THE PARSON.
It is related of the late Bishop of Winchester that, on one occasion when shooting, he was asked by his host to remonstrate with the keeper for his non-attendance at church, and accordingly he did so. "Well, my lord," replied the man, "I owns I doesn't go much to church, but I reads my bible regular, and I can't say as I've found anything there about t' apostles going a-shooting, and they was bishops."
"Quite right, my man, quite right," was the ready answer. "You see they did not preserve much in those days, so they went fishing instead."
Equally ready was the answer of the Rev. William Halston, when his diocesan informed him that so much hunting did not meet with his approval, and on the argument waxing warm had allowed himself to make use of a somewhat unclerical expression. "Sir," said the angry bishop, "you go galloping all over the country, and your parish is going to the dogs."
"Exactly the reason, my lord, why I hunt," replied his reverence with a smile. "When all my parishioners are going to the dogs, it is my positive duty to go also, if only to look after them."
The bishop thought somehow that he had met his match, and so nothing further was said on the subject. That little episode occurred some twenty years ago, when Mr. Halston was a younger man, but his love of hunting has if anything increased with his age, and seldom is his well-known face absent from any of the meets within reasonable distance (which he computes at eighteen miles); and a bold rider must be the man who, when hounds are running, sets himself down to cut out "t' ould Parson," as the Rector of Copthorpe is called.
Copthorpe, I may mention, in early days was the only church for miles on that side of the country, and the living embraced no less than four straggling parishes, the farthest being some twenty miles distant. With the growth of the population came the necessity for more places of worship, and besides a new church built at Lappington by Sir John's father there is also one at Highfield, situated at the other extremity, the mother church still being, of course, at Copthorpe.
From this it may be wondered how the Rector can find time to do his work and hunt as well. But that he does so is undeniable, for there is not a cottage in the whole parish that some time or other during the week he does not visit, and high and low, rich and poor, one and all love and honour their Parson.
The cottagers simply adore him, for numerous are the tales round the country-side of how "t' ould mon sot up night after night wi' Jack Bliss when ay fell down t' gravel-pit drunk, and welly killed hisself;" and how "ay used to ride o'er every other day wi' some port-wine or summut in his pocket when So-and-so's wife was bad in t' fever-time, six years back." Often does the old gentleman (for he now numbers close on seventy years), coming back after a long day with the hounds, snatch a hasty meal, and, jumping on the back of his famous pony Jerry, canter off some six or seven miles to see a poor parishioner that one of his curates had reported sick; and, should occasion require it, the morning light will find him seated by the bedside of the sufferer, speaking to him or her such words of consolation and hope as make the pain seem less and the heart seem lighter.
His power, too, is unlimited, and on more than one occasion has the arrival of Parson Halston put a sudden stop to a free fight that looked strangely like ending in bloodshed. For the men know that he will stand no nonsense; and still fresh in the memory of most of the pitmen is the discomfiture of one of their number, Black Joe, who in his drunken fury attacked his pastor, and went down like an ox before a deadly left-hander, delivered with a science born of Alma Mater and "town and gown."
They caught "t' ould Parson" up in their stalwart arms then and there, and how they did cheer him as they carried him down the street!
From that day his rule was established, and a word now is sufficient, without anything else, to stop "riot."
But it is not only those workers in the mines that have their story; the farm-labourers are equally loud in singing his praises, for did not he, when a paid hireling was stumping the country urging them to strike against their masters, jump on the cart from whence the ranter was hurling forth denunciations against "the landlords' tyranny and the farmers' oppression," and holding him forcibly down with one hand, address them all as they gazed in wonder, and say to them how they had "worked together and drank together, hunted together and suffered together, for many years; and now would they listen—they, the men of Bullshire—to a miserable whimpering Cockney from London, who could neither mow a swath nor pitch a load to save his life?"
And when they were all for ducking the vermin in the mill-pond, did not he drive him off to the town in his own cart, and never lose sight of the agitator till he saw the train safely out of the station with, the individual well on his road back to town and his employers?
Ay, there are many of them now who shake their heads, and pointing to their fellows in the neighbouring counties, say: "If it 'adna been for our ould Parson we should a' been in the same fettle. Strikes mean starvation, and when a man's clemmed" (hungry), "and' ain't got no one but hisself to thank for't, ay begins to look a fule, that ay does."
Mr. Halston employs three curates, to each of whom he gives a particular district, and they have every evening to bring in their reports of what goes on, and what they have done during the day. Eagerly sought after are these positions, for it is a well-known fact that, after their years of training at Copthorpe, if they are worth their salt they are pretty sure to tumble into a good berth. One thing is however made a sine quâ non—that during their stay they must do their share of work. "Duty first and pleasure afterwards," is the motto of the Rector, and he sees that it is strictly carried out.
Such is a brief description of the man who may be ranked among the best of sportsmen and truest of friends in Bullshire, or indeed any country in the world.
As a man and a friend he is full of the milk of human kindness, hospitable to a fault, and never so happy himself as when giving pleasure to others. As a sportsman, a bold and forward rider, yet always with excellent judgment, displaying as much knowledge of what a fox is likely to do as if he was being hunted himself; a knowledge of the country second to none, a capital judge of both horse and hound, and with a love of hunting that, as I have said, advancing years serve only to increase.
