“Now, George,” said Mr. Clifton, “you can be convinced of the truth of my doctrine.  I did n’t sign the pledge, and I’m as sober, sober as a brandy-smasher!  You recollect what a great poet says,—­Drink till the moon goes down.  I can improve that; I say,—­Drink till yourselves go down.  What an age this is, when temperance fanatics dance through the world to smash decanters, and make one pledge himself to be a fool!  Independence is my motto!  I go for independence now, independence forever, and as much longer as possible.  Who says I am not right?  Deluded mortals, who wink at sin, and kick at brandies!  Magnificent monstrosities, making manliness moonshine; metaphysical Moors murdering Munchausen-”

“But hold, James,” said George, interrupting him in his remarks; “keep within bounds,—­let us reason.”  It was not with much hope of success that George asked his friend to “reason,” for his condition was one not in the least degree favorable to such a performance.

“Reason?” exclaimed James.  “I’m not a reasonable,—­reasoning, I mean,—­I’m not a reasoning being!  Go ask the pigs to reason!”

Notwithstanding all this, George seemed inclined to argument, for he immediately said,

“Don’t you see the ill effects of last night’s indulgence in the confusion around you, and feel them in your own mind and body?”

“Now you talk like a man.  Let us send the ‘James-town’ to Ireland with bread and butter.  ’T is a vote! passed unanimously by both houses of Congress.  We’ll fire a full broadside of gingerbread at the old Green Isle, and teach the people to eat for a living.”

This rambling from the inquiry George had made induced him to relinquish all hope of influencing him at that time.  He saw how he had fallen; and he needed no prophet’s ken to behold his future course, unless he turned from the path he was now so enthusiastically following.

Seeing that no good could be effected by his remaining, George arose to depart, when James caught his arm, and told him not to be in such haste.

“I want you to take a glass of wine;” and, ringing the bell, a servant was at the door before Mr. Alverton had an opportunity to say or do anything.

“You know I don’t drink wines,” said George; “why do you ask me?”

“Don’t drink?”

“You look surprised, but you know I do not.”

“Everybody drinks.”

“Not all, if I am one of that extensive number.”

“Well, my employer sells liquors, my minister drinks his wine, and my friends all drink, except you; and you are a sort of nondescript, a sort of back-action member of human society, a perfect ginger-cake without any ginger in it.  Say, got a pledge in your pocket?  I have; here it is:”  and he pulled forth a slip of paper, on which he had written some half-legible lines.

“See how you like it;—­it is what is called the Independent Pledge.  I’ll read it.

“’We the undersigned, believing the use of wines and other liquors beneficial to ourselves in general, and the dealers in particular, pledge ourselves to act as we please in all matters of politics and phrenology.’”