“That’s a Church hymn,” remarked Jim, as we waited in the little throng pressing for entry, “that’s noan Methody. We’st ha’ ‘Another rollin’ year, another rollin’ year, has swiftly passed away,’ just when th’ clock’s strucken twelve. That’s th’ tune for me; it goes wi’ a rare swing. That an’ ‘Christians, awake!’ an’ ‘Wild shepherds’“—I suppose Jim referred to the hymn commencing “While shepherds,” but he called it “Wild shepherds”—“is th’ only hymn tunes aw can sing, but th’ worst on it is, if aw start on ‘Christians, awake!’ I’m sure to glide into ‘Wild shepherds,’ an’ go on at th’ top o’ my voice till th’ wench nearest to me gi’es me a dig i’ th’ ribs.”
“And then what?” I asked.
“Aw pom, pom,” said Jim, gravely.
The room was crowded, nay, packed. Mr. and Mrs. Wrigley were there, and, of course, Matthy Haley, and nearly all, old and young, male and female, were “hands” at Wrigley Mill. Mr. Wrigley, a man of some fifty years, tall, broad-shouldered with plain, honest, good-humoured features, a quiet, unassuming man, who liked more to listen than to speak, and generally believed to be much in awe of his wife, was leading the meeting by right of his position as superintendent of the Sunday School. Jim and I found ourselves fain to stand wedged in a corner against the white-washed wall unpleasantly near a little iron stove and flue that grew so hot as almost to stifle us.
“Dear friends and neighbours” Mr. Wrigley was saying, “I hope—me and my wife hope— you’ve all had a Merry Christmas and that you’ll all have a Happy New Year. You know I’m not much of a talker, and—well——yes, I think that’s all. Let us all pray. Those ’at can’t find room to kneel, must stand. Perhaps someone will lead us in prayer.”
“Nah for Matthy,” whispered Jim, and Matthew it was. He managed to kneel down somehow, and I resigned myself to suffer in silence, for when Matthew got under way at a prayer meeting he was good for half an hour, and I often wondered how his poor knees stood it. And this was how he prayed, and as he warmed to his work his voice rose to a shout, and he banged with clenched fist the bench at which he knelt, and the sweat streamed from every pore of his skin:
“Oh Lord, we come to Thee at the close of another rolling year. Yes, Lord, another year has quickly rolled away, an’ we’n rolled wi’ it, an’ we’re still Thy people, aye, Thine, only Thine, thank the Lord. And we feel, O Lord, that it is good for us to be here. It’s only a warping hoil, Lord, as Thou canst see for Thissen, but Thou hast said wherever two or three are gathered together in Thy name there art Thou in their midst, and that to bless. Oh, Lord, we’st pin Thee to that. Bless us Lord. Bless th’ owd uns an’ th’ young uns, th’ rich an’ poor. Bless Mr. Wrigley, Lord. Mak’ him a vessel o’ grace an’ sanctify him to Thy service, so that he may indeed read his title clear to mansions in the skies. And bless Mrs. Wrigley, Lord. Thou knowest she is Thy handmaiden and rich in grace. Oh, Lord, bless her, and that abundantly. And bless their Percy, and their Polly, and their Guster, and their Amy, and their Lizzie and their maid-servants and their manservants, and the stranger that is within their gates and all for whom it’s our duty to pray. And bless us, Lord, and make us feel that it is good for us to be here. Thou knows, Lord, we might ha’ been elsewhere spending our substance in riotous livin’, aye, even at th’ ‘Hanging Gate,’ abusin’ Thy gifts. There’ll be those, Lord, at this minute drinking strong waters”—“Aw could do a quart missen,” said Jim in my ear—“and as like as not takin’ Thy name in vain. Oh, Lord, we thank Thee we are not as them but here upon our knees at the Throne of Grace. And now, Lord, Thou knowest what we need even before we ax it, but there’s no harm in mentionin’ one or two things. There’s bin a shortage o’ water at Wrigley Mill this last summer, an’ we’n had a job to keep th’ wheel turnin’. Oh, Lord, when th’ dog days come round in due season, open Thy heavens and let the waters fall. We know, Lord, they fall upon the just and the unjust alike, but, Lord, if Thou wilt Thou canst lean a bit. Lord, forget not Thy servants at Wrigley Mill, an’ Thine shall be all the glory.….”
Now how long Matthew continued in this strain I cannot tell, for at about this point a stentorian voice from the bottom of the stairs, which were just as packed as the room, shouted:
“Is Abel Holmes theer?”
“Aye, up i’ th’ corner, bi th’ stove,” a young lass at the top of the steps shouted down to the doorway.