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stood like one stupified, with his hands clasped together, and eyes almost starting out of their sockets, fixed upon his unfortunate parent.

"Come to me!" cried the poor maniac, who had crawled as far as the chain would permit her, "come to me!" she

cried, extending her thin arm towards him.

Jack fell on his knees beside her.

"Who are you?" inquired Mrs. Sheppard, passing her hands over his face, and gazing at him with a look that made him

shudder.

"Your son," replied Jack, -"your miserable, repentant

son."

"It is false," cried Mrs. Sheppard. "You are not. Jack was not half your age when he died. They buried him in Willesden churchyard after the robbery."

“Oh, God!” cried Jack," she does not know me. dear mother!" he added, clasping her in his arms. me again."

Mother"Look at

"Öff!" she exclaimed, breaking from his embrace with a scream. "Don't touch me. I'll be quiet. I'll not speak of Jack or Jonathan. I won't dig their graves with my nails. Don't strip me quite. Leave me my blanket! I'm very cold at nights. Or, if you must take off my clothes, don't dash cold water on my head. It throbs cruelly."

"Horror!" cried Jack.

"Don't scourge me," she cried, trying to hide herself in the farthest corner of the cell. "The lash cuts to the bone. I can't bear it. Spare me, and I'll be quiet-quiet-quiet!” "Mother!" said Jack, advancing towards her.

"Off!" she cried, with a prolonged and piercing shriek. And she buried herself beneath the straw, which she tossed above her head with the wildest gestures.

"I shall kill her if I stay longer," muttered her son, completely terrified.

While he was considering what it would be best to do, the poor maniac, over whose bewildered brain another change had come, raised her head from under the straw, and, peeping round the room, asked in a low voice, "If they were gone?"

"Who?" inquired Jack.

"The nurses," she answered.

"Do they treat you ill?" asked her son.

"Hush!" she said, putting her lean fingers to her lips. "Hush!-come hither, and I'll tell you."

Jack approached her.

"Sit beside me," continued Mrs. Sheppard. And, now I'll tell you what they do. Stop! we must shut the door, or they'll catch us. See!" she added, tearing off the rag from her head, "I had beautiful black hair once. But, they cut it all

off."

"I shall go mad myself if I listen to her longer," said Jack, attempting to rise. "I must go."

"Don't stir, or they'll chain you to the wall," said his mother, detaining him. "Now, tell me why they brought you here?

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"I came to see you, dear mother!" answered Jack.

"Mother!" she echoed, -"mother! why do you call me by that name?

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"Because you are my mother."

"What!" she exclaimed, staring eagerly in his face. "Are you my son ? Are you Jack?"

"I am," replied Jack. "Heaven be praised, she knows me at last."

"Oh, Jack!" cried his mother, falling upon his neck, and covering him with kisses.

"Mother-dear mother!" said Jack, bursting into tears. "You will never leave me," said the poor woman, straining him to her breast.

"Never-never!"

The words were scarcely pronounced, when the door was violently thrown open, and two men appeared at it. They were Jonathan Wild and Quilt Arnold.

"Ah!" exclaimed Jack, starting to his feet.

"Just in time," said the thieftaker. "You are my prisoner, Jack."

“You shall take my life first," rejoined Sheppard.

And, as he was about to put himself into a posture of defence, his mother clasped him in her arms.

"They shall not harm you, my love!" she exclaimed.

The movement was fatal to her son. Taking advantage of his embarrassed position, Jonathan and his assistant rushed upon him, and disarmed him.

"Thank you, Mrs. Sheppard," cried the thieftaker, as he slipped a pair of handcuffs over Jack's wrists, "for the help you have given us in capturing your son. Without you, we might have had some trouble."

Aware, apparently in some degree, of the mistake she had committed, the poor maniac sprang towards him with frantic violence, and planted her long nails in his cheek.

"Keep off, you accursed jade!" roared Jonathan,-"Keep off, I say, or " And he struck her a violent blow with his clenched hand.

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The miserable woman staggered, uttered a deep groan, and fell senseless on the straw.

