"To Newgate," cried Jonathan, putting his head out of the window. ” He paused with a sense of ineptitude. He hasn't found himself, as they say. Where Saint Giles' church stands, once a lazar-house stood; And, chain'd to its gates, was a vessel of wood; A broad-bottom'd bowl, from which all the fine fellows, Who pass'd by that spot, on their way to the gallows, Might tipple strong beer, Their spirits to cheer, And drown in a sea of good liquor all fear! For nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles So well as a draught from the Bowl of Saint Giles! II. ’ ‘Oh, have you?’ grunted Gerald, surprising in himself a surge of some odd emotion at these words. He reappeared in street clothes, his cropped hair not even damp from the shower, fresh-faced and sweetsmelling.
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