THE WARDEN


By Anthony Trollope


Chapter 1

Hiram's Hospital

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 wives and daughters.
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 after his marriage; the other, Eleanor, 
not till ten years later.
At the time at which we introduce him to our readers he was living as 
precentor at Barchester with his youngest daughter, then twenty-four 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 wool-stapler, 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 wool-carders, all of whom should have been born and 
bred and spent their days in Barchester; he also appointed that an alms-
house 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 the bishop in each case 
approved.
From that day to this the charity had gone on and prospered - at least, the 
charity had gone on, and the estates had prospered. Wool-carding 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 hangers-on 
of their own; worn-out 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, indeed - that is, till 
within some fifty years of the present time - they 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 well-to-do 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 steward - a 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 do with so worthy and liberal a steward.
For many, many years - records hardly tell how many, probably from the time 
when Hiram's wishes had been first fully carried out - the 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 Barchester - few indeed, 
and far between - that 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 open-handed, just-minded 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 
sixty-two 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 extra income was based.
This munificence on the part of Mr Harding had not been unopposed. Mr 
Chadwick had mildly but seriously dissuaded him from it; and his strong-
minded son-in-law, 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 done.
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 one-
arched 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 well-worn 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 well-mown 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 of the Barchester elite pass into the 
Elysium of Mr Harding's dwelling.
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 knee-breeches, 
and black gaiters, and somewhat scandalises some of his more hyperclerical 
brethren by a black neck-handkerchief.
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 
such audiences as he could collect, or, faute de mieux, to no audience at 
all.
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 father-in-law'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 son-in-law, who has, to a certain 
extent, assumed the arrangement of the precentor's pecuniary affairs.




Chapter 2

The Barchester Reformer

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 well-known 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 these things must be 
looked into.
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 son-in-law, 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 well nigh 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 
friends, that his logic is conclusive, and has not, in fact, been answered.
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 itseif 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 son-
in-law'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 pounds - he who, 
out of that, voluntarily gave up sixty-two pounds eleven shillings and 
fourpence a year to his twelve old neighbours - he who, for the money, does 
his precentor's work as no precentor has done it before, since Barchester 
Cathedral was built, - such an idea has never sullied his quiet, or 
disturbed his conscience.
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 stone-mason 
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 one-and-sixpence 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 broken-down 
journeymen of Barchester.
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 far-seeing 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 bedesmen.
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 is some four or five 
years older than her brother.
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 house-keeping 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 dread of him 
has died away; for in three years he has not taken three fees.
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 
thinking - but 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 
others - if 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 self-assurance of a Danton, and hurls 
his anathemas against time-honoured 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 another heart within the same 
walls.
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 brother-in-law 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 where she will not meet him, and, in fact, 
she is in love.
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; well-made and good-looking; 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 John 
Bold?
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 father-
in-law 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 all-trusted helpmate, within that sacred recess formed by the 
clerical bed-curtains at Plumstead Episcopi.
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 father-in-law, 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 ever-new shovel 
hat for a tasselled nightcap, and those shining black habiliments for his 
accustomed robe de nuit, that Dr Grantly talks, and looks, and thinks like 
an ordinary man.
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 well-
got-up 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 bed-clothes, 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 considered 
himself entitled to give counsel to every other being whom he met.
'My dear,' he said, as he adjusted the copious folds of his nightcap, 
'there was that John Bold at your father's again today. I must say your 
father is very imprudent.'
'He is imprudent - he always was,' replied Mrs Grantly, speaking from under 
the comfortable bed-clothes. 'There's nothing new in that.'
'No, my dear, there's nothing new - I know that; but, at the present 
juncture of affairs, such imprudence is - is - I'll tell you what, my dear, 
if he does not take care what he's about, John Bold will be off with 
Eleanor.'
'I think he will, whether papa takes care or no; and why not?' 
'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 Bold - the most vulgar young person I ever met! 
Do you know that he is meddling with your father's affairs in a most 
uncalled-for - 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 have forgotten where he 
was.
'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 son-in-law.' And the lady turned herself round under the 
bed-clothes, 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 again - he 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 the sphere of his curate, but it 
is as an archdeacon that he shines.
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 dare to ask a question 
respecting the appropriation of church revenues.
'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 discussed either at Barchester or at Oxford.
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 sister-in-law of 
one dignitary and the daughter of another - with 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 matters.
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 from deep 
thought.
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 son-in-law, 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 
differed on such subjects with himself.
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 gate-keeper, 
and proved that all people coming up a certain by-lane, and going down a 
certain other by-lane, were toll-free. 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 
estate.
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 was not the man to flinch from his 
undertaking from personal motives.
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 of the hospital for the last twenty-five years.
This was of course refused, Mr Chadwick alleging that he had no authority 
for making public the concerns of a property in managing which he was only 
a paid servant.
'And who is competent to give you that authority, Mr Chadwick?' asked Bold.
'Only those who employ me, Mr Bold,' said the steward.
'And who are those, Mr Chadwick?' demanded Bold.
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 good-morning. Mr 
Chadwick said it was cold for June, and bowed him out.
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 six-and-
eightpence. 'Slap at them at once, Mr Bold. Demand categorically and 
explicitly a full statement of the affairs of the hospital.'
'Suppose I were to see Mr Harding first,' suggested Bold.
'Yes, yes, by all means,' said the acquiescing Finney; 'though, perhaps, as 
Mr Harding is no man of business, it may lead - lead 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 own way.



Chapter 3

The Bishop of Barchester

Old 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 garden-chair just 
within the summer-house, 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 
much-laboured and much-loved 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 
well-to-do 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 summer-house, 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 havoc 
- he 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 as most musicians would be 
glad to welcome.
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 sub-warden, 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, but no entreaty ever 
made him take a third.
'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, by prolonging them till they were disagreeable.
Mr Bunce, as may be imagined, was most strongly opposed the 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 archdeacon.
At the present moment, however, these cares were off his mind, and he was 
looking at his warden, as though he thought the music heavenly, and the 
musician hardly less so.
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 looking 
up, began to welcome his young friend with frank hospitality.
'Pray, Mr Harding - pray 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 him who was 
so ready to welcome him kindly.
Bold thought that the performance was soon over, for he felt that he had a 
somewhat difficult task, and he almost regretted the final leave-taking of 
the last of the old men, slow as they were in going through their adieux.
Bold's heart was in his mouth, as the precentor made some ordinary but kind 
remark as to the friendliness of the visit.
'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 
repulsed.
'I wish to speak to you about the hospital,' continued Bold.
'Well, well, anything I can tell you I shall be most happy - '
'It's about the accounts.'
'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 
get the use of her limb again?' 
'Well, I think she will, if she's careful; but, Mr Harding, I hope you 
won't object to discuss with me what I have to say about the hospital.'
Mr Harding gave a deep, long-drawn 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 from 
the coming evil; he sighed sadly, but made no answer.
'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 man - quite as likely.'
'But, Mr Harding, I must express what I feel, lest you should think there 
is personal enmity in what I'm going to do.'
'Personal enmity! Going to do! Why, you're not going to cut my throat, nor 
put me into the Ecclesiastical Court -'
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 asked to see into it.'
'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 I 
hope you will forgive me for doing so.'
'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 go in to tea.'
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 the case.
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 loving warden was neither happy 
nor at ease.
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 to 
explain to herself why she was so.
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 world 
- meaning the ecclesiastical world as confined to the English church - knew 
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 
bestowed on himself; surely he was bound to stand by his order.
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 
done - his especial duty, whatever injury it might do to his order - 
however ill such duty might be received by his patron and his friends? At 
the idea of his friends, his mind turned unhappily to his son-in-law. 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 prove himself right, as to be 
so.
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 small-talk with 
the rectors' wives, and put curates at their ease; but it required the 
strong hand of the archdeacon to deal with such as were refractory either 
in their doctrines or their lives.
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 morning after John Bold's uncourteous 
visit.
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 pharmacopceia strong enough to 
touch so grave a disorder - he 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.
'But, bishop,' said he, 'did you ever read John Hiram's will?' 
The bishop thought probably he had, thirty-five 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 the income of the warden had been regularly settled.
'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 
good-natured 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 order - would think him 
right; but it failed to prove to him that he truly was so.
'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 wrong - what then?' 
The two old men were sitting near each other' so 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 syrnpathise 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' (meaning John 
Bold) had any friends in Barchester.
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 son-in-law and present enemy; and 
though he felt it to be sufficiently disagreeable, now was his time to do 
it.
'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 son-in-law.' 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 so, but for his apron.
What a brother-in-law 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 father, I have had no 
objection to urge against their intimacy.'
'But, Mr Harding,' said the bishop, 'how are you to oppose him, if he is 
your son-in-law?' 
'I don't mean to oppose him; it is he who opposes me; if anything is to be 
done in defence, I suppose Chadwick will do it. I suppose - '
'Oh, the archdeacon will see to that: were the young man twice his brother-
in-law, the archdeacon will never be deterred from doing what he feels to 
be right.'
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, leaving his poor old friend bewildered, amazed, 
and confounded.



