I learned the trick of the place from one Paul Groves, who used to live here, and who contrived the machine. ” He said. The chief scene of these disgusting orgies,—the cellar, just referred to,—was a large low-roofed vault, about four feet below the level of the street, perfectly dark, unless when illumined by a roaring fire, and candles stuck in pyramidal lumps of clay, with a range of butts and barrels at one end, and benches and tables at the other, where the prisoners, debtors, and malefactors male and female, assembled as long as their money lasted, and consumed the time in drinking, smoking, and gaming with cards and dice. My very sentences stumble and give way. The hardest bout I ever had was with a woman—Sally Wells, who was afterwards lagged for shoplifting.
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