The Warden .........................................................................................................................................................1

Anthony Trollope .....................................................................................................................................1

The Rev. Septimus Harding was, a few years since, a beneficed clergyman residing in the cathedral town of

; let us call it Barchester. Were we to name Wells or Salisbury, Exeter, Hereford, or Gloucester, it might

be presumed that something personal was intended; and as this tale will refer mainly to the cathedral

dignitaries of the town in question, we are anxious that no personality may be suspected. Let us presume that

Barchester is a quiet town in the West of England, more remarkable for the beauty of its cathedral and the

antiquity of its monuments than for any commercial prosperity; that the west end of Barchester is the

cathedral close, and that the aristocracy of Barchester are the bishop, dean, and canons, with their respective

Early in life Mr Harding found himself located at Barchester. A fine voice and a taste for sacred music had

decided the position in which he was to exercise his calling, and for many years he performed the easy but

not highly paid duties of a minor canon. At the age of forty a small living in the close vicinity of the town

increased both his work and his income, and at the age of fifty he became precentor of the cathedral.

Mr Harding had married early in life, and was the father of two daughters. The eldest, Susan, was born soon

At the time at which we introduce him to our readers he was living as precentor at Barchester with his

youngest daughter, then twentyfour years of age; having been many years a widower, and having married

his eldest daughter to a son of the bishop a very short time before his installation to the office of precentor.

Scandal at Barchester affirmed that had it not been for the beauty of his daughter, Mr Harding would have

remained a minor canon, but here probably Scandal lied, as she so often does; for even as a minor canon no

one had been more popular among his reverend brethren in the close than Mr Harding; and Scandal, before

she had reprobated Mr Harding for being made precentor by his friend the bishop, had loudly blamed the

bishop for having so long omitted to do something for his friend Mr Harding. Be this as it may, Susan

Harding, some twelve years since, had married the Rev. Dr Theophilus Grantly, son of the bishop,

archdeacon of Barchester, and rector of Plumstead Episcopi, and her father became, a few months later,

precentor of Barchester Cathedral, that office being, as is not usual, in the bishop's gift.

Now there are peculiar circumstances connected with the precentorship which must be explained. In the year

1434 there died at Barchester one John Hiram, who had made money in the town as a woolstapler, and in

his will he left the house in which he died and certain meadows and closes near the town, still called Hiram's

Butts, and Hiram's Patch, for the support of twelve superannuated woolcarders, all of whom should have

been born and bred and spent their days in Barchester; he also appointed that an almshouse should be built

for their abode, with a fitting residence for a warden, which warden was also to receive a certain sum

annually out of the rents of the said butts and patches. He, moreover, willed, having had a soul alive to

harmony, that the precentor of the cathedral should have the option of being also warden of the almshouses, if

From that day to this the charity had gone on and prospered at least, the charity had gone on, and the

estates had prospered. Woolcarding in Barchester there was no longer any; so the bishop, dean, and warden,

who took it in turn to put in the old men, generally appointed some hangerson of their own; wornout

gardeners, decrepit gravediggers, or octogenarian sextons, who thankfully received a comfortable lodging

and one shilling and fourpence a day, such being the stipend to which, under the will of John Hiram, they

were declared to be entitled. Formerly, indeedthat is, till within some fifty years of the present timethey

received but sixpence a day, and their breakfast and dinner was found them at a common table by the warden,

such an arrangement being in stricter conformity with the absolute wording of old Hiram's will: but this was

thought to be inconvenient, and to suit the tastes of neither warden nor bedesmen, and the daily one shilling

and fourpence was substituted with the common consent of all parties, including the bishop and the

corporation of Barchester. Such was the condition of Hiram's twelve old men when Mr Harding was

appointed warden; but if they may be considered as welltodo in the world according to their condition, the

happy warden was much more so. The patches and butts which, in John Hiram's time, produced hay or fed

cows, were now covered with rows of houses; the value of the property had gradually increased from year to

year and century to century, and was now presumed by those who knew anything about it, to bring in a very

nice income; and by some who knew nothing about it, to have increased to an almost fabulous extent.

The property was farmed by a gentleman in Barchester, who also acted as the bishop's stewarda man

whose father and grandfather had been stewards to the bishops of Barchester, and farmers of John Hiram's

estate. The Chadwicks had earned a good name in Barchester; they had lived respected by bishops, deans,

canons, and precentors; they had been buried in the precincts of the cathedral; they had never been known as

griping, hard men, but had always lived comfortably, maintained a good house, and held a high position in

Barchester society. The present Mr Chadwick was a worthy scion of a worthy stock, and the tenants living on

the butts and patches, as well as those on the wide episcopal domains of the see, were well pleased to have to

For many, many yearsrecords hardly tell how many, probably from the time when Hiram's wishes had

been first fully carried outthe proceeds of the estate had been paid by the steward or farmer to the warden,

and by him divided among the bedesmen; after which division he paid himself such sums as became his due.

Times had been when the poor warden got nothing but his bare house, for the patches had been subject to

floods, and the land of Barchester butts was said to be unproductive; and in these hard times the warden was

hardly able to make out the daily dole for his twelve dependents. But by degrees things mended; the patches

were drained, and cottages began to rise upon the butts, and the wardens, with fairness enough, repaid

themselves for the evil days gone by. In bad times the poor men had had their due, and therefore in good

times they could expect no more. In this manner the income of the warden had increased; the picturesque

house attached to the hospital had been enlarged and adorned, and the office had become one of the most

coveted of the snug clerical sinecures attached to our church. It was now wholly in the bishop's gift, and

though the dean and chapter, in former days, made a stand on the subject, they had thought it more conducive

to their honour to have a rich precentor appointed by the bishop, than a poor one appointed by themselves.

The stipend of the precentor of Barchester was eighty pounds a year. The income arising from the wardenship

of the hospital was eight hundred, besides the value of the house. Murmurs, very slight murmurs, had been

heard in Barchesterfew indeed, and far betweenthat the proceeds of John Hiram's property had not been

fairly divided: but they can hardly be said to have been of such a nature as to have caused uneasiness to

anyone: still the thing had been whispered, and Mr Harding had heard it. Such was his character in

Barchester, so universal was his popularity, that the very fact of his appointment would have quieted louder

whispers than those which had been heard; but Mr Harding was an openhanded, justminded man, and

feeling that there might be truth in what had been said, he had, on his instalment, declared his intention of

adding twopence a day to each man's pittance, making a sum of sixtytwo pounds eleven shillings and

fourpence, which he was to pay out of his own pocket. In doing so, however, he distinctly and repeatedly

observed to the men, that though he promised for himself, he could not promise for his successors, and that

the extra twopence could only be looked on as a gift from himself, and not from the trust. The bedesmen,

however, were most of them older than Mr Harding, and were quite satisfied with the security on which their

This munificence on the part of Mr Harding had not been unopposed. Mr Chadwick had mildly but seriously

dissuaded him from it; and his strongminded soninlaw, the archdeacon, the man of whom alone Mr

Harding stood in awe, had urgently, nay, vehemently, opposed so impolitic a concession: but the warden had

made known his intention to the hospital before the archdeacon had been able to interfere, and the deed was

Hiram's Hospital, as the retreat is called, is a picturesque building enough, and shows the correct taste with

which the ecclesiastical architects of those days were imbued. It stands on the banks of the little river, which

flows nearly round the cathedral close, being on the side furthest from the town. The London road crosses the

river by a pretty onearched bridge, and, looking from this bridge, the stranger will see the windows of the

old men's rooms, each pair of windows separated by a small buttress. A broad gravel walk runs between the

building and the river, which is always trim and cared for; and at the end of the walk, under the parapet of the

approach to the bridge, is a large and wellworn seat, on which, in mild weather, three or four of Hiram's

bedesmen are sure to be seen seated. Beyond this row of buttresses, and further from the bridge, and also

further from the water which here suddenly bends, are the pretty oriel windows of Mr Harding's house, and

his wellmown lawn. The entrance to the hospital is from the London road, and is made through a ponderous

gateway under a heavy stone arch, unnecessary, one would suppose, at any time, for the protection of twelve

old men, but greatly conducive to the good appearance of Hiram's charity. On passing through this portal,

never closed to anyone from 6 A.M. till 10 P.M., and never open afterwards, except on application to a huge,

intricately hung mediaeval bell, the handle of which no uninitiated intruder can possibly find, the six doors of

the old men's abodes are seen, and beyond them is a slight iron screen, through which the more happy portion

Mr Harding is a small man, now verging on sixty years, but bearing few of the signs of age; his hair is rather

grizzled, though not gray; his eye is very mild, but clear and bright, though the double glasses which are held

swinging from his hand, unless when fixed upon his nose, show that time has told upon his sight; his hands

are delicately white, and both hands and feet are small; he always wears a black frock coat, black

kneebreeches, and black gaiters, and somewhat scandalises some of his more hyperclerical brethren by a

Mr Harding's warmest admirers cannot say that he was ever an industrious man; the circumstances of his life

have not called on him to be so; and yet he can hardly be called an idler. Since his appointment to his

precentorship, he has published, with all possible additions of vellum, typography, and gilding, a collection of

our ancient church music, with some correct dissertations on Purcell, Crotch, and Nares. He has greatly

improved the choir of Barchester, which, under his dominion, now rivals that of any cathedral in England. He

has taken something more than his fair share in the cathedral services, and has played the violoncello daily to

We must mention one other peculiarity of Mr Harding. As we have before stated, he has an income of eight

hundred a year, and has no family but his one daughter; and yet he is never quite at ease in money matters.

The vellum and gilding of 'Harding's Church Music' cost more than any one knows, except the author, the

publisher, and the Rev. Theophilus Grantly, who allows none of his fatherinlaw's extravagances to escape

him. Then he is generous to his daughter, for whose service he keeps a small carriage and pair of ponies. He

is, indeed, generous to all, but especially to the twelve old men who are in a peculiar manner under his care.

No doubt with such an income Mr Harding should be above the world, as the saying is; but, at any rate, he is

not above Archdeacon Theophilus Grantly, for he is always more or less in debt to his soninlaw, who has,

to a certain extent, assumed the arrangement of the precentor's pecuniary affairs.

Mr Harding has been now precentor of Barchester for ten years; and, alas, the murmurs respecting the

proceeds of Hiram's estate are again becoming audible. It is not that any one begrudges to Mr Harding the

income which he enjoys, and the comfortable place which so well becomes him; but such matters have begun

to be talked of in various parts of England. Eager pushing politicians have asserted in the House of

Commons, with very telling indignation, that the grasping priests of the Church of England are gorged with

the wealth which the charity of former times has left for the solace of the aged, or the education of the young.

The wellknown case of the Hospital of St Cross has even come before the law courts of the country, and the

struggles of Mr Whiston, at Rochester, have met with sympathy and support. Men are beginning to say that

Mr Harding, whose conscience in the matter is clear, and who has never felt that he had received a pound

from Hiram's will to which he was not entitled, has naturally taken the part of the church in talking over these

matters with his friend, the bishop, and his soninlaw, the archdeacon. The archdeacon, indeed, Dr Grantly,

has been somewhat loud in the matter. He is a personal friend of the dignitaries of the Rochester Chapter, and

has written letters in the public press on the subject of that turbulent Dr Whiston, which, his admirers think,

must wellnigh set the question at rest. It is also known at Oxford that he is the author of the pamphlet signed

'Sacerdos' on the subject of the Earl of Guildford and St Cross, in which it is so clearly argued that the

manners of the present times do not admit of a literal adhesion to the very words of the founder's will, but that

the interests of the church for which the founder was so deeply concerned are best consulted in enabling its

bishops to reward those shining lights whose services have been most signally serviceable to Christianity. In

answer to this, it is asserted that Henry de Blois, founder of St Cross, was not greatly interested in the welfare

of the reformed church, and that the masters of St Cross, for many years past, cannot be called shining lights

in the service of Christianity; it is, however, stoutly maintained, and no doubt felt, by all the archdeacon's

With such a tower of strength to back both his arguments and his conscience, it may be imagined that Mr

Harding has never felt any compunction as to receiving his quarterly sum of two hundred pounds. Indeed, the

subject has never presented itself to his mind in that shape. He has talked not unfrequently, and heard very

much about the wills of old founders and the incomes arising from their estates, during the last year or two;

he did even, at one moment, feel a doubt (since expelled by his soninlaw's logic) as to whether Lord

Guildford was clearly entitled to receive so enormous an income as he does from the revenues of St Cross;

but that he himself was overpaid with his modest eight hundred poundshe who, out of that, voluntarily

gave up sixtytwo pounds eleven shillings and fourpence a year to his twelve old neighbourshe who, for

the money, does his precentor's work as no precentor has done it before, since Barchester Cathedral was

Nevertheless, Mr Harding is becoming uneasy at the rumour which he knows to prevail in Barchester on the

subject. He is aware that, at any rate, two of his old men have been heard to say, that if everyone had his own,

they might each have their hundred pounds a year, and live like gentlemen, instead of a beggarly one shilling

and sixpence a day; and that they had slender cause to be thankful for a miserable dole of twopence, when Mr

Harding and Mr Chadwick, between them, ran away with thousands of pounds which good old John Hiram

never intended for the like of them. It is the ingratitude of this which stings Mr Harding. One of this

discontented pair, Abel Handy, was put into the hospital by himself; he had been a stonemason in

Barchester, and had broken his thigh by a fall from a scaffolding, while employed about the cathedral; and

Mr Harding had given him the first vacancy in the hospital after the occurrence, although Dr Grantly had

been very anxious to put into it an insufferable clerk of his at Plumstead Episcopi, who had lost all his teeth,

and whom the archdeacon hardly knew how to get rid of by other means. Dr Grantly has not forgotten to

remind Mr Harding how well satisfied with his oneandsixpence a day old Joe Mutters would have been,

and how injudicious it was on the part of Mr Harding to allow a radical from the town to get into the concern.

Probably Dr Grantly forgot at the moment, that the charity was intended for brokendown journeymen of

There is living at Barchester, a young man, a surgeon, named John Bold, and both Mr Harding and Dr

Grantly are well aware that to him is owing the pestilent rebellious feeling which has shown itself in the

hospital; yes, and the renewal, too, of that disagreeable talk about Hiram's estates which is now again

prevalent in Barchester. Nevertheless, Mr Harding and Mr Bold are acquainted with each other; we may say,

are friends, considering the great disparity in their years. Dr Grantly, however, has a holy horror of the

impious demagogue, as on one occasion he called Bold, when speaking of him to the precentor; and being a

more prudent farseeing man than Mr Harding, and possessed of a stronger head, he already perceives that

this John Bold will work great trouble in Barchester. He considers that he is to be regarded as an enemy, and

thinks that he should not be admitted into the camp on anything like friendly terms. As John Bold will occupy

much of our attention we must endeavour to explain who he is, and why he takes the part of John Hiram's

John Bold is a young surgeon, who passed many of his boyish years at Barchester. His father was a physician

in the city of London, where he made a moderate fortune, which he invested in houses in that city. The

Dragon of Wantly inn and posting house belonged to him, also four shops in the High Street, and a moiety

of the new row of genteel villas (so called in the advertisements), built outside the town just beyond Hiram's

Hospital. To one of these Dr Bold retired to spend the evening of his life, and to die; and here his son John

spent his holidays, and afterwards his Christmas vacation when he went from school to study surgery in the

London hospitals. Just as John Bold was entitled to write himself surgeon and apothecary, old Dr Bold died,

leaving his Barchester property to his son, and a certain sum in the three per cents. to his daughter Mary, who

John Bold determined to settle himself at Barchester, and look after his own property, as well as the bones

and bodies of such of his neighbours as would call upon him for assistance in their troubles. He therefore put

up a large brass plate with 'John Bold, Surgeon' on it, to the great disgust of the nine practitioners who were

already trying to get a living out of the bishop, dean, and canons; and began housekeeping with the aid of

his sister. At this time he was not more than twenty four years old; and though he has now been three years

in Barchester, we have not heard that he has done much harm to the nine worthy practitioners. Indeed, their

Nevertheless, John Bold is a clever man, and would, with practice, be a clever surgeon; but he has got quite

into another line of life. Having enough to live on, he has not been forced to work for bread; he has declined

to subject himself to what he calls the drudgery of the profession, by which, I believe, he means the general

work of a practising surgeon; and has found other employment. He frequently binds up the bruises and sets

the limbs of such of the poorer classes as profess his way of thinkingbut this he does for love. Now I will

not say that the archdeacon is strictly correct in stigmatising John Bold as a demagogue, for I hardly know

how extreme must be a man's opinions before he can be justly so called; but Bold is a strong reformer. His

passion is the reform of all abuses; state abuses, church abuses, corporation abuses (he has got himself elected

a town councillor of Barchester, and has so worried three consecutive mayors, that it became somewhat

difficult to find a fourth), abuses in medical practice, and general abuses in the world at large. Bold is

thoroughly sincere in his patriotic endeavours to mend mankind, and there is something to be admired in the

energy with which he devotes himself to remedying evil and stopping injustice; but I fear that he is too much

imbued with the idea that he has a special mission for reforming. It would be well if one so young had a little

more diffidence himself, and more trust in the honest purposes of othersif he could be brought to believe

that old customs need not necessarily be evil, and that changes may possibly be dangerous; but no, Bold has

all the ardour and all the selfassurance of a Danton, and hurls his anathemas against timehonoured

practices with the violence of a French Jacobin. No wonder that Dr Grantly should regard Bold as a firebrand,

falling, as he has done, almost in the centre of the quiet ancient close of Barchester Cathedral. Dr Grantly

would have him avoided as the plague; but the old Doctor and Mr Harding were fast friends. Young Johnny

Bold used to play as a boy on Mr Harding's lawn; he has many a time won the precentor's heart by listening

with rapt attention to his sacred strains; and since those days, to tell the truth at once, he has nearly won

Eleanor Harding has not plighted her troth to John Bold, nor has she, perhaps, owned to herself how dear to

her the young reformer is; but she cannot endure that anyone should speak harshly of him. She does not dare

to defend him when her brotherinlaw is so loud against him; for she, like her father, is somewhat afraid of

Dr Grantly; but she is beginning greatly to dislike the archdeacon. She persuades her father that it would be

both unjust and injudicious to banish his young friend because of his politics; she cares little to go to houses

Nor is there any good reason why Eleanor Harding should not love John Bold. He has all those qualities

which are likely to touch a girl's heart. He is brave, eager, and amusing; wellmade and goodlooking; young

and enterprising; his character is in all respects good; he has sufficient income to support a wife; he is her

father's friend; and, above all, he is in love with her: then why should not Eleanor Harding be attached to

Dr Grantly, who has as many eyes as Argus, and has long seen how the wind blows in that direction, thinks

there are various strong reasons why this should not be so. He has not thought it wise as yet to speak to his

fatherinlaw on the subject, for he knows how foolishly indulgent is Mr Harding in everything that

concerns his daughter; but he has discussed the matter with his alltrusted helpmate, within that sacred recess

How much sweet solace, how much valued counsel has our archdeacon received within that sainted

enclosure! 'Tis there alone that he unbends, and comes down from his high church pedestal to the level of a

mortal man. In the world Dr Grantly never lays aside that demeanour which so well becomes him. He has all

the dignity of an ancient saint with the sleekness of a modern bishop; he is always the same; he is always the

archdeacon; unlike Homer, he never nods. Even with his fatherinlaw, even with the bishop and dean, he

maintains that sonorous tone and lofty deportment which strikes awe into the young hearts of Barchester, and

absolutely cows the whole parish of Plumstead Episcopi. 'Tis only when he has exchanged that evernew

shovel hat for a tasselled nightcap, and those shining black habiliments for his accustomed robe de nuit, that

Many of us have often thought how severe a trial of faith must this be to the wives of our great church

dignitaries. To us these men are personifications of St Paul; their very gait is a speaking sermon; their clean

and sombre apparel exacts from us faith and submission, and the cardinal virtues seem to hover round their

sacred hats. A dean or archbishop, in the garb of his order, is sure of our reverence, and a wellgotup bishop

fills our very souls with awe. But how can this feeling be perpetuated in the bosoms of those who see the

bishops without their aprons, and the archdeacons even in a lower state of dishabille?

Do we not all know some reverend, all but sacred, personage before whom our tongue ceases to be loud and

our step to be elastic? But were we once to see him stretch himself beneath the bedclothes, yawn widely,

and bury his face upon his pillow, we could chatter before him as glibly as before a doctor or a lawyer. From

some such cause, doubtless, it arose that our archdeacon listened to the counsels of his wife, though he

'My dear,' he said, as he adjusted the copious folds of his nightcap, 'there was that John Bold at your father's

'He is imprudenthe always was,' replied Mrs Grantly, speaking from under the comfortable bedclothes.

'No, my dear, there's nothing newI know that; but, at the present juncture of affairs, such imprudence

isisI'll tell you what, my dear, if he does not take care what he's about, John Bold will be off with

'Why not!' almost screamed the archdeacon, giving so rough a pull at his nightcap as almost to bring it over

his nose; 'why not!that pestilent, interfering upstart, John Boldthe most vulgar young person I ever met!

Do you know that he is meddling with your father's affairs in a most uncalledfor most' And being at a

loss for an epithet sufficiently injurious, he finished his expressions of horror by muttering, 'Good heavens!'

in a manner that had been found very efficacious in clerical meetings of the diocese. He must for the moment

'As to his vulgarity, archdeacon' (Mrs Grantly had never assumed a more familiar term than this in addressing

her husband), 'I don't agree with you. Not that I like Mr Bold he is a great deal too conceited for me; but

then Eleanor does, and it would be the best thing in the world for papa if they were to marry. Bold would

never trouble himself about Hiram's Hospital if he were papa's soninlaw.' And the lady turned herself

round under the bedclothes, in a manner to which the doctor was well accustomed, and which told him, as

plainly as words, that as far as she was concerned the subject was over for that night.

'Good heavens!' murmured the doctor againhe was evidently much put beside himself.

Dr Grantly is by no means a bad man; he is exactly the man which such an education as his was most likely

to form; his intellect being sufficient for such a place in the world, but not sufficient to put him in advance of

it. He performs with a rigid constancy such of the duties of a parish clergyman as are, to his thinking, above

We believe, as a general rule, that either a bishop or his archdeacons have sinecures: where a bishop works,

archdeacons have but little to do, and vice versa. In the diocese of Barchester the Archdeacon of Barchester

does the work. In that capacity he is diligent, authoritative, and, as his friends particularly boast, judicious.

His great fault is an overbearing assurance of the virtues and claims of his order, and his great foible is an

equally strong confidence in the dignity of his own manner and the eloquence of his own words. He is a

moral man, believing the precepts which he teaches, and believing also that he acts up to them; though we

cannot say that he would give his coat to the man who took his cloak, or that he is prepared to forgive his

brother even seven times. He is severe enough in exacting his dues, considering that any laxity in this respect

would endanger the security of the church; and, could he have his way, he would consign to darkness and

perdition, not only every individual reformer, but every committee and every commission that would even

'They are church revenues: the laity admit it. Surely the church is able to administer her own revenues.' 'Twas

thus he was accustomed to argue, when the sacrilegious doings of Lord John Russell and others were

It was no wonder that Dr Grantly did not like John Bold, and that his wife's suggestion that he should become

closely connected with such a man dismayed him. To give him his due, the archdeacon never wanted

courage; he was quite willing to meet his enemy on any field and with any weapon. He had that belief in his

own arguments that he felt sure of success, could he only be sure of a fair fight on the part of his adversary.

He had no idea that John Bold could really prove that the income of the hospital was malappropriated; why,

then, should peace be sought for on such base terms? What! bribe an unbelieving enemy of the church with

the sisterinlaw of one dignitary and the daughter of anotherwith a young lady whose connections with

the diocese and chapter of Barchester were so close as to give her an undeniable claim to a husband endowed

with some of its sacred wealth! When Dr Grantly talks of unbelieving enemies, he does not mean to imply

want of belief in the doctrines of the church, but an equally dangerous scepticism as to its purity in money

Mrs Grantly is not usually deaf to the claims of the high order to which she belongs. She and her husband

rarely disagree as to the tone with which the church should be defended; how singular, then, that in such a

case as this she should be willing to succumb! The archdeacon again murmurs 'Good heavens!' as he lays

himself beside her, but he does so in a voice audible only to himself, and he repeats it till sleep relieves him

Mr Harding himself has seen no reason why his daughter should not love John Bold. He has not been

unobservant of her feelings, and perhaps his deepest regret at the part which he fears Bold is about to take

regarding the hospital arises from the dread that he may be separated from his daughter, or that she may be

separated from the man she loves. He has never spoken to Eleanor about her lover; he is the last man in the

world to allude to such a subject unconsulted, even with his own daughter; and had he considered that he had

ground to disapprove of Bold, he would have removed her, or forbidden him his house; but he saw no such

ground. He would probably have preferred a second clerical soninlaw, for Mr Harding, also, is attached to

his order; and, failing in that, he would at any rate have wished that so near a connection should have thought

alike with him on church matters. He would not, however, reject the man his daughter loved because he

Hitherto Bold had taken no steps in the matter in any way annoying to Mr Harding personally. Some months

since, after a severe battle, which cost him not a little money, he gained a victory over a certain old turnpike

woman in the neighbourhood, of whose charges another old woman had complained to him. He got the Act

of Parliament relating to the trust, found that his protegee had been wrongly taxed, rode through the gate

himself, paying the toll, then brought an action against the gatekeeper, and proved that all people coming up

a certain bylane, and going down a certain other bylane, were tollfree. The fame of his success spread

widely abroad, and he began to be looked on as the upholder of the rights of the poor of Barchester. Not long

after this success, he heard from different quarters that Hiram's bedesmen were treated as paupers, whereas

the property to which they were, in effect, heirs was very large; and he was instigated by the lawyer whom he

had employed in the case of the turnpike to call upon Mr Chadwick for a statement as to the funds of the

Bold had often expressed his indignation at the malappropriation of church funds in general, in the hearing of

his friend the precentor; but the conversation had never referred to anything at Barchester; and when Finney,

the attorney, induced him to interfere with the affairs of the hospital, it was against Mr Chadwick that his

efforts were to be directed. Bold soon found that if he interfered with Mr Chadwick as steward, he must also

interfere with Mr Harding as warden; and though he regretted the situation in which this would place him, he

As soon as he had determined to take the matter in hand, he set about his work with his usual energy. He got

a copy of John Hiram's will, of the wording of which he made himself perfectly master. He ascertained the

extent of the property, and as nearly as he could the value of it; and made out a schedule of what he was

informed was the present distribution of its income. Armed with these particulars, he called on Mr Chadwick,

having given that gentleman notice of his visit; and asked him for a statement of the income and expenditure

This was of course refused, Mr Chadwick alleging that he had no authority for making public the concerns of

Mr Chadwick begged to say that if these inquiries were made merely out of curiosity, he must decline

answering them: if Mr Bold had any ulterior proceeding in view, perhaps it would be desirable that any

necessary information should be sought for in a professional way by a professional man. Mr Chadwick's

attorneys were Messrs Cox and Cummins, of Lincoln's Inn. Mr Bold took down the address of Cox and

Cummins, remarked that the weather was cold for the time of the year, and wished Mr Chadwick

He at once went to his lawyer, Finney. Now, Bold was not very fond of his attorney, but, as he said, he

merely wanted a man who knew the forms of law, and who would do what he was told for his money. He had

no idea of putting himself in the hands of a lawyer. He wanted law from a lawyer as he did a coat from a

tailor, because he could not make it so well himself; and he thought Finney the fittest man in Barchester for

his purpose. In one respect, at any rate, he was right: Finney was humility itself.

Finney advised an instant letter to Cox and Cummins, mindful of his sixandeightpence. 'Slap at them at

once, Mr Bold. Demand categorically and explicitly a full statement of the affairs of the hospital.'

'Yes, yes, by all means,' said the acquiescing Finney; 'though, perhaps, as Mr Harding is no man of business,

it may leadlead to some little difficulties; but perhaps you're right. Mr Bold, I don't think seeing Mr

Harding can do any harm.' Finney saw from the expression of his client's face that he intended to have his

Bold at once repaired to the hospital. The day was now far advanced, but he knew that Mr Harding dined in

the summer at four, that Eleanor was accustomed to drive in the evening, and that he might therefore

probably find Mr Harding alone. It was between seven and eight when he reached the slight iron gate leading

into the precentor's garden, and though, as Mr Chadwick observed, the day had been cold for June, the

evening was mild, and soft, and sweet. The little gate was open. As he raised the latch he heard the notes of

Mr Harding's violoncello from the far end of the garden, and, advancing before the house and across the

lawn, he found him playing: and not without an audience. The musician was seated in a gardenchair just

within the summerhouse, so as to allow the violoncello which he held between his knees to rest upon the dry

stone flooring; before him stood a rough music desk, on which was open a page of that dear sacred book, that

muchlaboured and muchloved volume of church music, which had cost so many guineas; and around sat,

and lay, and stood, and leaned, ten of the twelve old men who dwelt with him beneath old John Hiram's roof.

The two reformers were not there. I will not say that in their hearts they were conscious of any wrong done or

to be done to their mild warden, but latterly they had kept aloof from him, and his music was no longer to

their taste. It was amusing to see the positions, and eager listening faces of these welltodo old men. I will

not say that they all appreciated the music which they heard, but they were intent on appearing to do so;

pleased at being where they were, they were determined, as far as in them lay, to give pleasure in return; and

they were not unsuccessful. It gladdened the precentor's heart to think that the old bedesmen whom he loved

so well admired the strains which were to him so full of almost ecstatic joy; and he used to boast that such

was the air of the hospital, as to make it a precinct specially fit for the worship of St Cecilia.

Immediately before him, on the extreme corner of the bench which ran round the summerhouse, sat one old

man, with his handkerchief smoothly lain upon his knees, who did enjoy the moment, or acted enjoyment

well. He was one on whose large frame many years, for he was over eighty, had made small havoche was

still an upright, burly, handsome figure, with an open, ponderous brow, round which clung a few, though very

few, thin gray locks. The coarse black gown of the hospital, the breeches, and buckled shoes became him

well; and as he sat with his hands folded on his staff, and his chin resting on his hands, he was such a listener

This man was certainly the pride of the hospital. It had always been the custom that one should be selected as

being to some extent in authority over the others; and though Mr Bunce, for such was his name, and so he

was always designated by his inferior brethren, had no greater emoluments than they, he had assumed, and

well knew how to maintain, the dignity of his elevation. The precentor delighted to call him his subwarden,

and was not ashamed, occasionally, when no other guest was there, to bid him sit down by the same parlour

fire, and drink the full glass of port which was placed near him. Bunce never went without the second glass,

'Well, well, Mr Harding; you're too good, much too good,' he'd always say, as the second glass was filled; but

when that was drunk, and the half hour over, Bunce stood erect, and with a benediction which his patron

valued, retired to his own abode. He knew the world too well to risk the comfort of such halcyon moments,

Mr Bunce, as may be imagined, was most strongly opposed to innovation. Not even Dr Grantly had a more

holy horror of those who would interfere in the affairs of the hospital; he was every inch a churchman, and

though he was not very fond of Dr Grantly personally, that arose from there not being room in the hospital for

two people so much alike as the doctor and himself, rather than from any dissimilarity in feeling. Mr Bunce

was inclined to think that the warden and himself could manage the hospital without further assistance; and

that, though the bishop was the constitutional visitor, and as such entitled to special reverence from all

connected with John Hiram's will, John Hiram never intended that his affairs should be interfered with by an

At the present moment, however, these cares were off his mind, and he was looking at his warden, as though

As Bold walked silently over the lawn, Mr Harding did not at first perceive him, and continued to draw his

bow slowly across the plaintive wires; but he soon found from his audience that some stranger was there, and

'Pray, Mr Hardingpray don't let me disturb you,' said Bold; 'you know how fond I am of sacred music.'

'Oh! it's nothing,' said the precentor, shutting up the book and then opening it again as he saw the delightfully

imploring look of his old friend Bunce. Oh, Bunce, Bunce, Bunce, I fear that after all thou art but a flatterer.

'Well, I'll just finish it then; it's a favourite little bit of Bishop's; and then, Mr Bold, we'll have a stroll and a

chat till Eleanor comes in and gives us tea.' And so Bold sat down on the soft turf to listen, or rather to think

how, after such sweet harmony, he might best introduce a theme of so much discord, to disturb the peace of

Bold thought that the performance was soon over, for he felt that he had a somewhat difficult task, and he

almost regretted the final leavetaking of the last of the old men, slow as they were in going through their

Bold's heart was in his mouth, as the precentor made some ordinary but kind remark as to the friendliness of

'One evening call,' said he, 'is worth ten in the morning. It's all formality in the morning; real social talk never

begins till after dinner. That's why I dine early so as to get as much as I can of it.'

'Quite true, Mr Harding,' said the other; 'but I fear I've reversed the order of things, and I owe you much

apology for troubling you on business at such an hour; but it is on business that I have called just now.'

Mr Harding looked blank and annoyed; there was something in the tone of the young man's voice which told

him that the interview was intended to be disagreeable, and he shrank back at finding his kindly greeting so

'Then, my dear fellow, I can tell you nothing, for I'm as ignorant as a child. All I know is, that they pay me

#800 a year. Go to Chadwick, he knows all about the accounts; and now tell me, will poor Mary Jones ever

'Well, I think she will, if she's careful; but, Mr Harding, I hope you won't object to discuss with me what I

Mr Harding gave a deep, longdrawn sigh. He did object, very strongly object, to discuss any such subject

with John Bold; but he had not the business tact of Mr Chadwick, and did not know how to relieve himself

'I have the greatest regard for you, Mr Harding,' continued Bold; 'the truest respect, the most sincere'

'Thank ye, thank ye, Mr Bold,' interjaculated the precentor somewhat impatiently; 'I'm much obliged, but

never mind that; I'm as likely to be in the wrong as another manquite as likely.'

'But, Mr Harding, I must express what I feel, lest you should think there is personal enmity in what I'm going

'Personal enmity! Going to do! Why, you're not going to cut my throat, nor put me into the Ecclesiastical

Bold tried to laugh, but he couldn't. He was quite in earnest, and determined in his course, and couldn't make

a joke of it. He walked on awhile in silence before he recommenced his attack, during which Mr Harding,

who had still the bow in his hand, played rapidly on an imaginary violoncello. 'I fear there is reason to think

that John Hiram's will is not carried out to the letter, Mr Harding,' said the young man at last; 'and I have been

'Very well, I've no objection on earth; and now we need not say another word about it.'

'Only one word more, Mr Harding. Chadwick has referred me to Cox and Cummins, and I think it my duty to

apply to them for some statement about the hospital. In what I do I may appear to be interfering with you, and

'Mr Bold,' said the other, stopping, and speaking with some solemnity, 'if you act justly, say nothing in this

matter but the truth, and use no unfair weapons in carrying out your purposes, I shall have nothing to forgive.

I presume you think I am not entitled to the income I receive from the hospital, and that others are entitled to

it. Whatever some may do, I shall never attribute to you base motives because you hold an opinion opposed

to my own and adverse to my interests: pray do what you consider to be your duty; I can give you no

assistance, neither will I offer you any obstacle. Let me, however, suggest to you, that you can in no wise

forward your views nor I mine, by any discussion between us. Here comes Eleanor and the ponies, and we'll

Bold, however, felt that he could not sit down at ease with Mr Harding and his daughter after what had

passed, and therefore excused himself with much awkward apology; and merely raising his hat and bowing as

he passed Eleanor and the pony chair, left her in disappointed amazement at his departure.