Chapter 4

Hiram's Bedesmen

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 high-sounding 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 task, who else would do it?
'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 propitiate the powers that 
still existed.
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 question - in 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:

his [Abel + Handy] mark
his [Gregy + Moody] mark
his [Mathew + Spriggs] mark

etc., 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 clerk-like 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 well-worn ink-black pen, which from time to time he 
endeavoured to thrust into Skulpit's unwilling hand.
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 saying that he can write his own name 
like his betters!' 
'Well, Job,' said Handy, trying to impart to his own sour, ill-omened 
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 the spending of this money, why the 
sooner the better - that's my maxim.'
'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 knew 
the insult.
'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 
their full extent.
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 know, 
not he; he didn't know.'
'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 
him.
'And shall have again, Joe,' said Handy; 'and will have someone to keep it 
right and tight for you this time.'
Crumple sighed again - he had learned the impotency of worldly wealth, and 
would have been satisfied, if left untempted, to have remained happywith 
one and sixpence a day.
'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 have robbed all and everything!' 
'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 in - no, not old Catgut, 
with Calves to help him!' I am sorry to say the archdeacon himself was 
designated by this scurrilous allusion to his nether person.
'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 me - 
but some men is timorous - some men is born with no pluck in them - some 
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 this ungrateful demagogue's rival 
candidate!
'Afraid of a parson,' growled Moody, with a look of ineffable scorn. 'I 
tell ye what I'd be afraid of - I'd be afraid of not getting nothing from 
'em but just what I could take by might and right - that's the most I'd be 
afraid on of any parson of 'em all.'
'But,' said Skulpit, apologetically, 'Mr Harding's not so bad - he 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!' muttered Moody with a curse; 'sink his twopence!' 
'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, are you 
a going to put your mark to this here paper, or are you not?' 
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 express the agony of his doubt, and again 
muttered that 'he didn't know.'
'Take hold, you old cripple,' said Handy, thrusting the pen into poor 
Billy's hand: 'there, so - ugh! you old fool, you've been and smeared it 
all - there - that'll do for you - that'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.
'Now, Jonathan,' said Handy, turning to Crumple.
'A hundred a year's a nice thing, for sartain,' again argued Crumple. 
'Well, neighbour Skulpit, how's it to be?' 
'Oh, please yourself,' said Skulpit: 'please yourself, and you'll please 
me.'
The pen was thrust into Crumple's hand, and a faint, wandering, meaningless 
sign was made, betokening such sanction and authority as Jonathan Crumple 
was able to convey.
'Come, Job,' said Handy, softened by success, 'don't let 'em have to say 
that old Bunce has a man like you under his thumb - a 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 
maybe you wouldn't like to seem uppish, you know.'
'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; 'there - there ': and stooping over 
the petition, the learned clerk made a huge cross on the place left for his 
signature.
'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 
on one side and a stick on the other, he was met by Bunce himself.
'Well, Handy, and what may old Bunce do?' said the grayhaired, upright 
senior.
Handy muttered something, and was departing; but he was stopped in the 
doorway by the huge frame of the newcomer.
'You've been doing no good here, Abel Handy,' said he, ''tis plain to see 
that; and 'tisn't much good, I'm thinking, you ever do.'
'I mind my own business, Master Bunce,' muttered the other, 'and do you do 
the same. It ain't nothing to you what I does - and your spying and poking 
here won't do no good nor yet no harm.'
'I suppose then, Job,' continued Bunce, not noticing his opponent, 'if the 
truth must out, you've stuck your name to that petition of theirs at last.'
Skulpit looked as though he were about to sink into the ground with shame.
'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 busy, 
and where you're not wanted - '
'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.'
'So you can, Mr Bunce,' said Skulpit; 'so you can, any hour, day or night.'
'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 which now makes you so unthankful?' 
'We wants what John Hiram left us,' said Handy. 'We wants what's ourn by 
law; it don't matter what we expected. What's ourn by law should be ourn, 
and by goles we'll have it.'
'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 see to 
you when you're sick, and comfort you when you're wretched? 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 
powerful petition.
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 
head - Jonathan 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 know.'



