CHAPTER VII.

'And the harp and the viol, the tabret and pipe, and wine are in their feasts.'

ISAIAH.

'WILL you be at Wilson's to night, Clifford ?' 'No, Turner; I'm engaged elsewhere.'

'Pshaw! have you no more patriotism than that? What! not join in a celebration of one of the greatest political victories ever achieved in our country-your own party, too? really, I thought you had more spirit. Come, come, don't be squeamish about your engagement-go to Wilson's to night."

'Is there to be much of a company?'

'Yes, the whole democratic town, honorables and all. A speech, too, is expected from Judge E., in his usual style; the fact is, Clifford, you must go.'

"Well, I'll think of it.'

This conversation was held with one of the most steadfast companions of his dissipation, whom, till this fortuitous encounter, he had not met for the last two months. Better for the

rectitude of his ways had the separation been even longer. But there were friends still watching over him in his danger, reaching out a strong arm to save. Scarcely had he parted from Turner, when he met Clement Caldwell just returning from the May party.

'Jerry is quite sick to-day, Mr. Clifford.'
'Doesn't he improve at all?'

'I fear not. Father was up with him all night, and till his fever turns, he probably will be no better. I am going down to the farmhouse to stay with him through the day, and shall want you to watch with him to-night, if you can.'

'To-night, Clement? I'm sorry. I have an engagement to-night.'

'Not at Wilson's, I hope.'

Why not? You don't approve, I suppose, of our celebrating the downfall of your party.'

My party? I belong to no party, Mr. Clifford. Besure my father is a whig, but if my sentiments incline either way, they are in favor of Jackson's administration. I have other reasons than political prejudices to desire you to keep away from Wilson's to-night. Does not your own prudence suggest them?'

'What

Clifford blushed and hung his head. would you have me do, Clement? If I keep away from the dinner they will call me a dunce, a poltroon, and every other contemptuous name in the vocabulary-and if I go, why I know as well as you do that I shall be weak enough to make a fool of myself.'

And yet, Mr. Clifford, you cannot decide which disgrace to choose! Who will call you a dunce or a poltroon?'

"Why, Turner and twenty others who belong to the party; or, if not a dunce, they will call me a whig, which is the same thing.'

'O, no, Mr. Clifford, you do not mean as you say. There are as many men good, wise and true, in one party as in the other, I believe. But what will be the reproaches of Turner and 'twenty others,' compared with the stings of your conscience, the tears and regrets of your family, broken resolutions, withered hopes, ruin, despair, death! Pause, Mr. Clifford, I entreat, I beg of you, pause and reflect. I appeal to your reason-is it not better to be called a fool by the voice of fools, (for no man of wisdom would call you such,) than to make yourself one by your own follies ?'

'I acknowledge the truth and force of your reasoning, Clement, but why should I be debarred from participating in a festival where the most honorable and reputable men in town are to meet for patriotic purposes? Their presence may restrain me from excesses, or, if they drink long life to democracy, why may not I? There is no use in being more temperate than Judge Elliot and Dr. Rogers.'

'I seriously believe you are wrong, sir. I do not desire to impeach the sobriety of any gentleman who may be present at this dinner, but I know that such meetings are not often conducted with strict propriety. Elated by party triumphs, a crowd meet for the professed purpose of celebrating the defeat of despotism, the victory of honest principle, and fifty other purposes of nominal patriotism; office-seekers, demagogues and whatnots make violent harangues upon the corruptions and usurpation of the opposing party, concluding with some exciting popular sentiment which must be honored by a hearty bumper; party officers are toasted; national and bacchanalian songs are preludes to the champaigne bottle, and thus the treat goes on till every stomach is satiated, and

every head is giddy with exhilaration, if not inebriation. Such, Mr. Clifford, is the usual conduct of such festivals. Think what temptations will be placed in your way—think of the disgrace, the contrition, the sorrow, the despair that will result from your yielding to them, and then decide whether prudence, whether duty will suffer you to join in the celebration.'

'Duty to what, Clement? Surely, duty to my country demands some expression of thanksgiving for a victory like this. Duty to myself is a secondary consideration.'

'But permit me to inquire, sir, how much country or party is honored by all these acclamations of intoxication, and patriotic sentiments pledged in the inebriating cup? And to whom should gratitude be rendered for the good which is brought about by this political change; not to the people, certainly, for they are the recipients, not the creators of the good. It is to God-the great originator of all revolutionsand is he, Mr. Clifford,-I appeal to your reason, and your conscience-is he to be praised in songs of revelry, is his incense to be the breath of brutal degradation, and his sacrifice the virtue, the sobriety, the wisdom of his creatures?'