SAMUEL'S HOME.

And what sort of a home was that which Samuel had so abruptly forsaken?

"There's no place like home;" "Home is home, be it never so homely."

Things are said to be true to a proverb; but even proverbs have their exceptions, and certainly no amount of allowance could justify the application of the above proverbs to Johnson's dwelling. But what sort of a home was it? It would be far easier to say what it was not than what it was. Let us follow the owner himself as he comes in from his work, jaded and heart-sore, the night after Samuel's departure.

The house is the worst in the row, for it is the cheapest--the tyrant "Drink" will not let his slave afford a better. The front door opens opposite the high dead wall of another block of houses, so that very little daylight comes in at the sunniest of times--no loss, perhaps, as the sunshine would only make misery, dirt, and want more apparent. A rush-bottomed chair--or rather the mutilated framework of one, the seat being half rotted through, and the two uppermost bars broken off with a jagged fracture--lies sufficiently across the entrance to throw down any unwary visitor. A rickety chest of drawers--most of the k.n.o.bs being gone and their places supplied by strings, which look like the tails of rats which had perished in effecting an entrance--stands tipped on one side against the wall, one of its legs having disappeared. A little further on is a blank corner, where a clock used to be, as may be traced by the cl.u.s.ters of cobwebs in two straight lines, one up either wall, which have never been swept away since the clock was sold for drink. A couch-chair extends under the window the whole length, but one of its arms is gone, and the stump which supported it thrusts up its ragged top to wound any hand that may incautiously rest there; the couch itself is but a tumbled ma.s.s of rags and straw. A table, nearly as dilapidated, and foul with countless beer-stains, stands before the fire, which is the only cheerful thing in the house, and blazes away as if it means to do its best to make up for the very discouraging state of things by which it finds itself surrounded. The walls of the room have been coloured, or rather discoloured, a dirty brown, all except the square portion over the fire-place, which was once adorned with a gay paper, but whose brilliancy has long been defaced by smoke and grease. A broken pipe or two, a couple of irons, and a bra.s.s candlestick whose shaft leans considerably out of the perpendicular, occupy the mantelpiece. An old rocking-chair and two or three common ones extremely infirm on their legs, complete the furniture. The walls are nearly bare of ornament; the exceptions being a highly-coloured print of a horse-race, and a sampler worked by Betty, rendered almost invisible by dust. The door into the wash-house stands ajar, and through it may be seen on the slop-stone a broken yellow mug; and near it a tub full of clothes, from which there dribbles a soapy little puddle on to the uneven flags, just deep enough to float an unsavoury-looking mixture of cheese-rinds and potato-parings. Altogether, the appearance of the house is gaunt, filthy, and utterly comfortless. Such is the drunkard's home.

Into this miserable abode stepped Johnson the night after his son's disappearance, and divesting himself of his pit-clothes, threw them down in an untidy ma.s.s before the fire. Having then washed himself and changed his dress, he sat him down for a minute or two, while his wife prepared the comfortless tea. But he could not rest. He started up again, and with a deep sigh turned to the door.

"Where are you going?" cried his wife; "you mustn't go without your tea; yon chaps at the 'George' don't want you."

"I'm not going to the 'George,'" replied Thomas; "I just want a word with Ned Brierley."

"Ned Brierley!" exclaimed Alice; "why, he's the bigoted'st teetottaller in the whole village. You're not going to sign the pledge?"

"No, I'm not; but 'twould have been the making on us all if I _had_ signed years ago;--no, I only just want a bit of talk with Ned about our Sammul;" and he walked out.

Ned Brierley was just what Alice Johnson, and scores more too, called him, a bigoted teetotaller, or, as he preferred to call himself total abstainer. He was bigoted; in other words, he had not taken up total abstinence by halves. He neither tasted the drink himself, nor gave it to his friends, nor allowed it an entrance into his house. Of course, therefore, he was bigoted in the eyes of those who could not or would not understand his principles. But the charge of bigotry weighed very lightly on him; he could afford to bear it; he had a living antidote to the taunt daily before his eyes in a home without a cloud, an ever- cheerful wife, healthy, hearty, striving, loving sons and daughters.