Chapter 5

Dr Grantly Visits the Hospital

Though doubt and hesitation disturbed the rest of our poor warden, no such 
weakness perplexed the nobler breast of his son-in-law. 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 father-in-law 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 
resign himself into his hands with passive submission.
'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 tight-gaitered 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 
get - he's in the House, too, which is a great thing.'
Mr Chadwick quite agreed.
'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, we must take care to 
be in time, or the other party will forestall us.'
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 would venture to disturb the goodly grace of 
cathedral institutions.
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 grass-plat, 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 and so harsh?
The archdeacon, with all his virtues, was not a man of delicate feeling; 
and after having made his morning salutations in the warden's drawing-room, 
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 his enemy.
'Nelly, my dear, fetch me my spectacles from the back room,' said her 
father, anxious to save both her blushes and her feelings.
Eleanor brought the spectacles, while her father was trying, in ambiguous 
phrases, to explain to her too-practical brother-in-law 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 knew that things were going wrong.
'We must soon be doing something,' commenced the archdeacon, wiping his 
brows with a large, bright-coloured handkerchief, for he had felt busy, and 
had walked quick, and it was a broiling summer's day. 'Of course you have 
heard of the petition?' 
Mr Harding owned, somewhat unwillingly, that he had heard of it.
'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 subject - as his 
trusting heart, looking to the bottom of that which vexed him, would see 
its clear way out - he 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 cross-questioning him at the Common 
Pleas.'
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 my 
father.' The warden didn't know; he imagined they would do so this very 
day.
'What I can't understand is, how you let them do it, with such a command as 
you have in the place, or should have with such a man as Bunce. I cannot 
understand why you let them do it.'
'Do what?' asked the warden.
'Why, listen to this fellow Bold, and that other low pettifogger, Finney - 
and get up this petition too. Why didn't you tell Bunce to destroy the 
petition?' 
'That would have been hardly wise,' said the warden.
'Wise - yes, 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.'
'But why shouldn't they petition, doctor?' 
'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 
bye, warden, I'd like to say a few words to them all together.'
The warden's mind misgave him, and even for a moment he forgot to play. He 
by no means wished to delegate to his son-in-law 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?' 
'Why, if I am to be ruined, certainly.'
'Nonsense, warden; I tell you something must be done - we must act; just 
let me ring the bell, and send the men word that I'll speak to them in the 
quad.'
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 purpose, rose to address them.
'Well, warden, of course you're coming,' said he, seeing that Mr Harding 
did not prepare to follow him.
'I wish you'd excuse me,' said Mr Harding.
'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, however, strong enough to resist, so he got 
up and followed his son-in-law.
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 Bell had greedily put his mark to the 
petition.
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 wellpronounced, 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 well-turned leg, betokened the decency, the 
outward beauty and grace of our church establishment.
'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 is it you 
ask for? What is it you want that you haven't got here? What is it - '
'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 half-crowns 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 worn-
out old men, worn-out old labouring men, infirm old men past their work, 
cripples, blind, bed-ridden, and such like, do you think he meant to make 
gentlemen of them? Do you thinkJohn Hiram intended to give a hundred a year 
to old single men, who earned perhaps two shillings or half-a-crown a day 
for themselves and families in the best of their time? No, my men, I'll 
tell you whatJohn Hiram meant: he meant that twelve poor old worn-out 
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 that was his will, and 
that that was his intention.'
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 anger 
and disgust to which such language was sure to give rise.
'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 possible that my lord the bishop, and your warden, may 
make changes - '
'No, no, no,' interrupted Mr Harding, who had been listening with 
indescribable misery to the tirade of his son-in-law; 'no, my friends. I 
want no changes - at least no changes that shall make you worse off than 
you now are, as long as you and I live together.'
'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 general.
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 father-in-law.
'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 sun 
in summer, in a full suit of thick black cloth, is warm work.
'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 me - 
I think they knew what I meant.'
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 full - full nearly to overcharging itself; and 
had it done so - had 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 son-in-law - he 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 cares - had 
never brought him into disagreeable contact with anyone. He felt that he 
would give almost anything - much more than he knew he ought to do - to 
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 him - could he have thus compromised the matter between the 
reformer and the conservative, between his possible son-in-law, Bold, and 
his positive son-in-law, the archdeacon.
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 pity - to 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 peace - whom all 
the world united to decry and to abhor.
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 lime-trees, 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 home 
to Mrs Grantly, and Plumstead Episcopi.



Chapter 6

The Warden's Tea Party

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 to him myself, but you must write to his sister.'
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 in.
'How odd,' said Mary, 'that they should send two notes. Well, if Mr Harding 
becomes fashionable, the world is going to change.'
Her brother understood immediately the nature and intention of the peace-
offering; 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 friend.
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 gloomy. 'I wish I could, with 
all my heart.'
'And why not, John?' said she. She had as yet heard nothing of the new-
found abuse which her brother was about to reform - at least nothing which 
connected it with her brother's name.
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 about: it must be done sooner or 
later.
'I fear I cannot go to Mr Harding's house any more as a friend, just at 
present.'
'Oh, John! Why not? Ah, you've quarrelled with Eleanor!' 
'No, indeed,' said he; 'I've no quarrel with her as yet.'
'What is it, John?' said she, looking at him with an anxious, loving face, 
for she knew well how much of his heart was there in that house which he 
said he could no longer enter.
'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.'
'And you mean to take away from Mr Harding his share of it?' 
'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 
legatees under the will. I mean, in short, to put the matter right, if I 
can.'
'And why are you to do this, John?' 
'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 the warmth of his own virtue.
'But is there no one to do this but you, who have known Mr Harding so long? 
Surely, John, as a friend, as a young friend, so much younger than Mr 
Harding - '
'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?' 
'And Eleanor, John?' said the sister, looking timidly into her brother's 
face.
'Eleanor, that is, Miss Harding, if she thinks fit - that is, if her father 
- or, rather, if she - or, indeed, he - if they find it necessary - but 
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 duty.' And Bold consoled 
himself with the consolation of a Roman.
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:

PAKENHAM VILLAS
Tuesday morning

MY DEAR ELEANOR,
'I -'

and then stopped, and looked at her brother.
'Well, Mary, why don't you write it?' 
'Oh, John,' said she, 'dear John, pray think better of this.'
'Think better of what?' said he.
'Of this about the hospital - of all this about Mr Harding - of what you 
say about those old men. Nothing can call upon you - no duty can require 
you to set yourself against your oldest, your best friend. Oh, John, think 
of Eleanor. You'll break her heart, and your own.'
'Nonsense, Mary; Miss Harding's heart is as safe as yours.'
'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 happier than they now are.'
'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 chimera - a dream 
that you have got. I know well that no duty can require you to do this mad 
- this 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 this - oh, 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 to conclude her note in the way she 
desired.
'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 
self-devotion of his singular virtue.
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 fire-place, looking by no means so 
comfortable as they would have done in their own arm-chairs 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 not there, and she 
and others were somewhat dull.
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 heresies 
of Dr Whiston.
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 brought from 
hidden recesses, and the work of the evening commenced.
How often were those pegs twisted and re-twisted 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 amazing found room to tune his accustomed fiddle!
And now the crash begins: away they go in full flow of harmony together - 
up hill and down dale - now 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 re-twisted - listen, 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 band - 
down 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 arms till he 
falls in a syncope of exhaustion against the wall.
How comes it that now, when all should be silent, when courtesy, if not 
taste, should make men listen - how is it at this moment the black-coated 
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 full-blown rector 
assisting him, in all the perils and all the enjoyments of short whist. 
With solemn energy do they watch the shuffled pack, and, all-expectant, 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 comfort-giving 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 done - thrice 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, bushy beard, and lowering 
brow, with a poor deuce.
'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 king - and 
then an ace - and then a long ten, which brings down from the meagre doctor 
his only remaining tower of strength - his cherished queen of trumps.
'What, no second club?' says the archdeacon to his partner.
'Only one club,' mutters from his inmost stomach the pursy rector, who sits 
there red-faced, silent, impervious, careful, a safe but not a brilliant 
ally.
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 red-faced rector; calls out 'two by cards and two 
by honours, and the odd trick last time,' marks a treble under the 
candlestick, and has dealt round the second pack before the meagre doctor 
has calculated his losses.
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 red-faced 
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!' 
And so they all were gone, and Mr Harding was left alone with his daughter.
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 task - a 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 fire-place, determined to speak to her father, but 
irresolute as to what she would say.
'Well, Eleanor,' said he, 'are you for bed?' 
'Yes,' said she, moving, 'I suppose so; but papa - Mr Bold was not here 
tonight; do you know why not?' 
'He was asked; I wrote to him myself,' said the warden.
'But do you know why he did not come, papa?' 
'Well, Eleanor, I could guess; but it's no use guessing at such things, my 
dear. What makes you look so earnest about it?' 
'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 any - any - any -' she didn't well know what word to use - 'any 
danger?' 
'Danger, my dear, what sort of danger?' 
'Danger to you, danger of trouble, and of loss, and of - Oh, papa, why 
hav'n'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 on the sofa.
'Tell me, Nelly,' he said (he only called her Nelly in his kindest, 
softest, sweetest moods, and yet all his moods were kind and sweet), 'tell 
me, Nelly, do you like Mr Bold - much?' 
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, it was of 
danger to him and not to herself.
She was taken aback by the question altogether: 'Do I like him, papa?' 
'Yes, Nelly, do you like him? Why shouldn't you like him? but that's a poor 
word - do 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 
concerns me and the hospital.'
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 drawing-room 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 truth waylaid her in her private haunts.
'My sister tells me,' said he, abruptly hurrying on with his premeditated 
speech, 'my sister tells me that you had a delightful party the other 
evening. I was so sorry I could not be there.'
'We were all sorry,' said Eleanor, with dignified composure.
'I believe, Miss Harding, you understand why, at this moment -' And Bold 
hesitated, muttered, stopped, commenced his explanation again, and again 
broke down.
Eleanor would not help him in the least.
'I think my sister explained to you, Miss Harding?' 
'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 
best judge.'
'Your father is all that is kind and generous; he always was so; but you, 
Miss Harding, yourself - I hope you will not judge me harshly, because - '
'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 judgement; 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.