Small wonder that when Tom hears his "view holloa" he knows it is right, and gets forward at once, though there are those who may shout themselves hoarse without attracting the desired attention. "Parson's like my old Solomon," says he; "'e never throws his tongue till he's d——d well certain; but then, by Guy! 'e does let 'em have it."
Whenever it is possible Mr. Halston goes to cover with the hounds, and back again in the same company (unless called away by parish work) after the day is over, and dearly does old Tom love those rides and cheery chats, learning himself, he freely admits, as much as ever he can teach. See them now both in the centre of the pack, jogging homeward in the failing light. Says Tom: "That was a straight-necked 'un we had to-day, sir; but I'm main puzzled what made you guess he'd try them earths at Billowdon."
"Well, Tom," replies the Rector, "I argued it out by common sense. Suppose you'd been hard pressed and knew of a house you could turn into, wouldn't you go for it?"
"Yes, but it was turning right into the mouths of the pack. I was 'nation mad when I found 'em open that I hadna ta'en your hint," continues the Huntsman.
"Live and learn, Tom; live and learn," laughs the Parson. "You forget three seasons ago we lost one just in the same place."
"By Guy! so we did, and I forgot it at the moment. It was the day as young Mayster Bell jumped atop of Melody; but what's become of him, sir?" asks Tom. "How Sir John did pitch it into him that time to be sure."
"Oh, he's getting on first rate; he is inspector at the Deep-seam Pits. I was afraid, though, he was going to the bad at one time. He took a liking to the bottle; but Bliss's accident cured him," replies Mr. Halston. "But here we are at the kennels, and I must get on; I want to ride over to Halstead and see old Widow Greaves; she's a bit ailing; so good-night, Tom."
"Good-night, sir; good-night. See you out, I suppose, on Friday at Fearndale? Sure to find in the wood," says Tom, muttering to himself as he gets off his horse: "There's one of the best men in the world, danged if he ain't."
Mr. Halston is trotting along home, thinking over the events of the day and a hundred-and-one other things, when he is startled by the sudden reappearance of old Tom at his side, who, looking rather scared in answer to his inquiry of "What's the matter?" says: "There's been a fearful accident at the pits, sir; my nephew's just come over. Explosion or summat; there's five-and-twenty poor chaps blocked up, 'e do say, and I thought you'd like to know on it."
Before Tom has well finished speaking, the Parson is urging his horse at best pace in the direction of the Deep-seam Pit, much to that animal's disgust. He pulls up at the first cottage he comes to, and, calling out a boy, sends him off to Copthorpe with a message to say where he has gone, and they need not expect him home at present, and that his groom is to ride Jerry over at once to take back his hunter.
"Look sharp, my lad," says he, tossing the boy a shilling, "and tell James to bring over my bottles with him—port and brandy—he'll know." And again he is on his way. On arriving at the scene of the accident he finds a large crowd of weeping women collected round the pit-mouth, making "confusion worse confused," and seriously interfering with the work of salvation.
Amidst the universal grief and terror he is not noticed at first, but when men and women simultaneously recognise him, if ever a man had reason to be proud, surely Mr. Halston is that man, for such a shout is raised of "Here's t' ould Parson; God bless 'un! we knowed 'e'd come; it's right now," as tells him plainly the place he holds in the hearts of these rough men and sorrowing women.
"Here, take my horse," says he to one of the men; and as Bell comes up he asks: "What is being done?" "Volunteers for an exploring party," briefly answers the inspector; and Mr. Halston steps forward and addresses the crowd.
"My lads," he says, "I am an old man, and perhaps some of you will think it ain't my place to go down; but, thank God, I can still wield a pick with anyone, and with His help we'll get the boys out. No, Mr. Bell," as the inspector tries to dissuade him; "if I ain't much use myself, they'll work all the better for having their Rector with them. And now one word to you, my daughters. You can do no good here. Go home, and get things ready for your husbands against the time we bring them up safe and sound. Now" (to the engineer) "we are ready. Steady, keep your breath for work, lads," as cheer after cheer rends the air; and in a few moments the group of brave volunteers are descending the shaft on their errand of mercy.
All through the night they toil, relieving each other in shifts, working as only men can work when the lives of fellow-creatures depend on their exertions. The Parson is everywhere, quiet, calm, and collected, encouraging and directing, yet taking all his share of manual labour.
Twice he has to be sent to the surface, faint and gasping for breath; but almost before his absence is detected, he is back again in the centre of the noble band.
By 2 A.M. the first six of the imprisoned miners are found, badly burned, but still alive; and before the sun has risen the whole of the twenty-five are restored to their wives, with the exception of three, whose work in this world is finished for ever.
Worn out as he is, Mr. Halston stops to comfort as best he can the fatherless and widow, and then Jerry carries him home. Men miss his kindly face at Fearndale on the Friday, but they know where he is, for the story of his heroism spreads far and wide; and when next he appears in the field, all press forward to do him honour. On the way to their first draw that day a fox jumps up in the open, and goes straight over Milston Brook. Tom has his hounds on the line in a crack, and before anyone has time to look round, three figures are seen sailing away over the grass on the far side of the water—Tom; Charles the First Whip, and, in front of all—the Parson.