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He sank into a quiet sleep. Josephine had wept as she caught his words partly uttered in a whisper so low as to be scarcely distinguishable. Now, as he slept, she watched his breathings, and hoped that when he awoke he would be of a sane mind, and that a realization of what had occurred might influence his future career for the better.

CHAPTER VII.

“News!” exclaimed Capt. Thorndyke, as he shook the hand of his friend Basyl. “Have you not heard it? Why, it’s common talk. Young Clifton imbibes rather too freely. You know him,–Laneville & Co.’s clerk,–best judge of liquors in the states; strange that he will imbibe.”

“Strange indeed, very strange, if he is really a judge and knows what they’re made of,” said Basyl; “and stranger yet that he will sell. For my part, I consider a man that will sell liquor, in these days of light and knowledge, as bad as a highwayman, and no better than a pirate.”

“Rather plain spoken.”

“I know it, but, look ye, there’s Follet, a fine man, a first-rate man, once worth half a million, but now not worth a guinea-pig. The man that sold him good wine in his better days sells him poor whiskey now; and the confounded dealer in fancy poisons has taken the houses of Mr. Follet, brick by brick, and piled them up in his own yard, so to speak. Why, no longer ago than yesternight, he took a fine black coat of Dick Pherson, and gave him in return a coarse, brown one and a glass of sin-gin, I mean. Fudge! talk about consistency! That rumseller is nominated for an alderman, and he’ll be elected. He’s rich; and all your say-so temperance men will vote for him, and when elected he’ll go hand-in-hand with some lone star, who deems it advisable that men should be licensed to corrupt the morals of the community, in order to make it wise and virtuous!”

The captain acknowledged that his friend had a right view of the matter, and, as he bade him good-day, promised to take care of his vote at the coming election.

We doubt whether any man ever felt more deeply sensible of the wrong committed than did James, as he, the next morning, awaking from his long sleep, beheld his wife standing at his side, now weeping over him, now joyous and smiling at his returned consciousness, and closely attentive to his every want. He felt himself unworthy of such kindness, and for the first time in his life saw the evil of the doctrine he had all his lifetime advocated, namely, that a man can drink enough and not too much; in other words, that he can guide his evil passions as he will, and command them to stop in their course, nor trespass on forbidden ground.

But James even yet was opposed to the pledge, and, though George presented it with strong arguments, he refused to sign it, and laughed at the idea of his ever getting the worse for liquor again.

The employer of James Clifton had his name on the same ticket with that of the rumseller before mentioned, as a candidate for mayor. Election-day came. The two political parties had their tickets in the hands of scores of distributors. There was a third party, with its ticket, the caption of which-“Temperance Men and Temperance Measures”-was bandied about with gibes and sneers by the prominent men of both other parties.

Among the vote-distributors was a young man of exceedingly prepossessing appearance, and who, by means of the winning manner he possessed, disposed of a large number of tickets, even to men of the opposing party. “Vote for Laneville! vote for Laneville!” was his constant cry, save when he, in well-chosen words, proclaimed the ability and worthiness of his candidate. Some said he was urged on by selfish motives; that, as he was a clerk of Laneville’s, the election of that candidate would be much to his pecuniary benefit. But James Clifton cared for none of these insinuations.