In the midst of them there was a cart with a man in it—and that man was Jack—my son Jack—they were going to hang him. Whether the turnkey entertained any suspicion of the old man, Jack could not tell, but that night he was more than usually rigorous in his search; and having carefully examined the prisoners and finding nothing to excite his suspicions, he departed tolerably satisfied. I have often felt before that it is only when one has nothing to say that one can write easy poetry. “It is very nice of you to come, but I do not think for the present, at any rate, I could give him any other answer.
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