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.