Mr Harding's demeanour certainly impressed Bold with a full conviction that the warden felt that he stood on

strong grounds, and almost made him think that he was about to interfere without due warrant in the private

affairs of a just and honourable man; but Mr Harding himself was anything but satisfied with his own view of

In the first place, he wished for Eleanor's sake to think well of Bold and to like him, and yet he could not but

feel disgusted at the arrogance of his conduct. What right had he to say that John Hiram's will was not fairly

carried out? But then the question would arise within his heart,Was that will fairly acted on? Did John

Hiram mean that the warden of his hospital should receive considerably more out of the legacy than all the

twelve old men together for whose behoof the hospital was built? Could it be possible that John Bold was

right, and that the reverend warden of the hospital had been for the last ten years and more the unjust

recipient of an income legally and equitably belonging to others? What if it should be proved before the light

of day that he, whose life had been so happy, so quiet, so respected, had absorbed #800 to which he had no

title, and which he could never repay? I do not say that he feared that such was really the case; but the first

shade of doubt now fell across his mind, and from this evening, for many a long, long day, our good, kind

Thoughts of this kind, these first moments of much misery, oppressed Mr Harding as he sat sipping his tea,

absent and ill at ease. Poor Eleanor felt that all was not right, but her ideas as to the cause of the evening's

discomfort did not go beyond her lover, and his sudden and uncivil departure. She thought there must have

been some quarrel between Bold and her father, and she was half angry with both, though she did not attempt

Mr Harding thought long and deeply over these things, both before he went to bed and after it, as he lay

awake, questioning within himself the validity of his claim to the income which he enjoyed. It seemed clear

at any rate that, however unfortunate he might be at having been placed in such a position, no one could say

that he ought either to have refused the appointment first, or to have rejected the income afterwards. All the

worldmeaning the ecclesiastical world as confined to the English churchknew that the wardenship of

the Barchester Hospital was a snug sinecure, but no one had ever been blamed for accepting it. To how much

blame, however, would he have been open had he rejected it! How mad would he have been thought had he

declared, when the situation was vacant and offered to him, that he had scruples as to receiving #800 a year

from John Hiram's property, and that he had rather some stranger should possess it! How would Dr Grantly

have shaken his wise head, and have consulted with his friends in the close as to some decent retreat for the

coming insanity of the poor minor canon! If he was right in accepting the place, it was clear to him also that

he would be wrong in rejecting any part of the income attached to it. The patronage was a valuable appanage

of the bishopric; and surely it would not be his duty to lessen the value of that preferment which had been

But somehow these arguments, though they seemed logical, were not satisfactory. Was John Hiram's will

fairly carried out? that was the true question: and if not, was it not his especial duty to see that this was

donehis especial duty, whatever injury it might do to his orderhowever ill such duty might be received

by his patron and his friends? At the idea of his friends, his mind turned unhappily to his soninlaw. He

knew well how strongly he would be supported by Dr Grantly, if he could bring himself to put his case into

the archdeacon's hands and to allow him to fight the battle; but he knew also that he would find no sympathy

there for his doubts, no friendly feeling, no inward comfort. Dr Grantly would be ready enough to take up his

cudgel against all comers on behalf of the church militant, but he would do so on the distasteful ground of the

church's infallibility. Such a contest would give no comfort to Mr Harding's doubts. He was not so anxious to

I have said before that Dr Grantly was the working man of the diocese, and that his father the bishop was

somewhat inclined to an idle life. So it was; but the bishop, though he had never been an active man, was one

whose qualities had rendered him dear to all who knew him. He was the very opposite to his son; he was a

bland and a kind old man, opposed by every feeling to authoritative demonstrations and episcopal

ostentation. It was perhaps well for him, in his situation, that his son had early in life been able to do that

which he could not well do when he was younger, and which he could not have done at all now that he was

over seventy. The bishop knew how to entertain the clergy of his diocese, to talk easy smalltalk with the

rectors' wives, and put curates at their ease; but it required the strong hand of the archdeacon to deal with

The bishop and Mr Harding loved each other warmly. They had grown old together, and had together spent

many, many years in clerical pursuits and clerical conversation. When one of them was a bishop and the other

only a minor canon they were even then much together; but since their children had married, and Mr Harding

had become warden and precentor, they were all in all to each other. I will not say that they managed the

diocese between them, but they spent much time in discussing the man who did, and in forming little plans to

mitigate his wrath against church delinquents, and soften his aspirations for church dominion.

Mr Harding determined to open his mind, and confess his doubts to his old friend; and to him he went on the

Up to this period no rumour of these cruel proceedings against the hospital had reached the bishop's ears. He

had doubtless heard that men existed who questioned his right to present to a sinecure of #800 a year, as he

had heard from time to time of some special immorality or disgraceful disturbance in the usually decent and

quiet city of Barchester: but all he did, and all he was called on to do, on such occasions, was to shake his

head, and to beg his son, the great dictator, to see that no harm happened to the church.

It was a long story that Mr Harding had to tell before he made the bishop comprehend his own view of the

case; but we need not follow him through the tale. At first the bishop counselled but one step, recommended

but one remedy, had but one medicine in his whole pharmacopoeia strong enough to touch so grave a

disorderhe prescribed the archdeacon. 'Refer him to the archdeacon,' he repeated, as Mr Harding spoke of

Bold and his visit. 'The archdeacon will set you quite right about that,' he kindly said, when his friend spoke

with hesitation of the justness of his cause. 'No man has got up all that so well as the archdeacon'; but the

dose, though large, failed to quiet the patient; indeed it almost produced nausea.

The bishop thought probably he had, thirtyfive years ago, when first instituted to his see, but could not state

positively: however, he very well knew that he had the absolute right to present to the wardenship, and that

'But, bishop, the question is, who has the power to settle it? If, as this young man says, the will provides that

the proceeds of the property are to be divided into shares, who has the power to alter these provisions?' The

bishop had an indistinct idea that they altered themselves by the lapse of years; that a kind of ecclesiastical

statute of limitation barred the rights of the twelve bedesmen to any increase of income arising from the

increased value of property. He said something about tradition; more of the many learned men who by their

practice had confirmed the present arrangement; then went at some length into the propriety of maintaining

the due difference in rank and income between a beneficed clergyman and certain poor old men who were

dependent on charity; and concluded his argument by another reference to the archdeacon.

The precentor sat thoughtfully gazing at the fire, and listening to the goodnatured reasoning of his friend.

What the bishop said had a sort of comfort in it, but it was not a sustaining comfort. It made Mr Harding feel

that many others indeed, all others of his own orderwould think him right; but it failed to prove to him

Bishop,' said he, at last, after both had sat silent for a while, 'I should deceive you and myself too, if I did not

tell you that I am very unhappy about this. Suppose that I cannot bring myself to agree with Dr

Grantly!that I find, after inquiry, that the young man is right, and that I am wrongwhat then?'

The two old men were sitting near each otherso near that the bishop was able to lay his hand upon the

other's knee, and he did so with a gentle pressure. Mr Harding well knew what that pressure meant. The

bishop had no further argument to adduce; he could not fight for the cause as his son would do; he could not

prove all the precentor's doubts to be groundless; but he could sympathise with his friend, and he did so; and

Mr Harding felt that he had received that for which he came. There was another period of silence, after which

the bishop asked, with a degree of irritable energy very unusual with him, whether this 'pestilent intruder'

Mr Harding had fully made up his mind to tell the bishop everything; to speak of his daughter's love, as well

as his own troubles; to talk of John Bold in his double capacity of future soninlaw and present enemy; and

'He is very intimate at my own house, bishop.' The bishop stared. He was not so far gone in orthodoxy and

church militancy as his son, but still he could not bring himself to understand how so declared an enemy of

the establishment could be admitted on terms of intimacy into the house, not only of so firm a pillar as Mr

Harding, but one so much injured as the warden of the hospital. 'Indeed, I like Mr Bold much, personally,'

continued the disinterested victim; 'and to tell you the "truth"'he hesitated as he brought out the dreadful

tidings'I have sometimes thought it not improbable that he would be my second soninlaw.' The bishop

did not whistle: we believe that they lose the power of doing so on being consecrated; and that in these days

one might as easily meet a corrupt judge as a whistling bishop; but he looked as though he would have done

What a brotherinlaw for the archdeacon! what an alliance for Barchester close! what a connection for even

the episcopal palace! The bishop, in his simple mind, felt no doubt that John Bold, had he so much power,

would shut up all cathedrals, and probably all parish churches; distribute all tithes among Methodists,

Baptists, and other savage tribes; utterly annihilate the sacred bench, and make shovel hats and lawn sleeves

as illegal as cowls, sandals, and sackcloth! Here was a nice man to be initiated into the comfortable arcana of

ecclesiastical snuggeries; one who doubted the integrity of parsons, and probably disbelieved the Trinity!

Mr Harding saw what an effect his communication had made, and almost repented the openness of his

disclosure; he, however, did what he could to moderate the grief of his friend and patron. 'I do not say that

there is any engagement between them. Had there been, Eleanor would have told me; I know her well enough

to be assured that she would have done so; but I see that they are fond of each other; and as a man and a

'But, Mr Harding,' said the bishop, 'how are you to oppose him, if he is your soninlaw?'

'I don't mean to oppose him; it is he who opposes me; if anything is to be done in defence, I suppose

'Oh, the archdeacon will see to that: were the young man twice his brotherinlaw, the archdeacon will never

Mr Harding reminded the bishop that the archdeacon and the reformer were not yet brothers, and very

probably never would be; exacted from him a promise that Eleanor's name should not be mentioned in any

discussion between the father bishop and son archdeacon respecting the hospital; and then took his departure,

The parties most interested in the movement which is about to set Barchester by the ears were not the

foremost to discuss the merit of the question, as is often the case; but when the bishop, the archdeacon, the

warden, the steward, and Messrs Cox and Cummins, were all busy with the matter, each in his own way, it is

not to be supposed that Hiram's bedesmen themselves were altogether passive spectators. Finney, the

attorney, had been among them, asking sly questions, and raising immoderate hopes, creating a party hostile

to the warden, and establishing a corps in the enemy's camp, as he figuratively calls it to himself. Poor old

men: whoever may be righted or wronged by this inquiry, they at any rate will assuredly be only injured: to

them it can only be an unmixed evil. How can their lot be improved? all their wants are supplied; every

comfort is administered; they have warm houses, good clothes, plentiful diet, and rest after a life of labour;

and above all, that treasure so inestimable in declining years, a true and kind friend to listen to their sorrows,

watch over their sickness, and administer comfort as regards this world, and the world to come!

John Bold sometimes thinks of this, when he is talking loudly of the rights of the bedesmen, whom he has

taken under his protection; but he quiets the suggestion within his breast with the highsounding name of

justice: 'Fiat justitia ruat coelum.' These old men should, by rights, have one hundred pounds a year instead of

one shilling and sixpence a day, and the warden should have two hundred or three hundred pounds instead of

eight hundred pounds. What is unjust must be wrong; what is wrong should be righted; and if he declined the

'Each one of you is clearly entitled to one hundred pounds a year by common law': such had been the

important whisper made by Finney into the ears of Abel Handy, and by him retailed to his eleven brethren.

Too much must not be expected from the flesh and blood even of John Hiram's bedesmen, and the positive

promise of one hundred a year to each of the twelve old men had its way with most of them. The great Bunce

was not to be wiled away, and was upheld in his orthodoxy by two adherents. Abel Handy, who was the

leader of the aspirants after wealth, had, alas, a stronger following. No less than five of the twelve soon

believed that his views were just, making with their leader a moiety of the hospital. The other three, volatile

unstable minds, vacillated between the two chieftains, now led away by the hope of gold, now anxious to

It had been proposed to address a petition to the bishop as visitor, praying his lordship to see justice done to

the legal recipients of John Hiram's Charity, and to send copies of this petition and of the reply it would elicit

to all the leading London papers, and thereby to obtain notoriety for the subject. This it was thought would

pave the way for ulterior legal proceedings. It would have been a great thing to have had the signatures and

marks of all the twelve injured legatees; but this was impossible: Bunce would have cut his hand off sooner

than have signed it. It was then suggested by Finney that if even eleven could be induced to sanction the

document, the one obstinate recusant might have been represented as unfit to judge on such a questionin

fact, as being non compos mentis and the petition would have been taken as representing the feeling of the

men. But this could not be done: Bunce's friends were as firm as himself, and as yet only six crosses adorned

the document. It was the more provoking, as Bunce himself could write his name legibly, and one of those

three doubting souls had for years boasted of like power, and possessed, indeed, a Bible, in which he was

proud to show his name written by himself some thirty years ago'Job Skulpit'; but it was thought that job

Skulpit, having forgotten his scholarship, on that account recoiled from the petition, and that the other

doubters would follow as he led them. A petition signed by half the hospital would have but a poor effect.

It was in Skulpit's room that the petition was now lying, waiting such additional signatures as Abel Handy, by

his eloquence, could obtain for it. The six marks it bore were duly attested, thus:

and places were duly designated in pencil for those brethren who were now expected to join: for Skulpit

alone was left a spot on which his genuine signature might be written in fair clerklike style. Handy had

brought in the document, and spread it out on the small deal table, and was now standing by it persuasive and

eager. Moody had followed with an inkhorn, carefully left behind by Finney; and Spriggs bore aloft, as

though it were a sword, a wellworn inkblack pen, which from time to time he endeavoured to thrust into

With the learned man were his two abettors in indecision, William Gazy and Jonathan Crumple. If ever the

petition were to be forwarded, now was the time, so said Mr Finney; and great was the anxiety on the part of

those whose one hundred pounds a year, as they believed, mainly depended on the document in question.

'To be kept out of all that money,' as the avaricious Moody had muttered to his friend Handy, 'by an old fool

'Well, job,' said Handy, trying to impart to his own sour, illomened visage a smile of approbation, in which

he greatly failed; 'so you're ready now, Mr Finney says; here's the place, d'ye see'and he put his huge

brown finger down on the dirty paper'name or mark, it's all one. Come along, old boy; if so be we're to have

'To be sure,' said Moody. 'We a'n't none of us so young; we can't stay waiting for old Catgut no longer.'

It was thus these miscreants named our excellent friend. The nickname he could easily have forgiven, but the

allusion to the divine source of all his melodious joy would have irritated even him. Let us hope he never

'Only think, old Billy Gazy,' said Spriggs, who rejoiced in greater youth than his brethren, but having fallen

into a fire when drunk, had had one eye burnt out, one cheek burnt through, and one arm nearly burnt off, and

who, therefore, in regard to personal appearance, was not the most prepossessing of men, 'a hundred a year,

and all to spend; only think, old Billy Gazy'; and he gave a hideous grin that showed off his misfortunes to

Old Billy Gazy was not alive to much enthusiasm. Even these golden prospects did not arouse him to do

more than rub his poor old bleared eyes with the cuff of his bedesman's gown, and gently mutter; 'he didn't

'But you'd know, Jonathan,' continued Spriggs, turning to the other friend of Skulpit's, who was sitting on a

stool by the table, gazing vacantly at the petition. Jonathan Crumple was a meek, mild man, who had known

better days; his means had been wasted by bad children, who had made his life wretched till he had been

received into the hospital, of which he had not long been a member. Since that day he had known neither

sorrow nor trouble, and this attempt to fill him with new hopes was, indeed, a cruelty.

'A hundred a year's a nice thing, for sartain, neighbour Spriggs,' said he. 'I once had nigh to that myself, but it

didn't do me no good.' And he gave a low sigh, as he thought of the children of his own loins who had robbed

'And shall have again, Joe,' said Handy; 'and will have someone to keep it right and tight for you this time.'

Crumple sighed againhe had learned the impotency of worldly wealth, and would have been satisfied, if

'Come, Skulpit,' repeated Handy, getting impatient, 'you're not going to go along with old Bunce in helping

that parson to rob us all. Take the pen, man, and right yourself. Well,' he added, seeing that Skulpit still

doubted, 'to see a man as is afraid to stand by hisself is, to my thinking, the meanest thing as is.'

'Sink them all for parsons, says I,' growled Moody; 'hungry beggars, as never thinks their bellies full till they

'Who's to harm you, man?' argued Spriggs. 'Let them look never so black at you, they can't get you put out

when you're once inno, not old Catgut, with Calves to help him!' I am sorry to say the archdeacon himself

'A hundred a year to win, and nothing to lose,' continued Handy. 'My eyes! Well, how a man's to doubt about

sich a bit of cheese as that passes mebut some men is timorous some men is born with no pluck in

themsome men is cowed at the very first sight of a gentleman's coat and waistcoat.'

Oh, Mr Harding, if you had but taken the archdeacon's advice in that disputed case, when Joe Mutters was

'Afraid of a parson,' growled Moody, with a look of ineffable scorn. 'I tell ye what I'd be afraid ofI'd be

afraid of not getting nothing from 'em but just what I could take by might and rightthat's the most I'd be

'But,' said Skulpit, apologetically, 'Mr Harding's not so badhe did give us twopence a day, didn't he now?'

'Twopence a day!' exclaimed Spriggs with scorn, opening awfully the red cavern of his lost eye.

'Twopence a day!' exclaimed Handy; 'and I'm to go, hat in hand, and thank a chap for twopence a day, when

he owes me a hundred pounds a year; no, thank ye; that may do for you, but it won't for me. Come, I say,

Skulpit looked round in wretched indecision to his two friends. 'What d'ye think, Bill Gazy?' said he.

But Bill Gazy couldn't think. He made a noise like the bleating of an old sheep, which was intended to

'Take hold, you old cripple,' said Handy, thrusting the pen into poor Billy's hand: 'there, sough! you old

fool, you've been and smeared it alltherethat'll do for youthat's as good as the best name as ever was

written': and a big blotch of ink was presumed to represent Billy Gazy's acquiescence.

'A hundred a year's a nice thing, for sartain,' again argued Crumple. 'Well, neighbour Skulpit, how's it to be?'

The pen was thrust into Crumple's hand, and a faint, wandering, meaningless sign was made, betokening such

'Come, job,' said Handy, softened by success, 'don't let 'em have to say that old Bunce has a man like you

under his thumba man that always holds his head in the hospital as high as Bunce himself, though you're

never axed to drink wine, and sneak, and tell lies about your betters as he does.'

Skulpit held the pen, and made little flourishes with it in the air, but still hesitated.

'And if you'll be said by me,' continued Handy, 'you'll not write your name to it at all, but just put your mark

like the others,' the cloud began to clear from Skulpit's brow'we all know you can do it if you like, but

'Well, the mark would be best,' said Skulpit. 'One name and the rest marks wouldn't look well, would it?'

'The worst in the world,' said Handy; 'therethere': and stooping over the petition, the learned clerk made a

'That's the game,' said Handy, triumphantly pocketing the petition; 'we're all in a boat now, that is, the nine of

us; and as for old Bunce, and his cronies, they may' But as he was hobbling off to the door, with a crutch

Handy muttered something, and was departing; but he was stopped in the doorway by the huge frame of the

'You've been doing no good here, Abel Handy,' said he, ''tis plain to see that; and 'tisn't much good, I'm

'I mind my own business, Master Bunce,' muttered the other, 'and do you do the same. It ain't nothing to you

'I suppose then, job,' continued Bunce, not noticing his opponent, 'if the truth must out, you've stuck your

'What is it to you what he signs?' said Handy. 'I suppose if we all wants to ax for our own, we needn't ax

leave of you first, Mr Bunce, big a man as you are; and as to your sneaking in here, into Job's room when he's

'I've knowed job Skulpit, man and boy, sixty years,' said Bunce, looking at the man of whom he spoke, 'and

that's ever since the day he was born. I knowed the mother that bore him, when she and I were little wee

things, picking daisies together in the close yonder; and I've lived under the same roof with him more nor ten

years; and after that I may come into his room without axing leave, and yet no sneaking neither.'

'And I'm free also to tell him my mind,' continued Bunce, looking at the one man and addressing the other;

'and I tell him now that he's done a foolish and a wrong thing. He's turned his back upon one who is his best

friend; and is playing the game of others, who care nothing for him, whether he be poor or rich, well or ill,

alive or dead. A hundred a year? Are the lot of you soft enough to think that if a hundred a year be to be

given, it's the likes of you that will get it?'and he pointed to Billy Gazy, Spriggs, and Crumple. 'Did any of

us ever do anything worth half the money? Was it to make gentlemen of us we were brought in here, when all

the world turned against us, and we couldn't longer earn our daily bread? A'n't you all as rich in your ways as

he in his?'and the orator pointed to the side on which the warden lived. 'A'n't you getting all you hoped for,

ay, and more than you hoped for? Wouldn't each of you have given the dearest limb of his body to secure that

'We wants what John Hiram left us,' said Handy. 'We wants what's ourn by law; it don't matter what we

'Law!' said Bunce, with all the scorn he knew how to command'law! Did ye ever know a poor man yet was

the better for law, or for a lawyer? Will Mr Finney ever be as good to you, job, as that man has been? Will he

'No, nor give you port wine, old boy, on cold winter nights! he won't do that, will he?' asked Handy; and

laughing at the severity of his own wit, he and his colleagues retired, carrying with them, however, the now

There is no help for spilt milk; and Mr Bunce could only retire to his own room, disgusted at the frailty of

human nature. Job Skulpit scratched his headJonathan Crumple again remarked, that, 'for sartain, sure a

hundred a year was very nice'and Billy Gazy again rubbed his eyes, and lowly muttered that 'he didn't

Though doubt and hesitation disturbed the rest of our poor warden, no such weakness perplexed the nobler

breast of his soninlaw. As the indomitable cock preparing for the combat sharpens his spurs, shakes his

feathers, and erects his comb, so did the archdeacon arrange his weapons for the coming war, without

misgiving and without fear. That he was fully confident of the justice of his cause let no one doubt. Many a

man can fight his battle with good courage, but with a doubting conscience. Such was not the case with Dr

Grantly. He did not believe in the Gospel with more assurance than he did in the sacred justice of all

ecclesiastical revenues. When he put his shoulder to the wheel to defend the income of the present and future

precentors of Barchester, he was animated by as strong a sense of a holy cause, as that which gives courage to

a missionary in Africa, or enables a sister of mercy to give up the pleasures of the world for the wards of a

hospital. He was about to defend the holy of holies from the touch of the profane; to guard the citadel of his

church from the most rampant of its enemies; to put on his good armour in the best of fights; and secure, if

possible, the comforts of his creed for coming generations of ecclesiastical dignitaries. Such a work required

no ordinary vigour; and the archdeacon was, therefore, extraordinarily vigorous. It demanded a buoyant

courage, and a heart happy in its toil; and the archdeacon's heart was happy, and his courage was buoyant.

He knew that he would not be able to animate his fatherinlaw with feelings like his own, but this did not

much disturb him. He preferred to bear the brunt of the battle alone, and did not doubt that the warden would

'Well, Mr Chadwick,' he said, walking into the steward's office a day or two after the signing of the petition

as commemorated in the last chapter: 'anything from Cox and Cummins this morning?' Mr Chadwick handed

him a letter; which he read, stroking the tightgaitered calf of his right leg as he did so. Messrs Cox and

Cummins merely said that they had as yet received no notice from their adversaries; that they could

recommend no preliminary steps; but that should any proceeding really be taken by the bedesmen, it would

be expedient to consult that very eminent Queen's Counsel, Sir Abraham Haphazard.

'I quite agree with them,' said Dr Grantly, refolding the letter. 'I perfectly agree with them. Haphazard is no

doubt the best man; a thorough churchman, a sound conservative, and in every respect the best man we could

'You remember how completely he put down that scoundrel Horseman about the Bishop of Beverley's

income; how completely he set them all adrift in the earl's case.' Since the question of St Cross had been

mooted by the public, one noble lord had become 'the earl,' par excellence, in the doctor's estimation. 'How he

silenced that fellow at Rochester. Of course we must have Haphazard; and I'll tell you what, Mr Chadwick,

With all his admiration for Sir Abraham, the doctor seemed to think it not impossible that that great man

might be induced to lend his gigantic powers to the side of the church's enemies.

Having settled this point to his satisfaction, the doctor stepped down to the hospital, to learn how matters

were going on there; and as he walked across the hallowed close, and looked up at the ravens who cawed

with a peculiar reverence as he wended his way, he thought with increased acerbity of those whose impiety

And who has not felt the same? We believe that Mr Horseman himself would relent, and the spirit of Sir

Benjamin Hall give way, were those great reformers to allow themselves to stroll by moonlight round the

towers of some of our ancient churches. Who would not feel charity for a prebendary when walking the quiet

length of that long aisle at Winchester, looking at those decent houses, that trim grassplat, and feeling, as

one must, the solemn, orderly comfort of the spot! Who could be hard upon a dean while wandering round

the sweet close of Hereford, and owning that in that precinct, tone and colour, design and form, solemn tower

and storied window, are all in unison, and all perfect! Who could lie basking in the cloisters of Salisbury, and

gaze on Jewel's library and that unequalled spire, without feeling that bishops should sometimes be rich!

The tone of our archdeacon's mind must not astonish us; it has been the growth of centuries of church

ascendancy; and though some fungi now disfigure the tree, though there be much dead wood, for how much

good fruit have not we to be thankful? Who, without remorse, can batter down the dead branches of an old

oak, now useless, but, ah! still so beautiful, or drag out the fragments of the ancient forest, without feeling

that they sheltered the younger plants, to which they are now summoned to give way in a tone so peremptory

The archdeacon, with all his virtues, was not a man of delicate feeling; and after having made his morning

salutations in the warden's drawingroom, he did not scruple to commence an attack on 'pestilent' John Bold

in the presence of Miss Harding, though he rightly guessed that that lady was not indifferent to the name of

'Nelly, my dear, fetch me my spectacles from the back room,' said her father, anxious to save both her blushes

Eleanor brought the spectacles, while her father was trying, in ambiguous phrases, to explain to her

toopractical brother inlaw that it might be as well not to say anything about Bold before her, and then

retreated. Nothing had been explained to her about Bold and the hospital; but, with a woman's instinct she

'We must soon be doing something,' commenced the archdeacon, wiping his brows with a large,

brightcoloured handkerchief, for he had felt busy, and had walked quick, and it was a broiling summer's

'Well'the archdeacon looked for some expressions of opinion, but none coming, he continued' We must

be doing something, you know; we mustn't allow these people to cut the ground from under us while we sit

looking on.' The archdeacon, who was a practical man, allowed himself the use of everyday expressive

modes of speech when among his closest intimates, though no one could soar into a more intricate labyrinth

of refined phraseology when the church was the subject, and his lower brethren were his auditors.

The warden still looked mutely in his face, making the slightest possible passes with an imaginary fiddle

bow, and stopping, as he did so, sundry imaginary strings with the fingers of his other hand. 'Twas his

constant consolation in conversational troubles. While these vexed him sorely, the passes would be short and

slow, and the upper hand would not be seen to work; nay, the strings on which it operated would sometimes

lie concealed in the musician's pocket, and the instrument on which he played would be beneath his chair

but as his spirit warmed to the subjectas his trusting heart looking to the bottom of that which vexed him,

would see its clear way outhe would rise to a higher melody, sweep the unseen strings with a bolder hand,

and swiftly fingering the cords from his neck, down along his waistcoat, and up again to his very ear, create

an ecstatic strain of perfect music, audible to himself and to St Cecilia, and not without effect.

'I quite agree with Cox and Cummins,' continued the archdeacon. 'They say we must secure Sir Abraham

Haphazard. I shall not have the slightest fear in leaving the case in Sir Abraham's hands.'

The warden played the slowest and saddest of tunes. It was but a dirge on one string.

'I think Sir Abraham will not be long in letting Master Bold know what he's about. I fancy I hear Sir Abraham

The warden thought of his income being thus discussed, his modest life, his daily habits, and his easy work;

and nothing issued from that single cord, but a low wail of sorrow. 'I suppose they've sent this petition up to

'What I can't understand is, how you let them do it, with such a command as you have in the place, or should

'Why, listen to this fellow Bold, and that other low pettifogger, Finneyand get up this petition too. Why

'Wiseyes, it would have been very wise if they'd done it among themselves. I must go up to the palace and

answer it now, I suppose. It's a very short answer they'll get, I can tell you.'

'Why shouldn't they!' responded the archdeacon, in a loud brazen voice, as though all the men in the hospital

were expected to hear him through the walls; 'why shouldn't they? I'll let them know why they shouldn't: by

The warden's mind misgave him, and even for a moment he forgot to play. He by no means wished to

delegate to his soninlaw his place and authority of warden; he had expressly determined not to interfere in

any step which the men might wish to take in the matter under dispute; he was most anxious neither to accuse

them nor to defend himself. All these things he was aware the archdeacon would do in his behalf, and that not

in the mildest manner; and yet he knew not how to refuse the permission requested.

'I'd so much sooner remain quiet in the matter,' said he, in an apologetic voice.

Quiet!' said the archdeacon, still speaking with his brazen trumpet; 'do you wish to be ruined in quiet?'

'Nonsense, warden; I tell you something must be done we must act; just let me ring the bell, and send the

Mr Harding knew not how to resist, and the disagreeable order was given. The quad, as it was familiarly

called, was a small quadrangle, open on one side to the river, and surrounded on the others by the high wall

of Mr Harding's garden, by one gable end of Mr Harding's house, and by the end of the row of buildings

which formed the residences of the bedesmen. It was flagged all round, and the centre was stoned; small

stone gutters ran from the four corners of the square to a grating in the centre; and attached to the end of Mr

Harding's house was a conduit with four cocks covered over from the weather, at which the old men got their

water, and very generally performed their morning toilet. It was a quiet, sombre place, shaded over by the

trees of the warden's garden. On the side towards the river, there stood a row of stone seats, on which the old

men would sit and gaze at the little fish, as they flitted by in the running stream. On the other side of the river

was a rich, green meadow, running up to and joining the deanery, and as little open to the public as the

garden of the dean itself. Nothing, therefore, could be more private than the quad of the hospital; and it was

there that the archdeacon determined to convey to them his sense of their refractory proceedings.

The servant soon brought in word that the men were assembled in the quad, and the archdeacon, big with his

'Well, warden, of course you're coming,' said he, seeing that Mr Harding did not prepare to follow him.

'For heaven's sake, don't let us have division in the camp,' replied the archdeacon: 'let us have a long pull and

a strong pull, but above all a pull all together; come warden, come; don't be afraid of your duty.'

Mr Harding was afraid; he was afraid that he was being led to do that which was not his duty: he was not,

The old men were assembled in groups in the quadrangle eleven of them at least, for poor old Johnny Bell

was bedridden, and couldn't come; he had, however, put his mark to the petition, as one of Handy's earliest

followers. 'Tis true he could not move from the bed where he lay; 'tis true he had no friend on earth, but those

whom the hospital contained; and of those the warden and his daughter were the most constant and most

appreciated; 'tis true that everything was administered to him which his failing body could require, or which

his faint appetite could enjoy; but still his dull eye had glistened for a moment at the idea of possessing a

hundred pounds a year 'to his own cheek,' as Abel Handy had eloquently expressed it; and poor old Johnny

When the two clergymen appeared, they all uncovered their heads. Handy was slow to do it, and hesitated;

but the black coat and waistcoat of which he had spoken so irreverently in Skulpit's room, had its effect even

on him, and he too doffed his hat. Bunce, advancing before the others, bowed lowly to the archdeacon, and

with affectionate reverence expressed his wish, that the warden and Miss Eleanor were quite well; 'and the

doctor's lady,' he added, turning to the archdeacon, 'and the children at Plumstead, and my lord'; and having

made his speech, he also retired among the others, and took his place with the rest upon the stone benches.

As the archdeacon stood up to make his speech, erect in the middle of that little square , he looked like an

ecclesiastical statue placed there, as a fitting impersonation of the church militant here on earth; his shovel

hat, large, new, and well pronounced, a churchman's hat in every inch, declared the profession as plainly as

does the Quaker's broad brim; his heavy eyebrows, large open eyes, and full mouth and chin expressed the

solidity of his order; the broad chest, amply covered with fine cloth, told how well to do was its estate; one

hand ensconced within his pocket, evinced the practical hold which our mother church keeps on her temporal

possessions; and the other, loose for action, was ready to fight if need be in her defence; and, below these, the

decorous breeches, and neat black gaiters showing so admirably that wellturned leg, betokened the decency,

'Now, my men,' he began, when he had settled himself well in his position, 'I want to say a few words to you.

Your good friend, the warden here, and myself, and my lord the bishop, on whose behalf I wish to speak to

you, would all be very sorry, very sorry indeed, that you should have any just ground of complaint. Any just

ground of complaint on your part would be removed at once by the warden, or by his lordship, or by me on

his behalf, without the necessity of any petition on your part.' Here the orator stopped for a moment,

expecting that some little murmurs of applause would show that the weakest of the men were beginning to

give way; but no such murmurs came. Bunce, himself, even sat with closed lips, mute and unsatisfactory.

'Without the necessity of any petition at all,' he repeated. 'I'm told you have addressed a petition to my lord.'

He paused for a reply from the men, and after a while, Handy plucked up courage and said, 'Yes, we has.'

' You have addressed a petition to my lord, in which, as I am informed, you express an opinion that you do

not receive from Hiram's estate all that is your due.' Here most of the men expressed their assent. 'Now what

'A hundred a year,' muttered old Moody, with a voice as if it came out of the ground.

'A hundred a year!' ejaculated the archdeacon militant, defying the impudence of these claimants with one

hand stretched out and closed, while with the other he tightly grasped, and secured within his breeches

pocket, that symbol of the church's wealth which his own loose halfcrowns not unaptly represented. 'A

hundred a year! Why, my men, you must be mad; and you talk about John Hiram's will! When John Hiram

built a hospital for wornout old men, wornout old labouring men, infirm old men past their work, cripples,

blind, bedridden, and such like, do you think he meant to make gentlemen of them? Do you think John

Hiram intended to give a hundred a year to old single men, who earned perhaps two shillings or

halfacrown a day for themselves and families in the best of their time? No, my men, I'll tell you what John

Hiram meant: he meant that twelve poor old wornout labourers, men who could no longer support

themselves, who had no friends to support them, who must starve and perish miserably if not protected by the

hand of charity; he meant that twelve such men as these should come in here in their poverty and

wretchedness, and find within these walls shelter and food before their death, and a little leisure to make their

peace with God. That was what John Hiram meant: you have not read John Hiram's will, and I doubt whether

those wicked men who are advising you have done so. I have; I know what his will was; and I tell you that

Not a sound came from the eleven bedesmen, as they sat listening to what, according to the archdeacon, was

their intended estate. They grimly stared upon his burly figure, but did not then express, by word or sign, the

'Now let me ask you,' he continued: 'do you think you are worse off than John Hiram intended to make you?

Have you not shelter, and food, and leisure? Have you not much more? Have you not every indulgence which

you are capable of enjoying? Have you not twice better food, twice a better bed, ten times more money in

your pocket than you were ever able to earn for yourselves before you were lucky enough to get into this

place? And now you send a petition to the bishop, asking for a hundred pounds a year! I tell you what, my

friends; you are deluded, and made fools of by wicked men who are acting for their own ends. You will never

get a hundred pence a year more than what you have now: it is very possible that you may get less; it is very

'No, no, no,' interrupted Mr Harding, who had been listening with indescribable misery to the tirade of his

soninlaw; 'no, my friends. I want no changesat least no changes that shall make you worse off than you

'God bless you, Mr Harding,' said Bunce; and 'God bless you, Mr Harding, God bless you, sir: we know you

was always our friend,' was exclaimed by enough of the men to make it appear that the sentiment was

The archdeacon had been interrupted in his speech before he had quite finished it; but he felt that he could not

recommence with dignity after this little ebullition, and he led the way back into the garden, followed by his

'Well,' said he, as soon as he found himself within the cool retreat of the warden's garden; 'I think I spoke to

them plainly.' And he wiped the perspiration from his brow; for making a speech under a broiling midday

'Yes, you were plain enough,' replied the warden, in a tone which did not express approbation.

'And that's everything,' said the other, who was clearly well satisfied with himself; 'that's everything: with

those sort of people one must be plain, or one will not be understood. Now, I think they did understand

The warden agreed. He certainly thought they had understood to the full what had been said to them.

'They know pretty well what they have to expect from us; they know how we shall meet any refractory spirit

on their part; they know that we are not afraid of them. And now I'll just step into Chadwick's, and tell him

what I've done; and then I'll go up to the palace, and answer this petition of theirs.'

