"As I could wish!" cried Jonathan. As for this infatuation—it’s like some obsession, some magic thing laid upon you. 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. There would be ultimate misery, but it would be needless cruelty to give her a push toward it. ‘You have said you do not wish to marry me,’ she accused. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. Why? He could preach the Word and deny Love!—tame the savage heart, succour broken white men!—pray with his face strained with religious fervour! The idea made her dizzy because it was so inexplicable.
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