I am a man—of a sort of experience. Manning’s letter. That’s all. Of Jack Sheppard or the assailants they could not discover a single trace. 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. Something insisted that those two were mysteriously linked—that the woman knew the man was there. What had happened to it? She had broken it, certainly.
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