The warden's mind was very fullfull nearly to overcharging itself; and had it done sohad he allowed

himself to speak the thoughts which were working within him, he would indeed have astonished the

archdeacon by the reprobation he would have expressed as to the proceeding of which he had been so

unwilling a witness. But different feelings kept him silent; he was as yet afraid of differing from his

soninlawhe was anxious beyond measure to avoid even a semblance of rupture with any of his order,

and was painfully fearful of having to come to an open quarrel with any person on any subject. His life had

hitherto been so quiet, so free from strife; his little early troubles had required nothing but passive fortitude;

his subsequent prosperity had never forced upon him any active careshad never brought him into

disagreeable contact with anyone. He felt that he would give almost anythingmuch more than he knew he

ought to doto relieve himself from the storm which he feared was coming. It was so hard that the pleasant

waters of his little stream should be disturbed and muddied by rough hands; that his quiet paths should be

made a battlefield; that the unobtrusive corner of the world which had been allotted to him, as though by

Providence, should be invaded and desecrated, and all within it made miserable and unsound.

Money he had none to give; the knack of putting guineas together had never belonged to him; but how

willingly, with what a foolish easiness, with what happy alacrity, would he have abandoned the half of his

income for all time to come, could he by so doing have quietly dispelled the clouds that were gathering over

himcould he have thus compromised the matter between the reformer and the conservative, between his

And this compromise would not have been made from any prudential motive of saving what would yet

remain, for Mr Harding still felt little doubt but he should be left for life in quiet possession of the good

things he had, if he chose to retain them. No; he would have done so from the sheer love of quiet, and from a

horror of being made the subject of public talk. He had very often been moved to pityto that inward

weeping of the heart for others' woes; but none had he ever pitied more than that old lord, whose almost

fabulous wealth, drawn from his church preferments, had become the subject of so much opprobrium, of such

public scorn; that wretched clerical octogenarian Croesus, whom men would not allow to die in

Was he to suffer such a fate? Was his humble name to be bandied in men's mouths, as the gormandiser of the

resources of the poor, as of one who had filched from the charity of other ages wealth which had been

intended to relieve the old and the infirm? Was he to be gibbeted in the press, to become a byword for

oppression, to be named as an example of the greed of the English church? Should it ever be said that he had

robbed those old men, whom he so truly and so tenderly loved in his heart of hearts? As he slowly paced,

hour after hour, under those noble limetrees, turning these sad thoughts within him, he became all but fixed

in his resolve that some great step must be taken to relieve him from the risk of so terrible a fate.

In the meanwhile, the archdeacon, with contented mind and unruffled spirit, went about his business. He said

a word or two to Mr Chadwick, and then finding, as he expected, the petition lying in his father's library, he

wrote a short answer to the men, in which he told them that they had no evils to redress, but rather great

mercies for which to be thankful; and having seen the bishop sign it, he got into his brougham and returned

After much painful doubting, on one thing only could Mr Harding resolve. He determined that at any rate he

would take no offence, and that he would make this question no cause of quarrel either with Bold or with the

bedesmen. In furtherance of this resolution, he himself wrote a note to Mr Bold, the same afternoon, inviting

him to meet a few friends and hear some music on an evening named in the next week. Had not this little

party been promised to Eleanor, in his present state of mind he would probably have avoided such gaiety; but

the promise had been given, the invitations were to be written, and when Eleanor consulted her father on the

subject, she was not ill pleased to hear him say, 'Oh, I was thinking of Bold, so I took it into my head to write

Mary Bold was older than her brother, and, at the time of our story, was just over thirty. She was not an

unattractive young woman, though by no means beautiful. Her great merit was the kindliness of her

disposition. She was not very clever, nor very animated, nor had she apparently the energy of her brother; but

she was guided by a high principle of right and wrong; her temper was sweet, and her faults were fewer in

number than her virtues. Those who casually met Mary Bold thought little of her; but those who knew her

well loved her well, and the longer they knew her the more they loved her. Among those who were fondest of

her was Eleanor Harding; and though Eleanor had never openly talked to her of her brother, each understood

the other's feelings about him. The brother and sister were sitting together when the two notes were brought

'How odd,' said Mary, 'that they should send two notes. Well, if Mr Harding becomes fashionable, the world

Her brother understood immediately the nature and intention of the peaceoffering; but it was not so easy for

him to behave well in the matter, as it was for Mr Harding. It is much less difficult for the sufferer to be

generous than for the oppressor. John Bold felt that he could not go to the warden's party: he never loved

Eleanor better than he did now; he had never so strongly felt how anxious he was to make her his wife as

now, when so many obstacles to his doing so appeared in view. Yet here was her father himself, as it were,

clearing away those very obstacles, and still he felt that he could not go to the house any more as an open

As he sat thinking of these things with the note in his hand, his sister was waiting for his decision.

'Well,' said she, 'I suppose we must write separate answers, and both say we shall be very happy.'

'You'll go, of course, Mary,' said he; to which she readily assented. 'I cannot,' he continued, looking serious

'And why not, John?' said she. She had as yet heard nothing of the newfound abuse which her brother was

He sat thinking for a while till he determined that it would be best to tell her at once what it was that he was

'I fear I cannot go to Mr Harding's house any more as a friend, just at present.'

'What is it, John?' said she, looking at him with an anxious, loving face, for she knew well how much of his

'Why,' said he at last, 'I've taken up the case of these twelve old men of Hiram's Hospital, and of course that

brings me into contact with Mr Harding. I may have to oppose him, interfere with him, perhaps injure him.'

Mary looked at him steadily for some time before she committed herself to reply, and then merely asked him

what he meant to do for the old men. 'Why, it's a long story, and I don't know that I can make you understand

it. John Hiram made a will, and left his property in charity for certain poor old men, and the proceeds, instead

of going to the benefit of these men, goes chiefly into the pocket of the warden and the bishop's steward.'

'I don't know what I mean yet. I mean to inquire about it. I mean to see who is entitled to this property. I

mean to see, if I can, that justice be done to the poor of the city of Barchester generally, who are, in fact, the

'You might ask the same question of anybody else,' said he; 'and according to that the duty of righting these

poor men would belong to nobody. If we are to act on that principle, the weak are never to be protected,

injustice is never to be opposed, and no one is to struggle for the poor!' And Bold began to comfort himself in

'But is there no one to do this but you, who have known Mr Harding so long? Surely, John, as a friend, as a

'That's woman's logic, all over, Mary. What has age to do with it? Another man might plead that he was too

old; and as to his friendship, if the thing itself be right, private motives should never be allowed to interfere.

Because I esteem Mr Harding, is that a reason that I should neglect a duty which I owe to these old men? or

should I give up a work which my conscience tells me is a good one, because I regret the loss of his society?'

'Eleanor, that is, Miss Harding, if she thinks fitthat is, if her fatheror, rather, if sheor, indeed, heif

they find it necessarybut there is no necessity now to talk about Eleanor Harding; but this I will say, that if

she has the kind of spirit for which I give her credit, she will not condemn me for doing what I think to be a

Mary sat silent for a while, till at last her brother reminded her that the notes must be answered, and she got

up, and placed her desk before her, took out her pen and paper, wrote on it slowly:

'Of this about the hospitalof all this about Mr Harding of what you say about those old men. Nothing

can call upon youno duty can require you to set yourself against your oldest, your best friend. Oh, John,

'Pray, pray, for my sake, John, give it up. You know how dearly you love her.' And she came and knelt before

him on the rug. 'Pray give it up. You are going to make yourself, and her, and her father miserable: you are

going to make us all miserable. And for what? For a dream of justice. You will never make those twelve men

'You don't understand it, my dear girl,' said he, smoothing her hair with his hand.

'I do understand it, John. I understand that this is a chimeraa dream that you have got. I know well that no

duty can require you to do this madthis suicidal thing. I know you love Eleanor Harding with all your

heart, and I tell you now that she loves you as well. If there was a plain, a positive duty before you, I would

be the last to bid you neglect it for any woman's love; but thisoh, think again, before you do anything to

make it necessary that you and Mr Harding should be at variance.' He did not answer, as she knelt there,

leaning on his knees, but by his face she thought that he was inclined to yield. 'At any rate let me say that you

will go to this party. At any rate do not break with them while your mind is in doubt.' And she got up, hoping

'My mind is not in doubt,' at last he said, rising. 'I could never respect myself again were I to give way now,

because Eleanor Harding is beautiful. I do love her: I would give a hand to hear her tell me what you have

said, speaking on her behalf; but I cannot for her sake go back from the task which I have commenced. I hope

she may hereafter acknowledge and respect my motives, but I cannot now go as a guest to her father's house.'

And the Barchester Brutus went out to fortify his own resolution by meditations on his own virtue. Poor

Mary Bold sat down, and sadly finished her note, saying that she would herself attend the party, but that her

brother was unavoidably prevented from doing so. I fear that she did not admire as she should have done the

The party went off as such parties do. There were fat old ladies, in fine silk dresses, and slim young ladies, in

gauzy muslin frocks; old gentlemen stood up with their backs to the empty fireplace, looking by no means

so comfortable as they would have done in their own armchairs at home; and young gentlemen, rather stiff

about the neck, clustered near the door, not as yet sufficiently in courage to attack the muslin frocks, who

awaited the battle, drawn up in a semicircular array. The warden endeavoured to induce a charge, but failed

signally, not having the tact of a general; his daughter did what she could to comfort the forces under her

command, who took in refreshing rations of cake and tea, and patiently looked for the coming engagement:

but she herself, Eleanor, had no spirit for the work ; the only enemy whose lance she cared to encounter was

Loud above all voices was heard the clear sonorous tones of the archdeacon as he dilated to brother parsons

of the danger of the church, of the fearful rumours of mad reforms even at Oxford, and of the damnable

Soon, however, sweeter sounds began timidly to make themselves audible. Little movements were made in a

quarter notable for round stools and music stands. Wax candles were arranged in sconces, big books were

How often were those pegs twisted and retwisted before our friend found that he had twisted them enough;

how many discordant scrapes gave promise of the coming harmony. How much the muslin fluttered and

crumpled before Eleanor and another nymph were duly seated at the piano; how closely did that tall Apollo

pack himself against the wall, with his flute, long as himself, extending high over the heads of his pretty

neighbours; into how small a corner crept that round and florid little minor canon, and there with skill

And now the crash begins: away they go in full flow of harmony togetherup hill and down dalenow

louder and louder, then lower and lower; now loud, as though stirring the battle; then low, as though

mourning the slain. In all, through all, and above all, is heard the violoncello. Ah, not for nothing were those

pegs so twisted and retwistedlisten, listen! Now alone that saddest of instruments tells its touching tale.

Silent, and in awe, stand fiddle, flute, and piano, to hear the sorrows of their wailing brother. 'Tis but for a

moment: before the melancholy of those low notes has been fully realised, again comes the full force of all

the banddown go the pedals, away rush twenty fingers scouring over the bass notes with all the impetus of

passion. Apollo blows till his stiff neckcloth is no better than a rope, and the minor canon works with both

How comes it that now, when all should be silent, when courtesy, if not taste, should make men listenhow

is it at this moment the blackcoated corps leave their retreat and begin skirmishing? One by one they creep

forth, and fire off little guns timidly, and without precision. Ah, my men, efforts such as these will take no

cities, even though the enemy should be never so open to assault. At length a more deadly artillery is brought

to bear; slowly, but with effect, the advance is made; the muslin ranks are broken, and fall into confusion; the

formidable array of chairs gives way; the battle is no longer between opposing regiments, but hand to hand,

and foot to foot with single combatants, as in the glorious days of old, when fighting was really noble. In

corners, and under the shadow of curtains, behind sofas and half hidden by doors, in retiring windows, and

sheltered by hanging tapestry, are blows given and returned, fatal, incurable, dealing death.

Apart from this another combat arises, more sober and more serious. The archdeacon is engaged against two

prebendaries, a pursy fullblown rector assisting him, in all the perils and all the enjoyments of short whist.

With solemn energy do they watch the shuffled pack, and, allexpectant, eye the coming trump. With what

anxious nicety do they arrange their cards, jealous of each other's eyes! Why is that lean doctor so slow

cadaverous man with hollow jaw and sunken eye, ill beseeming the richness of his mother church! Ah, why

so slow, thou meagre doctor? See how the archdeacon, speechless in his agony, deposits on the board his

cards, and looks to heaven or to the ceiling for support. Hark, how he sighs, as with thumbs in his waistcoat

pocket he seems to signify that the end of such torment is not yet even nigh at hand! Vain is the hope, if hope

there be, to disturb that meagre doctor. With care precise he places every card, weighs well the value of each

mighty ace, each guarded king, and comfortgiving queen; speculates on knave and ten, counts all his suits,

and sets his price upon the whole. At length a card is led, and quick three others fall upon the board. The little

doctor leads again, while with lustrous eye his partner absorbs the trick. Now thrice has this been

donethrice has constant fortune favoured the brace of prebendaries, ere the archdeacon rouses himself to

the battle; but at the fourth assault he pins to the earth a prostrate king, laying low his crown and sceptre,

'As David did Goliath,' says the archdeacon, pushing over the four cards to his partner. And then a trump is

led, then another trump; then a kingand then an aceand then a long ten, which brings down from the

meagre doctor his only remaining tower of strengthhis cherished queen of trumps.

'Only one club,' mutters from his inmost stomach the pursy rector, who sits there redfaced, silent,

But the archdeacon cares not for many clubs, or for none. He dashes out his remaining cards with a speed

most annoying to his antagonists, pushes over to them some four cards as their allotted portion, shoves the

remainder across the table to the redfaced rector; calls out 'two by cards and two by honours, and the odd

trick last time,' marks a treble under the candle stick, and has dealt round the second pack before the meagre

And so went off the warden's party, and men and women arranging shawls and shoes declared how pleasant it

had been; and Mrs Goodenough, the redfaced rector's wife, pressing the warden's hand, declared she had

never enjoyed herself better; which showed how little pleasure she allowed herself in this world, as she had

sat the whole evening through in the same chair without occupation, not speaking, and unspoken to. And

Matilda Johnson, when she allowed young Dickson of the bank to fasten her cloak round her neck, thought

that two hundred pounds a year and a little cottage would really do for happiness; besides, he was sure to be

manager some day. And Apollo, folding his flute into his pocket, felt that he had acquitted himself with

honour; and the archdeacon pleasantly jingled his gains; but the meagre doctor went off without much

audible speech, muttering ever and anon as he went, 'three and thirty points!' 'three and thirty points!'

What had passed between Eleanor Harding and Mary Bold need not be told. It is indeed a matter of

thankfulness that neither the historian nor the novelist hears all that is said by their heroes or heroines, or how

would three volumes or twenty suffice! In the present case so little of this sort have I overheard, that I live in

hopes of finishing my work within 300 pages, and of completing that pleasant taska novel in one volume;

but something had passed between them, and as the warden blew out the wax candles, and put his instrument

into its case, his daughter stood sad and thoughtful by the empty fireplace, determined to speak to her father,

'Well, Eleanor,' said he, 'are you for bed?' 'Yes,' said she, moving, 'I suppose so; but papaMr Bold was not

'Well, Eleanor, I could guess; but it's no use guessing at such things, my dear. What makes you look so

'Oh, papa, do tell me,' she exclaimed, throwing her arms round him, and looking into his face; 'what is it he is

going to do? What is it all about? Is there anyanyany' she didn't well know what word to use'any

'Danger to you, danger of trouble, and of loss, and of Oh, papa, why haven't you told me of all this before?'

Mr Harding was not the man to judge harshly of anyone, much less of the daughter whom he now loved

better than any living creature; but still he did judge her wrongly at this moment. He knew that she loved

John Bold; he fully sympathised in her affection; day after day he thought more of the matter, and, with the

tender care of a loving father, tried to arrange in his own mind how matters might be so managed that his

daughter's heart should not be made the sacrifice to the dispute which was likely to exist between him and

Bold. Now, when she spoke to him for the first time on the subject, it was natural that he should think more

of her than of himself, and that he should imagine that her own cares, and not his, were troubling her.

He stood silent before her awhile, as she gazed up into his face, and then kissing her forehead he placed her

'Tell me, Nelly,' he said (he only called her Nelly in his kindest, softest, sweetest moods, and yet all his

She was quite taken aback by the question. I will not say that she had forgotten herself, and her own love in

thinking about John Bold, and while conversing with Mary: she certainly had not done so. She had been sick

at heart to think that a man of whom she could not but own to herself that she loved him, of whose regard she

had been so proud, that such a man should turn against her father to ruin him. She had felt her vanity hurt,

that his affection for her had not kept him from such a course; had he really cared for her, he would not have

risked her love by such an outrage. But her main fear had been for her father, and when she spoke of danger,

'Yes, Nelly, do you like him? Why shouldn't you like him? but that's a poor worddo you love him?' She sat

still in his arms without answering him. She certainly had not prepared herself for an avowal of affection,

intending, as she had done, to abuse John Bold herself, and to hear her father do so also. 'Come, my love,'

said he, 'let us make a clean breast of it: do you tell me what concerns yourself, and I will tell you what

And then, without waiting for an answer, he described to her, as he best could, the accusation that was made

about Hiram's will; the claims which the old men put forward; what he considered the strength and what the

weakness of his own position; the course which Bold had taken, and that which he presumed he was about to

take; and then by degrees, without further question, he presumed on the fact of Eleanor's love, and spoke of

that love as a feeling which he could in no way disapprove: he apologised for Bold, excused what he was

doing; nay, praised him for his energy and intentions; made much of his good qualities, and harped on none

of his foibles; then, reminding his daughter how late it was, and comforting her with much assurance which

he hardly felt himself, he sent her to her room, with flowing eyes and a full heart.

When Mr Harding met his daughter at breakfast the next morning, there was no further discussion on the

matter, nor was the subject mentioned between them for some days. Soon after the party Mary Bold called at

the hospital, but there were various persons in the drawingroom at the time, and she therefore said nothing

about her brother. On the day following, John Bold met Miss Harding in one of the quiet, sombre, shaded

walks of the close. He was most anxious to see her, but unwilling to call at the warden's house, and had in

'My sister tells me,' said he, abruptly hurrying on with his premeditated speech, 'my sister tells me that you

'I believe, Miss Harding, you understand why, at this moment' And Bold hesitated, muttered, stopped,

'Pray don't apologise, Mr Bold; my father will, I am sure, always be glad to see you, if you like to come to the

house now as formerly; nothing has occurred to alter his feelings: of your own views you are, of course, the

'Your father is all that is kind and generous; he always was so; but you, Miss Harding, yourselfI hope you

'Mr Bold,' said she, 'you may be sure of one thing; I shall always judge my father to be right, and those who

oppose him I shall judge to be wrong. If those who do not know him oppose him, I shall have charity enough

to believe that they are wrong, through error of judgment; but should I see him attacked by those who ought

to know him, and to love him, and revere him, of such I shall be constrained to form a different opinion.' And

then curtseying low she sailed on, leaving her lover in anything but a happy state of mind.

Though Eleanor Harding rode off from John Bold on a high horse, it must not be supposed that her heart was

so elate as her demeanour. In the first place, she had a natural repugnance to losing her lover; and in the next,

she was not quite So sure that she was in the right as she pretended to be. Her father had told her, and that

now repeatedly, that Bold was doing nothing unjust or ungenerous; and why then should she rebuke him, and

throw him off, when she felt herself so ill able to bear his loss?but such is human nature, and

youngladynature especially. As she walked off from him beneath the shady elms of the close, her look, her

tone, every motion and gesture of her body, belied her heart; she would have given the world to have taken

him by the hand, to have reasoned with him, persuaded him, cajoled him, coaxed him out of his project; to

have overcome him with all her female artillery, and to have redeemed her father at the cost of herself; but

pride would not let her do this, and she left him without a look of love or a word of kindness.

Had Bold been judging of another lover and of another lady, he might have understood all this as well as we

do; but in matters of love men do not see clearly in their own affairs. They say that faint heart never won fair

lady; and it is amazing to me how fair ladies are won, so faint are often men's hearts! Were it not for the

kindness of their nature, that seeing the weakness of our courage they will occasionally descend from their

impregnable fortresses, and themselves aid us in effecting their own defeat, too often would they escape

Poor Bold crept off quite crestfallen; he felt that as regarded Eleanor Harding his fate was sealed, unless he

could consent to give up a task to which he had pledged himself and which indeed it would not be easy for

him to give up. Lawyers were engaged, and the question had to a certain extent been taken up by the public;

besides, how could a highspirited girl like Eleanor Harding really learn to love a man for neglecting a duty

which he assumed! Could she allow her affection to be purchased at the cost of his own selfrespect?

As regarded the issue of his attempt at reformation in the hospital, Bold had no reason hitherto to be

discontented with his success. All Barchester was by the ears about it. The bishop, the archdeacon, the

warden, the steward, and several other clerical allies, had daily meetings, discussing their tactics, and

preparing for the great attack. Sir Abraham Haphazard had been consulted, but his opinion was not yet

received: copies of Hiram's will, copies of wardens' journals, copies of leases, copies of accounts, copies of

everything that could be copied, and of some that could not, had been sent to him; and the case was assuming

most creditable dimensions. But, above all, it had been mentioned in the daily Jupiter. That all powerful

organ of the press in one of its leading thunderbolts launched at St Cross, had thus remarked: 'Another case,

of smaller dimensions indeed, but of similar import, is now likely to come under public notice. We are

informed that the warden or master of an old almshouse attached to Barchester Cathedral is in receipt of

twentyfive times the annual income appointed for him by the will of the founder, while the sum yearly

expended on the absolute purposes of the charity has always remained fixed. In other words, the legatees

under the founder's will have received no advantage from the increase in the value of the property during the

last four centuries, such increase having been absorbed by the socalled warden. It is impossible to conceive

a case of greater injustice. It is no answer to say that some six or nine or twelve old men receive as much of

the goods of this world as such old men require. On what foundation, moral or divine, traditional or legal, is

grounded the warden's claim to the large income he receives for doing nothing? The contentment of these

almsmen, if content they be, can give him no title to this wealth! Does he ever ask himself, when he stretches

wide his clerical palm to receive the pay of some dozen of the working clergy, for what service he is so

remunerated? Does his conscience ever entertain the question of his right to such subsidies? Or is it possible

that the subject never so presents itself to his mind; that he has received for many years, and intends, should

God spare him, to receive for years to come these fruits of the industrious piety of past ages, indifferent as to

any right on his own part, or of any injustice to others! We must express an opinion that nowhere but in the

Church of England, and only there among its priests, could such a state of moral indifference be found.'

I must for the present leave my readers to imagine the state of Mr Harding's mind after reading the above

article. They say that forty thousand copies of The Jupiter are daily sold, and that each copy is read by five

persons at the least. Two hundred thousand readers then would hear this accusation against him; two hundred

thousand hearts would swell with indignation at the griping injustice, the barefaced robbery of the warden of

Barchester Hospital! And how was he to answer this? How was he to open his inmost heart to this multitude,

to these thousands, the educated, the polished, the picked men of his own country; how show them that he

was no robber, no avaricious, lazy priest scrambling for gold, but a retiring, humblespirited man, who had

'Yes,' said the archdeacon, more worldly wise than his father, 'yes, and be smothered with ridicule; tossed

over and over again with scorn; shaken this way and that, as a rat in the mouth of a practised terrier. You will

leave out some word or letter in your answer, and the ignorance of the cathedral clergy will be harped upon;

you will make some small mistake, which will be a falsehood, or some admission, which will be

selfcondemnation; you will find yourself to have been vulgar, illtempered, irreverend, and illiterate, and

the chances are ten to one, but that being a clergyman, you will have been guilty of blasphemy! A man may

have the best of causes, the best of talents, and the best of tempers; he may write as well as Addison, or as

strongly as Junius; but even with all this he cannot successfully answer, when attacked by The Jupiter. In

such matters it is omnipotent. What the Czar is in Russia, or the mob in America, that The Jupiter is in

England. Answer such an article! No, warden; whatever you do, don't do that. We were to look for this sort of

thing, you know; but we need not draw down on our heads more of it than is necessary.'

The article in The Jupiter, while it so greatly harassed our poor warden, was an immense triumph to some of

the opposite party. Sorry as Bold was to see Mr Harding attacked so personally, it still gave him a feeling of

elation to find his cause taken up by so powerful an advocate: and as to Finney, the attorney, he was beside

himself. What! to be engaged in the same cause and on the same side with The Jupiter; to have the views he

had recommended seconded, and furthered, and battled for by The Jupiter! Perhaps to have his own name

mentioned as that of the learned gentleman whose efforts had been so successful on behalf of the poor of

Barchester! He might be examined before committees of the House of Commons, with heaven knows how

much a day for his personal expenseshe might be engaged for years on such a suit! There was no end to

the glorious golden dreams which this leader in The Jupiter produced in the soaring mind of Finney.

And the old bedesmen, they also heard of this article, and had a glimmering, indistinct idea of the marvellous

advocate which had now taken up their cause. Abel Handy limped hither and thither through the rooms,

repeating all that he understood to have been printed, with some additions of his own which he thought

should have been added. He told them how The Jupiter had declared that their warden was no better than a

robber, and that what The Jupiter said was acknowledged by the world to be true. How The Jupiter had

affirmed that each one of them'each one of us, Jonathan Crumple, think of that!'had a clear right to a

hundred a year; and that if The Jupiter had said so, it was better than a decision of the Lord Chancellor: and

then he carried about the paper, supplied by Mr Finney, which, though none of them could read it, still

afforded in its very touch and aspect positive corroboration of what was told them; and Jonathan Crumple

pondered deeply over his returning wealth; and job Skulpit saw how right he had been in signing the petition,

and said so many scores of times; and Spriggs leered fearfully with his one eye; and Moody, as he more

nearly approached the coming golden age, hated more deeply than ever those who still kept possession of

what he so coveted. Even Billy Gazy and poor bedridden Bell became active and uneasy, and the great

Bunce stood apart with lowering brow, with deep grief seated in his heart, for he perceived that evil days

It had been decided, the archdeacon advising, that no remonstrance, explanation, or defence should be

addressed from the Barchester conclave to the editor of The Jupiter; but hitherto that was the only decision to

Sir Abraham Haphazard was deeply engaged in preparing a bill for the mortification of papists, to be called

the 'Convent Custody Bill,' the purport of which was to enable any Protestant clergyman over fifty years of

age to search any nun whom he suspected of being in possession of treasonable papers or Jesuitical symbols;

and as there were to be a hundred and thirtyseven clauses in the bill, each clause containing a separate thorn

for the side of the papist, and as it was known the bill would be fought inch by inch, by fifty maddened

Irishmen, the due construction and adequate dovetailing of it did consume much of Sir Abraham's time. The

bill had all its desired effect. Of course it never passed into law; but it so completely divided the ranks of the

Irish members, who had bound themselves together to force on the ministry a bill for compelling all men to

drink Irish whiskey, and all women to wear Irish poplins, that for the remainder of the session the Great

Thus it happened that Sir Abraham's opinion was not at once forthcoming, and the uncertainty, the

expectation, and suffering of the folk of Barchester was maintained at a high pitch.

The reader must now be requested to visit the rectory of Plumstead Episcopi; and as it is as yet still early

morning, to ascend again with us into the bedroom of the archdeacon. The mistress of the mansion was at her

toilet; on which we will not dwell with profane eyes, but proceed into a small inner room, where the doctor

dressed and kept his boots and sermons; and here we will take our stand, premising that the door of the room

was so open as to admit of a conversation between our reverend Adam and his valued Eve.

'It's all your own fault, archdeacon,' said the latter. 'I told you from the beginning how it would end, and papa

'Good gracious, my dear,' said the doctor, appearing at the door of his dressingroom, with his face and head

enveloped in the rough towel which he was violently using; 'how can you say so? I am doing my very best.'

'I wish you had never done so much,' said the lady, interrupting him. 'If you'd just have let John Bold come

and go there, as he and papa liked, he and Eleanor would have been married by this time, and we should not

'Oh, it's all very well, archdeacon; and of course you're right; I don't for a moment think you'll ever admit that

you could be wrong; but the fact is. you've brought this young man down upon papa by buffing him as you

'And all because you didn't like John Bold for a brother inlaw. How is she ever to do better? Papa hasn't

got a shilling; and though Eleanor is well enough, she has not at all a taking style of beauty. I'm sure I don't

know how she's to do better than marry John Bold; or as well indeed,' added the anxious sister, giving the last

Dr Grantly felt keenly the injustice of this attack; but what could he say? He certainly had buffed John Bold;

he certainly had objected to him as a brotherinlaw, and a very few months ago the very idea had excited

his wrath: but now matters were changed; John Bold had shown his power, and, though he was as odious as

ever to the archdeacon, power is always respected, and the reverend dignitary began to think that such an

alliance might not have been imprudent. Nevertheless, his motto was still 'no surrender'; he would still fight it

out; he believed confidently in Oxford, in the bench of bishops, in Sir Abraham Haphazard, and in himself;

and it was only when alone with his wife that doubts of defeat ever beset him. He once more tried to

communicate this confidence to Mrs Grantly, and for the twentieth time began to tell her of Sir Abraham.

'Oh, Sir Abraham!' said she, collecting all her house keys into her basket before she descended; 'Sir Abraham

won't get Eleanor a husband; Sir Abraham won't get papa another income when he has been worreted out of

the hospital. Mark what I tell you, archdeacon: while you and Sir Abraham are fighting, papa will lose his

preferment; and what will you do then with him and Eleanor on your hands? besides, who's to pay Sir

Abraham? I suppose he won't take the case up for nothing?' And so the lady descended to family worship

Dr Grantly was blessed with a happy, thriving family. There were, first, three boys, now at home from school

for the holidays. They were called, respectively, Charles James, Henry, and Samuel. The two younger (there

were five in all) were girls; the elder, Florinda, bore the name of the Archbishop of York's wife, whose

godchild she was: and the younger had been christened Grizzel, after a sister of the Archbishop of

Canterbury. The boys were all clever, and gave good promise of being well able to meet the cares and trials

of the world; and yet they were not alike in their dispositions, and each had his individual character, and each

Charles James was an exact and careful boy; he never committed himself; he well knew how much was

expected from the eldest son of the Archdeacon of Barchester, and was therefore mindful not to mix too

freely with other boys. He had not the great talents of his younger brothers, but he exceeded them in

judgment and propriety of demeanour; his fault, if he had one, was an overattention to words instead of

things; there was a thought too much finesse about him, and, as even his father sometimes told him, he was

The second was the archdeacon's favourite son, and Henry was indeed a brilliant boy. The versatility of his

genius was surprising, and the visitors at Plumstead Episcopi were often amazed at the marvellous manner in

which he would, when called on, adapt his capacity to apparently most uncongenial pursuits. He appeared

once before a large circle as Luther the reformer, and delighted them with the perfect manner in which he

assumed the character; and within three days he again astonished them by acting the part of a Capuchin friar

to the very life. For this last exploit his father gave him a golden guinea, and his brothers said the reward had

been promised beforehand in the event of the performance being successful. He was also sent on a tour into

Devonshire; a treat which the lad was most anxious of enjoying. His father's friends there, however, did not

appreciate his talents, and sad accounts were sent home of the perversity of his nature. He was a most

It was soon known, both at home, where he lived, and within some miles of Barchester Cathedral, and also at

Westminster, where he was at school, that young Henry could box well and would never own himself beat;

other boys would fight while they had a leg to stand on, but he would fight with no leg at all. Those backing

him would sometimes think him crushed by the weight of blows and faint with loss of blood, and his friends

would endeavour to withdraw him from the contest; but no, Henry never gave in, was never weary of the

battle. The ring was the only element in which he seemed to enjoy himself; and while other boys were happy

His relations could not but admire his pluck, but they sometimes were forced to regret that he was inclined to

be a bully; and those not so partial to him as his father was, observed with pain that, though he could fawn to

the masters and the archdeacon's friends, he was imperious and masterful to the servants and the poor.

But perhaps Samuel was the general favourite; and dear little Soapy, as he was familiarly called, was as

engaging a child as ever fond mother petted. He was soft and gentle in his manners, and attractive in his

speech; the tone of his voice was melody, and every action was a grace; unlike his brothers, he was courteous

to all, he was affable to the lowly, and meek even to the very scullerymaid. He was a boy of great promise,

minding his books and delighting the hearts of his masters. His brothers, however, were not particularly fond

of him; they would complain to their mother that Soapy's civility all meant something; they thought that his

voice was too often listened to at Plumstead Episcopi, and evidently feared that, as he grew up, he would

have more weight in the house than either of them; there was, therefore, a sort of agreement among them to

put young Soapy down. This, however, was not so easy to be done; Samuel, though young, was sharp; he

could not assume the stiff decorum of Charles James, nor could he fight like Henry; but he was a perfect

master of his own weapons, and contrived, in the teeth of both of them, to hold the place which he had

assumed. Henry declared that he was a false, cunning creature; and Charles James, though he always spoke of

him as his dear brother Samuel, was not slow to say a word against him when opportunity offered. To speak

the truth, Samuel was a cunning boy, and those even who loved him best could not but own that for one so

young he was too adroit in choosing his words, and too skilled in modulating his voice.

The two little girls Florinda and Grizzel were nice little girls enough, but they did not possess the strong

sterling qualities of their brothers; their voices were not often heard at Plumstead Episcopi; they were bashful

and timid by nature, slow to speak before company even when asked to do so; and though they looked very

nice in their clean white muslin frocks and pink sashes, they were but little noticed by the archdeacon's

Whatever of submissive humility may have appeared in the gait and visage of the archdeacon during his

colloquy with his wife in the sanctum of their dressingrooms was dispelled as he entered his

breakfastparlour with erect head and powerful step. In the presence of a third person he assumed the lord

and master; and that wise and talented lady too well knew the man to whom her lot for life was bound, to

stretch her authority beyond the point at which it would be borne. Strangers at Plumstead Episcopi, when

they saw the imperious brow with which he commanded silence from the large circle of visitors, children, and

servants who came together in the morning to hear him read the word of God, and watched how meekly that

wife seated herself behind her basket of keys with a little girl on each side, as she caught that commanding

glance; strangers, I say, seeing this, could little guess that some fifteen minutes since she had stoutly held her

ground against him, hardly allowing him to open his mouth in his own defence. But such is the tact and talent

And now let us observe the wellfurnished breakfastparlour at Plumstead Episcopi, and the comfortable air

of all the belongings of the rectory. Comfortable they certainly were, but neither gorgeous nor even grand;

indeed, considering the money that had been spent there, the eye and taste might have been better served;

there was an air of heaviness about the rooms which might have been avoided without any sacrifice of

propriety; colours might have been better chosen and lights more perfectly diffused; but perhaps in doing so

the thorough clerical aspect of the whole might have been somewhat marred; at any rate, it was not without

ample consideration that those thick, dark, costly carpets were put down; those embossed, but sombre papers

hung up; those heavy curtains draped so as to half exclude the light of the sun: nor were these oldfashioned

chairs, bought at a price far exceeding that now given for more modern goods, without a purpose. The

breakfastservice on the table was equally costly and equally plain; the apparent object had been to spend

money without obtaining brilliancy or splendour. The urn was of thick and solid silver, as were also the

teapot, coffeepot, creamewer, and sugarbowl; the cups were old, dim dragon china, worth about a

pound a piece, but very despicable in the eyes of the uninitiated. The silver forks were so heavy as to be

disagreeable to the hand, and the breadbasket was of a weight really formidable to any but robust persons.