Chapter 7

'The Jupiter'

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 young-lady-nature 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 unconquered if not unscathed, and free 
of body if not of heart.
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 high-spirited 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 self-respect?
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 twenty-five 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 so-called 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, 
humble-spirited man, who had innocently taken what had innocently been 
offered to him?
'Write to The Jupiter,' suggested the bishop.
'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 self-condemnation; you will 
find yourself to have been vulgar, ill-tempered, 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 expenses - he 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 
bed-ridden 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 were coming.
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 which 
they had come.
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 thirty-seven 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 Poplin and Whiskey League was utterly harmless.
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.



Chapter 8

Plumstead Episcopi

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 has no one to thank but you.'
'Good gracious, my dear,' said the doctor, appearing at the door of his 
dressing-room, 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 have 
heard one word about all this affair.'
'But, my dear - '
'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 huffing him as you have 
done.'
'But, my love - '
'And all because you didn't like John Bold for a brother-in-law. 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 twist to her last shoe-string.
Dr Grantly felt keenly the injustice of this attack; but what could he say? 
He certainly had huffed John Bold; he certainly had objected to him as a 
brother-in-law, 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 among her children and servants, the pattern of a good and prudent 
wife.
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 his separate 
admirers among the doctor's friends.
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 judgement and propriety of demeanour; his fault, if he had one, was 
an over-attention to words instead of things; there was a thought too much 
finesse about him, and, as even his father sometimes told him, he was too 
fond of a compromise.
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 courageous lad, game to the backbone.
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 in the number of 
their friends, he rejoiced most in the multitude of his foes.
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 scullery-maid. 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 visitors.
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 
dressing-rooms was dispelled as he entered his breakfast-parlour 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 of women!
And now let us observe the well-furnished breakfast-parlour 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 old-fashioned chairs, 
bought at a price far exceeding that now given for more modern goods, 
without a purpose. The breakfast-service 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 tea-pot, coffee-pot, cream-ewer, and sugar-bowl; 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 bread-basket 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, home-made 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 hot-water dish; which, by the bye, were placed 
closely contiguous to the plate of the worthy archdeacon himself. Over and 
above this, on a snow-white napkin, spread upon the sideboard, was a huge 
ham and a huge sirloin; the latter having laden the dinner table on the 
previous evening. Such was the ordinary fare at Plumstead Episcopi.
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 good-natured 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 first-rate 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 watering-pot 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 kitchen-garden and back precincts of the establishment; besides, 
I think I once caught Sammy fibbing.
On the whole, therefore, I found the rectory a dull house, though it must 
be admitted that everything there was of the very best.
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 fire-place, 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 easy-chair, 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 easy-chair 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, known to 
be the bearer of important news.
'We've got Sir Abraham's opinion at last,' said Mr Chadwick, as he seated 
himself.
'Well, well, well!' exclaimed the archdeacon impatiently.
'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 
spun-out folios, of the opinion which the attorney-general had managed to 
cram on the back and sides of the case as originally submitted to him.
'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.'
'W - hoo!' said the archdeacon; 'so Master Bold is on the wrong scent, is 
he?' 
'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 consenting party to the performance of other 
duties.'
'That's quite clear,' said the archdeacon.
'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 nail - and they are far off 
from that yet - the 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 sum of money to come from?' 
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 knew whom he was at law with!
'That's excellent, Chadwick - that's excellent! I told you Sir Abraham was 
the man for us'; and he put down on the table the copy of the opinion, and 
patted it fondly.
'Don't you let that be seen, though, archdeacon.'
'Who? - I! - not for worlds,' said the doctor.
'People will talk, you know, archdeacon.'
'Of course, of course,' said the doctor.
'Because, if that gets abroad, it would teach them how to fight their own 
battle.'
'Quite true,' said the doctor.
'No one here in Barchester ought to see that but you and I, archdeacon.'
'No, no, certainly no one else,' said the archdeacon, pleased with the 
closeness of the confidence; 'no one else shall.'
'Mrs Grantly is very interested in the matter, I know,' said Mr Chadwick. - 
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 opinion as will satisfy them that the 
matter is doing well.'
'Oh, certainly - yes, of course,' said the doctor.
'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 non-suited, if they carry 
it on; you had better tell Mr Harding, that Sir Abraham is clearly of 
opinion that he is only a servant, and as such not liable - or if you like 
it, I'll see Mr Harding myself.'
'Oh, I must see him tomorrow, and my father too, and I'll explain to them 
exactly so much - you won't go before lunch, Mr Chadwick: well, if you 
will, you must, for I know your time is precious '; and he shook hands with 
the diocesan steward, and bowed him out.
The archdeacon had again recourse to his drawer, and twice read through the 
essence of Sir Abraham Haphazard's law enlightened and law-bewildered 
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 antagonist, would 
not find a flaw.
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 father-in-law. He was fighting a part of a never-
ending battle against a never-conquered foe - that of the church against 
its enemies.
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 open-handed 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.



Chapter 9

The Conference

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 father-in-law. 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 also demanded that he 
might stand justified before the world.
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 
arm-chair fitted up with candlesticks, 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 son-in-law 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 priests pressed each other's hand, and smiled and made 
little signs of love.
'Sir Abraham's opinion has come at last,' began the archdeacon. Mr Harding 
had heard so much, and was most anxious to know the result.
'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 would - most minute attention; and his opinion 
is - and as to his opinion on such a subject being correct, no one who 
knows Sir Abraham's character can doubt - his opinion is, that they hav'n't 
got a leg to stand on.'
'But as how, archdeacon?' 
'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 
two paid servants, and you and I won't quarrel with the name.'
'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, however, appeared to have caused no 
uneasiness to the archdeacon.
'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 this.'
'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 that I think very satisfactory.'
'Well,' said the bishop, looking inquiringly up into his friend's face, who 
sat silent awhile, and apparently not so well satisfied.
'And conclusive,' continued the archdeacon; 'if they press it to a jury, 
which they won't do, no twelve men in England will take five minutes to 
decide against them.'
'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 a just arrangement.'
'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, or there'll never be an end of 
the cause or the cost.'
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 not - that 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.
'I should like to see the opinion,' said the warden; 'that is, a copy of 
it.'
'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.'
'Why should it not be known?' asked the warden.
'What a question for a man to ask!' said the archdeacon, throwing up his 
hands in token of his surprise; 'but it is like you - a 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 please.'
'We are not to make known then,' said the warden, 'that we have consulted 
the attorney-general, and that we are advised by him that the founder's 
will is fully and fairly carried out.'
'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 are 
not in a position to put us out; surely that is enough for the present.'
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 
a state to satisfy any prudent mind.
'And The Jupiter?' said the warden, stopping suddenly.
'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 and 
worldly wise.
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 some what jerking eloquence he declared that he could not, 
would not, bear this misery any longer.
'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 well-being 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 anything which is painful.'
But the archdeacon, though he could not sympathise, could advise; and he 
saw that the time had come when it behoved him to do so in a somewhat 
peremptory manner.
'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, re-seating 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 fire-place.
'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 son-in-law.
'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 rhe Jupiter? Who that really knows you will 
think the worse of you for what 'rhe 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 hard-
hearted orator who thus tormented him, and the bishop echoed the sound 
faintly from behind his hands; but the archdeacon cared little for such 
signs of weakness, and completed his exhortation.
'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 we may 
support our great cause without blushing and without disgrace.'
And so the archdeacon ceased, and stood self-satisfied, 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 self-satisfied 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 self-confidence 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 him - stupefied 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 him with sorrow to the grave.
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 with me.
Oh, what a sigh the bishop gave!' My lord, I hope you agree with me,' again 
repeated the merciless tyrant.
'Yes, I suppose so,' groaned the poor old man, slowly.
'And you, warden?' 
Mr Harding was now stirred to action - he must speak and move, so he got up 
and took one turn before he answered.
'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 all - ignominy, suspense, disgrace, self-doubt, and heart-burning - 
and to do as those would have him, who he still believed were most fit and 
most able to counsel him aright.



