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 knobs 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 clusters 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 mass 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 brass 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 mass 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
God, 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 God 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 blustering 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 knobs of the drawers being of glass, 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
brass, over which appeared the moving face of a good-tempered looking
moon. Then, on the next wall hung two large cases, one of butterflies,
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
butterflies 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 brass 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. Muffins 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. God 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 muffin;
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."