The tea consumed was the very best, the coffee the very blackest, the cream the very thickest; there was dry

toast and buttered toast, muffins and crumpets; hot bread and cold bread, white bread and brown bread,

homemade bread and bakers' bread, wheaten bread and oaten bread; and if there be other breads than these,

they were there; there were eggs in napkins, and crispy bits of bacon under silver covers; and there were little

fishes in a little box, and devilled kidneys frizzling on a hotwater dish; which, by the bye, were placed

closely contiguous to the plate of the worthy archdeacon himself. Over and above this, on a snowwhite

napkin, spread upon the sideboard, was a huge ham and a huge sirloin; the latter having laden the dinner table

And yet I have never found the rectory a pleasant house. The fact that man shall not live by bread alone

seemed to be somewhat forgotten; and noble as was the appearance of the host, and sweet and goodnatured

as was the face of the hostess, talented as were the children, and excellent as were the viands and the wines,

in spite of these attractions, I generally found the rectory somewhat dull. After breakfast the archdeacon

would retire, of course to his clerical pursuits. Mrs Grantly, I presume, inspected her kitchen, though she had

a firstrate housekeeper, with sixty pounds a year; and attended to the lessons of Florinda and Grizzel,

though she had an excellent governess with thirty pounds a year: but at any rate she disappeared: and I never

could make companions of the boys. Charles James, though he always looked as though there was something

in him, never seemed to have much to say; and what he did say he would always unsay the next minute. He

told me once that he considered cricket, on the whole, to be a gentlemanlike game for boys, provided they

would play without running about; and that fives, also, was a seemly game, so that those who played it never

heated themselves. Henry once quarrelled with me for taking his sister Grizzel's part in a contest between

them as to the best mode of using a wateringpot for the garden flowers; and from that day to this he has not

spoken to me, though he speaks at me often enough. For half an hour or so I certainly did like Sammy's

gentle speeches; but one gets tired of honey, and I found that he preferred the more admiring listeners whom

he met in the kitchengarden and back precincts of the establishment; besides, I think I once caught Sammy

On the whole, therefore, I found the rectory a dull house, though it must be admitted that everything there

After breakfast, on the morning of which we are writing, the archdeacon, as usual, retired to his study,

intimating that he was going to be very busy, but that he would see Mr Chadwick if he called. On entering

this sacred room he carefully opened the paper case on which he was wont to compose his favourite sermons,

and spread on it a fair sheet of paper and one partly written on; he then placed his inkstand, looked at his pen,

and folded his blotting paper; having done so, he got up again from his seat, stood with his back to the

fireplace, and yawned comfortably, stretching out vastly his huge arms and opening his burly chest. He then

walked across the room and locked the door; and having so prepared himself, he threw himself into his

easychair, took from a secret drawer beneath his table a volume of Rabelais, and began to amuse himself

with the witty mischief of Panurge; and so passed the archdeacon's morning on that day.

He was left undisturbed at his studies for an hour or two, when a knock came to the door, and Mr Chadwick

was announced. Rabelais retired into the secret drawer, the easychair seemed knowingly to betake itself off,

and when the archdeacon quickly undid his bolt, he was discovered by the steward working, as usual, for that

church of which he was so useful a pillar. Mr Chadwick had just come from London, and was, therefore,

'We've got Sir Abraham's opinion at last,' said Mr Chadwick, as he seated himself.

'Oh, it's as long as my arm,' said the other; 'it can't be told in a word, but you can read it'; and he handed him a

copy, in heaven knows how many spunout folios, of the opinion which the attorneygeneral had managed to

'The upshot is,' said Chadwick, 'that there's a screw loose in their case, and we had better do nothing. They

are proceeding against Mr Harding and myself, and Sir Abraham holds that, under the wording of the will,

and subsequent arrangements legally sanctioned, Mr Harding and I are only paid servants. The defendants

should have been either the Corporation of Barchester, or possibly the chapter of your father.'

'That's Sir Abraham's opinion; but any scent almost would be a wrong scent. Sir Abraham thinks that if they'd

taken the corporation, or the chapter, we could have baffled them. The bishop, he thinks, would be the surest

shot; but even there we could plead that the bishop is only a visitor, and that he has never made himself a

'Not quite so clear,' said the other. 'You see the will says, "My lord, the bishop, being graciously pleased to

see that due justice be done." Now, it may be a question whether, in accepting and administering the

patronage, your father has not accepted also the other duties assigned. It is doubtful, however; but even if

they hit that nailand they are far off from that yetthe point is so nice, as Sir Abraham says, that you

would force them into fifteen thousand pounds' cost before they could bring it to an issue! and where's that

The archdeacon rubbed his hands with delight; he had never doubted the justice of his case, but he had begun

to have some dread of unjust success on the part of his enemies. It was delightful to him thus to hear that their

cause was surrounded with such rocks and shoals; such causes of shipwreck unseen by the landsman's eye,

but visible enough to the keen eyes of practical law mariners. How wrong his wife was to wish that Bold

should marry Eleanor! Bold! why, if he should be ass enough to persevere, he would be a beggar before he

'That's excellent, Chadwickthat's excellent! I told you Sir Abraham was the man for us'; and he put down

'Because, if that gets abroad, it would teach them how to fight their own battle.'

'No, no, certainly no one else,' said the archdeacon, pleased with the closeness of the confidence; 'no one else

Did the archdeacon wink, or did he not? I am inclined to think he did not quite wink; but that without such,

perhaps, unseemly gesture he communicated to Mr Chadwick, with the corner of his eye, intimation that,

deep as was Mrs Grantly's interest in the matter, it should not procure for her a perusal of that document; and

at the same time he partly opened the small drawer, above spoken of, deposited the paper on the volume of

Rabelais, and showed to Mr Chadwick the nature of the key which guarded these hidden treasures. The

careful steward then expressed himself contented. Ah! vain man! he could fasten up his Rabelais, and other

things secret, with all the skill of Bramah or of Chubb; but where could he fasten up the key which solved

these mechanical mysteries? It is probable to us that the contents of no drawer in that house were unknown to

its mistress, and we think, moreover, that she was entitled to all such knowledge.

'But,' said Mr Chadwick, 'we must, of course, tell your father and Mr Harding so much of Sir Abraham's

'You had better let them know that Sir Abraham is of opinion that there is no case at any rate against Mr

Harding; and that as the action is worded at present, it must fall to the ground; they must be nonsuited, if they

carry it on; you had better tell Mr Harding, that Sir Abraham is clearly of opinion that he is only a servant,

'Oh, I must see him tomorrow, and my father too, and I'll explain to them exactly so muchyou won't go

before lunch, Mr Chadwick: well, if you will, you must, for I know your time is precious'; and he shook

The archdeacon had again recourse to his drawer, and twice read through the essence of Sir Abraham

Haphazard's law enlightened and lawbewildered brains. It was very clear that to Sir Abraham, the justice

of the old men's claim or the justice of Mr Harding's defence were ideas that had never presented themselves.

A legal victory over an opposing party was the service for which Sir Abraham was, as he imagined, to be

paid; and that he, according to his lights, had diligently laboured to achieve, and with probable hope of

success. Of the intense desire which Mr Harding felt to be assured on fit authority that he was wronging no

man, that he was entitled in true equity to his income, that he might sleep at night without pangs of

conscience, that he was no robber, no spoiler of the poor; that he and all the world might be openly convinced

that he was not the man which The Jupiter had described him to be; of such longings on the part of Mr

Harding, Sir Abraham was entirely ignorant; nor, indeed, could it be looked on as part of his business to

gratify such desires. Such was not the system on which his battles were fought, and victories gained. Success

was his object, and he was generally successful. He conquered his enemies by their weakness rather than by

his own strength, and it had been found almost impossible to make up a case in which Sir Abraham, as an

The archdeacon was delighted with the closeness of the reasoning. To do him justice, it was not a selfish

triumph that he desired; he would personally lose nothing by defeat, or at least what he might lose did not

actuate him; but neither was it love of justice which made him so anxious, nor even mainly solicitude for his

fatherinlaw. He was fighting a part of a neverending battle against a neverconquered foethat of the

He knew Mr Harding could not pay all the expense of these doings: for these long opinions of Sir Abraham's,

these causes to be pleaded, these speeches to be made, these various courts through which the case was, he

presumed, to be dragged. He knew that he and his father must at least bear the heavier portion of this

tremendous cost; but to do the archdeacon justice, he did not recoil from this. He was a man fond of obtaining

money, greedy of a large income, but openhanded enough in expending it, and it was a triumph to him to

foresee the success of this measure, although he might be called on to pay so dearly for it himself.

On the following morning the archdeacon was with his father betimes, and a note was sent down to the

warden begging his attendance at the palace. Dr Grantly, as he cogitated on the matter, leaning back in his

brougham as he journeyed into Barchester, felt that it would be difficult to communicate his own satisfaction

either to his father or his fatherinlaw. He wanted success on his own side and discomfiture on that of his

enemies. The bishop wanted peace on the subject; a settled peace if possible, but peace at any rate till the

short remainder of his own days had spun itself out. Mr Harding required not only success and peace, but he

The bishop, however, was comparatively easy to deal with; and before the arrival of the other, the dutiful son

had persuaded his father that all was going on well, and then the warden arrived.

It was Mr Harding's wont, whenever he spent a morning at the palace, to seat himself immediately at the

bishop's elbow, the bishop occupying a huge armchair fitted up with candle sticks, a reading table, a

drawer, and other paraphernalia, the position of which chair was never moved, summer or winter; and when,

as was usual, the archdeacon was there also, he confronted the two elders, who thus were enabled to fight the

battle against him together; and together submit to defeat, for such was their constant fate.

Our warden now took his accustomed place, having greeted his soninlaw as he entered, and then

affectionately inquired after his friend's health. There was a gentleness about the bishop to which the soft

womanly affection of Mr Harding particularly endeared itself, and it was quaint to see how the two mild old

'Sir Abraham's opinion has come at last,' began the archdeacon. Mr Harding had heard so much, and was

'It is quite favourable,' said the bishop, pressing his friend's arm. 'I am so glad.'

Mr Harding looked at the mighty bearer of the important news for confirmation of these glad tidings.

'Yes,' said the archdeacon; 'Sir Abraham has given most minute attention to the case; indeed, I knew he

wouldmost minute attention; and his opinion isand as to his opinion on such a subject being correct, no

one who knows Sir Abraham's character can doubthis opinion is, that they hav'n't got a leg to stand on.'

'Why, in the first place:but you're no lawyer, warden, and I doubt you won't understand it; the gist of the

matter is this:under Hiram's will two paid guardians have been selected for the hospital; the law will say

'At any rate I will not if I am one of the servants,' said Mr Harding. 'A rose, you know'

'Yes, yes,' said the archdeacon, impatient of poetry at such a time. 'Well, two paid servants, we'll say; one to

look after the men, and the other to look after the money. You and Chadwick are these two servants, and

whether either of you be paid too much, or too little, more or less in fact than the founder willed, it's as clear

as daylight that no one can fall foul of either of you for receiving an allotted stipend.'

'That does seem clear,' said the bishop, who had winced visibly at the words servants and stipend, which,

'Quite clear,' said he, 'and very satisfactory. In point of fact, it being necessary to select such servants for the

use of the hospital, the pay to be given to them must depend on the rate of pay for such services, according to

their market value at the period in question; and those who manage the hospital must be the only judges of

'And who does manage the hospital?' asked the warden. 'Oh, let them find that out; that's another question:

the action is brought against you and Chadwick; that's your defence, and a perfect and full defence it is. Now

'Well,' said the bishop, looking inquiringly up into his friend's face, who sat silent awhile, and apparently not

'And conclusive,' continued the archdeacon; 'if they press it to a jury, which they won't do, no twelve men in

'But according to that' said Mr Harding, 'I might as well have sixteen hundred a year as eight, if the managers

choose to allot it to me; and as I am one of the managers, if not the chief manager, myself, that can hardly be

'Oh, well; all that's nothing to the question. The question is, whether this intruding fellow, and a lot of

cheating attorneys and pestilent dissenters, are to interfere with an arrangement which everyone knows is

essentially just and serviceable to the church. Pray don't let us be splitting hairs, and that amongst ourselves,

Mr Harding again sat silent for a while, during which the bishop once and again pressed his arm, and looked

in his face to see if he could catch a gleam of a contented and eased mind; but there was no such gleam, and

the poor warden continued playing sad dirges on invisible stringed instruments in all manner of positions; he

was ruminating in his mind on this opinion of Sir Abraham, looking to it wearily and earnestly for

satisfaction, but finding none. At last he said, 'Did you see the opinion, archdeacon?'

The archdeacon said he had notthat was to say, he had that was, he had not seen the opinion itself; he

had seen what had been called a copy, but he could not say whether of a whole or part; nor could he say that

what he had seen were the ipsissima verba of the great man himself; but what he had seen contained exactly

the decision which he had announced, and which he again declared to be to his mind extremely satisfactory.

'Well, I suppose you can if you make a point of it; but I don't see the use myself; of course it is essential that

the purport of it should not be known, and it is therefore unadvisable to multiply copies.'

'What a question for a man to ask!' said the archdeacon, throwing up his hands in token of his surprise; 'but it

is like youa child is not more innocent than you are in matters of business. Can't you see that if we tell

them that no action will lie against you, but that one may possibly lie against some other person or persons,

that we shall be putting weapons into their hands, and be teaching them how to cut our own throats?'

The warden again sat silent, and the bishop again looked at him wistfully: 'The only thing we have now to

do,' continued the archdeacon, 'is to remain quiet, hold our peace, and let them play their own game as they

'We are not to make known then,' said the warden, 'that we have consulted the attorneygeneral, and that we

'God bless my soul!' said the archdeacon, 'how odd it is that you will not see that all we are to do is to do

nothing: why should we say anything about the founder's will? We are in possession; and we know that they

Mr Harding rose from his seat and paced thoughtfully up and down the library, the bishop the while watching

him painfully at every turn, and the archdeacon continuing to pour forth his convictions that the affair was in

'Oh! The Jupiter,' answered the other. 'The Jupiter can break no bones. You must bear with that; there is

much, of course, which it is our bounden duty to bear; it cannot be all roses for us here,' and the archdeacon

looked exceedingly moral; 'besides, the matter is too trivial, of too little general interest to be mentioned

again in The Jupiter, unless we stir up the subject.' And the archdeacon again looked exceedingly knowing

The warden continued his walk; the hard and stinging words of that newspaper article, each one of which had

thrust a thorn as it were into his inmost soul, were fresh in his memory; he had read it more than once, word

by word, and what was worse, he fancied it was as well known to everyone as to himself. Was he to be

looked on as the unjust griping priest he had been there described? Was he to be pointed at as the consumer

of the bread of the poor, and to be allowed no means of refuting such charges, of clearing his begrimed name,

of standing innocent in the world, as hitherto he had stood? Was he to bear all this, to receive as usual his

now hated income, and be known as one of those greedy priests who by their rapacity have brought disgrace

on their church? And why? Why should he bear all this? Why should he die, for he felt that he could not live,

under such a weight of obloquy? As he paced up and down the room he resolved in his misery and

enthusiasm that he could with pleasure, if he were allowed, give up his place, abandon his pleasant home,

leave the hospital, and live poorly, happily, and with an unsullied name, on the small remainder of his means.

He was a man somewhat shy of speaking of himself, even before those who knew him best, and whom he

loved the most; but at last it burst forth from him, and with a somewhat jerking eloquence he declared that he

'If it can be proved,' said he at last, 'that I have a just and honest right to this, as God well knows I always

deemed I had; if this salary or stipend be really my due, I am not less anxious than another to retain it. I have

the wellbeing of my child to look to. I am too old to miss without some pain the comforts to which I have

been used; and I am, as others are, anxious to prove to the world that I have been right, and to uphold the

place I have held; but I cannot do it at such a cost as this. I cannot bear this. Could you tell me to do so?' And

he appealed, almost in tears, to the bishop, who had left his chair, and was now leaning on the warden's arm

as he stood on the further side of the table facing the archdeacon. 'Could you tell me to sit there at ease,

indifferent, and satisfied, while such things as these are said loudly of me in the world?'

The bishop could feel for him and sympathise with him, but he could not advise him, he could only say, 'No,

no, you shall be asked to do nothing that is painful; you shall do just what your heart tells you to be right; you

shall do whatever you think best yourself. Theophilus, don't advise him, pray don't advise the warden to do

But the archdeacon, though he could not sympathise, could advise; and he saw that the time had come when it

'Why, my lord,' he said, speaking to his father: and when he called his father 'my lord,' the good old bishop

shook in his shoes, for he knew that an evil time was coming. 'Why, my lord, there are two ways of giving

advice: there is advice that may be good for the present day; and there is advice that may be good for days to

come: now I cannot bring myself to give the former, if it be incompatible with the other.'

'No, no, no, I suppose not,' said the bishop, reseating himself, and shading his face with his hands. Mr

Harding sat down with his back to the further wall, playing to himself some air fitted for so calamitous an

occasion, and the archdeacon said out his say standing, with his back to the empty fireplace.

'It is not to be supposed but that much pain will spring out of this unnecessarily raised question. We must all

have foreseen that, and the matter has in no wise gone on worse than we expected; but it will be weak, yes,

and wicked also, to abandon the cause and own ourselves wrong, because the inquiry is painful. It is not only

ourselves we have to look to; to a certain extent the interest of the church is in our keeping. Should it be

found that one after another of those who hold preferment abandoned it whenever it might be attacked, is it

not plain that such attacks would be renewed till nothing was left us? and, that if so deserted, the Church of

England must fall to the ground altogether? If this be true of many, it is true of one. Were you, accused as you

now are, to throw up the wardenship, and to relinquish the preferment which is your property, with the vain

object of proving yourself disinterested, you would fail in that object, you would inflict a desperate blow on

your brother clergymen, you would encourage every cantankerous dissenter in England to make a similar

charge against some source of clerical revenue, and you would do your best to dishearten those who are most

anxious to defend you and uphold your position. I can fancy nothing more weak, or more wrong. It is not that

you think that there is any justice in these charges, or that you doubt your own right to the wardenship: you

are convinced of your own honesty, and yet would yield to them through cowardice.'

'Cowardice!' said the bishop, expostulating. Mr Harding sat unmoved, gazing on his soninlaw.

'Well; would it not be cowardice? Would he not do so because he is afraid to endure the evil things which

will be falsely spoken of him? Would that not be cowardice? And now let us see the extent of the evil which

you dread. The Jupiter publishes an article which a great many, no doubt, will read; but of those who

understand the subject how many will believe The Jupiter? Everyone knows what its object is: it has taken up

the case against Lord Guildford and against the Dean of Rochester, and that against half a dozen bishops; and

does not everyone know that it would take up any case of the kind, right or wrong, false or true, with known

justice or known injustice, if by doing so it could further its own views? Does not all the world know this of

The Jupiter? Who that really knows you will think the worse of you for what The Jupiter says? And why care

for those who do not know you? I will say nothing of your own comfort, but I do say that you could not be

justified in throwing up, in a fit of passion, for such it would be, the only maintenance that Eleanor has; and if

you did so, if you really did vacate the wardenship, and submit to ruin, what would that profit you? If you

have no future right to the income, you have had no past right to it; and the very fact of your abandoning your

position would create a demand for repayment of that which you have already received and spent.'

The poor warden groaned as he sat perfectly still, looking up at the hardhearted orator who thus tormented

him, and the bishop echoed the sound faintly from behind his hands; but the archdeacon cared little for such

'But let us suppose the office to be left vacant, and that your own troubles concerning it were over; would that

satisfy you? Are your only aspirations in the matter confined to yourself and family? I know they are not. I

know you are as anxious as any of us for the church to which we belong; and what a grievous blow would

such an act of apostacy give her! You owe it to the church of which you are a member and a minister, to bear

with this affliction, however severe it may be: you owe it to my father, who instituted you, to support his

rights: you owe it to those who preceded you to assert the legality of their position; you owe it to those who

are to come after you, to maintain uninjured for them that which you received uninjured from others; and you

owe to us all the unflinching assistance of perfect brotherhood in this matter, so that upholding one another

And so the archdeacon ceased, and stood selfsatisfied, watching the effect of his spoken wisdom.

The warden felt himself, to a certain extent, stifled; he would have given the world to get himself out into the

open air without speaking to, or noticing those who were in the room with him; but this was impossible. He

could not leave without saying something, and he felt himself confounded by the archdeacon's eloquence.

There was a heavy, unfeeling, unanswerable truth in what he had said; there was so much practical, but

odious common sense in it, that he neither knew how to assent or to differ. If it were necessary for him to

suffer, he felt that he could endure without complaint and without cowardice, providing that he was

selfsatisfied of the justice of his own cause. What he could not endure was, that he should be accused by

others, and not acquitted by himself. Doubting, as he had begun to doubt, the justice of his own position in

the hospital, he knew that his own selfconfidence would not be restored because Mr Bold had been in error

as to some legal form; nor could he be satisfied to escape, because, through some legal fiction, he who

received the greatest benefit from the hospital might be considered only as one of its servants.

The archdeacon's speech had silenced himstupefied him annihilated him; anything but satisfied him.

With the bishop it fared not much better. He did not discern clearly how things were, but he saw enough to

know that a battle was to be prepared for; a battle that would destroy his few remaining comforts, and bring

The warden still sat, and still looked at the archdeacon, till his thoughts fixed themselves wholly on the

means of escape from his present position, and he felt like a bird fascinated by gazing on a snake.

'I hope you agree with me,' said the archdeacon at last, breaking the dread silence; 'my lord, I hope you agree

Oh, what a sigh the bishop gave! 'My lord, I hope you agree with me,' again repeated the merciless tyrant.

Mr Harding was now stirred to actionhe must speak and move, so he got up and took one turn before he

'Do not press me for an answer just at present; I will do nothing lightly in the matter, and of whatever I do I

will give you and the bishop notice.' And so without another word he took his leave, escaping quickly

through the palace hall, and down the lofty steps, nor did he breathe freely till he found himself alone under

the huge elms of the silent close. Here he walked long and slowly, thinking on his case with a troubled air,

and trying in vain to confute the archdeacon's argument. He then went home, resolved to bear it

allignominy, suspense, disgrace, selfdoubt, and heartburningand to do as those would have him, who

Mr Harding was a sadder man than he had ever yet been when he returned to his own house. He had been

wretched enough on that wellremembered morning when he was forced to expose before his soninlaw the

publisher's account for ushering into the world his dear book of sacred music: when after making such

payments as he could do unassisted, he found that he was a debtor of more than three hundred pounds; but his

sufferings then were as nothing to his present misery;then he had done wrong, and he knew it, and was

able to resolve that he would not sin in like manner again; but now he could make no resolution, and comfort

himself by no promises of firmness. He had been forced to think that his lot had placed him in a false

position, and he was about to maintain that position against the opinion of the world and against his own

He had read with pity, amounting almost to horror, the strictures which had appeared from time to time

against the Earl of Guildford as master of St Cross, and the invectives that had been heaped on rich diocesan

dignitaries and overgrown sinecure pluralists. In judging of them, he judged leniently; the whole bias of his

profession had taught him to think that they were more sinned against than sinning, and that the animosity

with which they had been pursued was venomous and unjust; but he had not the less regarded their plight as

most miserable. His hair had stood on end and his flesh had crept as he read the things which had been

written; he had wondered how men could live under such a load of disgrace; how they could face their

fellowcreatures while their names were bandied about so injuriously and so publiclyand now this lot was

to be hishe, that shy, retiring man, who had so comforted himself in the hidden obscurity of his lot, who

had so enjoyed the unassuming warmth of his own little corner, he was now dragged forth into the glaring

day, and gibbeted before ferocious multitudes. He entered his own house a crestfallen, humiliated man,

He wandered into the drawingroom where was his daughter; but he could not speak to her now, so he left it,

and went into the bookroom. He was not quick enough to escape Eleanor's glance, or to prevent her from

seeing that he was disturbed; and in a little while she followed him. She found him seated in his accustomed

chair with no book open before him, no pen ready in his hand, no illshapen notes of blotted music lying

before him as was usual, none of those hospital accounts with which he was so precise and yet so

unmethodical: he was doing nothing, thinking of nothing, looking at nothing; he was merely suffering.

'Leave me, Eleanor, my dear,' he said; 'leave me, my darling, for a few minutes, for I am busy.'

Eleanor saw well how it was, but she did leave him, and glided silently back to her drawingroom. When he

had sat a while, thus alone and unoccupied, he got up to walk again he could make more of his thoughts

walking than sitting, and was creeping out into his garden, when he met Bunce on the threshold.

'Well, Bunce,' said he, in a tone that for him was sharp, 'what is it? do you want me?'

'I was only coming to ask after your reverence,' said the old bedesman, touching his hat; 'and to inquire about

'Attorney Finney has been there this morning,' continued Bunce, 'and by his looks I guess he is not so well

pleased as he once was, and it has got abroad somehow that the archdeacon has had down great news from

London, and Handy and Moody are both as black as devils. And I hope,' said the man, trying to assume a

cheery tone, 'that things are looking up, and that there'll be an end soon to all this stuff which bothers your

Mr Harding walked on, and shook his head impatiently. Poor Bunce little knew how he was tormenting his

'If there was anything to cheer you, I should be so glad to know it,' said he, with a tone of affection which the

He stopped, and took both the old man's hands in his. 'My friend,' said he, 'my dear old friend, there is

nothing; there is no news to cheer meGod's will be done': and two small hot tears broke away from his

'Then God's will be done,' said the other solemnly; 'but they told me that there was good news from London,

and I came to wish your reverence joy; but God's will be done,' and so the warden again walked on, and the

bedesman, looking wistfully after him and receiving no encouragement to follow, returned sadly to his own

For a couple of hours the warden remained thus in the garden, now walking, now standing motionless on the

turf, and then, as his legs got weary, sitting unconsciously on the garden seats, and then walking again. And

Eleanor, hidden behind the muslin curtains of the window, watched him through the trees as he now came in

sight, and then again was concealed by the turnings of the walk; and thus the time passed away till five, when

It was but a sorry meal. The demure parlourmaid, as she handed the dishes and changed the plates, saw that

all was not right, and was more demure than ever: neither father nor daughter could eat, and the hateful food

'Would you like Bunce to come in, papa?'said Eleanor, thinking that the company of the old man might

'No, my dear, thank you, not today; but are not you going out, Eleanor, this lovely afternoon? don't stay in for

'Sad,' said he, irritated; 'well, people must all have their share of sadness here; I am not more exempt than

another: but kiss me, dearest, and go now; I will, if possible, be more sociable when you return.'

And Eleanor was again banished from her father's sorrow. Ah! her desire now was not to find him happy, but

to be allowed to share his sorrows; not to force him to be sociable, but to persuade him to be trustful.

She put on her bonnet as desired, and went up to Mary Bold; this was now her daily haunt, for John Bold was

up in London among lawyers and church reformers, diving deep into other questions than that of the

wardenship of Barchester; supplying information to one member of Parliament, and dining with another;

subscribing to funds for the abolition of clerical incomes, and seconding at that great national meeting at the

Crown and Anchor a resolution to the effect, that no clergyman of the Church of England, be he who he

might, should have more than a thousand a year, and none less than two hundred and fifty. His speech on this

occasion was short, for fifteen had to speak, and the room was hired for two hours only, at the expiration of

which the Quakers and Mr Cobden were to make use of it for an appeal to the public in aid of the Emperor of

Russia; but it was sharp and effective; at least he was told so by a companion with whom he now lived much,

and on whom he greatly dependedone Tom Towers, a very leading genius, and supposed to have high

So Eleanor, as was now her wont, went up to Mary Bold, and Mary listened kindly, while the daughter spoke

much of her father, and, perhaps kinder still, found a listener in Eleanor, while she spoke about her brother. In

the meantime the warden sat alone, leaning on the arm of his chair; he had poured out a glass of wine, but had

done so merely from habit, for he left it untouched; there he sat gazing at the open window, and thinking, if

he can be said to have thought, of the happiness of his past life. All manner of past delights came before his

mind, which at the time he had enjoyed without considering them; his easy days, his absence of all kind of

hard work, his pleasant shady home, those twelve old neighbours whose welfare till now had been the source

of so much pleasant care, the excellence of his children, the friendship of the dear old bishop, the solemn

grandeur of those vaulted aisles, through which he loved to hear his own voice pealing; and then that friend

of friends, that choice ally that had never deserted him, that eloquent companion that would always, when

asked, discourse such pleasant music, that violoncello of hisah, how happy he had been! but it was over

now; his easy days and absence of work had been the crime which brought on him his tribulation; his shady

home was pleasant no longer; maybe it was no longer his; the old neighbours, whose welfare had been so

desired by him, were his enemies; his daughter was as wretched as himself; and even the bishop was made

miserable by his position. He could never again lift up his voice boldly as he had hitherto done among his

brethren, for he felt that he was disgraced; and he feared even to touch his bow, for he knew how grievous a

He was still sitting in the same chair and the same posture, having hardly moved a limb for two hours, when

Eleanor came back to tea, and succeeded in bringing him with her into the drawingroom.

The tea seemed as comfortless as the dinner, though the warden, who had hitherto eaten nothing all day,

Eleanor had made up her mind to force him to talk to her, but she hardly knew how to commence: she must

wait till the urn was gone, till the servant would no longer be coming in and out.

At last everything was gone, and the drawingroom door was permanently closed; then Eleanor, getting up

and going round to her father, put her arm round his neck, and said, 'Papa, won't you tell me what it is?'

'New sorrow! it's no new sorrow, my dear; we have all our cares sometimes'; and he tried to smile, but it was

a ghastly failure; 'but I shouldn't be so dull a companion; come, we'll have some music.'

'No, papa, not tonightit would only trouble you tonight'; and she sat upon his knee, as she sometimes

would in their gayest moods, and with her arm round his neck, she said: 'Papa, I will not leave you till you

talk to me; oh, if you only knew how much good it would do to you, to tell me of it all.'

The father kissed his daughter, and pressed her to his heart; but still he said nothing: it was so hard to him to

'Oh, papa, do tell me what it is; I know it is about the hospital, and what they are doing up in London, and

what that cruel newspaper has said; but if there be such cause for sorrow, let us be sorrowful together; we are

Mr Harding could not well speak now, for the warm tears were running down his cheeks like rain in May, but

he held his child close to his heart, and squeezed her hand as a lover might, and she kissed his forehead and

his wet cheeks, and lay upon his bosom, and comforted him as a woman only can do.

, My own child,' he said, as soon as his tears would let him speak, 'my own, own child, why should you too

be unhappy before it is necessary? It may come to that, that we must leave this place, but till that time comes,

'And is that all, papa? If that be all, let us leave it, and have light hearts elsewhere: if that be all, let us go. Oh,

papa, you and I could be happy if we had only bread to eat, so long as our hearts were light.'

And Eleanor's face was lighted up with enthusiasm as she told her father how he might banish all his care;

and a gleam of joy shot across his brow as this idea of escape again presented itself, and he again fancied for

a moment that he could spurn away from him the income which the world envied him; that he could give the

lie to that wielder of the tomahawk who had dared to write such things of him in The Jupiter; that he could

leave Sir Abraham, and the archdeacon, and Bold, and the rest of them with their lawsuit among them, and

wipe his hands altogether of so sorrowstirring a concern. Ah, what happiness might there be in the distance,

with Eleanor and him in some small cottage, and nothing left of their former grandeur but their music! Yes,

they would walk forth with their music books, and their instruments, and shaking the dust from off their feet

as they went, leave the ungrateful place. Never did a poor clergyman sigh for a warm benefice more

'Give it up, papa,' she said again, jumping from his knees and standing on her feet before him, looking boldly

Oh, it was sad to see how that momentary gleam of joy passed away; how the look of hope was dispersed

from that sorrowful face, as the remembrance of the archdeacon came back upon our poor warden, and he

reflected that he could not stir from his now hated post. He was as a man bound with iron, fettered with

adamant: he was in no respect a free agent; he had no choice. 'Give it up!' Oh if he only could: what an easy

'Papa, don't doubt about it,' she continued, thinking that his hesitation arose from his unwillingness to

abandon so comfortable a home; 'is it on my account that you would stay here? Do you think that I cannot be

happy without a pony carriage and a fine drawingroom? Papa, I never can be happy here, as long as there

is a question as to your honour in staying here; but I could be gay as the day is long in the smallest tiny little

cottage, if I could see you come in and go out with a light heart. Oh! papa, your face tells so much; though

you won't speak to me with your voice, I know how it is with you every time I look at you.'

How he pressed her to his heart again with almost a spasmodic pressure! How he kissed her as the tears fell

like rain from his old eyes! How he blessed her, and called her by a hundred soft sweet names which now

came new to his lips! How he chid himself for ever having been unhappy with such a treasure in his house,

such a jewel on his bosom, with so sweet a flower in the choice garden of his heart! And then the floodgates

of his tongue were loosed, and, at length, with unsparing detail of circumstances, he told her all that he

wished, and all that he could not do. He repeated those arguments of the archdeacon, not agreeing in their

truth, but explaining his inability to escape from themhow it had been declared to him that he was bound to

remain where he was by the interests of his order, by gratitude to the bishop, by the wishes of his friends, by a

sense of duty, which, though he could not understand it, he was fain to acknowledge. He told her how he had

been accused of cowardice, and though he was not a man to make much of such a charge before the world,

now in the full candour of his heart he explained to her that such an accusation was grievous to him; that he

did think it would be unmanly to desert his post, merely to escape his present sufferings, and that, therefore,

And did she find these details tedious? Oh, no; she encouraged him to dilate on every feeling he expressed,

till he laid bare the inmost corners of his heart to her. They spoke together of the archdeacon, as two children

might of a stern, unpopular, but still respected schoolmaster, and of the bishop as a parent kind as kind could

And then when they had discussed all this, when the father had told all to the child, she could not be less

confiding than he had been; and as John Bold's name was mentioned between them, she owned how well she

had learned to love him'had loved him once,' she said, 'but she would not, could not do so nowno, even

had her troth been plighted to him, she would have taken it back againhad she sworn to love him as his

wife, she would have discarded him, and not felt herself forsworn, when he proved himself the enemy of her

But the warden declared that Bold was no enemy of his, and encouraged her love; and gently rebuked, as he

kissed her, the stern resolve she had made to cast him off; and then he spoke to her of happier days when their

trials would all be over; and declared that her young heart should not be torn asunder to please either priest or

prelate, dean or archdeacon. No, not if all Oxford were to convocate together, and agree as to the necessity of

And so they greatly comforted each otherand in what sorrow will not such mutual confidence give

consolation! and with a last expression of tender love they parted, and went comparatively happy to their

When Eleanor laid her head on her pillow that night, her mind was anxiously intent on some plan by which

she might extricate her father from his misery; and, in her warmhearted enthusiasm, selfsacrifice was

decided on as the means to be adopted. Was not so good an Agamemnon worthy of an Iphigenia? She would

herself personally implore John Bold to desist from his undertaking; she would explain to him her father's

sorrows, the cruel misery of his position; she would tell him how her father would die if he were thus dragged

before the public and exposed to such unmerited ignominy; she would appeal to his old friendship, to his

generosity, to his manliness, to his mercy; if need were, she would kneel to him for the favour she would ask;

but before she did this the idea of love must be banished. There must be no bargain in the matter. To his

mercy, to his generosity, she could appeal; but as a pure maiden, hitherto even unsolicited, she could not

appeal to his love, nor under such circumstances could she allow him to do so. Of course, when so provoked

he would declare his passion; that was to be expected; there had been enough between them to make such a

fact sure; but it was equally certain that he must be rejected. She could not be understood as saying, Make my

father free and I am the reward. There would be no sacrifice in thatnot so had Jephthah's daughter saved

her father not so could she show to that kindest, dearest of parents how much she was able to bear for his

good. No; to one resolve must her whole soul be bound; and so resolving, she felt that she could make her

great request to Bold with as much self assured confidence as she could have done to his grandfather.

And now I own I have fears for my heroine; not as to the upshot of her missionnot in the least as to that; as

to the full success of her generous scheme, and the ultimate result of such a project, no one conversant with

human nature and novels can have a doubt; but as to the amount of sympathy she may receive from those of

her own sex. Girls below twenty and old ladies above sixty will do her justice; for in the female heart the soft

springs of sweet romance reopen after many years, and again gush out with waters pure as in earlier days, and

greatly refresh the path that leads downwards to the grave. But I fear that the majority of those between these

two eras will not approve of Eleanor's plan. I fear that unmarried ladies of thirtyfive will declare that there

can be no probability of so absurd a project being carried through; that young women on their knees before

their lovers are sure to get kissed, and that they would not put themselves in such a position did they not

expect it; that Eleanor is going to Bold only because circumstances prevent Bold from coming to her; that she

is certainly a little fool, or a little schemer, but that in all probability she is thinking a good deal more about

Dear ladies, you are right as to your appreciation of the circumstances, but very wrong as to Miss Harding's

character. Miss Harding was much younger than you are, and could not, therefore, know, as you may do, to

what dangers such an encounter might expose her. She may get kissed; I think it very probable that she will;

but I give my solemn word and positive assurance, that the remotest idea of such a catastrophe never occurred

And then she slept; and then she rose refreshed; and met her father with her kindest embrace and most loving

smiles; and on the whole their breakfast was by no means so triste as had been their dinner the day before;

and then, making some excuse to her father for so soon leaving him, she started on the commencement of her

She knew that John Bold was in London, and that, therefore, the scene itself could not be enacted today; but

she also knew that he was soon to be home, probably on the next day, and it was necessary that some little

plan for meeting him should be concerted with his sister Mary. When she got up to the house, she went, as

usual, into the morning sittingroom, and was startled by perceiving, by a stick, a greatcoat, and sundry

'John has come back so suddenly,' said Mary, coming into the room; 'he has been travelling all night.'