Chapter 10

Tribulation

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 well-remembered morning 
when he was forced to expose before his son-in-law 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 convictions.
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 fellow-
creatures while their names were bandied about so injuriously and so 
publicly - and now this lot was to be his - he, 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, without a hope of 
overcoming the wretchedness which affected him.
He wandered into the drawing-room where was his daughter; but he could not 
speak to her now, so he left it, and went into the book-room. 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 ill-shapen 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 drawing-room. 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 the news from London,' he added 
after a pause.
The warden winced, and put his hand to his forehead and felt bewildered.
'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 reverence so 
sorely.'
'Well, I wish there may be, Bunce.'
'But about the news, your reverence?' said the old man, almost whispering.
Mr Harding walked on, and shook his head impatiently. Poor Bunce little 
knew how he was tormenting his patron.
'If there was anything to cheer you, I should be so glad to know it,' said 
he, with a tone of affection which the warden in all his misery could not 
resist.
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 me - God's 
will be done': and two small hot tears broke away from his eyes and stole 
down his furrowed cheeks.
'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 abode.
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 the 
warden crept back to the house and prepared for dinner.
It was but a sorry meal. The demure parlour-maid, 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 was 
soon cleared away, and the bottle of port placed upon the table.
'Would you like Bunce to come in, papa?' said Eleanor, thinking that the 
company of the old man might lighten his sorrow.
'No, my dear, thank you, not today; but are not you going out, Eleanor, 
this lovely afternoon? don't stay in for me, my dear.'
'I thought you seemed so sad, papa.'
'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 depended - one Tom Towers, a very leading genius, and 
supposed to have high employment on the staff of The Jupiter.
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 his - ah, 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 sound of wailing, how piteous a lamentation, it 
would produce.
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 drawing-room.
The tea seemed as comfortless as the dinner, though the warden, who had 
hitherto eaten nothing all day, devoured the plateful of bread and butter, 
unconscious of what he was doing.
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 drawing-room 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?' 
'What what is, my dear?' 
'This new sorrow that torments you; I know you are unhappy, papa.'
'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 tonight - it 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 speak of his own sorrows; he was so 
shy a man even with his own child!
'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 all in 
all to each other now: dear, dear papa, do speak to me.'
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, why 
should your young days be clouded?' 
'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 sorrow-stirring 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 anxiously than our warden did now to be rid of his.
'Give it up, papa,' she said again, jumping from his knees and standing on 
her feet before him, looking boldly into his face; 'give it up, papa.'
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 way that were out of all 
his troubles!
'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 ponycarriage and a fine drawing-room? 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 chide 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 them - how 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, he must bear as best he might 
the misery which was prepared for him.
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 be, but powerless against an 
omnipotent pedagogue.
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 now - no, even had her troth been plighted to him, she would have 
taken it back again - had 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 father.'
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 the 
sacrifice.
And so they greatly comforted each other - and 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 rooms.



Chapter 11

Iphigenia

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 warm-hearted enthusiasm, self-sacrifice was decided on 
as the means to be adopted. Was not so good an Agamemnon worthy of an 
Iphigenia? She would her self 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 that - not 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 
mission - not 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 thirty-five 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 herself 
than her father.
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 to her as she made the great resolve now alluded to.
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 operations.
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 sitting-room, and was 
startled by perceiving, by a stick, a greatcoat, and sundry parcels which 
were lying about, that Bold must already have returned.
'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 to see him, and he returns by the 
mail train tonight.'
Returns by the mail train tonight, thought Eleanor to herself, as she 
strove to screw up her courage - away again tonight - then 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.
'Mary,' she began, 'I must see your brother before he goes back.'
'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 likely to avoid her brother than to seek him.
'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 well-weighed 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 Jephthah's daughter or of 
Iphigenia either.
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 
understand; and she said as much.
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 self-respect.
'But I am sure you love him - don't you?' pleaded Mary; 'and I am sure he 
loves you better than anything in the world.'
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 herself 
somewhat sustained, said sententiously: 'Mary, this is nonsense.'
'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 heart - you know you do; I defy you to deny 
it.'
'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 sitting-room 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 cares - but this idea was generally consequent on an 
imprudent supper enjoyed in company with Tom Towers.
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 lawsuit.
He began to talk, asked after her health - said 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.
'My father is not very well,' said Eleanor.
John Bold was very sorry, so sorry: he hoped it was nothing serious, and 
put on the unmeaningly solemn face which people usually use on such 
occasions.
'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 
could see how wretched it has made him.'
'Oh, Miss Harding!' 
'Indeed you would - anyone would pity him; but a friend, an old friend as 
you are - indeed 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; and - and - 
if 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 wrote those cruel things in the newspaper - '
John Bold eagerly protested that it was not, but his heart smote him as to 
his intimate alliance with Tom Towers.
'No, I am sure it was not; and papa has not for a moment thought so; you 
would not be so cruel - but 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 men, and taking the money of the hospital 
for nothing.'
'I have never said so, Miss Harding. I - '
'No,' continued Eleanor, interrupting him, for she was now in the full 
flood-tide 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 less addicted to filthy lucre than 
the warden.
'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 income 
and all if the archdeacon -' Eleanor was going to say 'would let him,' but 
she stopped herself before she had compromised her father's dignity; and 
giving a long sigh, she added - 'Oh, I do so wish he would.'
'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 she broke down, and the violence of her sobs 
stopped her utterance.
Bold, for the fifth or sixth time, declared that neither he nor any of his 
friends imputed any blame personally to Mr Harding.
'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, whom we all so - so - 
valued!' 
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 injured, with his own love?
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 this for us - pray do not 
drive to distraction a man who has loved you so well.'
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 which he had 
raised?
'Surely, surely, John, you cannot refuse her,' said his sister.
'I would give her my soul,' said he, 'if it would serve her.'
'Oh, Mr Bold,' said Eleanor, 'do not speak so; I ask nothing for myself; 
and what I ask for my father, it cannot harm you to grant.'
'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 man can love better than I love 
her.'
'No, no, no,' ejaculated Eleanor; 'there can be no talk of love between us. 
Will you protect my father from the evil you have brought upon him?' 
'Oh, Eleanor, I will do anything; let me tell you how I love you!' 
'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 
him with fixed tenacity, and reiterated her resolve with hysterical 
passion.
'Speak to her, John; answer her,' said Mary, bewildered by the unexpected 
vehemence of Eleanor's manner; 'you cannot have the cruelty to refuse her.'
'Promise me, promise me,' said Eleanor; 'say that my father is safe - one 
word will do. I know how true you are; say one word, and I will let you 
go.'
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.'
'I will,' said he at length; 'I do - all I can do, I will do.'
'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 
was well nigh exhausted.
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 now - now 
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 
subject, and with this view, he postponed his immediate return to London.
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 London, and she still at Barchester.
'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.'
'But may I not say one word for myself?' said Bold.
'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 counter-asseverations, 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 confessing it.
And so the altar on the shore of the modern Aulis reeked with no sacrifice.



