rattletone (or whatever his name is), till after his degree, as he tells her he never stirs out till after dinner, and then only walks twice round the parks. Are there any deer in them? If so, I wonder they trust you young men with keys. We also met a Reverend Doctor something or other there, who told me something about some men at Oxford who wore peas in their |