And, best of all, Ned was a Christian, not of the talk-much-and-do- little stamp, nor of the pot-political-mend-the-world stamp. He loved G.o.d, and always spoke of him with a reverential smile, because his very name made him happy. He had a wife, too, who loved the same gracious Saviour, and joined with her husband in training up their children in holy ways. They knew well that they could not give their children grace, but they _could_ give them prayer and example, and could leave the rest to G.o.d in happy, loving trust. People who talked about total abstinence as a sour and mopish thing, should have spent an evening at Ned Brierley's when the whole family was at home; why, there was more genuine, refreshing, innocent fun and mirth there in half an hour than could have been gathered in a full evening's sitting out of all the pot- houses in the neighbourhood put together. Ay, there were some who knew this, and could say, "If you want gradely fun that leaves no afterthought, you must go to Ned's for it." Of course Ned had won the respect even of those who abused him most, and of none more truly than Thomas Johnson. Spite of all his swaggering and bl.u.s.tering speeches no man knew better than he the sterling worth of Brierley's character; no man was more truly convinced, down in the depths of his heart, that Ned's principles and practice were right. And so now, restless and wretched, he was coming, he hardly knew exactly why, to ask counsel of this very man whom he had openly abused and ridiculed at the very time when he both envied and respected him.

Could there possibly be a greater contrast than between the house he had just left and the one which he now entered?

Ned Brierley's dwelling was the end house of a row, which had been recently built out of the united savings of himself and children. It was rather larger than the rest, and had one or two out-buildings attached, and also a considerable piece of garden ground belonging to it. In this garden Ned and his sons worked at odd times, and everything about it had a well-to-do air. The neat rows of celery, the flower-beds shaped into various mathematical figures by shining white pebbles, the carefully-pruned apple trees, and the well-levelled cindered paths, all betokened that diligent hands were often busy there.

Johnson opened the little white gate, walked up the path, and hesitatingly raised the latch of the house door. What a sight met his eyes! it was a perfect picture. If the three sisters, Cleanliness, Neatness, and Order, had been looking out for a home, they certainly might have found one there. In some of the neighbours' houses, go when you would, you would find the inmates always cleaning, but never clean; it was just the reverse at Ned's, you always found them clean, and scarcely ever caught them cleaning. Then, what an air of comfort there was about the whole place. The arms and back of the couch-chair shone like mahogany, the couch itself was plump and smooth, like a living thing in good condition. The walls were a bright, lively blue, but there was not very much to be seen of them, so covered were they with all sorts of family-belongings and treasures. Against one wail stood a rather ambitious-looking article, half chest of drawers, half sideboard, the k.n.o.bs of the drawers being of gla.s.s, which flashed in the bright fire-light as if smiling their approbation of the happy condition of their owners. Over the sideboard was a large and elaborate piece of needlework, a perfect maze of doors and windows in green and red worsted, with a gigantic bird on either side preparing to alight. This was the work of the eldest daughter, and purported, in words at the bottom, to be an accurate delineation of Solomon's Temple. Close by stood a clock, tall and stately in its case, the hands of the brightest bra.s.s, over which appeared the moving face of a good-tempered looking moon. Then, on the next wall hung two large cases, one of b.u.t.terflies, which were arranged in patterns to represent griffins, dragons, and other impossible animals; the other, of well-stuffed birds, with shining legs and highly-coloured beaks. Other parts of the walls were adorned with Scripture prints, more remarkable for brilliancy of colouring than correctness of costume; and in a conspicuous place, evidently the pride of the whole collection, was a full-length portrait of the Queen, smiling benignantly down on her subjects. Below the cases of b.u.t.terflies and birds was a piano--yes, actually, a piano--and by no means a bad one too. Then, near the fire-place, was a snug little book- case, well furnished with books; and over the mantelpiece, in the centre of a warm-looking paper, was the text, in large characters, "The love of Christ constraineth us." The mantelpiece itself glittered with a variety of bra.s.s utensils, all brightly polished. Over the middle of the room, suspended by cords from the ceiling, was a framework of wood crossed all over by strings, on which lay, ready for consumption, a good store of crisp-looking oat-cakes; while, to give still further life to the whole, a bird-cage hung near, in which there dwelt a small colony of canaries.

