But the besetting evil of the place, and that which drew down the severest censures of the writers above-mentioned, was that this spot,—which of all others should have been most free from such intrusion—was made a public exhibition. A neighbor stopped by as the day wore on, causing her to duck and cower as he rang the doorbell over and over. He was always in a state of semi-intoxication, but he was always gentle with me. It was a sort of cooking-room, with an immense fire-place flanked by a couple of cauldrons, and was called Jack Ketch's Kitchen, because the quarters of persons executed for treason were there boiled by the hangman in oil, pitch, and tar, before they were affixed on the city gates, or on London Bridge. He motioned the young man to the rear chair, because at that hour the youth appeared to be a quantity close to zero.
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