Chapter 12

Mr Bold's Visit to Plumstead

Whether or no the ill-natured 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 in that of a further 
opinion from Sir Abraham Haphazard.
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 the 
voices of the boys had been heard before the lodge gate was closed.
Florinda and Grizzel, frightened at the sight of so wellknown 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 their ground like heroes, and boldly demanded 
the business of the intruder.
'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 garden 
water-pot, holding it by the spout, ready for the braining of anyone.
'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, of course 
he has a right to come.'
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 
Harding, and so much in love with Aunt Nelly!' 
'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 Bold; 'lads, indeed! if we're lads, 
what does he call himself?' 
Charles James condescended to say nothing further, but cocked his hat with 
much precision, and left the visitor to the care of his youngest brother.
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 tete-a-tete 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 much-studied 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 Laud, and Dr Philpotts.
Every appliance that could make study pleasant and give ease to the over-
toiled brain was there; chairs made to relieve each limb and muscle; 
reading-desks and writing-desks 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 church - at the end of which the tawny - 
tinted 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 low - so 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 grey 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 that they should have made it other than it 
is.
When Bold was ushered into the book-room, he found its owner standing with 
his back to the empty fire-place 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 a friend of my father-in-law.'
'I hope you'll excuse my calling, Dr Grantly.'
'Certainly, certainly,' said the archdeacon; 'I can assure you, no apology 
is necessary from Mr Bold; only let me know what I can do for him.'
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 Harding.'
'Oh, Dr Grantly, there has been no attack, I can assure you - '
'Well, well, we won't quarrel about words; I should call it an attack - 
most 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 this - this little game of backgammon 
you've begun to play.'
'I intend to put an end to the legal proceedings which I have commenced.'
'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. Good-morning, Dr 
Grantly.'
'One moment one 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 judgement is the better 
of the two; but as you have done me the honour - as 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 me if I ask 
you to hear my reply to your communication.'
'I am in no hurry, Dr Grantly.'
'Well, I am, Mr Bold; my time is not exactly leisure time, and, therefore, 
if you please, we'll go to the point at once - you're going to abandon this 
lawsuit?' - and he paused for a reply.
'Yes, Dr Grantly, I am.'
'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 may be the probable cost of securing the 
services of the attorney-general?' 
'Not in the least, Dr Grantly.'
'I dare sav not, sir. When you recklessly put this affair into the hands of 
your friend Mr Finney, whose six-and-eightpences and thirteen-and-
fouIpences 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, that these crushing costs must now come out 
of your own pocket?' 
'Any demand of such a nature which Mr Harding's lawyer may have to make 
will doubtless be made to my lawyer.'
' "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 is - my opinion 
is, that we shall not allow you to withdraw this matter from the courts.'
'You can do as you please, Dr Grantly; good-morning.'
'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 this - I dare say it has had something to do with your 
visit here today.'
'I know nothing whatever of Sir Abraham Haphazard or his opinion.'
'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 you - and 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 reply.
'Dr Grantly,' he commenced.
'I have nothing further to say or to hear,' said the archdeacon. 'I'll do 
myself the honour to order your horse.' And he rang the bell.
'I came here, Dr Grantly, with the warmest, kindest feelings - '
'Oh, of course you did; nobody doubts it.'
'With the kindest feelings - and they have been most grossly outraged by 
your treatment.'
'Of course they have - I have not chosen to see my father-in-law ruined; 
what an outrage that has been to your feelings!' 
'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. Good-morning, Mr Bold'; and the doctor stalked into his own drawing-
room, closing the door behind him, and making it quite impossible that John 
Bold should speak another word.
As he got on his horse, which he was fain to do feeling like a dog turned 
out of a kitchen, he was again greeted by little Sammy.
'Good-bye, Mr Bold; I hope we may have the pleasure of seeing you again 
before long; I am sure papa will always be glad to see you.'
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 that - it was the very step to which his enemy 
had endeavoured to goad him!
He threw the reins to the servant who came to take his horse, and rushed 
upstairs into his drawing - room, where his sister Mary was sitting.
'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 
to anyone.



Chapter 13

The Warden's Decision

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 son-
in-law 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 and 
fro upon the lawn, and she soon saw that he was much excited.
'I am going to London, my dear,' he said as soon as he saw her.
'London, papa!' 
'Yes, my dear, to London; I will have this matter settled some way; there 
are some things, Eleanor, which I cannot bear.'
'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 mention the price she 
was to pay for it.
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 happy - I thought all would have been right now.'
'Mr Bold,' continued he, 'has set great people to work - so 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 
these leviathans, it descended to Mr Harding.
'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 three-
fifths of his charity should be so consumed.
'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, let the church pay him out of funds justly at its own 
disposal.
'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 England who could allow such an argument to be put in his 
mouth.
'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 of such an examination.'
As Eleanor read the article her face flushed with indignation, and when she 
had finished it, she almost feared to look up at her father.
'Well, my dear,' said he, 'what do you think of that - is it worth while to 
be a warden at that price?' 
'Oh, papa; - dear papa!' 
'Mr Bold can't unwrite that, my dear - Mr 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 read - nor 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 paper says; and I do 
believe I have no right to be here.'
'No right to be warden of the hospital, papa?' 
'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 he will not abandon it for my sake.'
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 privately 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 evil was 
utterly beyond her power to cure!
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 excuse can be made for me than that, I and 
the hospital will part.'
'But the archdeacon, papa?' 
'I can't help it, my dear; there are some things which a man cannot bear - 
I cannot bear that'; and he put his hand upon the newspaper.
'But will the archdeacon go with you?' 
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 son-in-law, 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 the doctor knew of his intended journey in time to prevent it.
'No, I think not,' said he. 'I think I shall start before the archdeacon 
could be ready - I shall go early tomorrow morning.'
'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 
can - can interfere. There is a great deal of truth in all he says - he 
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 the money, if we are to be ill-spoken 
of?' 
'Oh, papa, I am so glad!' 
'My darling child! It did cost me a pang at first, Nelly, to think that you 
should lose your pretty drawing-room, and your ponies, and your garden: the 
garden will be the worst of all - but there is a garden at Crabtree, a very 
pretty 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 
on the income arising from his profession.
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 going - going where he would escape all this dreadful 
turmoil.
'But we will take the music, my dear.'
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 kind-
hearted, and right-thinking in the main - one 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 safety.'
'But what will Dr Grantly say?' 
'Well, my dear, it can't be helped - we shall be out at Crabtree then.'
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.



Chapter 14

Mount Olympus

Wretched in spirit, groaning under the feeling of insult, self-condemning, 
and ill-satisfied 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 a heavy heart.
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 Barchester - and 
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 hemispheres.
Who has not heard of Mount Olympus - that 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 
never-ending flow of Castalian ink, issue forth fifty thousand nightly 
edicts for the governance of a subject nation?
Velvet and gilding do not make a throne, nor gold and jewels a sceptre. It 
is a throne because the most exalted one sits there - and 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, unadorned - nay, 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 orange-women in the management of their 
barrows?'
'Yes, my friend - from 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, self-nominated, self-
consecrated - ay, and much stranger too - self-believing! - 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 doing - one 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 Russell - why 
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 wrong - alas! alas! Tom 
Towers, and he alone, knows all about it. Why, oh why, ye earthly 
ministers, why have ye not followed more closely this heaven-sent 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 guide us and willing?
Yes indeed, able and willing to guide all men in all things, so long as he 
is obeyed as autocrat should be obeyed - with 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 all-seeing 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 North-west 
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; none but the mad dispute its facts.
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 scorned - men, born of British 
mothers and nursed on English milk, who scruple not to say that Mount 
Olympus has its price, that Tom Towerscan be bought for gold!
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, armed with no signature at all.
Some great man, some mighty peer - we'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 god 
dispensing thunderbolts from Mount Olympus.
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 
awe-struck, had Bold regarded the silent-looking 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 sipping 
nectar in the shape of toast and tea.
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 Czesar 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 bell-smiting 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 go - its 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 Temple: it is the mediaeval court of the metropolis.
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, middle-aged 
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 half-filled deal book-case 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 well-being 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 book-
shelves 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 art - the 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 at a lily as no lady ever looked 
before.
Our modern artists, whom we style Pre-Raphaelites, 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 latter-day pictures. It 
is, however, singular into what faults they fall as regards their subjects: 
they are not quite content to take the old stock groups - a 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 without a cause.
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 far - off 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 power - how 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 
breast that he was a god.



