“There’s nowt like browies to go to bed on when yo’n a skin full o’ ale,” Jim confided to me as we crossed the mill yard and made for the plank that crossed Diggle Brook and led on to the way to Woolroad and Dobcross, and so to Saddleworth.
“And how’s that?” I asked, more to humour Jim’s loquacity than because I thought myself likely to need the specific.
“Why, yo’ see,” expounded Jim, “th’ haver bread’s nourishin’ o’ itself and gives th’ ale summat to work on, but it’s th’ fat as does it. It swims your stoma’ an’ prevents th’ ale mountin’ to your yead. Tha can’t goa far wrong if tha sticks to ale n’ Owdham browies, an’ don’t yo’ forget it, an’ yo’ll have summat to thank Jim th’ Tuner for as long as yo’ live, if he is a fooil.”
“I can’t see, Jim, why you should seem to make a point of getting more drink than usual at Christmas time and the Wakes,” I ventured, somewhat timidly, for this was a soreish point with my friend, who for three hundred and sixty-three days of the year was as temperate a man as ever walked on two legs, barring, of course, the members of that new-fangled sect, the teetotallers, that has sprung up since Jim and I were young men.
Jim pondered deeply before he vouchsafed a reply.
“Why, as to Xersmas time,” he said, as we strode blithely along the road, exchanging greetings with many a friend and neighbour all bent in the same direction with “holiday” written in dress and beaming face, “as to Xersmas time aw dunnot think th’ reason’s far to seek. There’s th’ frost an’ snow, an’ th’ log o’ th’ fire, an’ th’ waits, an’ th’ bells ringing an’ ros’ beef an’ th’ plum pudding—oh! Jerusalem—an’ ivverybody stoppin’ yo’ an’ shakkin’ hands, an’ wishin’ yo’ a Merry Xersmas an’ a Happy New Year, an’ lookin’ as if they meant it. Why, the very robin ’at hops i’ th’ hedge seems to know its Xersmas time. An’ so, somehow, it’s nat’ral to tak’ a drop, an’, maybe, a drop too much at Xersmas. But as for th’ Wakes, now, when aw come to think on ’t, guise hang me if aw know what they’re for or how they come about at all. But yo’ll know, aw’ll be bun, for thi’ yead seems to be stuffed wi’ all sorts o’ lumber ’at’s nowt to do wi’ weavin’ gooid broad cloth. What is th’ Wakes, anyway, Abel?”
“Well, now, you know, Jim, it’s but a junketting and holiday-making. But it is held on St. Chad’s Day, and St. Chad was the patron saint of the old Church at Saddleworth. In the old evil Catholic times the monks used to wake all the night dedicated to St. Chad to burn candles and pray before the altar. And the people gathered rushes from the marshes and brook sides and brought them with great rejoicings to strew upon the mud floors of the Church. Then they made merry in token of their gratitude to God for planting His Church in their midst. But now all that was good and wholesome has died away, and all we’ve left is a senseless debauch, or so my father says.”
“An’ wi’ all respect to yo’r worthy father, who’s a preicher hissen an’ bound to improve th’ occasion in season an’ out o’ season, aw’st tak’ leave to differ fro’ him. It’s a poor heart that nivver rejoices. Here’s you an’ me, an’ nearly every man Jack on us i’ all this Valley, toilin’ an’ moilin’ fro’ daybreak till sunset, an’ often ovvertime, little ’uns an’ big ’uns, it mak’s no differ. An’ when we’n done us wark we’re so tired ’at we’re fain to crawl to bed. It’s all bed an’ wark, wark an’ bed, except o’ Sundays, an’ even o’ Sundays some folk ’ud have us wark harder nor o’ warkdays, what wi’ Chapel o’ mornin’ an’ Chapel o’ th’ neet, an’ Sunday Schooil, an’ prayer meetin’s, an’ experience meetin’s, an’ Bible classes. Why, man, if it weren’t for Xersmas an’ th’ Wakes an’ Whissund there’d be nother life nor colour nor a gleam o’ sunshine in all th’ long life on us.”
“Perhaps when this new Reform Bill comes—.” I began for I was by way of being a budding politician.
“Reform Bill!” snorted Jim. “There’s only one mak’ o’ politics for th’ working man: