Note 1. “Edge-o’-dark” means “Evening twilight.”
Note 2 “Gradely,” as an adjective means “sincere,” “proper,” or “true;” as an adverb, “rightly,” “truly,” or “properly.”
Chapter Two.
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 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.”