Chapter 15

Tom Towers, Dr Anciant, and Mr Sentiment

Ah, Bold! how are you? You haven't breakfasted?'
'Oh yes, hours ago. And how are you?' 
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.
'I suppose you're busy?' inquired Bold.
'Why, yes, rather; or I should say rather not. I have a leisure hour in the 
day, this is it.'
'I want to ask you if you can oblige me in a certain matter.'
Towers understood in a moment, from the tone of his friend's voice, that 
the certain matter referred to the newspaper. He smiled, and nodded his 
head, but made no promise.
'You know this lawsuit that I've been engaged in,' said Bold.
Tom Towers intimated that he was aware of the action which was pending 
about the hospital.
'Well, I've abandoned it.'
Tom Towers merely raised his eyebrows, thrust his hands into his trowsers 
pockets, and waited for his friend to proceed.
'Yes, I've given it up. I needn't trouble you with all the history; but the 
fact is that the conduct of Mr Harding - Mr Harding is the -'
'Oh yes, the master of the place; the man who takes all the money and does 
nothing,' said Tom Towers, interrupting him.
'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 vacant.'
'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 to get at it: is not that something the case here?' 
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 mouth, in 
the shape of an attorney's office.
'It will cost you a good deal, I fear,' said Towers.
'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 from the press.
Bold had not seen it nor heard of it; but he was well acquainted with the 
author of it - a 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 subtlety 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 that has not in it some seed of what is goodly.
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 nine-pence, 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 beer-barrel 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 pressure - oh, my loud-speaking friend, tell me, if so much be in you, 
what is the demand for poets in these kingdoms of Queen Victoria, and what 
the vouchsafed supply?' 
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 sentiments.
'Could utmost ingenuity in the management of red tape avail anything to men 
lying gasping - we may say, all but dead; could despatch boxes with never-
so-much velvet lining and Chubb's patent be of comfort to a people in 
extremis, 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 serene face, and each - alas, me! alas, my country! - each with a 
despatch box!
'Oh, the serenity of Downing Street!
'My brothers, when hope was over on the battle-field, 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 lie - the 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 endeavoured to dust the powder 
out of the bishops' wigs?
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 predecessors - how little by the present 
age; and it ended by a comparison between ancient and modern times, very 
little to the credit of the latter.
'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 his.
'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 vicinity - a 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 wool-carders 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 trade as could not, by diligent carding, any longer duly feed 
themselves.
''Twas thus that an old man in the fifteenth century did his godlike work 
to the best of his power, and not ignobly, as appears to me.
'We will now take our godly man of latter days. He shall no longer be a 
wool-carder, 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 
appetite - by the power of his gorge; his only occupation is to swallow the 
bread prepared with so much anxious care for these impoverished carders of 
wool - that, and to sing indifferently through his nose once in the week 
some psalm more or less long - the shorter the better, we should be 
inclined to say.
'Oh, my civilised friends! - great Britons that never will be slaves, men 
advanced to infinite state of freedom and knowledge of good and evil - tell 
me, will you, what becoming monument you will erect to an highly-educated 
clergyman of the Church of England?' 
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 
hospital!
'You see,' said Towers, 'that this affair has been much talked of, and the 
public are with you. I am sorry you should give the matter up. Have you 
seen the first number of 'the Almshouse?' 
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 subject.
'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 you, it's very well done, as you'll see: his 
first numbers always are.'
Bold declared that Mr Sentiment had got nothing from him, and that he was 
deeply grieved to find that the case had become so notorious.
'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 
matter.'
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 
cause - to 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 intimacies - what public praise - to what Athenian banquets and 
rich flavour of Attic salt?
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 petition to that effect must be made.
'I couldn't continue it,' said he, 'because I found I was in the wrong.'
Tom Towers shrugged his shoulders. How could a successful man be in the 
wrong!' In that case,' said he, 'of course you must abandon it.'
'And I called this morning to ask you also to abandon it,' said Bold.
'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 personally has 
not been to blame, these articles might be discontinued.'
How calmly impassive was Tom Towers' face, as this innocent little 
proposition was made! Had Bold addressed himself to the door-posts 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 course nobody doubts that you could, if 
you chose.'
'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 allusion to poor Harding.'
'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 with the 
public press can with propriety listen to interference.'
'Interference!' said Bold, 'I don't want to interfere.'
'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.'
'Well, if you choose to call it so.'
'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 press - the 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 required it.'
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 was the same quality which made it appear 
so desirable.
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 attention.
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 proper-sized 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. Namby-pamby 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 second-rate 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 only words left to us to signify a detective police officer or 
a monthly nurse.
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 self-indulgent 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 turkey-cock'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 
ill-made 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 equally addicted to Puseyism and 
the curate.
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 ill-nature of the clerical gentleman with the double chin. The 
state of these eight paupers was touchingly dreadful: sixpence-farthing a 
day had been sufficient for their diet when the almshouse was founded; and 
on sixpence-farthing 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.