Such was the room into which Johnson timidly entered. By the fire, in his solid arm-chair, sat Ned Brierley, looking supremely content, as well he might, considering the prospect before and around him. On a large table, which was as white as scrubbing could make it, the tea apparatus was duly arranged. The fire was burning its best, and sent out a ruddy glow, which made every bright thing it fell upon look brighter still. m.u.f.fins stood in a shining pile upon the fender, and a corpulent teapot on the top of the oven. Around the table sat two young men of about the ages of nineteen and twenty, and three daughters who might range from eighteen to fifteen. Their mother was by the fire preparing the tea for her husband and children, who had all lately come in from their work.

"Why, Johnson, is that you?" exclaimed Ned Brierley; "come in, man, and sit ye down.--Reach him a chair, Esther," he said to his youngest daughter.

"Well, Ned," said Johnson, sitting down, and drawing back his chair as near the door as he could, "I thought, maybe, you could give me a bit of advice about our Sammul. I suppose you've heard how he went off yesternight."

"Ay, Thomas, we've heard all about it. I'm gradely sorry too; but you mustn't lose heart, man: the Lord'll bring him back again; he's a good lad."

"He _is_ a good lad," said Johnson; "and I've been and driven him away from his home. That cursed drink has swept him away, as it's swept almost everything good out of our house. It'll do for us all afore we've done with it; and the sooner it's the death of me the better."

"Nay, nay, Thomas, you mustn't say so," cried the other; "it's not right. G.o.d has spared you for summat better; turn over a new leaf, man, at once. He'll give you strength for it if you'll ask him. Come now, draw your chair to the table, and have a cup of tea and a bit of m.u.f.fin; it'll do you good."

"Ned," said Thomas, sadly, "I can't take meat nor drink in your house.

I've abused you behind your back scores of times, and I can't for shame take it."

"Nay, nay, man; never heed what you've said against me. You see you've done me no harm. I'm none the worse for all that folks can say against me; so draw up your chair, you're gradely welcome to your tea."

"Ay, do," chimed in his wife; "doesn't Scripture say, 'If thine enemy hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him drink:' and I'm sure you must be both hungry and thirsty if you haven't tasted since you came from the pit."

Poor Johnson could not speak. When he was sober he was a feeling man, and a sensible one too. Alas! his sober times were few, but he _was_ sober now. The tears overflowed his eyes, and he brushed them hastily away as he drew his chair near to the bright little circle of happy healthy faces. He ate and drank for a while in silence, and then said with a faltering voice,--

"Ned, you're a true Christian. I'll never say a word against you behind your back any more."

Brierley held out his hand to him, and the other grasped it warmly.

"I'll tell you what," said Ned, in a cheery voice, "I'd give a good deal, Thomas, to see you a total abstainer; it'd be the making of you."

Johnson shook his head sorrowfully.

"I mustn't; Alice wouldn't let me. I can't; the drink's more to me nor meat, and clothes, and everything. I durstn't, for my old pals at the 'George' would chaff me to death with their jeers and their jokes. I couldn't face them for shame."

"Oh, Thomas," cried Ned, "what a slave the drink's made of you:-- mustn't! can't! durstn't!--what! ain't you a man? haven't you got a will of your own?"

"No, Ned, that's just it; I haven't a will of my own: the old lad's got it off me long since."

