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He could scarcely blame her. The beautiful city that she had been awed by and even grown to love had been abandoned. He was a manly man, free from any strong maternal strain, and he had loved his dark-eyed, dainty bright-colored, and active little wife with a real vein of passion in his sentiment. Should it e'er be my lot to ride backwards that way, At the door of the Crown I will certainly stay; I'll summon the landlord—I'll call for the Bowl, And drink a deep draught to the health of my soul! Whatever may hap, I'll taste of the tap, To keep up my spirits when brought to the crap! For nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles So well as a draught from the Bowl of St. gutenberg. Give me your hand. The very sight of these impediments, would have appalled a less courageous spirit than Sheppard's—but nothing could daunt him. It was empty.
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