'Then I'll come up again some other time,' said Eleanor, about to beat a retreat in her sudden dismay.

'He's out now, and will be for the next two hours,' said the other; 'he's with that horrid Finney; he only came

Returns by the mail train tonight, thought Eleanor to herself, as she strove to screw up her courageaway

again tonightthen it must be now or never; and she again sat down, having risen to go. She wished the

ordeal could have been postponed: she had fully made up her mind to do the deed, but she had not made up

her mind to do it this very day; and now she felt ill at ease, astray, and in difficulty.

'Oh yes, of course,' said the other; 'I know he'll be delighted to see you'; and she tried to treat it as a matter of

course, but she was not the less surprised; for Mary and Eleanor had daily talked over John Bold and his

conduct, and his love, and Mary would insist on calling Eleanor her sister, and would scold her for not calling

Bold by his Christian name; and Eleanor would half confess her love, but like a modest maiden would protest

against such familiarities even with the name of her lover; and so they talked hour after hour, and Mary Bold,

who was much the elder, looked forward with happy confidence to the day when Eleanor would not be

ashamed to call her her sister. She was, however, fully sure that just at present Eleanor would be much more

'Mary, I must see your brother, now, today, and beg from him a great favour'; and she spoke with a solemn

air, not at all usual to her; and then she went on, and opened to her friend all her plan, her wellweighed

scheme for saving her father from a sorrow which would, she said, if it lasted, bring him to his grave. 'But,

Mary,' she continued, 'you must now, you know, cease any joking about me and Mr Bold; you must now say

no more about that; I am not ashamed to beg this favour from your brother, but when I have done so, there

can never be anything further between us'; and this she said with a staid and solemn air, quite worthy of

It was quite clear that Mary Bold did not follow the argument. That Eleanor Harding should appeal, on behalf

of her father, to Bold's better feelings seemed to Mary quite natural; it seemed quite natural that he should

relent, overcome by such filial tears, and by so much beauty; but, to her thinking, it was at any rate equally

natural, that having relented, John should put his arm round his mistress's waist, and say: 'Now having settled

that, let us be man and wife, and all will end happily!' Why his good nature should not be rewarded, when

such reward would operate to the disadvantage of none, Mary, who had more sense than romance, could not

Eleanor, however, was firm, and made quite an eloquent speech to support her own view of the question: she

could not condescend, she said, to ask such a favour on any other terms than those proposed. Mary might,

perhaps, think her high flown, but she had her own ideas, and she could not submit to sacrifice her

'But I am sure you love himdon't you?' pleaded Mary; 'and I am sure he loves you better than anything in

Eleanor was going to make another speech, but a tear came to each eye, and she could not; so she pretended

to blow her nose, and walked to the window, and made a little inward call on her own courage, and finding

'But you do love him,' said Mary, who had followed her friend to the window, and now spoke with her arms

close wound round the other's waist. 'You do love him with all your heartyou know you do; I defy you to

'I' commenced Eleanor, turning sharply round to refute the charge; but the intended falsehood stuck in her

throat, and never came to utterance. She could not deny her love, so she took plentifully to tears, and leant

upon her friend's bosom and sobbed there, and protested that, love or no love, it would make no difference in

her resolve, and called Mary, a thousand times, the most cruel of girls, and swore her to secrecy by a hundred

oaths, and ended by declaring that the girl who could betray her friend's love, even to a brother, would be as

black a traitor as a soldier in a garrison who should open the city gates to the enemy. While they were yet

discussing the matter, Bold returned, and Eleanor was forced into sudden action: she had either to accomplish

or abandon her plan; and having slipped into her friend's bedroom, as the gentleman closed the hall door, she

washed the marks of tears from her eyes, and resolved within herself to go through with it. 'Tell him I am

here,' said she, 'and coming in; and mind, whatever you do, don't leave us.' So Mary informed her brother,

with a somewhat sombre air, that Miss Harding was in the next room, and was coming to speak to him.

Eleanor was certainly thinking more of her father than herself, as she arranged her hair before the glass, and

removed the traces of sorrow from her face; and yet I should be untrue if I said that she was not anxious to

appear well before her lover: why else was she so sedulous with that stubborn curl that would rebel against

her hand, and smooth so eagerly her ruffled ribands? why else did she damp her eyes to dispel the redness,

and bite her pretty lips to bring back the colour? Of course she was anxious to look her best, for she was but a

mortal angel after all. But had she been immortal, had she flitted back to the sittingroom on a cherub's

wings, she could not have had a more faithful heart, or a truer wish to save her father at any cost to herself.

John Bold had not met her since the day when she left him in dudgeon in the cathedral close. Since that his

whole time had been occupied in promoting the cause against her father, and not unsuccessfully. He had often

thought of her, and turned over in his mind a hundred schemes for showing her how disinterested was his

love. He would write to her and beseech her not to allow the performance of a public duty to injure him in her

estimation; he would write to Mr Harding, explain all his views, and boldly claim the warden's daughter,

urging that the untoward circumstances between them need be no bar to their ancient friendship, or to a closer

tie; he would throw himself on his knees before his mistress; he would wait and marry the daughter when the

father has lost his home and his income; he would give up the lawsuit and go to Australia, with her of course,

leaving The Jupiter and Mr Finney to complete the case between them. Sometimes as he woke in the morning

fevered and impatient, he would blow out his brains and have done with all his caresbut this idea was

How beautiful Eleanor appeared to him as she slowly walked into the room! Not for nothing had all those

little cares been taken. Though her sister, the archdeacon's wife, had spoken slightingly of her charms,

Eleanor was very beautiful when seen aright. Hers was not of those impassive faces, which have the beauty

of a marble bust; finely chiselled features, perfect in every line, true to the rules of symmetry, as lovely to a

stranger as to a friend, unvarying unless in sickness, or as age affects them. She had no startling brilliancy of

beauty, no pearly whiteness, no radiant carnation. She had not the majestic contour that rivets attention,

demands instant wonder and then disappoints by the coldness of its charms. You might pass Eleanor Harding

in the street without notice, but you could hardly pass an evening with her and not lose your heart.

She had never appeared more lovely to her lover than she now did. Her face was animated though it was

serious, and her full dark lustrous eyes shone with anxious energy; her hand trembled as she took his, and she

could hardly pronounce his name, when she addressed him. Bold wished with all his heart that the Australian

scheme was in the act of realisation, and that he and Eleanor were away together, never to hear further of the

He began to talk, asked after her healthsaid something about London being very stupid, and more about

Barchester being very pleasant; declared the weather to be very hot, and then inquired after Mr Harding.

John Bold was very sorry, so sorry: he hoped it was nothing serious, and put on the unmeaningly solemn face

'I especially want to speak to you about my father, Mr Bold; indeed, I am now here on purpose to do so. Papa

is very unhappy, very unhappy indeed, about this affair of the hospital: you would pity him, Mr Bold, if you

'Indeed you wouldanyone would pity him; but a friend, an old friend as you areindeed you would. He is

an altered man; his cheerfulness has all gone, and his sweet temper, and his kind happy tone of voice; you

would hardly know him if you saw him, Mr Bold, he is so much altered; andandif this goes on, he will

die.' Here Eleanor had recourse to her handkerchief, and so also had her auditors; but she plucked up her

courage, and went on with her tale. 'He will break his heart, and die. I am sure, Mr Bold, it was not you who

John Bold eagerly protested that it was not, but his heart smote him as to his intimate alliance with Tom

'No, I am sure it was not; and papa has not for a moment thought so; you would not be so cruelbut it has

nearly killed him. Papa cannot bear to think that people should so speak of him, and that everybody should

hear him so spoken of:they have called him avaricious, and dishonest, and they say he is robbing the old

'No,' continued Eleanor, interrupting him, for she was now in the full floodtide of her eloquence; 'no, I am

sure you have not; but others have said so; and if this goes on, if such things are written again, it will kill

papa. Oh! Mr Bold, if you only knew the state he is in! Now papa does not care much about money.'

Both her auditors, brother and sister, assented to this, and declared on their own knowledge that no man lived

'Oh! it's so kind of you to say so, Mary, and of you too, Mr Bold. I couldn't bear that people should think

unjustly of papa. Do you know he would give up the hospital altogether, only he cannot. The archdeacon says

it would be cowardly, and that he would be deserting his order, and injuring the church. Whatever may

happen, papa will not do that: he would leave the place tomorrow willingly, and give up his house, and the

Eleanor was going to say 'would let him,' but she stopped herself before she had compromised her father's

'No one who knows Mr Harding personally accuses him for a moment,' said Bold. 'It is he that has to bear the

punishment; it is he that suffers,' said Eleanor; 'and what for? what has he done wrong? how has he deserved

this persecution? he that never had an unkind thought in his life, he that never said an unkind word!' and here

Bold, for the fifth or sixth time, declared that neither he nor any of his friends imputed any blame personally

'Then why should he be persecuted?' ejaculated Eleanor through her tears, forgetting in her eagerness that her

intention had been to humble herself as a suppliant before John Bold 'why should he be singled out for

scorn and disgrace? why should he be made so wretched? Oh! Mr Bold'and she turned towards him as

though the kneeling scene were about to be commenced'oh! Mr Bold, why did you begin all this? You,

To speak the truth, the reformer's punishment was certainly come upon him, for his present plight was not

enviable; he had nothing for it but to excuse himself by platitudes about public duty, which it is by no means

worth while to repeat, and to reiterate his eulogy on Mr Harding's character. His position was certainly a cruel

one: had any gentleman called upon him on behalf of Mr Harding he could of course have declined to enter

upon the subject; but how could he do so with a beautiful girl, with the daughter of the man whom he had

In the meantime Eleanor recollected herself, and again summoned up her energies. 'Mr Bold,' said she, 'I have

come here to implore you to abandon this proceeding.' He stood up from his seat, and looked beyond measure

distressed. 'To implore you to abandon it, to implore you to spare my father, to spare either his life or his

reason, for one or the other will pay the forfeit if this goes on. I know how much I am asking, and how little

right I have to ask anything; but I think you will listen to me as it is for my father. Oh, Mr Bold, pray, pray do

She did not absolutely kneel to him, but she followed him as he moved from his chair, and laid her soft hands

imploringly upon his arm. Ah! at any other time how exquisitely valuable would have been that touch! but

now he was distraught, dumbfounded and unmanned. What could he say to that sweet suppliant; how explain

to her that the matter now was probably beyond his control; how tell her that he could not quell the storm

'I would give her my soul,' said he, 'if it would serve her.' 'Oh, Mr Bold,' said Eleanor, 'do not speak so; I ask

'I would give her my soul, if it would serve her,' said Bold, still addressing his sister; 'everything I have is

hers, if she will accept it; my house, my heart, my all; every hope of my breast is centred in her; her smiles

are sweeter to me than the sun, and when I see her in sorrow as she now is, every nerve in my body suffers.

'No, no, no,' ejaculated Eleanor; 'there can be no talk of love between us. Will you protect my father from the

'No, no, no!' she almost screamed. 'This is unmanly of you, Mr Bold. Will you, will you, will you leave my

father to die in peace in his quiet home?' and seizing him by his arm and hand, she followed him across the

room towards the door. 'I will not leave you till you promise me; I'll cling to you in the street; I'll kneel to you

before all the people. You shall promise me this, you shall promise me this, you shall' And she clung to

'Speak to her, John; answer her,' said Mary, bewildered by the unexpected vehemence of Eleanor's manner;

'Promise me, promise me,' said Eleanor; 'say that my father is safeone word will do. I know how true you

She still held him, and looked eagerly into his face, with her hair dishevelled and her eyes all bloodshot. She

had no thought now of herself, no care now for her appearance; and yet he thought he had never seen her half

so lovely; he was amazed at the intensity of her beauty, and could hardly believe that it was she whom he had

dared to love. 'Promise me,' said she; 'I will not leave you till you have promised me.'

'Then may God Almighty bless you for ever and ever!' said Eleanor; and falling on her knees with her face in

Mary's lap, she wept and sobbed like a child: her strength had carried her through her allotted task, but now it

In a while she was partly recovered, and got up to go, and would have gone, had not Bold made her

understand that it was necessary for him to explain to her how far it was in his power to put an end to the

proceedings which had been taken against Mr Harding. Had he spoken on any other subject, she would have

vanished, but on that she was bound to hear him; and now the danger of her position commenced. While she

had an active part to play, while she clung to him as a suppliant, it was easy enough for her to reject his

proffered love, and cast from her his caressing words; but nownow that he had yielded, and was talking to

her calmly and kindly as to her father's welfare, it was hard enough for her to do so. Then Mary Bold assisted

her; but now she was quite on her brother's side. Mary said but little, but every word she did say gave some

direct and deadly blow. The first thing she did was to make room for her brother between herself and Eleanor

on the sofa: as the sofa was full large for three, Eleanor could not resent this, nor could she show suspicion by

taking another seat; but she felt it to be a most unkind proceeding. And then Mary would talk as though they

three were joined in some close peculiar bond together; as though they were in future always to wish

together, contrive together, and act together; and Eleanor could not gainsay this; she could not make another

speech, and say, 'Mr Bold and I are strangers, Mary, and are always to remain so!'

He explained to her that, though undoubtedly the proceeding against the hospital had commenced solely with

himself, many others were now interested in the matter, some of whom were much more influential than

himself; that it was to him alone, however, that the lawyers looked for instruction as to their doings, and,

more important still, for the payment of their bills; and he promised that he would at once give them notice

that it was his intention to abandon the cause. He thought, he said, that it was not probable that any active

steps would be taken after he had seceded from the matter, though it was possible that some passing allusion

might still be made to the hospital in the daily Jupiter. He promised, however, that he would use his best

influence to prevent any further personal allusion being made to Mr Harding. He then suggested that he

would on that afternoon ride over himself to Dr Grantly, and inform him of his altered intentions on the

This was all very pleasant, and Eleanor did enjoy a sort of triumph in the feeling that she had attained the

object for which she had sought this interview; but still the part of Iphigenia was to be played out. The gods

had heard her prayer, granted her request, and were they not to have their promised sacrifice? Eleanor was

not a girl to defraud them wilfully; so, as soon as she decently could, she got up for her bonnet.

'Are you going so soon?' said Bold, who half an hour since would have given a hundred pounds that he was in

'Oh yes!' said she. 'I am so much obliged to you; papa will feel this to be so kind.' She did not quite appreciate

all her father's feelings. 'Of course I must tell him, and I will say that you will see the archdeacon.'

'I'll fetch you your bonnet, Eleanor,' said Mary, in the act of leaving the room.

'Mary, Mary,' said she, getting up and catching her by her dress; 'don't go, I'll get my bonnet myself.' But

Mary, the traitress, stood fast by the door, and permitted no such retreat. Poor Iphigenia!

And with a volley of impassioned love, John Bold poured forth the feelings of his heart, swearing, as men do,

some truths and many falsehoods; and Eleanor repeated with every shade of vehemence the 'No, no, no,'

which had had a short time since so much effect; but now, alas! its strength was gone. Let her be never so

vehement, her vehemence was not respected; all her 'No, no, no's' were met with counterasseverations, and

at last were overpowered. The ground was cut from under her on every side. She was pressed to say whether

her father would object; whether she herself had any aversion (aversion! God help her, poor girl! the word

nearly made her jump into his arms); any other preference (this she loudly disclaimed); whether it was

impossible that she should love him (Eleanor could not say that it was impossible): and so at last all her

defences demolished, all her maiden barriers swept away, she capitulated, or rather marched out with the

honours of war, vanquished evidently, palpably vanquished, but still not reduced to the necessity of

Whether or no the illnatured prediction made by certain ladies in the beginning of the last chapter was or

was not carried out to the letter, I am not in a position to state. Eleanor, however, certainly did feel herself to

have been baffled as she returned home with all her news to her father. Certainly she had been victorious,

certainly she had achieved her object, certainly she was not unhappy, and yet she did not feel herself

triumphant. Everything would run smooth now. Eleanor was not at all addicted to the Lydian school of

romance; she by no means objected to her lover because he came in at the door under the name of Absolute,

instead of pulling her out of a window under the name of Beverley; and yet she felt that she had been

imposed upon, and could hardly think of Mary Bold with sisterly charity. 'I did think I could have trusted

Mary,' she said to herself over and over again. 'Oh that she should have dared to keep me in the room when I

tried to get out!' Eleanor, however, felt that the game was up, and that she had now nothing further to do but

to add to the budget of news which was prepared for her father, that John Bold was her accepted lover.

We will, however, now leave her on her way, and go with John Bold to Plumstead Episcopi, merely

premising that Eleanor on reaching home will not find things so smooth as she fondly expected; two

messengers had come, one to her father and the other to the archdeacon, and each of them much opposed to

her quiet mode of solving all their difficulties; the one in the shape of a number of The Jupiter, and the other

John Bold got on his horse and rode off to Plumstead Episcopi; not briskly and with eager spur, as men do

ride when self satisfied with their own intentions; but slowly, modestly, thoughtfully, and somewhat in

dread of the coming interview. Now and again he would recur to the scene which was just over, support

himself by the remembrance of the silence that gives consent, and exult as a happy lover. But even this

feeling was not without a shade of remorse. Had he not shown himself childishly weak thus to yield up the

resolve of many hours of thought to the tears of a pretty girl? How was he to meet his lawyer? How was he to

back out of a matter in which his name was already so publicly concerned? What, oh what! was he to say to

Tom Towers? While meditating these painful things he reached the lodge leading up to the archdeacon's

glebe, and for the first time in his life found himself within the sacred precincts.

All the doctor's children were together on the slope of the lawn close to the road, as Bold rode up to the hall

door. They were there holding high debate on matters evidently of deep interest at Plumstead Episcopi, and

Florinda and Grizzel, frightened at the sight of so well known an enemy to the family, fled on the first

appearance of the horseman, and ran in terror to their mother's arms; not for them was it, tender branches, to

resent injuries, or as members of a church militant to put on armour against its enemies. But the boys stood

'Do you want to see anybody here, sir?' said Henry, with a defiant eye and a hostile tone, which plainly said

that at any rate no one there wanted to see the person so addressed; and as he spoke he brandished aloft his

'Henry,' said Charles James slowly, and with a certain dignity of diction, 'Mr Bold of course would not have

come without wanting to see someone; if Mr Bold has a proper ground for wanting to see some person here,

But Samuel stepped lightly up to the horse's head, and offered his services. 'Oh, Mr Bold,' said he, 'papa, I'm

sure, will be glad to see you; I suppose you want to see papa. Shall I hold your horse for you? Oh what a very

pretty horse!' and he turned his head and winked funnily at his brothers. 'Papa has heard such good news

about the old hospital today. We know you'll be glad to hear it, because you're such a friend of grandpapa

'How d'ye do, lads?' said Bold, dismounting. 'I want to see your father if he's at home.'

'Lads!' said Henry, turning on his heel and addressing himself to his brother, but loud enough to be heard by

Charles James condescended to say nothing further, but cocked his hat with much precision, and left the

Samuel stayed till the servant came, chatting and patting the horse; but as soon as Bold had disappeared

through the front door, he stuck a switch under the animal's tail to make him kick if possible.

The church reformer soon found himself teteatete with the archdeacon in that same room, in that sanctum

sanctorum of the rectory, to which we have already been introduced. As he entered he heard the click of a

certain patent lock, but it struck him with no surprise; the worthy clergyman was no doubt hiding from eyes

profane his last muchstudied sermon; for the archdeacon, though he preached but seldom, was famous for

his sermons. No room, Bold thought, could have been more becoming for a dignitary of the church; each wall

was loaded with theology; over each separate bookcase was printed in small gold letters the names of those

great divines whose works were ranged beneath: beginning from the early fathers in due chronological order,

there were to be found the precious labours of the chosen servants of the church down to the last pamphlet

written in opposition to the consecration of Dr Hampden; and raised above this were to be seen the busts of

the greatest among the great: Chrysostom, St Augustine, Thomas a Becket, Cardinal Wolsey, Archbishop

Every appliance that could make study pleasant and give ease to the overtoiled brain was there; chairs made

to relieve each limb and muscle; readingdesks and writingdesks to suit every attitude; lamps and candles

mechanically contrived to throw their light on any favoured spot, as the student might desire; a shoal of

newspapers to amuse the few leisure moments which might be stolen from the labours of the day; and then

from the window a view right through a bosky vista along which ran a broad green path from the rectory to

the churchat the end of which the tawnytinted fine old tower was seen with all its variegated pinnacles

and parapets. Few parish churches in England are in better repair, or better worth keeping so, than that at

Plumstead Episcopi; and yet it is built in a faulty style: the body of the church is lowso low, that the nearly

flat leaden roof would be visible from the churchyard, were it not for the carved parapet with which it is

surrounded. It is cruciform, though the transepts are irregular, one being larger than the other; and the tower

is much too high in proportion to the church. But the colour of the building is perfect; it is that rich yellow

gray which one finds nowhere but in the south and west of England, and which is so strong a characteristic of

most of our old houses of Tudor architecture. The stone work also is beautiful; the mullions of the windows

and the thick tracery of the Gothic workmanship is as rich as fancy can desire; and though in gazing on such a

structure one knows by rule that the old priests who built it, built it wrong, one cannot bring oneself to wish

When Bold was ushered into the bookroom, he found its owner standing with his back to the empty

fireplace ready to receive him, and he could not but perceive that that expansive brow was elated with

triumph, and that those full heavy lips bore more prominently than usual an appearance of arrogant success.

'Well, Mr Bold,' said he'well, what can I do for you? Very happy, I can assure you, to do anything for such

'Certainly, certainly,' said the archdeacon; 'I can assure you, no apology is necessary from Mr Bold; only let

Dr Grantly was standing himself, and he did not ask Bold to sit, and therefore he had to tell his tale standing,

leaning on the table, with his hat in his hand. He did, however, manage to tell it; and as the archdeacon never

once interrupted him, or even encouraged him by a single word, he was not long in coming to the end of it.

'And so, Mr Bold, I'm to understand, I believe, that you are desirous of abandoning this attack upon Mr

'Well, well, we won't quarrel about words; I should call it an attackmost men would so call an endeavour

to take away from a man every shilling of income that he has to live upon; but it sha'n't be an attack, if you

don't like it; you wish to abandon thisthis little game of backgammon you've begun to play.'

'I understand,' said the archdeacon. 'You've already had enough of it; well, I can't say that I am surprised;

carrying on a losing lawsuit where one has nothing to gain, but everything to pay, is not pleasant.'

Bold turned very red in the face. 'You misinterpret my motives,' said he; 'but, however, that is of little

consequence. I did not come to trouble you with my motives, but to tell you a matter of fact. Goodmorning,

'One momentone moment,' said the other. 'I don't exactly appreciate the taste which induced you to make

any personal communication to me on the subject; but I dare say I'm wrong, I dare say your judgment is the

better of the two; but as you have done me the honouras you have, as it were, forced me into a certain

amount of conversation on a subject which had better, perhaps, have been left to our lawyers, you will excuse

'Well, I am, Mr Bold; my time is not exactly leisure time, and, therefore, if you please, we'll go to the point at

'Having exposed a gentleman who was one of your father's warmest friends to all the ignominy and insolence

which the press could heap upon his name, having somewhat ostentatiously declared that it was your duty as

a man of high public virtue to protect those poor old fools whom you have humbugged there at the hospital,

you now find that the game costs more than it's worth, and so you make up your mind to have done with it. A

prudent resolution, Mr Bold; but it is a pity you should have been so long coming to it. Has it struck you that

we may not now choose to give over? that we may find it necessary to punish the injury you have done to us?

Are you aware, sir, that we have gone to enormous expense to resist this iniquitous attempt of yours?'

Bold's face was now furiously red, and he nearly crushed his hat between his hands; but he said nothing.

'We have found it necessary to employ the best advice that money could procure. Are you aware, sir, what

'I dare say not, sir. When you recklessly put this affair into the hands of your friend Mr Finney, whose

sixandeightpences and thirteenandfourpences may, probably, not amount to a large sum, you were

indifferent as to the cost and suffering which such a proceeding might entail on others; but are you aware, sir,

'Any demand of such a nature which Mr Harding's lawyer may have to make will doubtless be made to my

'"Mr Harding's lawyer and my lawyer!" Did you come here merely to refer me to the lawyers? Upon my word

I think the honour of your visit might have been spared! And now, sir, I'll tell you what my opinion ismy

opinion is, that we shall not allow you to withdraw this matter from the courts.'

'Hear me out, sir,' said the archdeacon; 'I have here in my hands the last opinion given in this matter by Sir

Abraham Haphazard. I dare say you have already heard of thisI dare say it has had something to do with

'Be that as it may, here it is; he declares most explicitly that under no phasis of the affair whatever have you a

leg to stand upon; that Mr Harding is as safe in his hospital as I am here in my rectory; that a more futile

attempt to destroy a man was never made, than this which you have made to ruin Mr Harding. Here,' and he

slapped the paper on the table, 'I have this opinion from the very first lawyer in the land; and under these

circumstances you expect me to make you a low bow for your kind offer to release Mr Harding from the toils

of your net! Sir, your net is not strong enough to hold him; sir, your net has fallen to pieces, and you knew

that well enough before I told youand now, sir, I'll wish you good morning, for I'm busy.'

Bold was now choking with passion. He had let the archdeacon run on because he knew not with what words

to interrupt him; but now that he had been so defied and insulted, he could not leave the room without some

'I have nothing further to say or to hear,' said the archdeacon. 'I'll do myself the honour to order your horse.'

'With the kindest feelingsand they have been most grossly outraged by your treatment.'

'Of course they haveI have not chosen to see my fatherinlaw ruined; what an outrage that has been to

'The time will come, Dr Grantly, when you will understand why I called upon you today.'

'No doubt, no doubt. Is Mr Bold's horse there? That's right; open the front door. Goodmorning, Mr Bold';

and the doctor stalked into his own drawingroom, closing the door behind him, and making it quite

As he got on his horse, which he was fain to do feeling like a dog turned out of a kitchen, he was again

'Goodbye, Mr Bold; I hope we may have the pleasure of seeing you again before long; I am sure papa will

That was certainly the bitterest moment in John Bold's life. Not even the remembrance of his successful love

could comfort him; nay, when he thought of Eleanor he felt that it was that very love which had brought him

to such a pass. That he should have been so insulted, and be unable to reply! That he should have given up so

much to the request of a girl, and then have had his motives so misunderstood! That he should have made so

gross a mistake as this visit of his to the archdeacon's! He bit the top of his whip, till he penetrated the horn of

which it was made: he struck the poor animal in his anger, and then was doubly angry with himself at his

futile passion. He had been so completely checkmated, so palpably overcome! and what was he to do? He

could not continue his action after pledging himself to abandon it; nor was there any revenge in thatit was

He threw the reins to the servant who came to take his horse, and rushed upstairs into his drawingroom,

'If there be a devil,' said he, 'a real devil here on earth, it is Dr Grantly.' He vouchsafed her no further

intelligence, but again seizing his hat, he rushed out, and took his departure for London without another word

The meeting between Eleanor and her father was not so stormy as that described in the last chapter, but it was

hardly more successful. On her return from Bold's house she found her father in a strange state. He was not

sorrowful and silent as he had been on that memorable day when his soninlaw lectured him as to all that he

owed to his order; nor was he in his usual quiet mood. When Eleanor reached the hospital, he was walking to

'Yes, my dear, to London; I will have this matter settled some way; there are some things, Eleanor, which I

'Oh, papa, what is it?' said she, leading him by the arm into the house. 'I had such good news for you, and

now you make me fear I am too late. And then, before he could let her know what had caused this sudden

resolve, or could point to the fatal paper which lay on the table, she told him that the lawsuit was over, that

Bold had commissioned her to assure her father in his name that it would be abandoned,that there was no

further cause for misery, that the whole matter might be looked on as though it had never been discussed. She

did not tell him with what determined vehemence she had obtained this concession in his favour, nor did she

The warden did not express himself peculiarly gratified at this intelligence, and Eleanor, though she had not

worked for thanks, and was by no means disposed to magnify her own good offices, felt hurt at the manner in

which her news was received. 'Mr Bold can act as he thinks proper, my love,' said he; 'if Mr Bold thinks he

has been wrong, of course he will discontinue what he is doing; but that cannot change my purpose.'

'Oh, papa!' she exclaimed, all but crying with vexation; 'I thought you would have been so happyI thought

'Mr Bold,' continued he, 'has set great people to workso great that I doubt they are now beyond his control.

Read that, my dear.' The warden, doubling up a number of The Jupiter, pointed to the peculiar article which

she was to read. It was to the last of the three leaders, which are generally furnished daily for the support of

the nation, that Mr Harding directed her attention. It dealt some heavy blows on various clerical delinquents;

on families who received their tens of thousands yearly for doing nothing; on men who, as the article stated,

rolled in wealth which they had neither earned nor inherited, and which was in fact stolen from the poorer

clergy. It named some sons of bishops, and grandsons of archbishops; men great in their way, who had

redeemed their disgrace in the eyes of many by the enormity of their plunder; and then, having disposed of

'We alluded some weeks since to an instance of similar injustice, though in a more humble scale, in which the

warden of an almshouse at Barchester has become possessed of the income of the greater part of the whole

institution. Why an almshouse should have a warden we cannot pretend to explain, nor can we say what

special need twelve old men can have for the services of a separate clergyman, seeing that they have twelve

reserved seats for themselves in Barchester Cathedral. But be this as it may, let the gentleman call himself

warden or precentor, or what he will, let him be never so scrupulous in exacting religious duties from his

twelve dependents, or never so negligent as regards the services of the cathedral, it appears palpably clear that

he can be entitled to no portion of the revenue of the hospital, excepting that which the founder set apart for

him; and it is equally clear that the founder did not intend that threefifths of his charity should be so

'The case is certainly a paltry one after the tens of thousands with which we have been dealing, for the

warden's income is after all but a poor eight hundred a year: eight hundred a year is not magnificent

preferment of itself, and the warden may, for anything we know, be worth much more to the church; but if so,

'We allude to the question of the Barchester almshouse at the present moment, because we understand that a

plea has been set up which will be peculiarly revolting to the minds of English churchmen. An action has

been taken against Mr Warden Harding, on behalf of the almsmen, by a gentleman acting solely on public

grounds, and it is to be argued that Mr Harding takes nothing but what he received as a servant of the

hospital, and that he is not himself responsible for the amount of stipend given to him for his work. Such a

plea would doubtless be fair, if anyone questioned the daily wages of a bricklayer employed on the building,

or the fee of the charwoman who cleans it; but we cannot envy the feeling of a clergyman of the Church of

'If this plea be put forward we trust Mr Harding will be forced as a witness to state the nature of his

employment; the amount of work that he does; the income which he receives; and the source from whence he

obtained his appointment. We do not think he will receive much public sympathy to atone for the annoyance

As Eleanor read the article her face flushed with indignation, and when she had finished it, she almost feared

'Well, my dear,' said he, 'what do you think of thatis it worth while to be a warden at that price?'

'Mr Bold can't unwrite that, my dearMr Bold can't say that that sha'n't be read by every clergyman at

Oxford; nay, by every gentleman in the land': and then he walked up and down the room, while Eleanor in

mute despair followed him with her eyes. 'And I'll tell you what, my dear,' he continued, speaking now very

calmly, and in a forced manner very unlike himself; 'Mr Bold can't dispute the truth of every word in that

article you have just readnor can I.' Eleanor stared at him, as though she scarcely understood the words he

was speaking. 'Nor can I, Eleanor: that's the worst of all, or would be so if there were no remedy. I have

thought much of all this since we were together last night'; and he came and sat beside her, and put his arm

round her waist as he had done then. 'I have thought much of what the archdeacon has said, and of what this

'No right to be warden with eight hundred a year; no right to be warden with such a house as this; no right to

spend in luxury money that was intended for charity. Mr Bold may do as he pleases about his suit, but I hope

Poor Eleanor! this was hard upon her. Was it for this she had made her great resolve! For this that she had

laid aside her quiet demeanour, and taken upon her the rants of a tragedy heroine! One may work and not for

thanks, but yet feel hurt at not receiving them; and so it was with Eleanor: one may be disinterested in one's

good actions, and yet feel discontented that they are not recognised. Charity may be given with the left hand

so privily that the right hand does not know it, and yet the left hand may regret to feel that it has no

immediate reward. Eleanor had had no wish to burden her father with a weight of obligation, and yet she had

looked forward to much delight from the knowledge that she had freed him from his sorrows: now such

hopes were entirely over: all that she had done was of no avail; she had humbled herself to Bold in vain; the

She had thought also how gently she would whisper to her father all that her lover had said to her about

herself, and how impossible she had found it to reject him: and then she had anticipated her father's kindly

kiss and close embrace as he gave his sanction to her love. Alas! she could say nothing of this now. In

speaking of Mr Bold, her father put him aside as one whose thoughts and sayings and acts could be of no

moment. Gentle reader, did you ever feel yourself snubbed? Did you ever, when thinking much of your own

importance, find yourself suddenly reduced to a nonentity? Such was Eleanor's feeling now.

'They shall not put forward this plea on my behalf,' continued the warden. 'Whatever may be the truth of the

matter, that at any rate is not true; and the man who wrote that article is right in saying that such a plea is

revolting to an honest mind. I will go up to London, my dear, and see these lawyers myself, and if no better

'I can't help it, my dear; there are some things which a man cannot bearI cannot bear that'; and he put his

To tell the truth, Mr Harding had made up his mind to steal a march upon the archdeacon. He was aware that

he could take no steps without informing his dread soninlaw, but he had resolved that he would send out a

note to Plumstead Episcopi detailing his plans, but that the messenger should not leave Barchester till he

himself had started for London; so that he might be a day before the doctor, who, he had no doubt, would

follow him. In that day, if he had luck, he might arrange it all; he might explain to Sir Abraham that he, as

warden, would have nothing further to do with the defence about to be set up; he might send in his official

resignation to his friend the bishop, and so make public the whole transaction, that even the doctor would not

be able to undo what he had done. He knew too well the doctor's strength and his own weakness to suppose

he could do this, if they both reached London together; indeed, he would never be able to get to London, if

'No, I think not,' said he. 'I think I shall start before the archdeacon could be readyI shall go early

'That will be best, papa,' said Eleanor, showing that her father's ruse was appreciated.

'Why yes, my love. The fact is, I wish to do all this before the archdeacon cancan interfere. There is a great

deal of truth in all he sayshe argues very well, and I can't always answer him; but there is an old saying,

Nelly: " Everyone knows where his own shoe pinches!" He'll say that I want moral courage, and strength of

character, and power of endurance, and it's all true; but I'm sure I ought not to remain here, if I have nothing

better to put forward than a quibble: so, Nelly, we shall have to leave this pretty place.'

Eleanor's face brightened up, as she assured her father how cordially she agreed with him.

'True, my love,' said he, now again quite happy and at ease in his manner. 'What good to us is this place or all

'My darling child! It did cost me a pang at first, Nelly, to think that you should lose your pretty

drawingroom, and your ponies, and your garden: the garden will be the worst of all but there is a garden

Crabtree Parva was the name of the small living which Mr Harding had held as a minor canon, and which still

belonged to him. It was only worth some eighty pounds a year, and a small house and glebe, all of which

were now handed over to Mr Harding's curate; but it was to Crabtree glebe that Mr Harding thought of

retiring. This parish must not be mistaken for that other living, Crabtree Canonicorum, as it is called.

Crabtree Canonicorum is a very nice thing; there are only two hundred parishioners; there are four hundred

acres of glebe; and the great and small tithes, which both go to the rector, are worth four hundred pounds a

year more. Crabtree Canonicorum is in the gift of the dean and chapter, and is at this time possessed by the

Honourable and Reverend Dr Vesey Stanhope, who also fills the prebendal stall of Goosegorge in Barchester

Chapter, and holds the united rectory of Eiderdown and Stogpingum, or Stoke Pinquium, as it should be

written. This is the same Dr Vesey Stanhope whose hospitable villa on the Lake of Como is so well known to

the elite of English travellers, and whose collection of Lombard butterflies is supposed to be unique.

