I examined the Condemned Hold myself carefully this morning, and didn't find a nail out of its place. So absorbed was she by her passionate supplications that she was insensible to anything passing around her, until she felt a touch upon her shoulder, and heard a well-known voice breathe in her ear—"Mother!" She started at the sound as if an apparition had called her, screamed, and fell into her son's outstretched arms. The procession had just got into line of march, when a dreadful groan, mixed with yells, hootings, and execrations, was heard. In after years, some pitying hand supplied the inscription, which ran thus— JACK SHEPPARD THE END. She could not judge its direction, and began to move swiftly along the bookshelves, her hand running behind her across the spines of the calfbound volumes. Not to go to her is wickeder than if I had run away with my friend's wife. His conscience never told him to go back and take his punishment; it tortured him only in regard to the deed itself. .
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