Frank Oldfield | Page 2

knocked me down with a feather; so I just goes
across to old Jenny's to ax her to come and look at him, for I thought he
mightn't be right in his head. I wasn't gone many minutes, but when I
got back our Sammul were not there, but close by where he were sitting
I seed summat lapped up in a piece of papper, lying on the table. I
opened it, and there were a five-shilling piece and a bit of his hair, and
he'd writ on the papper, `From Sammul, for dear mother.' Oh, what
must I do--what must I do? I shall ne'er see our Sammul any more," and
the poor woman sobbed as if her heart would break.
Before Jim had time to answer, a coarse-looking man of middle height,
his hands thrust deep into his pockets, a pipe in his mouth, and his
whole appearance bespeaking one who, in his best moments, was never
thoroughly sober, strode up to the unhappy mother, and shouted out,--

"What's up now? what's all this about?"
"Your Sammul's run away--that's what it's about," said Jim.
"Run away!" cried the other; "I'll teach him to run away--I'll break
every bone in his body when I get him home again."
"Ay, but you must catch him first," said Jim, drily.
"Alice, what's all this?" said Johnson, for that was the father's name,
turning fiercely on his wife.
She repeated her story. Johnson was staggered. Samuel was a quiet lad
of fourteen, who had borne with moderate patience many a hard word
and harder blow from both parents. He had worked steadily for them,
even beyond his strength, and had seen the wages which ought to have
found him sufficiency of food and clothing squandered in drink by both
father and mother. Johnson was staggered, because he knew that
Samuel could have a will of his own; he had felt a force in his son's
character which he could not thoroughly understand; he had seen at
times a decision which showed that, boy as he was, he could break
sooner than bend. Samuel, moreover, was an only son, and his father
loved him as dearly as a drunkard's selfishness would let him love
anything. His very heart sickened at his wife's story, and not without
cause. They had but two children, Samuel and Betty. Samuel worked in
the pits; his sister, who was a year younger, was employed at the
factory. Poor children! their lot had been a sad one indeed. As a
neighbour said, "yon lad and wench of Johnson's haven't been brought
up, they've been dragged up." It was too true; half fed and worse
clothed, a good constitution struggled up against neglect and bad usage;
no prayer was ever taught them by a mother's lips; they never knew the
wholesome stimulant of a sober father's smile; their scanty stock of
learning had been picked up chiefly at a night-school; in the Sunday
school they had learned to read their Bibles, though but imperfectly,
and were never more happy than when singing with their companions
the hymns which they had practised together. They were specially dear
to one another; and in one thing had ever been in the strictest agreement,
they would never taste that drink which had made their own home so

miserable and desolate.
About a fortnight before our story opens, Langhurst had been placarded
with bills announcing that an able and well-known total abstinence
advocate would give an address in the parish schoolroom. Many went
to hear, and among them Samuel and Betty Johnson. Young and old
were urged to sign the pledge. The speaker pictured powerfully a
drunkard's home-- he showed how the drink enticed its victims to their
ruin like a cheating fiend plucking the sword of resistance from their
grasp while it smiled upon them. He urged the young to begin at once,
to put the barrier of the pledge between themselves and the peculiar and
subtle array of tempters and temptations which hedged them in on all
sides. In the pledge they had something to point to which could serve as
an answer to those who could not or would not hear reason. He showed
the joy of a home into which the drink had never found an
entrance--total abstinence was safety--"never to taste" was "never to
crave." He painted the vigour of a mind unclouded from earliest years
by alcoholic stimulants; he pointed to the blessing under God of a
child's steady practical protest, as a Christian abstainer, against the
fearful sin which deluged our land with misery and crime, and swept
away every spark of joy and peace from the hearthstones of thousands
of English homes. Every word went deep into the hearts of Samuel and
his sister: the drunkard's home was their