“Never did criminal so merit punishment; but I will prove thee not worth my hand.  Go, wretch, go! and know that he who proves himself worthy of entering the habitations of the humble is more to be prized than kings and princes.”  Tom relights the candle in time to see Mr. Snivel rushing into the street.

The moon sheds a pale light over the city as the two chivalric gentlemen, having rejoined and sworn to have revenge, are seen entering a little gate that opens to a dilapidated old building, fronted by a neglected garden, situate on the north side of Queen street, and in days gone by called “Rogues’ Retreat.”  “Rogues’ Retreat” has seared vines creeping over its black, clap-boarded front, which viewed from the street appears in a squatting mood, while its broken door, closed shutters-the neglected branches of grape vines that depend upon decayed trellice and arbors, invest it with a forlorn air:  indeed, one might without prejudicing his faculties imagine it a fit receptacle for our deceased politicians and our whiskey-drinking congressmen-the last resting-place of our departed chivalry.  Nevertheless, generous reader, we will show you that “Rogues’ Retreat” serves a very different purpose.  Our mob-politicians, who make their lungs and fists supply the want of brains, use it as their favorite haunt, and may be seen on the eve of an election passing in and out of a door in the rear.  Hogsheads of bad whiskey have been drunk in “Rogues’ Retreat;” it reeks with the fumes of uncounted cigars; it has been the scene of untold villanies.  Follow us; we will forego politeness, and peep in through a little, suspicious-looking window, in the rear of the building.  This window looks into a cavern-like room, some sixteen feet by thirty, the ceiling of which is low, and blotched here and there with lamp-smoke and water-stains, the plastering hanging in festoons from the walls, and lighted by the faint blaze of a small globular lamp, depending from the centre, and shedding a lurid glare over fourteen grotesque faces, formed round a broad deal-table.  Here, at one side of the table sits Judge Sleepyhorn, Milman Mingle, the vote-cribber, on his right; there, on the other, sits Mr. Snivel and Mr. Keepum.  More conspicuous than anything else, stands, in the centre of the table, bottles and decanters of whiskey, of which each man is armed with a stout glass.  “I am as well aware of the law as my friend who has just taken his seat can be.  But we all know that the law can be made subordinate; and it must be made subordinate to party ends.  We must not (understand me, I do not say this in my judicial capacity) be too scrupulous when momentous issues are upon us.  The man who has not nerve enough to make citizens by the dozen-to stuff double-drawered ballot-boxes, is not equal to the times we live in;—­this is a great moral fact.”  This is said by the Judge, who, having risen with an easy air, sits down and resumes his glass and cigar.