"Ay, but, Thomas, you must get it back again," exclaimed Brierley's wife; "you must go to Jesus, and he'll help you."

Johnson fidgeted uneasily in his chair; at last he said,--

"I can't do without my beer; I haven't strength to work without it."

"You've taken plenty of it, I reckon," remarked Ned, "and you don't seem to thrive much on't."

"I've taken too much," said the other, "but I can't do without a little."

"You can't do _with_ a little, I fear. It's first only a pint, and then it's only a quart, and then it's only a gallon, till at last it's only a fuddled head and an empty pocket. Come, join us, Thomas; take the first step boldly like a man, and then just pray for grace, and you'll not fear what other folks can do to you."

"But I shall never get through my work without a drop of beer to wash dust out of my throat and spirit me up," persisted Johnson. "I feel like another sort of man when I've had my pint."

"Yes, just for a bit," replied Ned. "Now it seems to me just the same as what we might do with our fire. I bid our Esther look to the fire, so she goes and sticks to the poker, and each now and then she pokes away at the fire, and the fire blazes up and blazes up, but very soon there's nothing left to blaze with. The fire'll be out directly, so I says to our Mary, _you_ look after the fire, so our Mary goes to the heap and fetches a shovel of coal, and claps it on the top of the hot cinders, and she won't let our Esther poke it no more, so it burns steady and bright, and throws out a good heat, and lasts a long time.

Now, when you take your drop of beer, you're just poking the fire, you're not putting any coal on; you can work like a lion for a bit, but you're only using up the old stock of strength faster and faster, you're not putting on any new. I've helped you to put a little gradely coal on to-night, and I hope it won't be the last time by many."

"Father," broke in Esther, laughing, and highly entertained at the part she bore in her father's ill.u.s.tration, "when you tell your tale again, you must make our Mary stick to the poker, and me clap the coal on."

"Ay, ay, child," said her father, "you shall each take it in turn."

"Well, you may be right," sighed Johnson; "but Jack Barnes says as he's knowed scores of teetottallers that's wasted away to skin and bone for want of the drink; he says beer strengthens the bone, and makes the muscles tight and firm."

"Jack Barnes may say what he likes, but I'll just ask you, Thomas, to think and judge for yourself. You see me and mine; you see seven total abstainers here to-night. Not one of these childer knows the taste of the drink; they work hard, you know, some in the pit, some in the mill: do _they_ look nothing but skin and bone? Where'll you find healthier childer? I'm not boasting, for it's the good Lord that's given 'em health, yes, and strength too, without the drink."

"Ay, and just look at Jack Barnes's own lads, and the company they keep," said John, the eldest son; "you may see them all at the four lane ends, [Note 1], any Sunday morn, with their pigeons, looking more like scarecrows than Christians; and afore night they'll be so weary that they'll scarce know how to bide anywhere. They'll be lounging about, looking as limp as a strap out of gear, till they've got the ale in them, and then they're all for swearing and shouting up and down the lanes."

"I can't deny," said Johnson, "that you teetottallers have the best of it in many ways. It's a bad bringing-up for childer to see such goings- on as is in Barnes's house."

"And, Thomas," said Brierley's wife, "you know how it is with Joe Taylor's lads and wenches. There's a big family on 'em. They're not short of bra.s.s in that house, or shouldn't be. There's drink enough and to spare goes down their throats, and yet there's not one of the whole lot but's as lean as an empty bobbin, and as white as a heap of cotton.

They're nearly starved to death afore reckoning-day comes; and with all their good wage they cannot make things reach and tie."

"Well, I must wish you good night now," said Johnson, rising to go. "I suppose I can do nothing about our Sammul but have patience."

"Yes, pray for patience, Thomas; and pray to be shown the right way: and give up the drink, man--ay, give it up at once, for Betty's sake, for Alice's sake, and for your own soul's sake."

"I'll try, I'll try; good night."