"Devil!" cried Jack; "that blow shall cost you your life." "It'll not need to be repeated, at all events," rejoined Jonathan, looking with a smile of satisfaction at the body. "And, now, to Newgate.'

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140

THE OLD ELM.

THOU standest on the forest's edge, proud monarch of the wood,
Thy sturdy form the goings forth of many a storm hath stood;
Age doth not seem to weaken thee; thy greenness doth not fail;
In years to come thy hoary head shall bow before the gale.

Thou art a faithful sentinel, and Time hath fix'd thee there
To mark the flight of fleeting years as ever on they wear;
And, though the winter's sweeping blasts thy leaves have often slain,
The flowering summer hath renew'd thy emerald robes again.

Like a true friend, old favour'd Elm, thy form to me appears;
Strange visions of wild fantasy come up from other years;
And shades of dark mysterious gloom are o'er my senses cast
While musing on the varied scenes that crowd the fertile past.

How many young and happy hearts have thrilled in wild delight,
Anticipating richer bliss in manhood's glorious might;
Trusting the world's bright promises-more bright, alas! than true,-
Beneath the deep and ample shade thy towering branches threw !

And many forms of fairest mould, and cheeks of youthful bloom,
Have pass'd to manhood, and to age, and to the dreary tomb,
While thou wert waving in thy pride,-a prince among the trees,
With all thy glowing pinions spread in beauty on the breeze.
Oft hast thou seen the flaxen locks on childhood's brow of snow,
Uplifted by the slightest breeze, in graceful ringlets flow;
Hast seen them thicken and assume a darker, sterner hue,
Until the hand of age at length the silver o'er them threw.

And thou hast mark'd the ruddy cheek, and forehead bright and fair,
Before Time's iron hand had writ on them a line of care;
The cheek before thy sight has blanch'd, the forehead furrow'd o'er,
And both were placed beneath the sod, to bloom and blanch no more.

My grandsire, when a thoughtless boy, beneath thy boughs has faid;
My father's form of infancy was cradled in thy shade;
And thou hast seen life's changing flood full often o'er them sweep,
Now shelter'd from the winter's storms, and, watch'd by thee, they sleep.

And I-the wayward youth, the man-have wandered near thy side;
Matured in strength before thee now, I stand in manhood's pride;
Beside the dead a narrow place untenanted I see;

Soon with my fathers I may rest,-that place is left for me.

Ere long the greensward at thy base will show another grave,
And over me as green as now will thy long branches wave;
And other feet shall wander here, and other hearts be gay,
When I, like my ancestral race, from earth have passed away.

And summer suns will roll on high as brilliantly as e'er,
And summer skies, as broad, as blue, as beautiful, as clear,
Will shine above the busy world when life with me is done,
And few, ah! very few indeed, will know that I am gone.

Baltimore, U.S.

J. N. Mc JILTON.

THE DOG HOSPITAL OF PARIS.

BY TOBY ALLSPY.

My friend Leonard d'Egoville is one of the happiest rascals of my acquaintance; there is a provoking self-satisfaction in the fellow's looks, which is apt to put the rest of the world out of humour with his prosperity. D'Egoville is always triumphant, ever exulting, overpowering one with his selfish sense of enjoyment, and perpetual demands on one's admission of inferiority. Why not, for instance, allow me to eat my mutton cutlets in peace, without informing me that yesterday he dined on chevreuil? Why not let me enjoy my humble dish of larks, without boasting, with a punch in the ribs, that last night he supped on beccaficos? For my part, I can contentedly swallow my paltry pint of Pouilly under the acaciatrees of the "Vendanges de Bourgogne," without insulting the porteur d'eau I see making wry faces at the nearest guinguette, over his vin de Surêne, by enlarging upon its delicate flavour; and, methinks, I have a right to expect similar forbearance on the part of the chuckling Monsieur d'Egoville, when he comes parading to me about his iced St. Péray or choice Sauterne. I am not more envious than my neighbours, yet I swear there are moments when it would be a relief to me to see my friend Leonard receive a whacking box on the ear, in retribution of his exultations.