'Yes,' said the warden, musing, 'there is a very pretty garden at Crabtree; but I shall be sorry to disturb poor

Smith.' Smith was the curate of Crabtree, a gentleman who was maintaining a wife and half a dozen children

Eleanor assured her father that, as far as she was concerned, she could leave her house and her ponies without

a single regret. She was only so happy that he was goinggoing where he would escape all this dreadful

And so they went on planning their future happiness, and plotting how they would arrange it all without the

interposition of the archdeacon, and at last they again became confidential, and then the warden did thank her

for what she had done, and Eleanor, lying on her father's shoulder, did find an opportunity to tell her secret:

and the father gave his blessing to his child, and said that the man whom she loved was honest, good, and

kindhearted, and rightthinking in the mainone who wanted only a good wife to put him quite

upright'a man, my love,' he ended by saying, 'to whom I firmly believe that I can trust my treasure with

And Eleanor ran upstairs to prepare her father's clothes for his journey; and the warden returned to his garden

to make his last adieux to every tree, and shrub, and shady nook that he knew so well.

Wretched in spirit, groaning under the feeling of insult, selfcondemning, and illsatisfied in every way,

Bold returned to his London lodgings. Ill as he had fared in his interview with the archdeacon, he was not

the less under the necessity of carrying out his pledge to Eleanor; and he went about his ungracious task with

The attorneys whom he had employed in London received his instructions with surprise and evident

misgiving; however, they could only obey, and mutter something of their sorrow that such heavy costs should

only fall upon their own employer especially as nothing was wanting but perseverance to throw them on

the opposite party. Bold left the office which he had latterly so much frequented, shaking the dust from off

his feet; and before he was down the stairs, an edict had already gone forth for the preparation of the bill.

He next thought of the newspapers. The case had been taken up by more than one; and he was well aware that

the keynote had been sounded by The Jupiter. He had been very intimate with Tom Towers, and had often

discussed with him the affairs of the hospital. Bold could not say that the articles in that paper had been

written at his own instigation. He did not even know, as a fact, that they had been written by his friend. Tom

Towers had never said that such a view of the case, or such a side in the dispute, would be taken by the paper

with which he was connected. Very discreet in such matters was Tom Towers, and altogether indisposed to

talk loosely of the concerns of that mighty engine of which it was his high privilege to move in secret some

portion. Nevertheless Bold believed that to him were owing those dreadful words which had caused such

panic at Barchesterand he conceived himself bound to prevent their repetition. With this view he betook

himself from the attorneys' to that laboratory where, with amazing chemistry, Tom Towers compounded

thunderbolts for the destruction of all that is evil, and for the furtherance of all that is good, in this and other

Who has not heard of Mount Olympusthat high abode of all the powers of type, that favoured seat of the

great goddess Pica, that wondrous habitation of gods and devils, from whence, with ceaseless hum of steam

and neverending flow of Castalian ink, issue forth fifty thousand nightly edicts for the governance of a

Velvet and gilding do not make a throne, nor gold and jewels a sceptre. It is a throne because the most exalted

one sits thereand a sceptre because the most mighty one wields it. So it is with Mount Olympus. Should a

stranger make his way thither at dull noonday, or during the sleepy hours of the silent afternoon, he would

find no acknowledged temple of power and beauty, no fitting fane for the great Thunderer, no proud facades

and pillared roofs to support the dignity of this greatest of earthly potentates. To the outward and uninitiated

eye, Mount Olympus is a somewhat humble spot, undistinguished, unadornednay, almost mean. It stands

alone, as it were, in a mighty city, close to the densest throng of men, but partaking neither of the noise nor

the crowd; a small secluded, dreary spot, tenanted, one would say, by quite unambitious people at the easiest

rents. 'Is this Mount Olympus?' asks the unbelieving stranger. 'Is it from these small, dark, dingy buildings

that those infallible laws proceed which cabinets are called upon to obey; by which bishops are to be guided,

lords and commons controlled, judges instructed in law, generals in strategy, admirals in naval tactics, and

orangewomen in the management of their barrows?' 'Yes, my friendfrom these walls. From here issue the

only known infallible bulls for the guidance of British souls and bodies. This little court is the Vatican of

England. Here reigns a pope, selfnominated, selfconsecrateday, and much stranger

tooselfbelieving!a pope whom, if you cannot obey him, I would advise you to disobey as silently as

possible; a pope hitherto afraid of no Luther; a pope who manages his own inquisition, who punishes

unbelievers as no most skilful inquisitor of Spain ever dreamt of doingone who can excommunicate

thoroughly, fearfully, radically; put you beyond the pale of men's charity; make you odious to your dearest

friends, and turn you into a monster to be pointed at by the finger!' Oh heavens! and this is Mount Olympus!

It is a fact amazing to ordinary mortals that The Jupiter is never wrong. With what endless care, with what

unsparing labour, do we not strive to get together for our great national council the men most fitting to

compose it. And how we fail! Parliament is always wrong: look at The Jupiter, and see how futile are their

meetings, how vain their council, how needless all their trouble! With what pride do we regard our chief

ministers, the great servants of state, the oligarchs of the nation on whose wisdom we lean, to whom we look

for guidance in our difficulties! But what are they to the writers of The Jupiter? They hold council together

and with anxious thought painfully elaborate their country's good; but when all is done, The Jupiter declares

that all is naught. Why should we look to Lord John Russellwhy should we regard Palmerston and

Gladstone, when Tom Towers without a struggle can put us right? Look at our generals, what faults they

make; at our admirals, how inactive they are. What money, honesty, and science can do, is done; and yet how

badly are our troops brought together, fed, conveyed, clothed, armed, and managed. The most excellent of

our good men do their best to man our ships, with the assistance of all possible external appliances; but in

vain. All, all is wrongalas! alas! Tom Towers, and he alone, knows all about it. Why, oh why, ye earthly

ministers, why have ye not followed more closely this heavensent messenger that is among us?

Were it not well for us in our ignorance that we confided all things to The Jupiter? Would it not be wise in us

to abandon useless talking, idle thinking, and profitless labour? Away with majorities in the House of

Commons, with verdicts from judicial bench given after much delay, with doubtful laws, and the fallible

attempts of humanity! Does not The Jupiter, coming forth daily with fifty thousand impressions full of

unerring decision on every mortal subject, set all matters sufficiently at rest? Is not Tom Towers here, able to

Yes indeed, able and willing to guide all men in all things, so long as he is obeyed as autocrat should be

obeyedwith undoubting submission: only let not ungrateful ministers seek other colleagues than those

whom Tom Towers may approve; let church and state, law and physic, commerce and agriculture, the arts of

war, and the arts of peace, all listen and obey, and all will be made perfect. Has not Tom Towers an

allseeing eye? From the diggings of Australia to those of California, right round the habitable globe, does he

not know, watch, and chronicle the doings of everyone? From a bishopric in New Zealand to an unfortunate

director of a Northwest passage, is he not the only fit judge of capability? From the sewers of London to the

Central Railway of India from the palaces of St Petersburg to the cabins of Connaught, nothing can escape

him. Britons have but to read, to obey, and be blessed. None but the fools doubt the wisdom of The Jupiter;

No established religion has ever been without its unbelievers, even in the country where it is the most firmly

fixed; no creed has been without scoffers; no church has so prospered as to free itself entirely from dissent.

There are those who doubt The Jupiter! They live and breathe the upper air, walking here unscathed, though

scornedmen, born of British mothers and nursed on English milk, who scruple not to say that Mount

Such is Mount Olympus, the mouthpiece of all the wisdom of this great country. It may probably be said that

no place in this 19th century is more worthy of notice. No treasury mandate armed with the signatures of all

the government has half the power of one of those broad sheets, which fly forth from hence so abundantly,

Some great man, some mighty peerwe'll say a noble duke retires to rest feared and honoured by all his

countrymen fearless himself; if not a good man, at any rate a mighty man too mighty to care much what

men may say about his want of virtue. He rises in the morning degraded, mean, and miserable; an object of

men's scorn, anxious only to retire as quickly as may be to some German obscurity, some unseen Italian

privacy, or indeed, anywhere out of sight. What has made this awful change? what has so afflicted him? An

article has appeared in The Jupiter; some fifty lines of a narrow column have destroyed all his grace's

equanimity, and banished him for ever from the world. No man knows who wrote the bitter words; the clubs

talk confusedly of the matter, whispering to each other this and that name; while Tom Towers walks quietly

along Pall Mall, with his coat buttoned close against the east wind, as though he were a mortal man, and not a

It was not to Mount Olympus that our friend Bold betook himself. He had before now wandered round that

lonely spot, thinking how grand a thing it was to write articles for The Jupiter; considering within himself

whether by any stretch of the powers within him he could ever come to such distinction; wondering how Tom

Towers would take any little humble offering of his talents; calculating that Tom Towers himself must have

once had a beginning, have once doubted as to his own success. Towers could not have been born a writer in

The Jupiter. With such ideas, half ambitious and half awestruck, had Bold regarded the silentlooking

workshop of the gods; but he had never yet by word or sign attempted to influence the slightest word of his

unerring friend. On such a course was he now intent; and not without much inward palpitation did he betake

himself to the quiet abode of wisdom, where Tom Towers was to be found o' mornings inhaling ambrosia and

Not far removed from Mount Olympus, but somewhat nearer to the blessed regions of the West, is the most

favoured abode of Themis. Washed by the rich tide which now passes from the towers of Caesar to Barry's

halls of eloquence; and again back, with new offerings of a city's tribute, from the palaces of peers to the mart

of merchants, stand those quiet walls which Law has delighted to honour by its presence. What a world

within a world is the Temple! how quiet are its 'entangled walks,' as someone lately has called them, and yet

how close to the densest concourse of humanity! how gravely respectable its sober alleys, though removed

but by a single step from the profanity of the Strand and the low iniquity of Fleet Street! Old St Dunstan, with

its bellsmiting bludgeoners, has been removed; the ancient shops with their faces full of pleasant history are

passing away one by one; the bar itself is to goits doom has been pronounced by The Jupiter; rumour tells

us of some huge building that is to appear in these latitudes dedicated to law, subversive of the courts of

Westminster, and antagonistic to the Rolls and Lincoln's Inn; but nothing yet threatens the silent beauty of the

Here, on the choicest spot of this choice ground, stands a lofty row of chambers, looking obliquely upon the

sullied Thames; before the windows, the lawn of the Temple Gardens stretches with that dim yet delicious

verdure so refreshing to the eyes of Londoners. If doomed to live within the thickest of London smoke you

would surely say that that would be your chosen spot. Yes, you, you whom I now address, my dear,

middleaged bachelor friend, can nowhere be so well domiciled as here. No one here will ask whether you

are out or at home; alone or with friends; here no Sabbatarian will investigate your Sundays, no censorious

landlady will scrutinise your empty bottle, no valetudinarian neighbour will complain of late hours. If you

love books, to what place are books so suitable? The whole spot is redolent of typography. Would you

worship the Paphian goddess, the groves of Cyprus are not more taciturn than those of the Temple. Wit and

wine are always here, and always together; the revels of the Temple are as those of polished Greece, where

the wildest worshipper of Bacchus never forgot the dignity of the god whom he adored. Where can retirement

be so complete as here? where can you be so sure of all the pleasures of society?

It was here that Tom Towers lived, and cultivated with eminent success the tenth Muse who now governs the

periodical press. But let it not be supposed that his chambers were such, or so comfortless, as are frequently

the gaunt abodes of legal aspirants. Four chairs, a halffilled deal bookcase with hangings of dingy green

baize, an old office table covered with dusty papers, which are not moved once in six months, and an older

Pembroke brother with rickety legs, for all daily uses; a despatcher for the preparation of lobsters and coffee,

and an apparatus for the cooking of toast and mutton chops; such utensils and luxuries as these did not suffice

for the wellbeing of Tom Towers. He indulged in four rooms on the first floor, each of which was furnished,

if not with the splendour, with probably more than the comfort of Stafford House. Every addition that science

and art have lately made to the luxuries of modern life was to be found there. The room in which he usually

sat was surrounded by bookshelves carefully filled; nor was there a volume there which was not entitled to

its place in such a collection, both by its intrinsic worth and exterior splendour: a pretty portable set of steps

in one corner of the room showed that those even on the higher shelves were intended for use. The chamber

contained but two works of artthe one, an admirable bust of Sir Robert Peel, by Power, declared the

individual politics of our friend; and the other, a singularly long figure of a female devotee, by Millais, told

equally plainly the school of art to which he was addicted. This picture was not hung, as pictures usually are,

against the wall; there was no inch of wall vacant for such a purpose: it had a stand or desk erected for its

own accommodation; and there on her pedestal, framed and glazed, stood the devotional lady looking intently

Our modern artists, whom we style PreRaphaelites, have delighted to go back, not only to the finish and

peculiar manner, but also to the subjects of the early painters. It is impossible to give them too much praise

for the elaborate perseverance with which they have equalled the minute perfections of the masters from

whom they take their inspiration: nothing probably can exceed the painting of some of these latterday

pictures. It is, however, singular into what faults they fall as regards their subjects: they are not quite content

to take the old stock groupsa Sebastian with his arrows, a Lucia with her eyes in a dish, a Lorenzo with a

gridiron, or the Virgin with two children. But they are anything but happy in their change. As a rule, no figure

should be drawn in a position which it is impossible to suppose any figure should maintain. The patient

endurance of St Sebastian, the wild ecstasy of St John in the Wilderness, the maternal love of the Virgin, are

feelings naturally portrayed by a fixed posture; but the lady with the stiff back and bent neck, who looks at

her flower, and is still looking from hour to hour, gives us an idea of pain without grace, and abstraction

It was easy, from his rooms, to see that Tom Towers was a Sybarite, though by no means an idle one. He was

lingering over his last cup of tea, surrounded by an ocean of newspapers, through which he had been

swimming, when John Bold's card was brought in by his tiger. This tiger never knew that his master was at

home, though he often knew that he was not, and thus Tom Towers was never invaded but by his own

consent. On this occasion, after twisting the card twice in his fingers, he signified to his attendant imp that he

was visible; and the inner door was unbolted, and our friend announced. I have before said that he of The

Jupiter and John Bold were intimate. There was no very great difference in their ages, for Towers was still

considerably under forty; and when Bold had been attending the London hospitals, Towers, who was not then

the great man that he had since become, had been much with him. Then they had often discussed together the

objects of their ambition and future prospects; then Tom Towers was struggling hard to maintain himself, as a

briefless barrister, by shorthand reporting for any of the papers that would engage him; then he had not dared

to dream of writing leaders for The Jupiter, or canvassing the conduct of Cabinet ministers. Things had

altered since that time: the briefless barrister was still briefless, but he now despised briefs: could he have

been sure of a judge's seat, he would hardly have left his present career. It is true he wore no ermine, bore no

outward marks of a world's respect; but with what a load of inward importance was he charged! It is true his

name appeared in no large capitals; on no wall was chalked up 'Tom Towers for ever''Freedom of the Press

and Tom Towers'; but what member of Parliament had half his power? It is true that in faroff provinces men

did not talk daily of Tom Towers but they read The Jupiter, and acknowledged that without The Jupiter life

was not worth having. This kind of hidden but still conscious glory suited the nature of the man. He loved to

sit silent in a corner of his club and listen to the loud chattering of politicians, and to think how they all were

in his powerhow he could smite the loudest of them, were it worth his while to raise his pen for such a

purpose. He loved to watch the great men of whom he daily wrote, and flatter himself that he was greater

than any of them. Each of them was responsible to his country, each of them must answer if inquired into,

each of them must endure abuse with good humour, and insolence without anger. But to whom was he, Tom

Towers, responsible? No one could insult him; no one could inquire into him. He could speak out withering

words, and no one could answer him: ministers courted him, though perhaps they knew not his name; bishops

feared him; judges doubted their own verdicts unless he confirmed them; and generals, in their councils of

war, did not consider more deeply what the enemy would do, than what The Jupiter would say. Tom Towers

never boasted of The Jupiter; he scarcely ever named the paper even to the most intimate of his friends; he

did not even wish to be spoken of as connected with it; but he did not the less value his privileges, or think

the less of his own importance. It is probable that Tom Towers considered himself the most powerful man in

Europe; and so he walked on from day to day, studiously striving to look a man, but knowing within his

When one Esquimau meets another, do the two, as an invariable rule, ask after each other's health? is it

inherent in all human nature to make this obliging inquiry? Did any reader of this tale ever meet any friend or

acquaintance without asking some such question, and did anyone ever listen to the reply? Sometimes a

studiously courteous questioner will show so much thought in the matter as to answer it himself, by declaring

that had he looked at you he needn't have asked; meaning thereby to signify that you are an absolute

personification of health: but such persons are only those who premeditate small effects.

'Why, yes, rather; or I should say rather not. I have a leisure hour in the day, this is it.'

Towers understood in a moment, from the tone of his friend's voice, that the certain matter referred to the

Tom Towers intimated that he was aware of the action which was pending about the hospital.

Tom Towers merely raised his eyebrows, thrust his hands into his trowsers pockets, and waited for his friend

'Yes, I've given it up. I needn't trouble you with all the history; but the fact is that the conduct of Mr

'Oh yes, the master of the place; the man who takes all the money and does nothing,' said Tom Towers,

'Well, I don't know about that; but his conduct in the matter has been so excellent, so little selfish, so open,

that I cannot proceed in the matter to his detriment.' Bold's heart misgave him as to Eleanor as he said this;

and yet he felt that what he said was not untrue. 'I think nothing should now be done till the wardenship be

'And be again filled,' said Towers, 'as it certainly would, before anyone heard of the vacancy; and the same

objection would again exist. It's an old story that of the vested rights of the incumbent; but suppose the

incumbent has only a vested wrong, and that the poor of the town have a vested right, if they only knew how

Bold couldn't deny it, but thought it was one of those cases which required a good deal of management before

any real good could be done. It was a pity that he had not considered this before he crept into the lion's

'A few hundreds,' said Bold'perhaps three hundred; I can't help that, and am prepared for it.'

'That's philosophical. It's quite refreshing to hear a man talking of his hundreds in so purely indifferent a

manner. But I'm sorry you are giving the matter up. It injures a man to commence a thing of this kind, and not

carry it through. Have you seen that?' and he threw a small pamphlet across the table, which was all but damp

Bold had not seen it nor heard of it; but he was well acquainted with the author of ita gentleman whose

pamphlets, condemnatory of all things in these modern days, had been a good deal talked about of late.

Dr Pessimist Anticant was a Scotchman, who had passed a great portion of his early days in Germany; he had

studied there with much effect, and had learnt to look with German subtilty into the root of things, and to

examine for himself their intrinsic worth and worthlessness. No man ever resolved more bravely than he to

accept as good nothing that was evil; to banish from him as evil nothing that was good. 'Tis a pity that he

should not have recognised the fact, that in this world no good is unalloyed, and that there is but little evil

Returning from Germany, he had astonished the reading public by the vigour of his thoughts, put forth in the

quaintest language. He cannot write English, said the critics. No matter, said the public; we can read what he

does write, and that without yawning. And so Dr Pessimist Anticant became Popular. Popularity spoilt him

for all further real use, as it has done many another. While, with some diffidence, he confined his

objurgations to the occasional follies or shortcomings of mankind; while he ridiculed the energy of the squire

devoted to the slaughter of partridges, or the mistake of some noble patron who turned a poet into a gauger of

beer barrels, it was all well; we were glad to be told our faults and to look forward to the coming

millennium, when all men, having sufficiently studied the works of Dr Anticant, would become truthful and

energetic. But the doctor mistook the signs of the times and the minds of men, instituted himself censor of

things in general, and began the great task of reprobating everything and everybody, without further promise

of any millennium at all. This was not so well; and, to tell the truth, our author did not succeed in his

undertaking. His theories were all beautiful, and the code of morals that he taught us certainly an

improvement on the practices of the age. We all of us could, and many of us did, learn much from the doctor

while he chose to remain vague, mysterious, and cloudy: but when he became practical, the charm was gone.

His allusion to the poet and the partridges was received very well. 'Oh, my poor brother,' said he, 'slaughtered

partridges a score of brace to each gun, and poets gauging ale barrels, with sixty pounds a year, at Dumfries,

are not the signs of a great era!perhaps of the smallest possible era yet written of. Whatever economies we

pursue, political or other, let us see at once that this is the maddest of the uneconomic: partridges killed by

our land magnates at, shall we say, a guinea a head, to be retailed in Leadenhall at one shilling and ninepence,

with one poacher in limbo for every fifty birds! our poet, maker, creator, gauging ale, and that badly, with no

leisure for making or creating, only a little leisure for drinking, and such like beerbarrel avocations! Truly, a

cutting of blocks with fine razors while we scrape our chins so uncomfortably with rusty knives! Oh, my

political economist, master of supply and demand, division of labour and high pressureoh, my

loudspeaking friend, tell me, if so much be in you, what is the demand for poets in these kingdoms of Queen

This was all very well: this gave us some hope. We might do better with our next poet, when we got one; and

though the partridges might not be abandoned, something could perhaps be done as to the poachers. We were

unwilling, however, to take lessons in politics from so misty a professor; and when he came to tell us that the

heroes of Westminster were naught, we began to think that he had written enough. His attack upon despatch

boxes was not thought to have much in it; but as it is short, the doctor shall again be allowed to speak his

'Could utmost ingenuity in the management of red tape avail anything to men lying gaspingwe may say, all

but dead; could despatch boxes with neversomuch velvet lining and Chubb's patent be of comfort to a

people in extremes, I also, with so many others, would, with parched tongue, call on the name of Lord John

Russell; or, my brother, at your advice, on Lord Aberdeen; or, my cousin, on Lord Derby, at yours; being,

with my parched tongue, indifferent to such matters. 'Tis all one. Oh, Derby! Oh, Gladstone! Oh, Palmerston!

Oh, Lord John! Each comes running with serene face and despatch box. Vain physicians! though there were

hosts of such, no despatch box will cure this disorder! What! are there other doctors' new names, disciples

who have not burdened their souls with tape? Well, let us call again. Oh, Disraeli, great oppositionist, man of

the bitter brow! or, Oh, Molesworth, great reformer, thou who promisest Utopia. They come; each with that

'My brothers, when hope was over on the battlefield, when no dimmest chance of victory remained, the

ancient Roman could hide his face within his toga, and die gracefully. Can you and I do so now? If so, 'twere

best for us; if not, oh my brothers, we must die disgracefully, for hope of life and victory I see none left to us

in this world below. I for one cannot trust much to serene face and despatch box!'

There might be truth in this, there might be depth of reasoning; but Englishmen did not see enough in the

argument to induce them to withdraw their confidence from the present arrangements of the government, and

Dr Anticant's monthly pamphlet on the decay of the world did not receive so much attention as his earlier

works. He did not confine himself to politics in these publications, but roamed at large over all matters of

public interest, and found everything bad. According to him nobody was true, and not only nobody, but

nothing; a man could not take off his hat to a lady without telling a liethe lady would lie again in smiling.

The ruffles of the gentleman's shirt would be fraught with deceit, and the lady's flounces full of falsehood.

Was ever anything more severe than that attack of his on chip bonnets, or the anathemas with which he

The pamphlet which Tom Towers now pushed across the table was entitled Modern Charity, and was written

with the view of proving how much in the way of charity was done by our predecessorshow little by the

present age; and it ended by a comparison between ancient and modern times, very little to the credit of the

'Look at this,' said Towers, getting up and turning over the pages of the pamphlet, and pointing to a passage

near the end. 'Your friend the warden, who is so little selfish, won't like that, I fear.' Bold read as follows

'Heavens, what a sight! Let us with eyes wide open see the godly man of four centuries since, the man of the

dark ages; let us see how he does his godlike work, and, again, how the godly man of these latter days does

'Shall we say that the former is one walking painfully through the world, regarding, as a prudent man, his

worldly work, prospering in it as a diligent man will prosper, but always with an eye to that better treasure to

which thieves do not creep in? Is there not much nobility in that old man, as, leaning on his oaken staff, he

walks down the High Street of his native town, and receives from all courteous salutation and

acknowledgment of his worth? A noble old man, my august inhabitants of Belgrave Square and such like

vicinitya very noble old man, though employed no better than in the wholesale carding of wool.

'This carding of wool, however, did in those days bring with it much profit, so that our ancient friend, when

dying, was declared, in whatever slang then prevailed, to cut up exceeding well. For sons and daughters there

was ample sustenance with assistance of due industry; for friends and relatives some relief for grief at this

great loss; for aged dependents comfort in declining years. This was much for one old man to get done in that

dark fifteenth century. But this was not all: coming generations of poor woolcarders should bless the name

of this rich one; and a hospital should be founded and endowed with his wealth for the feeding of such of the

''Twas thus that an old man in the fifteenth century did his godlike work to the best of his power, and not

'We will now take our godly man of latter days. He shall no longer be a woolcarder, for such are not now

men of mark. We will suppose him to be one of the best of the good, one who has lacked no opportunities.

Our old friend was, after all, but illiterate; our modern friend shall be a man educated in all seemly

knowledge; he shall, in short, be that blessed being a clergyman of the Church of England!

'And now, in what perfectest manner does he in this lower world get his godlike work done and put out of

hand? Heavens! in the strangest of manners. Oh, my brother! in a manner not at all to be believed, but by the

most minute testimony of eyesight. He does it by the magnitude of his appetiteby the power of his gorge;

his only occupation is to swallow the bread prepared with so much anxious care for these impoverished

carders of woolthat, and to sing indifferently through his nose once in the week some psalm more or less

'Oh, my civilised friends!great Britons that never will be slaves, men advanced to infinite state of freedom

and knowledge of good and eviltell me, will you, what becoming monument you will erect to an

Bold certainly thought that his friend would not like that: he could not conceive anything that he would like

less than this. To what a world of toil and trouble had he, Bold, given rise by his indiscreet attack upon the

'You see,' said Towers, 'that this affair has been much talked of, and the public are with you. I am sorry you

No; Bold had not seen The Almshouse. He had seen advertisements of Mr Popular Sentiment's new novel of

that name, but had in no way connected it with Barchester Hospital, and had never thought a moment on the

'It's a direct attack on the whole system,' said Towers. 'It'll go a long way to put down Rochester, and

Barchester, and Dulwich, and St Cross, and all such hotbeds of peculation. It's very clear that Sentiment has

been down to Barchester, and got up the whole story there; indeed, I thought he must have had it all from

Bold declared that Mr Sentiment had got nothing from him, and that he was deeply grieved to find that the

'The fire has gone too far to be quenched,' said Towers; 'the building must go now; and as the timbers are all

rotten, why, I should be inclined to say, the sooner the better. I expected to see you get some eclat in the

This was all wormwood to Bold. He had done enough to make his friend the warden miserable for life, and

had then backed out just when the success of his project was sufficient to make the question one of real

interest. How weakly he had managed his business! he had already done the harm, and then stayed his hand

when the good which he had in view was to be commenced. How delightful would it have been to have

employed all his energy in such a causeto have been backed by The Jupiter, and written up to by two of the

most popular authors of the day! The idea opened a view into the very world in which he wished to live. To

what might it not have given rise? what delightful intimacieswhat public praise to what Athenian

This, however, was now past hope. He had pledged himself to abandon the cause; and could he have

forgotten the pledge he had gone too far to retreat. He was now, this moment, sitting in Tom Towers' room

with the object of deprecating any further articles in The Jupiter, and, greatly as he disliked the job, his

Tom Towers shrugged his shoulders. How could a successful man be in the wrong! 'In that case,' said he, 'of

'To ask me,' said Tom Towers, with the most placid of smiles, and a consummate look of gentle surprise, as

though Tom Towers was well aware that he of all men was the last to meddle in such matters.

'Yes,' said Bold, almost trembling with hesitation. 'The Jupiter, you know, has taken the matter up very

strongly. Mr Harding has felt what it has said deeply; and I thought that if I could explain to you that he

How calmly impassive was Tom Towers' face, as this innocent little proposition was made! Had Bold

addressed himself to the doorposts in Mount Olympus, they would have shown as much outward sign of

assent or dissent. His quiescence was quite admirable; his discretion certainly more than human.

'My dear fellow,' said he, when Bold had quite done speaking, 'I really cannot answer for The Jupiter.'

'But if you saw that these articles were unjust, I think that You Would endeavour to put a stop to them. Of

'Nobody and everybody are always very kind, but unfortunately are generally very wrong.'

'Come, come, Towers,' said Bold, plucking up his courage, and remembering that for Eleanor's sake he was

bound to make his best exertion; 'I have no doubt in my own mind but that you wrote the articles yourself,

and very well written they were: it will be a great favour if you will in future abstain from any personal

'My dear Bold,' said Tom Towers, 'I have a sincere regard for you. I have known you for many years, and

value your friendship; I hope you will let me explain to you, without offence, that none who are connected

'Ah, but, my dear fellow, you do; what else is it? You think that I am able to keep certain remarks out of a

newspaper. Your information is probably incorrect, as most public gossip on such subjects is; but, at any rate,

you think I have such power, and you ask me to use it: now that is interference.'

'And now suppose for a moment that I had this power, and used it as you wish: isn't it clear that it would be a

great abuse? Certain men are employed in writing for the public press; and if they are induced either to write

or to abstain from writing by private motives, surely the public press would soon be of little value. Look at

the recognised worth of different newspapers, and see if it does not mainly depend on the assurance which the

public feel that such a paper is, or is not, independent. You alluded to The Jupiter: surely you cannot but see

that the weight of The Jupiter is too great to be moved by any private request, even though it should be made

to a much more influential person than myself: you've only to think of this, and you'll see that I am right.'

The discretion of Tom Towers was boundless: there was no contradicting what he said, no arguing against

such propositions. He took such high ground that there was no getting on it. 'The public is defrauded,' said he,

'whenever private considerations are allowed to have weight.' Quite true, thou greatest oracle of the middle of

the nineteenth century, thou sententious proclaimer of the purity of the pressthe public is defrauded when

it is purposely misled. Poor public! how often is it misled! against what a world of fraud has it to contend!

Bold took his leave, and got out of the room as quickly as he could, inwardly denouncing his friend Tom

Towers as a prig and a humbug. 'I know he wrote those articles,' said Bold to himself. 'I know he got his

information from me. He was ready enough to take my word for gospel when it suited his own views, and to

set Mr Harding up before the public as an impostor on no other testimony than my chance conversation; but

when I offer him real evidence opposed to his own views, he tells me that private motives are detrimental to

public justice! Confound his arrogance! What is any public question but a conglomeration of private

interests? What is any newspaper article but an expression of the views taken by one side? Truth! it takes an

age to ascertain the truth of any question! The idea of Tom Towers talking of public motives and purity of

purpose! Why, it wouldn't give him a moment's uneasiness to change his politics tomorrow, if the paper

Such were John Bold's inward exclamations as he made his way out of the quiet labyrinth of the Temple; and

yet there was no position of worldly power so coveted in Bold's ambition as that held by the man of whom he

was thinking. It was the impregnability of the place which made Bold so angry with the possessor of it, and it

Passing into the Strand, he saw in a bookseller's window an announcement of the first number of The

Almshouse; so he purchased a copy, and hurrying back to his lodgings, proceeded to ascertain what Mr

Popular Sentiment had to say to the public on the subject which had lately occupied so much of his own

In former times great objects were attained by great work. When evils were to be reformed, reformers set

about their heavy task with grave decorum and laborious argument. An age was occupied in proving a

grievance, and philosophical researches were printed in folio pages, which it took a life to write, and an

eternity to read. We get on now with a lighter step, and quicker: ridicule is found to be more convincing than

argument, imaginary agonies touch more than true sorrows, and monthly novels convince, when learned

quartos fail to do so. If the world is to be set right, the work will be done by shilling numbers.

Of all such reformers Mr Sentiment is the most powerful. It is incredible the number of evil practices he has

put down: it is to be feared he will soon lack subjects, and that when he has made the working classes

comfortable, and got bitter beer put into propersized pint bottles, there will be nothing further for him left to

do. Mr Sentiment is certainly a very powerful man, and perhaps not the less so that his good poor people are

so very good; his hard rich people so very hard; and the genuinely honest so very honest. Nambypamby in

these days is not thrown away if it be introduced in the proper quarters. Divine peeresses are no longer

interesting, though possessed of every virtue; but a pattern peasant or an immaculate manufacturing hero may

talk as much twaddle as one of Mrs Ratcliffe's heroines, and still be listened to. Perhaps, however, Mr

Sentiment's great attraction is in his secondrate characters. If his heroes and heroines walk upon stilts, as

heroes and heroines, I fear, ever must, their attendant satellites are as natural as though one met them in the

street: they walk and talk like men and women, and live among our friends a rattling, lively life; yes, live, and

will live till the names of their calling shall be forgotten in their own, and Buckett and Mrs Gamp will be the

The Almshouse opened with a scene in a clergyman's house. Every luxury to be purchased by wealth was

described as being there: all the appearances of household indulgence generally found amongst the most

selfindulgent of the rich were crowded into this abode. Here the reader was introduced to the demon of the

book, the Mephistopheles of the drama. What story was ever written without a demon? What novel, what

history, what work of any sort, what world, would be perfect without existing principles both of good and

evil? The demon of The Almshouse was the clerical owner of this comfortable abode. He was a man well

stricken in years, but still strong to do evil: he was one who looked cruelly out of a hot, passionate, bloodshot

eye; who had a huge red nose with a carbuncle, thick lips, and a great double, flabby chin, which swelled out

into solid substance, like a turkeycock's comb, when sudden anger inspired him: he had a hot, furrowed, low

brow, from which a few grizzled hairs were not yet rubbed off by the friction of his handkerchief: he wore a

loose unstarched white handkerchief, black loose illmade clothes, and huge loose shoes, adapted to many

corns and various bunions: his husky voice told tales of much daily port wine, and his language was not so

decorous as became a clergyman. Such was the master of Mr Sentiment's Almshouse. He was a widower, but

at present accompanied by two daughters, and a thin and somewhat insipid curate. One of the young ladies

was devoted to her father and the fashionable world, and she of course was the favourite; the other was

The second chapter of course introduced the reader to the more especial inmates of the hospital. Here were

discovered eight old men; and it was given to be understood that four vacancies remained unfilled, through

the perverse illnature of the clerical gentleman with the double chin. The state of these eight paupers was

touchingly dreadful: sixpencefarthing a day had been sufficient for their diet when the almshouse was

founded; and on sixpencefarthing a day were they still doomed to starve, though food was four times as

dear, and money four times as plentiful. It was shocking to find how the conversation of these eight starved

old men in their dormitory shamed that of the clergyman's family in his rich drawing room. The absolute

words they uttered were not perhaps spoken in the purest English, and it might be difficult to distinguish from

their dialect to what part of the country they belonged; the beauty of the sentiment, however, amply atoned

for the imperfection of the language; and it was really a pity that these eight old men could not be sent

through the country as moral missionaries, instead of being immured and starved in that wretched almshouse.

Bold finished the number; and as he threw it aside, he thought that that at least had no direct appliance to Mr

Harding, and that the absurdly strong colouring of the picture would disenable the work from doing either

good or harm. He was wrong. The artist who paints for the million must use glaring colours, as no one knew

better than Mr Sentiment when he described the inhabitants of his almshouse; and the radical reform which

has now swept over such establishments has owed more to the twenty numbers of Mr Sentiment's novel, than

to all the true complaints which have escaped from the public for the last half century.

