AN INCIDENT OF REAL LIFE.
By Adel Macdonald
SOME seven or eight years ago, while the temperance movement was raging throughout the land, the writer visited a friend in a small town on the line of the C. & P., and nowhere, perhaps, were citizens more earnestly engaged in the work than here. The time of departure having arrived, by accident I met a friend who was traveling in my own direction. We took our seats in the passenger coach, although the train would not leave for a quarter of an hour yet, and our conversation naturally drifted to the engrossing subject of the day. While we were talking, my companion recognized an acquaintance outside. "Surely that is Mr. M—," he said. The young man thus designated, at once entered the car. As he approached, I could not but notice his gentlemanly bearing. The pale, intellectual features, composed, certainly, a very prepossessing face. Altogether, the manner, voice, and pleasant smile combined, were such as could not fail to produce a winning effect. He lifted his hat to acknowledge the introduction, and thus revealed the broad, white forehead, half concealed beneath it. We were as yet the only occupants of the train, and the two gentlemen were soon engaged in the conversation of old-time friendships, while I busied myself with studying the glimpses of life obtained from my dusty car-window; and, in the talk, the young man confidently informed his friend of his recent marriage to a young lady whom I knew only by reputation as belonging to the best circles of society. From the drift of their remarks, which I could not but hear, I gathered that the marriage had been a secret one because of the unwillingness of the lady’s father. "This is her picture," he said, with a flush of pardonable pride. I saw a bright young face, beaming with health, hope, and happiness. The dark, earnest eyes, were full of youthful ambition, while the sensitive mouth was curved with just the faintest touch of hauteur, indicative of her position as the one idolized child of a proud, wealthy family; but, withal, it was a singularly sweet, pure face. Surely hers was a nature capable of intense feeling. Such, then, was she who had resolutely given her future into this young man’s keeping, in opposition to her parents’ wishes. The coaches filled, the whistle sounded. Young M— sprang out, and, with a parting wave, disappeared in the crowd. "There is a model young man!" said my companion, with emphasis. Then, perceiving my interest, he related:— "His father keeps a large hotel here. M— has been forced to stand behind his father’s counter from childhood; he is accustomed to drawing, mixing, and selling intoxicating beverages of every variety (though he is trying to get out of the business), yet he has never drank a drop in his life!" "And you have no fears that he ever will do so?" "Oh, none, I assure you; he is the pure stuff; and I repeat, a model young man—very remarkable; for you must admit that not one in a thousand could occupy his place, and escape its usual consequences." I agreed with him that he possessed more than the usual stamina allotted to mankind. "You see, this is why the lady’s parents were averse to the union; they did not wish their daughter to unite with the son of a bar-keeper, for they are strong on temperance. Ordinarily, I should commend their course, but in this case I must consider their refusal groundless and obstinate. The lady is estimable, but he is worthy of her." It was only recently that I heard the following colloquy between two ladies with whom I was visiting:— "Dreadful about little Johnnie M—, was it not?" "Yes and hard for his mother, too." I learned the story. A child, a little more than six years old, was playing in his father’s shop, and, coming in the latter’s way, was roughly pushed aside into the very jaws of the machinery, which quickly caught him up. As if in extenuation, they added, "But the man was drunk." It will be readily conjectured that it was he whom I had briefly met a few years ago, and who stood so far above the shadow of reproach in public estimation. I said as much to my narrator. "Well, it was not known then; but it is the old story. He began tippling a little in secret, till it was found, when he left home, that the habit was irretrievably formed." "And his wife?" I asked, breathlessly. "A sad-faced, heart-broken woman, she seems to have lost all energy." In that short sentence I could read the history of a gifted woman’s wrecked life—the awakening, the disappointed hopes, the submission to despair. I saw in fancy the sweet face that once looked into mine from the mute card-board, but no more with its eager, expectant flush; the expressive mouth, no longer curved with conscious pride; those beautiful dark eyes, not gazing steadily upward with untroubled light, but weary, listless, and downcast. Friends, one word of admonition, When you are looking for "model young men," do not hope to find them in the dram-shop, no matter what their verbal expressions or external appearances may indicate.—Adel Macdonald, in Christian Standard.