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
trellise 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.

"Them's my sentiments--exactly," interposes the vote-cribber, his burly,
scarred face, and crispy red hair and beard, forming a striking picture
in the pale light. "I have given up