The warden had to make use of all his very moderate powers of intrigue to give his soninlaw the slip, and

get out of Barchester without being stopped on his road. No schoolboy ever ran away from school with more

precaution and more dread of detection; no convict, slipping down from a prison wall, ever feared to see the

gaoler more entirely than Mr Harding did to see his soninlaw as he drove up in the pony carriage to the

The evening before he went he wrote a note to the archdeacon, explaining that he should start on the morrow

on his journey; that it was his intention to see the attorneygeneral if possible, and to decide on his future

plans in accordance with what he heard from that gentleman; he excused himself for giving Dr Grantly no

earlier notice, by stating that his resolve was very sudden; and having entrusted this note to Eleanor, with the

perfect, though not expressed, understanding that it was to be sent over to Plumstead Episcopi without haste,

He also prepared and carried with him a note for Sir Abraham Haphazard, in which he stated his name,

explaining that he was the defendant in the case of 'The Queen on behalf of the Woolcarders of Barchester

v. Trustees under the will of the late John Hiram,' for so was the suit denominated, and begged the illustrious

and learned gentleman to vouchsafe to him ten minutes' audience at any hour on the next day. Mr Harding

calculated that for that one day he was safe; his soninlaw, he had no doubt, would arrive in town by an

early train, but not early enough to reach the truant till he should have escaped from his hotel after breakfast;

and could he thus manage to see the lawyer on that very day, the deed might be done before the archdeacon

On his arrival in town the warden drove, as was his wont. to the Chapter Hotel and Coffee House, near St

Paul's. His visits to London of late had not been frequent; but in those happy days when Harding's Church

Music was going through the press, he had been often there; and as the publisher's house was in Paternoster

Row, and the printer's press in Fleet Street, the Chapter Hotel and Coffee House had been convenient. It was

a quiet, sombre, clerical house, beseeming such a man as the warden, and thus he afterwards frequented it.

Had he dared, he would on this occasion have gone elsewhere to throw the archdeacon further off the scent;

but he did not know what violent steps his soninlaw might take for his recovery if he were not found at his

usual haunt, and he deemed it not prudent to make himself the object of a hunt through London.

Arrived at his inn, he ordered dinner, and went forth to the attorneygeneral's chambers. There he learnt that

Sir Abraham was in Court, and would not probably return that day. He would go direct from Court to the

House; all appointments were, as a rule, made at the chambers; the clerk could by no means promise an

interview for the next day; was able, on the other hand, to say that such interview was, he thought,

impossible; but that Sir Abraham would certainly be at the House in the course of the night, where an answer

To the House Mr Harding went, and left his note, not finding Sir Abraham there. He added a most piteous

entreaty that he might be favoured with an answer that evening, for which he would return. He then

journeyed back sadly to the Chapter Coffee House, digesting his great thoughts, as best he might, in a

clattering omnibus, wedged in between a wet old lady and a journeyman glazier returning from his work with

his tools in his lap. In melancholy solitude he discussed his mutton chop and pint of port. What is there in this

world more melancholy than such a dinner? A dinner, though eaten alone, in a country hotel may be worthy

of some energy; the waiter, if you are known, will make much of you; the landlord will make you a bow and

perhaps put the fish on the table; if you ring you are attended to, and there is some life about it. A dinner at a

London eatinghouse is also lively enough, if it have no other attraction. There is plenty of noise and stir

about it, and the rapid whirl of voices and rattle of dishes disperses sadness. But a solitary dinner in an old,

respectable, sombre, solid London inn, where nothing makes any noise but the old waiter's creaking shoes;

where one plate slowly goes and another slowly comes without a sound; where the two or three guests would

as soon think of knocking each other down as of speaking; where the servants whisper, and the whole

household is disturbed if an order be given above the voice what can be more melancholy than a mutton

Having gone through this Mr Harding got into another omnibus, and again returned to the House. Yes, Sir

Abraham was there, and was that moment on his legs, fighting eagerly for the hundred and seventh clause of

the Convent Custody Bill. Mr Harding's note had been delivered to him; and if Mr Harding would wait some

two or three hours, Sir Abraham could be asked whether there was any answer. The House was not full, and

perhaps Mr Harding might get admittance into the Strangers' Gallery, which admission, with the help of five

This bill of Sir Abraham's had been read a second time and passed into committee. A hundred and six clauses

had already been discussed and had occupied only four mornings and five evening sittings; nine of the

hundred and six clauses were passed, fiftyfive were withdrawn by consent, fourteen had been altered so as

to mean the reverse of the original proposition, eleven had been postponed for further consideration, and

seventeen had been directly negatived. The hundred and seventh ordered the bodily searching of nuns for

jesuitical symbols by aged clergymen, and was considered to be the real mainstay of the whole bill. No

intention had ever existed to pass such a law as that proposed, but the government did not intend to abandon

it till their object was fully attained by the discussion of this clause. It was known that it would be insisted on

with terrible vehemence by Protestant Irish members, and as vehemently denounced by the Roman Catholic;

and it was justly considered that no further union between the parties would be possible after such a battle.

The innocent Irish fell into the trap as they always do, and whiskey and poplins became a drug in the market.

A floridfaced gentleman with a nice head of hair, from the south of Ireland, had succeeded in catching the

speaker's eye by the time that Mr Harding had got into the gallery, and was denouncing the proposed

'And this is a Christian country?' said he. (Loud cheers; counter cheers from the ministerial benches. 'Some

doubt as to that,' from a voice below the gangway.) 'No, it can be no Christian country, in which the head of

the bar, the lagal adviser (loud laughter and cheers) yes, I say the lagal adviser of the crown (great cheers

and laughter)can stand up in his seat in this house (prolonged cheers and laughter), and attempt to lagalise

indacent assaults on the bodies of religious ladies.' (Deafening cheers and laughter, which were prolonged till

When Mr Harding had listened to this and much more of the same kind for about three hours, he returned to

the door of the House, and received back from the messenger his own note, with the following words

He was so far successfulbut 10 P.M.: what an hour Sir Abraham had named for a legal interview! Mr

Harding felt perfectly sure that long before that Dr Grantly would be in London. Dr Grantly could not,

however, know that this interview had been arranged, nor could he learn it unless he managed to get hold of

Sir Abraham before that hour; and as this was very improbable, Mr Harding determined to start from his hotel

early, merely leaving word that he should dine out, and unless luck were much against him, he might still

He was at breakfast at nine, and for the twentieth time consulted his Bradshaw, to see at what earliest hour Dr

Grantly could arrive from Barchester. As he examined the columns, he was nearly petrified by the reflection

that perhaps the archdeacon might come up by the nightmail train! His heart sank within him at the horrid

idea, and for a moment he felt himself dragged back to Barchester without accomplishing any portion of his

object. Then he remembered that had Dr Grantly done so, he would have been in the hotel, looking for him

'No, sir, not one,' whispered the waiter, putting his mouth nearly close to the warden's ear.

'Waiter,' said he again, and the waiter again creaked up. 'If anyone calls for me, I am going to dine out, and

The waiter nodded, but did not this time vouchsafe any reply; and Mr Harding, taking up his hat, proceeded

out to pass a long day in the best way he could, somewhere out of sight of the archdeacon.

Bradshaw had told him twenty times that Dr Grantly could not be at Paddington station till 2 P.M., and our

poor friend might therefore have trusted to the shelter of the hotel for some hours longer with perfect safety;

but he was nervous. There was no knowing what steps the archdeacon might take for his apprehension: a

message by electric telegraph might desire the landlord of the hotel to set a watch upon him; some letter

might come which he might find himself unable to disobey; at any rate, he could not feel himself secure in

any place at which the archdeacon could expect to find him; and at 10 A.M. he started forth to spend twelve

Mr Harding had friends in town had he chosen to seek them; but he felt that he was in no humour for ordinary

calls, and he did not now wish to consult with anyone as to the great step which he had determined to take.

As he had said to his daughter, no one knows where the shoe pinches but the wearer. There are some points

on which no man can be contented to follow the advice of anothersome subjects on which a man can

consult his own conscience only. Our warden had made up his mind that it was good for him at any cost to

get rid of this grievance; his daughter was the only person whose concurrence appeared necessary to him, and

she did concur with him most heartily. Under such circumstances he would not, if he could help it, consult

anyone further, till advice would be useless. Should the archdeacon catch him, indeed, there would be much

advice, and much consultation of a kind not to be avoided; but he hoped better things; and as he felt that he

could not now converse on indifferent subjects, he resolved to see no one till after his interview with the

He determined to take sanctuary in Westminster Abbey, so he again went thither in an omnibus, and finding

that the doors were not open for morning service, he paid his twopence, and went in as a sightseer. It occurred

to him that he had no definite place of rest for the day, and that he should be absolutely worn out before his

interview if he attempted to walk about from 10 A.M. to 10 P.M., so he sat himself down on a stone step, and

gazed up at the figure of William Pitt, who looks as though he had just entered the church for the first time in

He had been sitting unmolested about twenty minutes when the verger asked him whether he wouldn't like to

walk round. Mr Harding didn't want to walk anywhere, and declined, merely observing that he was waiting

for the morning service. The verger, seeing that he was a clergyman, told him that the doors of the choir were

now open, and showed him into a seat. This was a great point gained; the archdeacon would certainly not

come to morning service at Westminster Abbey, even though he were in London; and here the warden could

He longed to get up from his seat, and examine the music books of the choristers, and the copy of the litany

from which the service was chanted, to see how far the little details at Westminster corresponded with those

at Barchester, and whether he thought his own voice would fill the church well from the Westminster

precentor's seat. There would, however, be impropriety in such meddling, and he sat perfectly still, looking

By degrees two or three people entered; the very same damp old woman who had nearly obliterated him in

the omnibus, or some other just like her; a couple of young ladies with their veils down, and gilt crosses

conspicuous on their prayerbooks; an old man on crutches; a party who were seeing the abbey, and thought

they might as well hear the service for their twopence, as opportunity served; and a young woman with her

prayerbook done up in her handkerchief, who rushed in late, and, in her hurried entry, tumbled over one of

the forms, and made such a noise that everyone, even the officiating minor canon, was startled, and she

herself was so frightened by the echo of her own catastrophe that she was nearly thrown into fits by the panic.

Mr Harding was not much edified by the manner of the service. The minor canon in question hurried in,

somewhat late, in a surplice not in the neatest order, and was followed by a dozen choristers, who were also

not as trim as they might have been: they all jostled into their places with a quick hurried step, and the service

was soon commenced. Soon commenced and soon overfor there was no music, and time was not

unnecessarily lost in the chanting. On the whole Mr Harding was of opinion that things were managed better

It appears to us a question whether any clergyman can go through our church service with decorum, morning

after morning, in an immense building, surrounded by not more than a dozen listeners. The best actors cannot

act well before empty benches, and though there is, of course, a higher motive in one case than the other, still

even the best of clergymen cannot but be influenced by their audience; and to expect that a duty should be

well done under such circumstances, would be to require from human nature more than human power.

When the two ladies with the gilt crosses, the old man with his crutch, and the still palpitating housemaid

were going, Mr Harding found himself obliged to go too. The verger stood in his way, and looked at him and

looked at the door, and so he went. But he returned again in a few minutes, and reentered with another

As he walked slowly down the nave, and then up one aisle, and then again down the nave and up the other

aisle, he tried to think gravely of the step he was about to take. He was going to give up eight hundred a year

voluntarily; and doom himself to live for the rest of his life on about a hundred and fifty. He knew that he had

hitherto failed to realise this fact as he ought to do. Could he maintain his own independence and support his

daughter on a hundred and fifty pounds a year without being a burden on anyone? His soninlaw was rich,

but nothing could induce him to lean on his soninlaw after acting, as he intended to do, in direct opposition

to his soninlaw's counsel. The bishop was rich, but he was about to throw away the bishop's best gift, and

that in a manner to injure materially the patronage of the giver: he could neither expect nor accept anything

further from the bishop. There would be not only no merit, but positive disgrace, in giving up his wardenship,

if he were not prepared to meet the world without it. Yes, he must from this time forward bound all his

human wishes for himself and his daughter to the poor extent of so limited an income. He knew he had not

thought sufficiently of this, that he had been carried away by enthusiasm, and had hitherto not brought home

He thought most about his daughter, naturally. It was true that she was engaged, and he knew enough of his

proposed soninlaw to be sure that his own altered circumstances would make no obstacle to such a

marriage; nay, he was sure that the very fact of his poverty would induce Bold more anxiously to press the

matter; but he disliked counting on Bold in this emergency, brought on, as it had been, by his doing. He did

not like saying to himself, Bold has turned me out of my house and income, and, therefore, he must relieve

me of my daughter; he preferred reckoning on Eleanor as the companion of his poverty and exileas the

Some modest provision for his daughter had been long since made. His life was insured for three thousand

pounds, and this sum was to go to Eleanor. The archdeacon, for some years past, had paid the premium, and

had secured himself by the immediate possession of a small property which was to have gone to Mrs Grantly

after her father's death. This matter, therefore, had been taken out of the warden's hands long since, as,

indeed, had all the business transactions of his family, and his anxiety was, therefore, confined to his own life

Yes. A hundred and fifty per annum was very small, but still it might suffice; but how was he to chant the

litany at the cathedral on Sunday mornings, and get the service done at Crabtree Parva? True, Crabtree

Church was not quite a mile and a half from the cathedral; but he could not be in two places at once. Crabtree

was a small village, and afternoon service might suffice, but still this went against his conscience; it was not

right that his parishioners should be robbed of any of their privileges on account of his poverty. He might, to

be sure, make some arrangements for doing weekday service at the cathedral; but he had chanted the litany

at Barchester so long, and had a conscious feeling that he did it so well, that he was unwilling to give up the

Thinking of such things, turning over in his own mind together small desires and grave duties, but never

hesitating for a moment as to the necessity of leaving the hospital, Mr Harding walked up and down the

abbey, or sat still meditating on the same stone step, hour after hour. One verger went and another came, but

they did not disturb him; every now and then they crept up and looked at him, but they did so with a

reverential stare, and, on the whole, Mr Harding found his retreat well chosen. About four o'clock his comfort

was disturbed by an enemy in the shape of hunger. It was necessary that he should dine, and it was clear that

he could not dine in the abbey: so he left his sanctuary not willingly, and betook himself to the

His eyes had become so accustomed to the gloom of the church, that they were dazed when he got out into

the full light of day, and he felt confused and ashamed of himself, as though people were staring at him. He

hurried along, still in dread of the archdeacon, till he came to Charing Cross, and then remembered that in

one of his passages through the Strand he had seen the words 'Chops and Steaks' on a placard in a shop

window. He remembered the shop distinctly; it was next door to a trunkseller's, and there was a cigar shop

on the other side. He couldn't go to his hotel for dinner, which to him hitherto was the only known mode of

dining in London at his own expense; and, therefore, he would get a steak at the shop in the Strand.

He found the house easilyjust as he had observed it, between the trunks and the cigars. He was rather

daunted by the huge quantity of fish which he saw in the window. There were barrels of oysters, hecatombs

of lobsters, a few tremendous looking crabs, and a tub full of pickled salmon; not, however, being aware of

any connection between shellfish and iniquity, he entered, and modestly asked a slatternly woman, who was

picking oysters out of a great watery reservoir, whether he could have a mutton chop and a potato.

The woman looked somewhat surprised, but answered in the affirmative, and a slipshod girl ushered him into

a long back room, filled with boxes for the accommodation of parties, in one of which he took his seat. In a

more miserably forlorn place he could not have found himself: the room smelt of fish, and sawdust, and stale

tobacco smoke, with a slight taint of escaped gas; everything was rough and dirty, and disreputable; the cloth

which they put before him was abominable; the knives and forks were bruised, and hacked, and filthy; and

everything was impregnated with fish. He had one comfort, however: he was quite alone; there was no one

there to look on his dismay; nor was it probable that anyone would come to do so. It was a London

supperhouse. About one o'clock at night the place would be lively enough, but at the present time his

In about half an hour the untidy girl, not yet dressed for her evening labours, brought him his chop and

potatoes, and Mr Harding begged for a pint of sherry. He was impressed with an idea, which was generally

prevalent a few years since, and is not yet wholly removed from the minds of men, that to order a dinner at

any kind of inn, without also ordering a pint of wine for the benefit of the landlord, was a kind of fraudnot

punishable, indeed, by law, but not the less abominable on that account. Mr Harding remembered his coming

poverty, and would willingly have saved his halfcrown, but he thought he had no alternative; and he was

soon put in possession of some horrid mixture procured from the neighbouring publichouse.

His chop and potatoes, however, were eatable, and having got over as best he might the disgust created by the

knives and forks, he contrived to swallow his dinner. He was not much disturbed: one young man, with pale

face and watery fishlike eyes, wearing his hat ominously on one side, did come in and stare at him, and ask

the girl, audibly enough, 'Who that old cock was'; but the annoyance went no further, and the warden was left

seated on his wooden bench in peace, endeavouring to distinguish the different scents arising from lobsters,

oysters, and salmon. Unknowing as Mr Harding was in the ways of London, he felt that he had somehow

selected an ineligible dininghouse, and that he had better leave it. It was hardly five o'clock how was he

to pass the time till ten? Five miserable hours! He was already tired, and it was impossible that he should

continue walking so long. He thought of getting into an omnibus, and going out to Fulham for the sake of

coming back in another: this, however, would be weary work, and as he paid his bill to the woman in the

shop, he asked her if there were any place near where he could get a cup of coffee. Though she did keep a

shellfish supperhouse, she was very civil, and directed him to the cigar divan on the other side of the street.

Mr Harding had not a much correcter notion of a cigar divan than he had of a London dinnerhouse, but he

was desperately in want of rest, and went as he was directed. He thought he must have made some mistake

when he found himself in a cigar shop, but the man behind the counter saw immediately that he was a

stranger, and understood what he wanted. 'One shilling, sirthank ye, sircigar, sir?ticket for coffee,

siryou'll only have to call the waiter. Up those stairs, if you please, sir. Better take the cigar, siryou can

always give it to a friend, you know. Well, sir, thank ye, siras you are so good, I'll smoke it myself.' And

so Mr Harding ascended to the divan, with his ticket for coffee, but minus the cigar.

The place seemed much more suitable to his requirements than the room in which he had dined: there was, to

be sure, a strong smell of tobacco, to which he was not accustomed; but after the shellfish, the tobacco did

not seem disagreeable. There were quantities of books, and long rows of sofas. What on earth could be more

luxurious than a sofa, a book, and a cup of coffee? An old waiter came up to him, with a couple of magazines

and an evening paper. Was ever anything so civil? Would he have a cup of coffee, or would he prefer

sherbet? Sherbet! Was he absolutely in an Eastern divan, with the slight addition of all the London

periodicals? He had, however, an idea that sherbet should be drunk sitting crosslegged, and as he was not

The coffee came, and was unexceptionable. Why, this divan was a paradise! The civil old waiter suggested to

him a game of chess: though a chess player he was not equal to this, so he declined, and, putting up his weary

legs on the sofa, leisurely sipped his coffee, and turned over the pages of his Blackwood. He might have been

so engaged for about an hour, for the old waiter enticed him to a second cup of coffee, when a musical clock

began to play. Mr Harding then closed his magazine, keeping his place with his finger, and lay, listening with

closed eyes to the clock. Soon the clock seemed to turn into a violoncello, with piano accompaniments, and

Mr Harding began to fancy the old waiter was the Bishop of Barchester; he was inexpressibly shocked that

the bishop should have brought him his coffee with his own hands; then Dr Grantly came in, with a basket

full of lobsters, which he would not be induced to leave downstairs in the kitchen; and then the warden

couldn't quite understand why so many people would smoke in the bishop's drawingroom; and so he fell fast

asleep, and his dreams wandered away to his accustomed stall in Barchester Cathedral, and the twelve old

He was fatigued, and slept soundly for some time. Some sudden stop in the musical clock woke him at

length, and he jumped up with a start, surprised to find the room quite full: it had been nearly empty when his

nap began. With nervous anxiety he pulled out his watch, and found that it was half past nine. He seized his

It still wanted twenty minutes to ten when the warden found himself at the bottom of Sir Abraham's stairs, so

he walked leisurely up and down the quiet inn to cool himself. It was a beautiful evening at the end of

August. He had recovered from his fatigue; his sleep and the coffee had refreshed him, and he was surprised

to find that he was absolutely enjoying himself, when the inn clock struck ten. The sound was hardly over

before he knocked at Sir Abraham's door, and was informed by the clerk who received him that the great man

Mr Harding was shown into a comfortable inner sittingroom, looking more like a gentleman's bookroom

than a lawyer's chambers, and there waited for Sir Abraham. Nor was he kept waiting long: in ten or fifteen

minutes he heard a clatter of voices speaking quickly in the passage, and then the attorneygeneral entered.

'Very sorry to keep you waiting, Mr Warden,' said Sir Abraham, shaking hands with him; 'and sorry, too, to

name so disagreeable an hour; but your notice was short, and as you said today, I named the very earliest

Sir Abraham was a tall thin man, with hair prematurely gray, but bearing no other sign of age; he had a slight

stoop, in his neck rather than his back, acquired by his constant habit of leaning forward as he addressed his

various audiences. He might be fifty years old, and would have looked young for his age, had not constant

work hardened his features, and given him the appearance of a machine with a mind. His face was full of

intellect, but devoid of natural expression. You would say he was a man to use, and then have done with; a

man to be sought for on great emergencies, but illadapted for ordinary services; a man whom you would ask

to defend your property, but to whom you would be sorry to confide your love. He was bright as a diamond,

and as cutting, and also as unimpressionable. He knew everyone whom to know was an honour, but he was

without a friend; he wanted none, however, and knew not the meaning of the word in other than its

parliamentary sense. A friend! Had he not always been sufficient to himself, and now, at fifty, was it likely

that he should trust another? He was married, indeed, and had children, but what time had he for the soft

idleness of conjugal felicity? His working days or term times were occupied from his time of rising to the late

hour at which he went to rest, and even his vacations were more full of labour than the busiest days of other

men. He never quarrelled with his wife, but he never talked to herhe never had time to talk, he was so

taken up with speaking. She, poor lady, was not unhappy; she had all that money could give her, she would

probably live to be a peeress, and she really thought Sir Abraham the best of husbands.

Sir Abraham was a man of wit, and sparkled among the brightest at the dinnertables of political grandees:

indeed, he always sparkled; whether in society, in the House of Commons, or the courts of law, coruscations

flew from him; glittering sparkles, as from hot steel, but no heat; no cold heart was ever cheered by warmth

With him success alone was praiseworthy, and he knew none so successful as himself. No one had thrust him

forward; no powerful friends had pushed him along on his road to power. No; he was attorneygeneral, and

would, in all human probability, be lord chancellor by sheer dint of his own industry and his own talent. Who

else in all the world rose so high with so little help? A premier, indeed! Who had ever been premier without

mighty friends? An archbishop! Yes, the son or grandson of a great noble, or else, probably, his tutor. But he,

Sir Abraham, had had no mighty lord at his back; his father had been a country apothecary, his mother a

farmer's daughter. Why should he respect any but himself? And so he glitters along through the world, the

brightest among the bright; and when his glitter is gone, and he is gathered to his fathers, no eye will be dim

'And so, Mr Warden,' said Sir Abraham, 'all our trouble about this lawsuit is at an end.'

Mr Harding said he hoped so, but he didn't at all understand what Sir Abraham meant. Sir Abraham, with all

'All over. You need trouble yourself no further about it; of course they must pay the costs, and the absolute

expense to you and Dr Grantly will be triflingthat is, compared with what it might have been if it had been

'Don't you know that their attorneys have noticed us that they have withdrawn the suit?'

Mr Harding explained to the lawyer that he knew nothing of this, although he had heard in a roundabout way

that such an intention had been talked of; and he also at length succeeded in making Sir Abraham understand

that even this did not satisfy him. The attorneygeneral stood up, put his hands into his breeches' pockets, and

raised his eyebrows, as Mr Harding proceeded to detail the grievance from which he now wished to rid

'I know I have no right to trouble you personally with this matter, but as it is of most vital importance to me,

as all my happiness is concerned in it, I thought I might venture to seek your advice.'

Sir Abraham bowed, and declared his clients were entitled to the best advice he could give them; particularly

'A spoken word, Sir Abraham, is often of more value than volumes of written advice. The truth is, I am

illsatisfied with this matter as it stands at present. I do seeI cannot help seeing, that the affairs of the

'None of such institutions are, Mr Harding, nor can they be; the altered circumstances in which we live do not

'Quite truethat is quite true; but I can't see that those altered circumstances give me a right to eight hundred

a year. I don't know whether I ever read John Hiram's will, but were I to read it now I could not understand it.

What I want you, Sir Abraham, to tell me, is thisam I, as warden, legally and distinctly entitled to the

Sir Abraham declared that he couldn't exactly say in so many words that Mr Harding was legally entitled to,

and ended in expressing a strong opinion that it would be madness to raise any further question on the matter,

as the suit was to benay, was, abandoned. Mr Harding, seated in his chair, began to play a slow tune on an

'Nay, my dear sir,' continued the attorneygeneral, 'there is no further ground for any question; I don't see that

'I can resign,' said Mr Harding, slowly playing away with his right hand, as though the bow were beneath the

'What! throw it up altogether?' said the attorneygeneral, gazing with utter astonishment at his client.

'Did you see those articles in The Jupiter?' said Mr Harding, piteously, appealing to the sympathy of the

Sir Abraham said he had seen them. This poor little clergyman, cowed into such an act of extreme weakness

by a newspaper article, was to Sir Abraham so contemptible an object, that he hardly knew how to talk to him

'Hadn't you better wait,' said he, 'till Dr Grantly is in town with you? Wouldn't it be better to postpone any

Mr Harding declared vehemently that he could not wait, and Sir Abraham began seriously to doubt his sanity.

'Of course,' said the latter, 'if you have private means sufficient for your wants, and if this'

Mr Harding proceeded to explain to the man of law that he meant to keep his precentorshipthat was eighty

pounds a year; and, also, that he meant to fall back upon his own little living of Crabtree, which was another

eighty pounds. That, to be sure, the duties of the two were hardly compatible; but perhaps he might effect an

exchange. And then, recollecting that the attorneygeneral would hardly care to hear how the service of a

cathedral church is divided among the minor canons, stopped short in his explanations.

Sir Abraham listened in pitying wonder. 'I really think, Mr Harding, you had better wait for the archdeacon.

This is a most serious stepone for which, in my opinion, there is not the slightest necessity; and, as you

have done me the honour of asking my advice, I must implore you to do nothing without the approval of your

'A man is the best judge of what he feels himself. I'd sooner beg my bread till my death than read such

another article as those two that have appeared, and feel, as I do, that the writer has truth on his side.'

'I have,' said he, now standing also, but still playing away on his fiddle with his hand behind his back. 'I have,

'Pray excuse me, Mr Harding, if what I say seems impertinent; but surely it is you that should be prudent on

her behalf. She is young, and does not know the meaning of living on an income of a hundred and sixty

pounds a year. On her account give up this idea. Believe me, it is sheer Quixotism.'

The warden walked away to the window, and then back to his chair; and then, irresolute what to say, took

another turn to the window. The attorneygeneral was really extremely patient, but he was beginning to think

'But if this income be not justly mine, what if she and I have both to beg?' said the warden at last, sharply, and

in a voice so different from that he had hitherto used, that Sir Abraham was startled. 'If so, it would be better

'Yes, Sir Abraham, one does question itthe most important of all witnesses against meI question it

myself. My God knows whether or no I love my daughter; but I would sooner that she and I should both beg,

than that she should live in comfort on money which is truly the property of the poor. It may seem strange to

you, Sir Abraham, it is strange to myself, that I should have been ten years in that happy home, and not have

thought of these things till they were so roughly dinned into my ears. I cannot boast of my conscience, when

it required the violence of a public newspaper to awaken it; but, now that it is awake, I must obey it. When I

came here, I did not know that the suit was withdrawn by Mr Bold, and my object was to beg you to abandon

my defence. As there is no action, there can be no defence; but it is, at any rate, as well that you should know

that from tomorrow I shall cease to be the warden of the hospital. My friends and I differ on this subject, Sir

Abraham, and that adds much to my sorrow; but it cannot be helped.' And, as he finished what he had to say,

he played up such a tune as never before had graced the chambers of any attorneygeneral. He was standing

up, gallantly fronting Sir Abraham, and his right arm passed with bold and rapid sweeps before him, as

though he were embracing some huge instrument, which allowed him to stand thus erect; and with the fingers

of his left hand he stopped, with preternatural velocity, a multitude of strings, which ranged from the top of

his collar to the bottom of the lappet of his coat. Sir Abraham listened and looked in wonder. As he had never

before seen Mr Harding, the meaning of these wild gesticulations was lost upon him; but he perceived that

the gentleman who had a few minutes since been so subdued as to be unable to speak without hesitation, was

'I have done more than sleep upon it,' said the warden; 'I have lain awake upon it, and that night after night. I

The attorneygeneral had no answer to make to this; so he expressed a quiet hope that whatever settlement

was finally made would be satisfactory; and Mr Harding withdrew, thanking the great man for his kind

Mr Harding was sufficiently satisfied with the interview to feel a glow of comfort as he descended into the

small old square of Lincoln's Inn. It was a calm, bright, beautiful night, and by the light of the moon, even the

chapel of Lincoln's Inn, and the sombre row of chambers, which surround the quadrangle, looked well. He

stood still a moment to collect his thoughts, and reflect on what he had done, and was about to do. He knew

that the attorneygeneral regarded him as little better than a fool, but that he did not mind; he and the

attorney general had not much in common between them; he knew also that others, whom he did care about,

would think so too; but Eleanor, he was sure, would exult in what he had done, and the bishop, he trusted,

In the meantime he had to meet the archdeacon, and so he walked slowly down Chancery Lane and along

Fleet Street, feeling sure that his work for the night was not yet over. When he reached the hotel he rang the

bell quietly, and with a palpitating heart; he almost longed to escape round the corner, and delay the coming

storm by a further walk round St Paul's Churchyard, but he heard the slow creaking shoes of the old waiter

'Dr Grantly is here, sir,' greeted his ears before the door was well open, 'and Mrs Grantly. They have a

There was something in the tone of the man's voice which seemed to indicate that even he looked upon the

warden as a runaway schoolboy, just recaptured by his guardian, and that he pitied the culprit, though he

The warden endeavoured to appear unconcerned, as he said, 'Oh, indeed! I'll go upstairs at once'; but he failed

signally. There was, perhaps, a ray of comfort in the presence of his married daughter; that is to say, of

comparative comfort, seeing that his soninlaw was there; but how much would he have preferred that they

should both have been safe at Plumstead Episcopi! However, upstairs he went, the waiter slowly preceding

him; and on the door being opened the archdeacon was discovered standing in the middle of the room, erect,

indeed, as usual, but oh! how sorrowful! and on the dingy sofa behind him reclined his patient wife.

'Papa, I thought you were never coming back,' said the lady; 'it's twelve o'clock.'

'Yes, my dear,' said the warden. 'The attorneygeneral named ten for my meeting; to be sure ten is late, but

And he gave his daughter a kiss, and shook hands with the doctor, and again tried to look unconcerned.

'Good heavens, how unfortunate!' And the archdeacon raised his huge hands in the manner in which his

friends are so accustomed to see him express disapprobation and astonishment. 'What will Sir Abraham think

of it? Did you not know that it is not customary for clients to go direct to their counsel?'

'Isn't it?' asked the warden, innocently. 'Well, at any rate, I've done it now. Sir Abraham didn't seem to think it

'I asked him, my dear, to explain John Hiram's will to me. He couldn't explain it in the only way which would

'Resigned it!' said the archdeacon, in a solemn voice, sad and low, but yet sufficiently audiblea sort of

whisper that Macready would have envied, and the galleries have applauded with a couple of rounds.

'Resigned it! Good heavens!' And the dignitary of the church sank back horrified into a horsehair armchair.

'At least I told Sir Abraham that I would resign; and of course I must now do so.'

'Not at all,' said the archdeacon, catching a ray of hope. 'Nothing that you say in such a way to your own

counsel can be in any way binding on you; of course you were there to ask his advice. I'm sure Sir Abraham

'Then your threat of resignation amounts to nothing, and we are just where we were before.'

Mr Harding was now standing on the rug, moving uneasily from one foot to the other. He made no distinct

answer to the archdeacon's last proposition, for his mind was chiefly engaged on thinking how he could

escape to bed. That his resignation was a thing finally fixed on, a fact all but completed, was not in his mind a

matter of any doubt; he knew his own weakness; he knew how prone he was to be led; but he was not weak

enough to give way now, to go back from the position to which his conscience had driven him, after having

purposely come to London to declare his determination: he did not in the least doubt his resolution, but he

But Susan didn't want to go till her husband went.She had an idea that her papa might be bullied if she

The archdeacon was pacing the room, expressing, by certain noddles of his head, his opinion of the utter

'Why,' at last he saidand angels might have blushed at the rebuke expressed in his tone and

emphasis'Why did you go off from Barchester so suddenly? Why did you take such a step without giving

The warden hung his head, and made no reply: he could not condescend to say that he had not intended to

give his soninlaw the slip; and as he had not the courage to avow it, he said nothing.

The archdeacon took another turn, and again ejaculated, 'Good heavens!' this time in a very low whisper, but

'At any rate, you'll promise me to take no further step without consultation,' said the archdeacon. Mr Harding

'Of course,' continued the other, 'such a declaration as that you made to Sir Abraham means nothing. Come,

warden, promise me this. The whole affair, you see, is already settled, and that with very little trouble or

expense. Bold has been compelled to abandon his action, and all you have to do is to remain quiet at the

hospital.' Mr Harding still made no reply, but looked meekly into his soninlaw's face. The archdeacon

thought he knew his fatherinlaw, but he was mistaken; he thought that he had already talked over a

vacillating man to resign his promise. 'Come,' said he, 'promise Susan to give up this idea of resigning the

The warden looked at his daughter, thinking probably at the moment that if Eleanor were contented with him,

he need not so much regard his other child, and said, 'I am sure Susan will not ask me to break my word, or to

'Papa,' said she, 'it would be madness in you to throw up your preferment. What are you to live on?'

'God, that feeds the young ravens, will take care of me also,' said Mr Harding, with a smile, as though afraid

'Pish!' said the archdeacon, turning away rapidly. 'If the ravens persisted in refusing the food prepared for

them, they wouldn't be fed.' A clergyman generally dislikes to be met in argument by any scriptural

quotation; he feels as affronted as a doctor does, when recommended by an old woman to take some favourite

dose, or as a lawyer when an unprofessional man attempts to put him down by a quibble.

'I shall have the living of Crabtree,' modestly suggested the warden. 'Eighty pounds a year!' sneered the

'It goes with the wardenship,' said the soninlaw. Mr Harding was prepared to argue this point, and began to

do so, but Dr Grantly stopped him. 'My dear warden,' said he, 'this is all nonsense. Eighty pounds or a

hundred and sixty makes very little difference. You can't live on ityou can't ruin Eleanor's prospects for

ever. In point of fact, you can't resign; the bishop wouldn't accept it; the whole thing is settled. What I now

want to do is to prevent any inconvenient tittletattleany more newspaper articles.'

'And to prevent that,' continued the other, 'we mustn't let any talk of resignation get abroad.'

'But, papa,' said Mrs Grantly, getting up, and putting her arm through that of her father, 'what is Eleanor to do

A hot tear stood in each of the warden's eyes as he looked round upon his married daughter. Why should one

sister who was so rich predict poverty for another? Some such idea as this was on his mind, but he gave no

utterance to it. Then he thought of the pelican feeding its young with blood from its own breast, but he gave

no utterance to that either; and then of Eleanor waiting for him at home, waiting to congratulate him on the

'And you will not do this rash thing?' The lady was really moved beyond her usual calm composure.

'It can never be rash to do right,' said he. 'I shall certainly resign this wardenship.'

'Then, Mr Harding, there is nothing before you but ruin,' said the archdeacon, now moved beyond all

endurance. 'Ruin both for you and Eleanor. How do you mean to pay the monstrous expenses of this action?'

Mrs Grantly suggested that, as the action was abandoned, the costs would not be heavy.

'Indeed they will, my dear,' continued he. 'One cannot have the attorneygeneral up at twelve o'clock at night

'I will sell my furniture,' said the warden. 'Furniture!' ejaculated the other, with a most powerful sneer.

Come, archdeacon,' said the lady, 'we needn't mind that at present. You know you never expected papa to pay

'Such absurdity is enough to provoke job,' said the archdeacon, marching quickly up and down the room.

'Your father is like a child. Eight hundred pounds a year!eight hundred and eighty with the housewith

nothing to do. The very place for him. And to throw that up because some scoundrel writes an article in a

newspaper! WellI have done my duty. If he chooses to ruin his child I cannot help it'; and he stood still at

the fireplace, and looked at himself in a dingy mirror which stood on the chimneypiece.