For several years past, D'Egoville has been in the enjoyment of a capital bachelor's apartment on the Boulevard des Capucines, and a charming little villa at Montmorency, and I admit that he would

be an ungrateful dog, were he not to thank Heaven morning, evening, and at odd times between, for the auspicious ordering of his destinies; but he has no right to tantalize a poor wretch of a scribbler like myself by bragging of the coolness of his cellars, the marrowlike softness of his sofa-cushions, the sharpness of his razors, or the smoothness of his parquets.

"This is a cheering sight," said I, on meeting him the other day at the exhibition of the arts and manufactures of France, now open in the Champs Elysées, " a most gratifying thing for Louis Philippe and the French nation, to perceive how vast a progress has been made during the last five years in the texture of their cloths, the growth of their wool, and the temper of their cutlery. The jury will find it a difficult task, I conceive, to award their medals and prizes among so many meritorious competitors."

"What the devil do I care for the jury, its medals, or prizes!" exclaimed D'Egoville, with a self-complacent laugh. "I come here, my dear fellow, solely on my own errand. Happening to look yesterday at my banker's book, and to find the balance, as usual, on the right side, I instantly drew a cheque for a few thousand francs, with the view of adding more comforts to my bachelor's hall, yonder at Montmorency. For a man who has a little money to throw away, this place is really a resource. One sees all the new inventions, all the last improvements, without the bore of driving from shop to shop, to be bored and solicited to death; and after all, perhaps, flummeried into the purchase of a service of plate or a boot-jack of

VOL. VI.

M

last year's fashion. Look at this magnificent stained crystal from Alsace I have just ordered myself a most exquisite little cabaret for my eau sucrée, white embossed with garnet colour, for two hundred francs. I should have paid half as much again for some rococo machine or other of the same kind, had I contented myself with a puny look at the Palais Royal. Again, yonder magnificent carpet of Sallandrouze's, with the peacock waving his gorgeous tail as a centre-piece-I have bought it for my drawing-room, for two thousand francs, instead of closing for the quizzical Aubusson for which I was bargaining with my upholsterer. I am now on my road to the next gallery, to settle about some carved ebony consoles. I can't make up my mind exactly which I like best, those with or without the ivory inlaying."

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"The difference of price between the two must be considerable," I inadvertently observed.

"Ay, ay, that is the point always uppermost in the thoughts of you pen-and-ink gentry. Luckily, a thousand or two of francs more or less in the cost signifies very little to me! All I have to consider is, which kind will harmonize best with the new Venetian hangings which Lesage is putting up in my saloon. And, by the way, what think you of those mechanical beds yonder, with their reading-desk, lamp-stand, and table-service, appearing and disappearing by the touch of a spring? I have some thoughts of getting one against my first fit of the gout. Even in this hot weather it is pleasant enough to be waited upon, without being offended by the sight of one's footmen's shining faces."

"Certainly, certainly," said I, striving to get away, and follow my own devices in the examination of the curious works of art and science abounding in the gallery.

"Why, where the deuce are you hurrying to?" cried Leonard d'Egoville; "what can you want here? he continued, with a supercilious glance from my seedy coat to one of Ancoq's gorgeous dressing-cases of sculptured gold.

"Not much, indeed!" I replied, forcing a laugh. "But there is some consolation in examining and philosophising upon yonder anatomical model of an unsophisticated man, (with its demonstration of veins and arteries, proving all the sons of Adam to be condemned to the same organization,) in comparison with the various displays of finery, lace, embroidery, and brocade, which furnish the worldly distinction between my lord and his valet,-between the Croesus and the beggar!"

My irony was thrown away.

"Brocade ?-embroidery?" cried D'Egoville, catching at the only sounds comprehensible to him in my harangue; "where the devil are they? I have seen only those devoted to the service of the altar, which, by the way, your millionary Roman Catholic English Lord has been buying up by the waggon-load for his new church. There is nothing worth speaking of in the way of embroidery that I am aware of."

"Not even the exquisite court train and cushion marked with the initials of the young Queen of England?" cried I, with indignation.

"As I told you before, I am in search only of objects applicable

The Earl of Shrewsbury.

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