LANCASHIRE IDYLLS.

BY
MARSHALL MATHER,

AUTHOR OF
‘LIFE AND TEACHINGS OF JOHN RUSKIN,’
‘POPULAR STUDIES IN NINETEENTH CENTURY POETS,’
ETC., ETC.

LONDON:
FREDERICK WARNE AND CO.
AND NEW YORK.
1898.

INTRODUCTION.

While Edwin Waugh and Ben Brierley have done much to perpetuate the rude moorland and busy factory life of Lancashire, little has been done to perpetuate the stern Puritanism of the hill sects.

Among these sects there is a poetry and simplicity local in character, yet delightful in spirit; and to recall and record it is the aim of the following Idylls.

The provincialism of Lancashire varies with its valleys. It is only necessary, therefore, to remark that as these Idylls are drawn from a once famous valley in the North-east division of the county, the provincialism is peculiar to that valley—indeed, it would be more correct to say, to that section of the valley wherein Rehoboth lies.

CONTENTS.

1. MR. PENROSE'S NEW PARISH:
   1. A Moorland Machpelah
   2. A Child of the Heather
   3. Owd Enoch's Flute
2. THE MONEY-LENDER:
   1. The Uttermost Farthing
   2. The Redemption of Moses Fletcher
   3. The Atonement of Moses Fletcher
3. AMANDA STOTT:
   1. Home
   2. Light at Eventide
   3. The Court of Souls
   4. The Old Pastor
4. SAVED AS BY FIRE
5. WINTER SKETCHES:
   1. The Candle of the Lord
   2. The Two Mothers
   3. The Snow Cradle
6. MIRIAM'S MOTHERHOOD:
   1. A Woman's Secret
   2. How Deborah heard the News
   3. ‘It's a Lad!’
   4. The Lead of the Little One
7. HOW MALACHI O' TH' MOUNT WON HIS WIFE
8. MR. PENROSE BRINGS HOME A BRIDE

I.

MR. PENROSE'S NEW PARISH.

1. A Moorland Machpelah.
2. A Child of the Heather.
3. Owd Enoch's Flute.

I.

A MOORLAND MACHPELAH.

There was a sepulchral tone in the voice, and well there might be, for it was a voice from the grave. Floating on the damp autumnal air, and echoing round the forest of tombs, it died away over the moors, on the edge of which the old God's-acre stood.

Though far from melodious, it was distinct enough to convey to the ear the words of a well-known hymn—a hymn sung in jerky fragments, the concluding syllable always rising and ending with a gasp, as though the singer found his task too heavy, and was bound to pause for breath.

The startled listener was none other than Mr. Penrose, the newly-appointed minister, who was awaiting a funeral, long overdue. Looking round, his already pale face became a shade paler as he saw no living form, other than himself.

There he stood, alone, a stranger in this moorland haunt, amid falling shadows and rounding gloom, mocked by the mute records and stony memorials of the dead.

Again the voice was heard—another hymn, and to a tune as old as the mossed headstones that threw around their lengthening shadows.

‘I'll