There was a pause for about a minute, and then the warden, finding that nothing else was coming, lighted his

And so the warden retired; but, as he closed the door behind him, he heard the wellknown

The party met the next morning at breakfast; and a very sombre affair it wasvery unlike the breakfasts at

There were three thin, small, dry bits of bacon, each an inch long, served up under a huge old plated cover;

there were four threecornered bits of dry toast, and four square bits of buttered toast; there was a loaf of

bread, and some oily looking butter; and on the sideboard there were the remains of a cold shoulder of

mutton. The archdeacon, however, had not come up from his rectory to St Paul's Churchyard to enjoy himself

The guests were as sorry as the viandshardly anything was said over the breakfasttable. The archdeacon

munched his toast in ominous silence, turning over bitter thoughts in his deep mind. The warden tried to talk

to his daughter, and she tried to answer him; but they both failed. There were no feelings at present in

common between them. The warden was thinking only of getting back to Barchester, and calculating whether

the archdeacon would expect him to wait for him; and Mrs Grantly was preparing herself for a grand attack

which she was to make on her father, as agreed upon between herself and her husband during their curtain

When the waiter had creaked out of the room with the last of the teacups, the archdeacon got up and went to

the window as though to admire the view. The room looked out on a narrow passage which runs from St

Paul's Churchyard to Paternoster Row; and Dr Grantly patiently perused the names of the three shopkeepers

whose doors were in view. The warden still kept his seat at the table, and examined the pattern of the

After a while the warden pulled his Bradshaw out of his pocket, and began laboriously to consult it. There

was a train for Barchester at 10 A.M. That was out of the question, for it was nearly ten already. Another at 3

P.M.; another, the nightmail train, at 9 P.M. The three o'clock train would take him home to tea, and would

'My dear,' said he, 'I think I shall go back home at three o'clock today. I shall get home at halfpast eight. I

'The archdeacon and I return by the early train tomorrow, papa; won't you wait and go back with us?'

'Thank ye, my dear! I think I'll go this afternoon.' The tamest animal will turn when driven too hard, and even

I suppose you won't be back before three?' said the lady, addressing her husband.

'Quite out of the question,' said the archdeacon, answering his wife, and still reading the shopkeepers' names;

There was another long pause, during which Mr Harding continued to study his Bradshaw.

'Oh, to Cox and Cummins,' said the warden. It was quite a matter of indifference to him where his

soninlaw went. The names of Cox and Cummins had now no interest in his ears. What had he to do with

Cox and Cummins further, having already had his suit finally adjudicated upon in a court of conscience, a

judgment without power of appeal fully registered, and the matter settled so that all the lawyers in London

could not disturb it. The archdeacon could go to Cox and Cummins, could remain there all day in anxious

discussion; but what might be said there was no longer matter of interest to him, who was so soon to lay aside

The archdeacon took up his shining new clerical hat, and put on his black new clerical gloves, and looked

heavy, respectable, decorous, and opulent, a decided clergyman of the Church of England, every inch of him.

'I must once more beseech you to take no further steps till you see my father; if you owe me nothing,' and the

archdeacon looked as though he thought a great deal were due to him, 'at least you owe so much to my

father'; and, without waiting for a reply, Dr Grantly wended his way to Cox and Cummins.

Mrs Grantly waited till the last fall of her husband's foot was heard, as he turned out of the court into St Paul's

'I am sure you do, my dear'; and he ordered the waiter to bring him pen, ink, and paper.

'Pray, pray, papa, put it off till our returnpray put it off till you have seen the bishopdear papa! for my

'It is for your sake and Eleanor's that I do this. I hope, at least, that my children may never have to be

'How can you talk about shame, papa?' and she stopped while the waiter creaked in with the paper, and then

slowly creaked out again; 'how can you talk about shame? you know what all your friends think about this

question.' The warden spread his paper on the table, placing it on the meagre blottingbook which the hotel

'You won't refuse me one request, papa?' continued his daughter; 'you won't refuse to delay your letter for

'My dear,' said he naively, 'if I waited till I got to Barchester, I might, perhaps, be prevented.'

'God forbid! The bishop is not apt to take offence, and knows me too well to take in bad part anything that I

'Susan,' said he, 'my mind on this subject is made up; it is not without much repugnance that I act in

opposition to the advice of such men as Sir Abraham Haphazard and the archdeacon; but in this matter I can

'Nonor can I delay it. You may add to my present unhappiness by pressing me, but you cannot change my

purpose; it will be a comfort to me if you will let the matter rest': and, dipping his pen into the inkstand, he

There was something in his manner which taught his daughter to perceive that he was in earnest; she had at

one time ruled supreme in her father's house, but she knew that there were moments when, mild and meek as

he was, he would have his way, and the present was an occasion of the sort. She returned, therefore, to her

The warden was now at liberty to compose his letter, and, as it was characteristic of the man, it shall be given

at full length. The official letter, which, when written, seemed to him to be too formally cold to be sent alone

to so dear a friend, was accompanied by a private note; and both are here inserted.

'It is with the greatest pain that I feel myself constrained to resign into your Lordship's hands the wardenship

of the hospital at Barchester, which you so kindly conferred upon me, now nearly twelve years since.

'I need not explain the circumstances which have made this step appear necessary to me. You are aware that a

question has arisen as to the right of the warden to the income which has been allotted to the wardenship; it

has seemed to me that this right is not well made out, and I hesitate to incur the risk of taking an income to

'The office of precentor of the cathedral is, as your Lordship is aware, joined to that of the warden; that is to

say, the precentor has for many years been the warden of the hospital; there is, however, nothing to make the

junction of the two offices necessary, and, unless you or the dean and chapter object to such an arrangement,

I would wish to keep the precentorship. The income of this office will now be necessary to me; indeed, I do

not know why I should be ashamed to say that I should have difficulty in supporting myself without it.

'Your Lordship, and such others as you may please to consult on the matter, will at once see that my

resignation of the wardenship need offer not the slightest bar to its occupation by another person. I am

thought in the wrong by all those whom I have consulted in the matter; I have very little but an inward and an

unguided conviction of my own to bring me to this step, and I shall, indeed, be hurt to find that any slur is

thrown on the preferment which your kindness bestowed on me, by my resignation of it. I, at any rate for one,

shall look on any successor whom you may appoint as enjoying a clerical situation of the highest

respectability, and one to which your Lordship's nomination gives an indefeasible right.

'I cannot finish this official letter without again thanking your Lordship for all your great kindness, and I beg

'I cannot send you the accompanying official letter without a warmer expression of thanks for all your

kindness than would befit a document which may to a certain degree be made public. You, I know, will

understand the feeling, and, perhaps, pity the weakness which makes me resign the hospital. I am not made of

calibre strong enough to withstand public attack. Were I convinced that I stood on ground perfectly firm, that

I was certainly justified in taking eight hundred a year under Hiram's will, I should feel bound by duty to

retain the position, however unendurable might be the nature of the assault; but, as I do not feel this

'I had at one time an idea of keeping only some moderate portion of the income; perhaps three hundred a

year, and of remitting the remainder to the trustees; but it occurred to me, and I think with reason, that by so

doing I should place my successors in an invidious position, and greatly damage your patronage.

'My dear friend, let me have a line from you to say that you do not blame me for what I am doing, and that

the officiating vicar of Crabtree Parva will be the same to you as the warden of the hospital.

'I am very anxious about the precentorship: the archdeacon thinks it must go with the wardenship; I think not,

and, that, having it, I cannot be ousted. I will, however, be guided by you and the dean. No other duty will

'I thank you from my heart for the preferment which I am now giving up, and for all your kindness, and am,

Having written these letters and made a copy of the former one for the benefit of the archdeacon, Mr Harding,

whom we must now cease to call the warden, he having designated himself so for the last time, found that it

was nearly two o'clock, and that he must prepare for his journey. Yes, from this time he never again admitted

the name by which he had been so familiarly known, and in which, to tell the truth, he had rejoiced. The love

of titles is common to all men, and a vicar or fellow is as pleased at becoming Mr Archdeacon or Mr Provost,

as a lieutenant at getting his captaincy, or a city tallowchandler in becoming Sir John on the occasion of a

Queen's visit to a new bridge. But warden he was no longer, and the name of precentor, though the office was

to him so dear, confers in itself no sufficient distinction; our friend, therefore, again became Mr Harding.

Mrs Grantly had gone out; he had, therefore, no one to delay him by further entreaties to postpone his

journey; he had soon arranged his bag, and paid his bill, and, leaving a note for his daughter, in which he put

the copy of his official letter, he got into a cab and drove away to the station with something of triumph in his

Had he not cause for triumph? Had he not been supremely successful? Had he not for the first time in his life

held his own purpose against that of his soninlaw, and manfully combated against great oddsagainst the

archdeacon's wife as well as the archdeacon? Had he not gained a great victory, and was it not fit that he

He had not told Eleanor when he would return, but she was on the lookout for him by every train by which

he could arrive, and the ponycarriage was at the Barchester station when the train drew up at the platform.

'My dear,' said he, sitting beside her, as she steered her little vessel to one side of the road to make room for

the clattering omnibus as they passed from the station into the town, 'I hope you'll be able to feel a proper

There was great comfort in returning home to that pleasant house, though he was to leave it so soon, and in

discussing with his daughter all that he had done, and all that he had to do. It must take some time to get out

of one house into another; the curate at Crabtree could not be abolished under six months, that is, unless other

provision could be made for him; and then the furniturethe most of that must be sold to pay Sir Abraham

Haphazard for sitting up till twelve at night. Mr Harding was strangely ignorant as to lawyers' bills; he had no

idea, from twenty pounds to two thousand, as to the sum in which he was indebted for legal assistance. True,

he had called in no lawyer himself; true, he had been no consenting party to the employment of either Cox

and Cummins, or Sir Abraham; he had never been consulted on such matters;the archdeacon had managed

all this himself, never for a moment suspecting that Mr Harding would take upon him to end the matter in a

way of his own. Had the lawyers' bills been ten thousand pounds, Mr Harding could not have helped it; but he

was not on that account disposed to dispute his own liability. The question never occurred to him; but it did

occur to him that he had very little money at his banker's, that he could receive nothing further from the

'Not quite all, my dear,' said he; 'that is, if we can help it. We must have a little at Crabtreebut it can only

be a little; we must put a bold front on it, Nelly; it isn't easy to come down from affluence to poverty.'

And so they planned their future mode of life; the father taking comfort from the reflection that his daughter

would soon be freed from it, and she resolving that her father would soon have in her own house a ready

When the archdeacon left his wife and fatherinlaw at the Chapter Coffee House to go to Messrs Cox and

Cummins, he had no very defined idea of what he had to do when he got there. Gentlemen when at law, or in

any way engaged in matters requiring legal assistance, are very apt to go to their lawyers without much

absolute necessity;gentlemen when doing so, are apt to describe such attendance as quite compulsory, and

very disagreeable. The lawyers, on the other hand, do not at all see the necessity, though they quite agree as

to the disagreeable nature of the visit;gentlemen when so engaged are usually somewhat gravelled at

finding nothing to say to their learned friends; they generally talk a little politics, a little weather, ask some

few foolish questions about their suit, and then withdraw, having passed half an hour in a small dingy

waitingroom, in company with some junior assistant clerk, and ten minutes with the members of the firm;

the business is then over for which the gentleman has come up to London, probably a distance of a hundred

and fifty miles. To be sure he goes to the play, and dines at his friend's club, and has a bachelor's liberty and

bachelor's recreation for three or four days; and he could not probably plead the desire of such gratifications

Married ladies, when your husbands find they are positively obliged to attend their legal advisers, the nature

The archdeacon would not have dreamt of leaving London without going to Cox and Cummins; and yet he

had nothing to say to them. The game was up; he plainly saw that Mr Harding in this matter was not to be

moved; his only remaining business on this head was to pay the bill and have done with it; and I think it may

be taken for granted, that whatever the cause may be that takes a gentleman to a lawyer's chambers, he never

Dr Grantly, however, in the eyes of Messrs Cox and Cummins, represented the spiritualities of the diocese of

Barchester, as Mr Chadwick did the temporalities, and was, therefore, too great a man to undergo the

halfhour in the clerk's room. It will not be necessary that we should listen to the notes of sorrow in which

the archdeacon bewailed to Mr Cox the weakness of his fatherinlaw, and the end of all their hopes of

triumph; nor need we repeat the various exclamations of surprise with which the mournful intelligence was

received. No tragedy occurred, though Mr Cox, a short and somewhat bullnecked man, was very near a fit

Over and over again did Mr Cox attempt to enforce on the archdeacon the propriety of urging on Mr Warden

'Eight hundred a year, and as nice a house as any gentleman could wish to hang up his hat in,' said Mr

'And an unmarried daughter, I believe,' said Mr Cox, with much moral seriousness in his tone. The

archdeacon only sighed as each separate wail was uttered, and shook his head, signifying that the fatuity of

'I'll tell you what he might do,' said Mr Cummins, brightening up. 'I'll tell you how you might save itlet

'Exchange for a living. There's Quiverful, of Puddingdale he has twelve children, and would be delighted

to get the hospital. To be sure Puddingdale is only four hundred, but that would be saving something out of

the fire: Mr Harding would have a curate, and still keep three hundred or three hundred and fifty.'

The archdeacon opened his ears and listened; he really thought the scheme might do.

'The newspapers,' continued Mr Cummins, 'might hammer away at Quiverful every day for the next six

The archdeacon took up his hat, and returned to his hotel, thinking the matter over deeply. At any rate he

would sound Quiverful. A man with twelve children would do much to double his income.

On the morning after Mr Harding's return home he received a note from the bishop full of affection,

condolence, and praise. 'Pray come to me at once,' wrote the bishop, 'that we may see what had better be

done; as to the hospital, I will not say a word to dissuade you; but I don't like your going to Crabtree: at any

Mr Harding did go to him at once; and long and confidential was the consultation between the two old

friends. There they sat together the whole long day, plotting to get the better of the archdeacon, and to carry

out little schemes of their own, which they knew would be opposed by the whole weight of his authority.

The bishop's first idea was, that Mr Harding, if left to himself, would certainly starvenot in the figurative

sense in which so many of our ladies and gentlemen do starve on incomes from one to five hundred a year;

not that he would be starved as regarded dress coats, port wine, and pocketmoney; but that he would

'How is a man to live, when he gives up all his income?' said the bishop to himself. And then the

goodnatured little man began to consider how his friend might be best rescued from a death so horrid and

His first proposition to Mr Harding was, that they should live together at the palace. He, the bishop,

positively assured Mr Harding that he wanted another resident chaplainnot a young working chaplain, but

a steady, middleaged chaplain; one who would dine and drink a glass of wine with him, talk about the

archdeacon, and poke the fire. The bishop did not positively name all these duties, but he gave Mr Harding to

It was not without much difficulty that Mr Harding made his friend see that this would not suit him; that he

could not throw up the bishop's preferment, and then come and hang on at the bishop's table; that he could not

allow people to say of him that it was an easy matter to abandon his own income, as he was able to sponge on

that of another person. He succeeded, however, in explaining that the plan would not do, and then the bishop

brought forward another which he had in his sleeve. He, the bishop, had in his will left certain moneys to Mr

Harding's two daughters, imagining that Mr Harding would himself want no such assistance during his own

lifetime. This legacy amounted to three thousand pounds each, duty free; and he now pressed it as a gift on

'The girls, you know,' said he, 'will have it just the same when you're goneand they won't want it

soonerand as for the interest during my lifetime, it isn't worth talking about. I have more than enough.'

With much difficulty and heartfelt sorrow, Mr Harding refused also this offer. No; his wish was to support

himself, however poorlynot to be supported on the charity of anyone. It was hard to make the bishop

understand this; it was hard to make him comprehend that the only real favour he could confer was the

continuation of his independent friendship; but at last even this was done. At any rate, thought the bishop, he

will come and dine with me from time to time, and if he be absolutely starving I shall see it.

Touching the precentorship, the bishop was clearly of opinion that it could be held without the other

situationan opinion from which no one differed; and it was therefore soon settled among all the parties

On the day following Mr Harding's return, the archdeacon reached Plumstead full of Mr Cummins's scheme

regarding Puddingdale and Mr Quiverful. On the very next morning he drove over to Puddingdale, and

obtained the full consent of the wretched clerical Priam, who was endeavouring to feed his poor Hecuba and

a dozen of Hectors on the small proceeds of his ecclesiastical kingdom. Mr Quiverful had no doubts as to the

legal rights of the warden; his conscience would be quite clear as to accepting the income; and as to The

Jupiter, he begged to assure the archdeacon that he was quite indifferent to any emanations from the profane

Having so far succeeded, he next sounded the bishop; but here he was astonished by most unexpected

resistance. The bishop did not think it would do. 'Not do, why not?' and seeing that his father was not shaken,

His lordship looked very unhappy, and shuffled about in his chair, but still didn't give way; he thought

The bishop also thought that Mr Quiverful wouldn't do for the hospital; such an exchange wouldn't look well

at such a time; and, when pressed harder, he declared he didn't think Mr Harding would accept of

The bishop, with tears in his eyes, declared that he had not the slightest conception how life was to be

sustained within him at all. The archdeacon then left his father, and went down to the hospital; but Mr

Harding wouldn't listen at all to the Puddingdale scheme. To his eyes it had no attraction; it savoured of

simony, and was likely to bring down upon him harder and more deserved strictures than any he had yet

received: he positively declined to become vicar of Puddingdale under any circumstances.

The archdeacon waxed wroth, talked big, and looked bigger; he said something about dependence and

beggary, spoke of the duty every man was under to earn his bread, made passing allusions to the follies of

youth and waywardness of age, as though Mr Harding were afflicted by both, and ended by declaring that he

had done. He felt that he had left no stone unturned to arrange matters on the best and easiest footing; that he

had, in fact, so arranged them, that he had so managed that there was no further need of any anxiety in the

matter. And how had he been paid? His advice had been systematically rejected; he had been not only

slighted, but distrusted and avoided; he and his measures had been utterly thrown over, as had been Sir

Abraham, who, he had reason to know, was much pained at what had occurred. He now found it was useless

to interfere any further, and he should retire. If any further assistance were required from him, he would

probably be called on, and should be again happy to come forward. And so he left the hospital, and has not

And here we must take leave of Archdeacon Grantly. We fear that he is represented in these pages as being

worse than he is; but we have had to do with his foibles, and not with his virtues. We have seen only the weak

side of the man, and have lacked the opportunity of bringing him forward on his strong ground. That he is a

man somewhat too fond of his own way, and not sufficiently scrupulous in his manner of achieving it, his

best friends cannot deny. That he is bigoted in favour, not so much of his doctrines as of his cloth, is also

true: and it is true that the possession of a large income is a desire that sits near his heart. Nevertheless, the

archdeacon is a gentleman and a man of conscience; he spends his money liberally, and does the work he has

to do with the best of his ability; he improves the tone of society of those among whom he lives. His

aspirations are of a healthy, if not of the highest, kind. Though never an austere man, he upholds propriety of

conduct both by example and precept. He is generous to the poor, and hospitable to the rich; in matters of

religion he is sincere, and yet no Pharisee; he is in earnest, and yet no fanatic. On the whole, the Archdeacon

of Barchester is a man doing more good than harma man to be furthered and supported, though perhaps

also to be controlled; and it is matter of regret to us that the course of our narrative has required that we

Mr Harding allowed himself no rest till everything was prepared for his departure from the hospital. It may be

as well to mention that he was not driven to the stern necessity of selling all his furniture: he had been quite

in earnest in his intention to do so, but it was soon made known to him that the claims of Messrs Cox and

Cummins made no such step obligatory. The archdeacon had thought it wise to make use of the threat of the

lawyer's bill, to frighten his fatherinlaw into compliance; but he had no intention to saddle Mr Harding

with costs, which had been incurred by no means exclusively for his benefit. The amount of the bill was

added to the diocesan account, and was, in fact, paid out of the bishop's pocket, without any consciousness on

the part of his lordship. A great part of his furniture he did resolve to sell, having no other means to dispose

of it; and the ponies and carriage were transferred, by private contract, to the use of an old maiden lady in the

For his present use Mr Harding took a lodging in Barchester, and thither were conveyed such articles as he

wanted for daily usehis music, books, and instruments, his own armchair, and Eleanor's pet sofa; her

teapoy and his cellaret, and also the slender but still sufficient contents of his winecellar. Mrs Grantly had

much wished that her sister would reside at Plumstead, till her father's house at Crabtree should be ready for

her; but Eleanor herself strongly resisted this proposal. It was in vain urged upon her, that a lady in lodgings

cost more than a gentleman; and that, under her father's present circumstances, such an expense should be

avoided. Eleanor had not pressed her father to give up the hospital in order that she might live at Plumstead

Rectory and he alone in his Barchester lodgings; nor did Eleanor think that she would be treating a certain

gentleman very fairly, if she betook herself to the house which he would be the least desirous of entering of

any in the county. So she got a little bedroom for herself behind the sittingroom, and just over the little back

parlour of the chemist, with whom they were to lodge. There was somewhat of a savour of senna softened by

peppermint about the place; but, on the whole, the lodgings were clean and comfortable.

The day had been fixed for the migration of the exwarden, and all Barchester were in a state of excitement

on the subject. Opinion was much divided as to the propriety of Mr Harding's conduct. The mercantile part of

the community, the mayor and corporation, and council, also most of the ladies, were loud in his praise.

Nothing could be more noble, nothing more generous, nothing more upright. But the gentry were of a

different way of thinkingespecially the lawyers and the clergymen. They said such conduct was very weak

and undignified; that Mr Harding evinced a lamentable want of esprit de corps, as well as courage; and that

On the evening before he left, he summoned all the bedesmen into his parlour to wish them goodbye. With

Bunce he had been in frequent communication since his return from London, and had been at much pains to

explain to the old man the cause of his resignation, without in any way prejudicing the position of his

successor. The others, also, he had seen more or less frequently; and had heard from most of them separately

some expression of regret at his departure; but he had postponed his farewell till the last evening.

He now bade the maid put wine and glasses on the table; and had the chairs arranged around the room; and

sent Bunce to each of the men to request they would come and say farewell to their late warden. Soon the

noise of aged scuffling feet was heard upon the gravel and in the little hall, and the eleven men who were

'Come in, my friends, come in,' said the wardenhe was still warden then. 'Come in, and sit down'; and he

took the hand of Abel Handy, who was the nearest to him, and led the limping grumbler to a chair. The others

followed slowly and bashfully; the infirm, the lame, and the blind: poor wretches! who had been so happy,

had they but known it! Now their aged faces were covered with shame, and every kind word from their

When first the news had reached them that Mr Harding was going to leave the hospital, it had been received

with a kind of triumphhis departure was, as it were, a prelude to success. He had admitted his want of right

to the money about which they were disputing; and as it did not belong to him, of course, it did to them. The

one hundred a year to each of them was actually becoming a reality; and Abel Handy was a hero, and Bunce

a fainthearted sycophant, worthy neither honour nor fellowship. But other tidings soon made their way into

the old men's rooms. It was first notified to them that the income abandoned by Mr Harding would not come

to them; and these accounts were confirmed by attorney Finney. They were then informed that Mr Harding's

place would be at once filled by another. That the new warden could not be a kinder man they all knew; that

he would be a less friendly one most suspected; and then came the bitter information that, from the moment

of Mr Harding's departure, the twopence a day, his own peculiar gift, must of necessity be withdrawn.

And this was to be the end of all their mighty struggleof their fight for their rightsof their petition, and

their debates, and their hopes! They were to change the best of masters for a possible bad one, and to lose

twopence a day each man! No; unfortunate as this was, it was not the worst, or nearly the worst, as will just

'Sit down, sit down, my friends,' said the warden; 'I want to say a word to you and to drink your healths,

before I leave you. Come up here, Moody, here is a chair for you; come, Jonathan Crumple'and by degrees

he got the men to be seated. It was not surprising that they should hang back with faint hearts, having

returned so much kindness with such deep ingratitude. Last of all of them came Bunce, and with sorrowful

When they were all in their places, Mr Harding rose to address them; and then finding himself not quite at

home on his legs, he sat down again. 'My dear old friends,' said he, 'you all know that I am going to leave

There was a sort of murmur ran round the room, intended, perhaps, to express regret at his departure; but it

'There has been lately some misunderstanding between us. You have thought, I believe, that you did not get

all that you were entitled to, and that the funds of the hospital have not been properly disposed of. As for me,

I cannot say what should be the disposition of these moneys, or how they should be managed, and I have

'No, indeed, your reverence,' said Skulpit. 'We never thought it would come to this. When I signed the

'No,' continued Mr Harding; 'I am sure you did not wish to turn me out; but I thought it best to leave you. I

am not a very good hand at a lawsuit, as you may all guess; and when it seemed necessary that our ordinary

quiet mode of living should be disturbed, I thought it better to go. I am neither angry nor offended with any

'I am neither angry nor displeased with any man in the hospital,' repeated Mr Harding, emphatically. 'If any

man has been wrongand I don't say any man hashe has erred through wrong advice. In this country all

are entitled to look for their own rights, and you have done no more. As long as your interests and my

interests were at variance, I could give you no counsel on this subject; but the connection between us has

ceased; my income can no longer depend on your doings, and therefore, as I leave you, I venture to offer to

The men all declared that they would from henceforth be entirely guided by Mr Harding's opinion in their

'Some gentleman will probably take my place here very soon, and I strongly advise you to be prepared to

receive him in a kindly spirit and to raise no further question among yourselves as to the amount of his

income. Were you to succeed in lessening what he has to receive, you would not increase your own

allowance. The surplus would not go to you; your wants are adequately provided for, and your position could

'Yes, Mr Harding,' said Bunce, opening his mouth for the first time; 'I believe they do understand it now, now

that they've driven from under the same roof with them such a master as not one of them will ever know

'Come, come, Bunce,' said Mr Harding, blowing his nose and manoeuvring to wipe his eyes at the same time.

'Oh, as to that,' said Handy, 'we none of us never wanted to do Mr Harding no harm; if he's going now, it's not

'You've ruined yourselves, and you've ruined me too, and that's why,' said Bunce.

'Nonsense, Bunce,' said Mr Harding; 'there's nobody ruined at all. I hope you'll let me leave you all friends, I

hope you'll all drink a glass of wine in friendly feeling with me and with one another. You'll have a good

friend, I don't doubt, in your new warden; and if ever you want any other, why after all I'm not going so far

off but that I shall sometimes see you'; and then, having finished his speech, Mr Harding filled all the glasses,

'God bless you all! you have my heartfelt wishes for your welfare. I hope you may live contented, and die

trusting in the Lord jesus Christ, and thankful to Almighty God For the good things he has given you. God

Another murmur, somewhat more articulate than the first, passed round the circle, and this time it was

intended to imply a blessing on Mr Harding. It had, however, but little cordiality in it. Poor old men! how

could they be cordial with their sore consciences and shamed faces? how could they bid God bless him with

hearty voices and a true benison, knowing, as they did, that their vile cabal had driven him from his happy

home, and sent him in his old age to seek shelter under a strange rooftree? They did their best, however;

As they left the halldoor, Mr Harding shook hands with each of the men, and spoke a kind word to them

about their individual cases and ailments; and so they departed, answering his questions in the fewest words,

All but Bunce, who still remained to make his own farewell. 'There's poor old Bell,' said Mr Harding; 'I

mustn't go without saying a word to him; come through with me, Bunce, and bring the wine with you'; and so

they went through to the men's cottages, and found the old man propped up as usual in his bed.

'I've come to say goodbye to you, Bell,' said Mr Harding, speaking loud, for the old man was deaf.

'Indeed I am, and I've brought you a glass of wine; so that we may part friends, as we lived, you know.'

The old man took the proffered glass in his shaking hands, and drank it eagerly. 'God bless you, Bell!' said

The poor old bedridden creature still kept Mr Harding's hand in his own, and the warden thought that he had

met with something like warmth of feeling in the one of all his subjects from whom it was the least likely to

be expected; for poor old Bell had nearly outlived all human feelings. 'And your reverence,' said he, and then

he paused, while his old palsied head shook horribly, and his shrivelled cheeks sank lower within his jaws,

and his glazy eye gleamed with a momentary light; 'and your reverence, shall we get the hundred a year,

How gently did Mr Harding try to extinguish the false hope of money which had been so wretchedly raised to

disturb the quiet of the dying man! One other week and his mortal coil would be shuffled off; in one short

week would God resume his soul, and set it apart for its irrevocable doom; seven more tedious days and

nights of senseless inactivity, and all would be over for poor Bell in this world; and yet, with his last audible

words, he was demanding his moneyed rights, and asserting himself to be the proper heir of John Hiram's

Mr Harding returned to his parlour, meditating with a sick heart on what he had seen, and Bunce with him.

We will not describe the parting of these two good men, for good men they were. It was in vain that the late

warden endeavoured to comfort the heart of the old bedesman; poor old Bunce felt that his days of comfort

were gone. The hospital had to him been a happy home, but it could be so no longer. He had had honour

there, and friendship; he had recognised his master, and been recognised; all his wants, both of soul and body,

had been supplied, and he had been a happy man. He wept grievously as he parted from his friend, and the

tears of an old man are bitter. 'It is all over for me in this world,' said he, as he gave the last squeeze to Mr

And so the old man went out, and then Mr Harding gave way to his grief and he too wept aloud.

Our tale is now done, and it only remains to us to collect the scattered threads of our little story, and to tie

them into a seemly knot. This will not be a work of labour, either to the author or to his readers; we have not

to deal with many personages, or with stirring events, and were it not for the custom of the thing, we might

leave it to the imagination of all concerned to conceive how affairs at Barchester arranged themselves.

On the morning after the day last alluded to, Mr Harding, at an early hour, walked out of the hospital, with his

daughter under his arm, and sat down quietly to breakfast at his lodgings over the chemist's shop. There was

no parade about his departure; no one, not even Bunce, was there to witness it; had he walked to the

apothecary's thus early to get a piece of court plaster, or a box of lozenges, he could not have done it with less

appearance of an important movement. There was a tear in Eleanor's eye as she passed through the big

gateway and over the bridge; but Mr Harding walked with an elastic step, and entered his new abode with a

'Now, my dear,' said he, 'you have everything ready, and you can make tea here just as nicely as in the parlour

at the hospital.' So Eleanor took off her bonnet and made the tea. After this manner did the late Warden of

It was not long before the archdeacon brought his father to discuss the subject of a new warden. Of course he

looked upon the nomination as his own, and he had in his eye three or four fitting candidates, seeing that Mr

Cummins's plan as to the living of Puddingdale could not be brought to bear. How can I describe the

astonishment which confounded him, when his father declared that he would appoint no successor to Mr

Harding? 'If we can get the matter set to rights, Mr Harding will return,' said the bishop; 'and if we cannot, it

It was in vain that the archdeacon argued and lectured, and even threatened; in vain he mylorded his poor

father in his sternest manner; in vain his 'good heavens!' were ejaculated in a tone that might have moved a

whole synod, let alone one weak and aged bishop. Nothing could induce his father to fill up the vacancy

Even John Bold would have pitied the feelings with which the archdeacon returned to Plumstead: the church

was falling, nay, already in ruins; its dignitaries were yielding without a struggle before the blows of its

antagonists; and one of its most respected bishops, his own fatherthe man considered by all the world as

being in such matters under his, Dr Grantly's, controlhad positively resolved to capitulate, and own himself

And how fared the hospital under this resolve of its visitor? Badly indeed. It is now some years since Mr

Harding left it, and the warden's house is still tenantless. Old Bell has died, and Billy Gazy; the oneeyed

Spriggs has drunk himself to death, and three others of the twelve have been gathered into the churchyard

mould. Six have gone, and the six vacancies remain unfilled! Yes, six have died, with no kind friend to solace

their last moments, with no wealthy neighbour to administer comforts and ease the stings of death. Mr

Harding, indeed, did not desert them; from him they had such consolation as a dying man may receive from

his Christian pastor; but it was the occasional kindness of a stranger which ministered to them, and not the

Nor were those who remained better off than those who died. Dissensions rose among them, and contests for

pre eminence; and then they began to understand that soon one among them would be the lastsome one

wretched being would be alone there in that now comfortless hospitalthe miserable relic of what had once

The building of the hospital itself has not been allowed to go to ruins. Mr Chadwick, who still holds his

stewardship, and pays the accruing rents into an account opened at a bank for the purpose, sees to that; but

the whole place has become disordered and ugly. The warden's garden is a wretched wilderness, the drive and

paths are covered with weeds, the flowerbeds are bare, and the unshorn lawn is now a mass of long damp

grass and unwholesome moss. The beauty of the place is gone; its attractions have withered. Alas! a very few

years since it was the prettiest spot in Barchester, and now it is a disgrace to the city. Mr Harding did not go

out to Crabtree Parva. An arrangement was made which respected the homestead of Mr Smith and his happy

family, and put Mr Harding into possession of a small living within the walls of the city. It is the smallest

possible parish, containing a part of the Cathedral Close and a few old houses adjoining. The church is a

singular little Gothic building, perched over a gateway, through which the Close is entered, and is approached

by a flight of stone steps which leads down under the archway of the gate. It is no bigger than an ordinary

roomperhaps twentyseven feet long by eighteen widebut still it is a perfect church. It contains an old

carved pulpit and readingdesk, a tiny altar under a window filled with dark oldcoloured glass, a font, some

halfdozen pews, and perhaps a dozen seats for the poor; and also a vestry. The roof is high pitched, and of

black old oak, and the three large beams which support it run down to the side walls, and terminate in

grotesquely carved facestwo devils and an angel on one side, two angels and a devil on the other. Such is

the church of St Cuthbert at Barchester, of which Mr Harding became rector, with a clear income of

Here he performs afternoon service every Sunday, and administers the Sacrament once in every three months.

His audience is not large; and, had they been so, he could not have accommodated them: but enough come to

fill his six pews, and on the front seat of those devoted to the poor is always to be seen our old friend Mr

Mr Harding is still precentor of Barchester; and it is very rarely the case that those who attend the Sunday

morning service miss the gratification of hearing him chant the Litany, as no other man in England can do it.

He is neither a discontented nor an unhappy man; he still inhabits the lodgings to which he went on leaving

the hospital, but he now has them to himself. Three months after that time Eleanor became Mrs Bold, and of

There were some difficulties to be got over on the occasion of the marriage. The archdeacon, who could not

so soon overcome his grief, would not be persuaded to grace the ceremony with his presence, but he allowed

his wife and children to be there. The marriage took place in the cathedral, and the bishop himself officiated.

It was the last occasion on which he ever did so; and, though he still lives, it is not probable that he will ever

Not long after the marriage, perhaps six months, when Eleanor's bridalhonours were fading, and persons

were beginning to call her Mrs Bold without twittering, the archdeacon consented to meet John Bold at a

dinnerparty, and since that time they have become almost friends. The archdeacon firmly believes that his

brotherinlaw was, as a bachelor, an infidel, an unbeliever in the great truths of our religion; but that

matrimony has opened his eyes, as it has those of others. And Bold is equally inclined to think that time has

softened the asperities of the archdeacon's character. Friends though they are, they do not often revert to the

Mr Harding, we say, is not an unhappy man: he keeps his lodgings, but they are of little use to him, except as

being the one spot on earth which he calls his own. His time is spent chiefly at his daughter's or at the palace;

he is never left alone, even should he wish to be so; and within a twelvemonth of Eleanor's marriage his

determination to live at his own lodging had been so far broken through and abandoned, that he consented to

Every other day a message is brought to him from the bishop. 'The bishop's compliments, and his lordship is

not very well today, and he hopes Mr Harding will dine with him.' This bulletin as to the old man's health is

a myth; for though he is over eighty he is never ill, and will probably die some day, as a spark goes out,

gradually and without a struggle. Mr Harding does dine with him very often, which means going to the palace

at three and remaining till ten; and whenever he does not the bishop whines, and says that the port wine is

corked, and complains that nobody attends to him, and frets himself off to bed an hour before his time.

It was long before the people of Barchester forgot to call Mr Harding by his long wellknown name of

Warden. It had become so customary to say Mr Warden, that it was not easily dropped. 'No, no,' he always