Chapter 16

A Long Day in London

The warden had to make use of all his very moderate powers of intrigue to 
give his son-in-law 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 son-in-law as he drove up in the pony carriage to the 
railway station, on the morning of his escape to London.
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 attorney-general 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 took his departure.
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 Wool-carders of Barchester z). 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 son-in-law, 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 could interfere.
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 son-in-law 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 attorney-
general'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 from himself might possibly be elicited.
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 eating-house 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 chop and a pint of port in such a place?
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 shillings, Mr Harding was able to effect.
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, fifty-five 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 florid-faced 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 
sacrilege, his whole face glowing with a fine theatrical frenzy.
'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 legal adviser (loud laughter and cheers) - yes, I say the legal 
adviser of the crown (great cheers and laughter) - can stand up in his seat 
in this house (prolonged cheers and laughter), and attempt to legalise 
indecent assaults on the bodies of religious ladies.' (Deafening cheers and 
laughter, which were prolonged till the honourable member resumed his 
seat.)
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 scrawled in 
pencil on the back of it: 'Tomorrow, 10 p.m.- my chambers. - A. H.'
He was so far successful - but 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 escape the archdeacon till his return from the attorney-
general's chambers.
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 night-mail 
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 long since.
'Waiter,' said he, timidly.
The waiter approached, creaking in his shoes, but voiceless.
'Did any gentleman - a clergyman, arrive here by the night mail train?' 
'No, sir, not one,' whispered the waiter, putting his mouth nearly close to 
the warden's ear.
Mr Harding was reassured.
'Waiter,' said he again, and the waiter again creaked up. 'If anyone calls 
for me, I am going to dine out, and shall return about eleven o'clock.'
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 hours in 
London.
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 another - some 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 attorney-general.
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 two-pence, 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 his life and was anything but pleased at 
finding himself there.
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 rest quietly, and, when the time came, duly say his prayers.
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 up at the noble roof, 
and guarding against the coming fatigues of the day.
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 prayer-books; an old man on crutches; a party who were seeing the 
abbey, and thought they might as well hear the service for their two-pence, 
as opportunity served; and a young woman with her prayer-book 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 over - for 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 at Barchester, though even there he knew that there was room 
for improvement.
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 re-entered with another two-pence. There was no other sanctuary so good 
for him.
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 son-in-law was rich, but nothing could induce him to lean on 
his son-in-law after acting, as he intended to do, in direct opposition to 
his son-in-law'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 to himself the full 
reality of his position.
He thought most about his daughter, naturally. It was true that she was 
engaged, and he knew enough of his proposed son-in-law 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 exile - as the sharer of his small income.
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 income.
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 week-day 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 duty.
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 neighbourhood of the Strand to look for food.
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 trunk-seller'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. 
Archdeacon Grantly would certainly not come to such a place for his dinner.
He found the house easily - just 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 shell-fish 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 supper-house. About one o'clock at night the place would be lively 
enough, but at the present time his seclusion was as deep as it had been in 
the abbey.
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 fraud - not 
punishable, indeed, by law, but not the less abominable on that account. Mr 
Harding remembered his coming poverty, and would willingly have saved his 
half-crown, but he thought he had no alternative; and he was soon put in 
possession of some horrid mixture procured from the neighbouring public-
house.
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 fish-like 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 dining-house, 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 shell-fish supper-house, she was very civil, and directed 
him to the cigar divan on the other side of the street.
Mr Harding had not a much corrector notion of a cigar divan than he had of 
a London dinner-house, 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, sir - 
thank ye, sir - cigar, sir? - ticket for coffee, sir - you'll only have to 
call the waiter. Up those stairs, if you please, sir. Better take the 
cigar, sir - you can always give it to a friend, you know. Well, sir, thank 
ye; sir - as 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 shell-fish, 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 cross-legged, and as he was not 
quite up to this, he ordered the coffee.
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 drawing-room; and so he fell fast asleep, and his 
dreams wandered away to his accustomed stall in Barchester Cathedral, and 
the twelve old men he was so soon about to leave for ever.
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 hat, and, hurrying downstairs, started at a rapid 
pace for Lincoln's Inn.
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 would be with him immediately.



Chapter 17

Sir Abraham Haphazard

Mr Harding was shown into a comfortable inner sitting-room, looking more 
like a gentleman's book-room 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 
attorney-general 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 hour 
that was not disposed of.'
Mr Harding assured him that he was aware that it was he that should 
apologise.
Sir Abraham was a tall thin man, with hair prematurely grey, 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 ill-
adapted 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 her - he 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 
dinner-tables 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 from him, no unhappy soul ever dropped a 
portion of its burden at his door.
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 attorney-general, 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 with a tear, no heart will 
mourn for its lost friend.
'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 his sharpness, could not have looked 
into his heart and read his intentions.
'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 
trifling - that is, compared with what it might have been if it had been 
continued.'
'I fear I don't quite understand you, Sir Abraham.'
'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 attorney-general 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 himself.
'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 client so respectable in every 
way as the Warden of Barchester Hospital.
'A spoken word, Sir Abraham, is often of more value than volumes of written 
advice. The truth is, I am ill-satisfied with this matter as it stands at 
present. I do see - I cannot help seeing, that the affairs of the hospital 
are not arranged according to the will of the founder.'
'None of such institutions are, Mr Harding, nor can they be; the altered 
circumstances in which we live do not admit of it.'
'Quite true - that 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 this - am I, as 
warden, legally and distinctly entitled to the proceeds of the property, 
after the due maintenance of the twelve bedesmen?' 
Sir Abraham declared that he couldn't exactly say in so many words that Mr 
Harding was legally entitled to, etc., etc., etc., 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 be - nay, was, abandoned.
Mr Harding, seated in his chair, began to play a slow tune on an imaginary 
violoncello.
'Nay, my dear sir,' continued the attorney-general, 'there is no further 
ground for any question; I don't see that you have the power of raising 
it.'
'I can resign,' said Mr Harding, slowly playing away with his right hand, 
as though the bow were beneath the chair in which he was sitting.
'What! throw it up altogether?' said the attorney-general, 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 lawyer.
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 as to a 
rational being.
'Hadn't you better wait,' said he, 'till Dr Grantly is in town with you? 
Wouldn't it be better to postpone any serious step till you can consult 
with him?' 
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 - '
'I haven't a sixpence, Sir Abraham,' said the warden.
'God bless me! Why, Mr Harding, how do you mean to live?' 
Mr Harding proceeded to explain to the man of law that he meant to keep his 
precentorship - that 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 
attorney-general 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 step - one 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 friends. A man is never the best judge 
of his own position.'
'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.'
'Have you not a daughter, Mr Harding - an unmarried daughter?' 
'I have,' said he, now standing also, but still playing away on his fiddle 
with his hand behind his back. 'I have, Sir Abraham; and she and I are 
completely agreed on this subject.'
'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 attorney-
general was really extremely patient, but he was beginning to think that 
the interview had been long enough.
'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 to beg.'
'My dear sir, nobody now questions its justness.'
'Yes, Sir Abraham, one does question it - the most important of all 
witnesses against me - I 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 attorney-
general. 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 now impassioned - nay, almost violent.
'You'll sleep on this, Mr Harding, and tomorrow - '
'I have done more than sleep upon it,' said the warden; 'I have lain awake 
upon it, and that night after night. I found I could not sleep upon it: now 
I hope to do so.'
The attorney-general 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 attention.
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 
attorney-general 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, would sympathise with him.
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 approaching, and he 
stood his ground manfully.



Chapter 18

The Warden is very Obstinate

'Dr Grantly is here, sir,' greeted his ears before the door was well open, 
'and Mrs Grantly. They have a sitting-room above, and are waiting up for 
you.'
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 could not but be 
horrified at the crime.
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 son-in-law 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 attorney-general named ten for my 
meeting; to be sure ten is late, but what could I do, you know? Great men 
will have their own way.'
And he gave his daughter a kiss, and shook hands with the doctor, and again 
tried to look unconcerned.
'And you have absolutely been with the attorney-general?' asked the 
archdeacon.
Mr Harding signified that he had.
'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 so very strange.'
The archdeacon gave a sigh that would have moved a man-of-war.
'But, papa, what did you say to Sir Abraham?' asked the lady.
'I asked him, my dear, to explain John Hiram's will to me. He couldn't 
explain it in the only way which would have satisfied me, and so I resigned 
the wardenship.'
'Resigned it!' said the archdeacon, in a solemn voice, sad and low, but yet 
sufficiently audible - a 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 arm-chair.
'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 did not 
advise any such step.'
Mr Harding could not say that he had.
'I am sure he disadvised you from it,' continued the reverend cross-
examiner.
Mr Harding could not deny this.
'I'm sure Sir Abraham must have advised you to consult your friends.'
To this proposition also Mr Harding was obliged to assent.
'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 greatly 
doubted his power of defending it against his son-in-law.
'You must be very tired, Susan,' said he: 'wouldn't you like to go to bed?' 
But Susan didn't want to go till her husband went. - She had an idea that 
her papa might be bullied if she were away: she wasn't tired at all, or at 
least she said so.
The archdeacon was pacing the room, expressing, by certain noddles of his 
head, his opinion of the utter fatuity of his father-in-law.
'Why,' at last he said - and 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 us notice, after what 
had passed at the palace?' 
The warden hung his head, and made no reply: he could not condescend to say 
that he had not intended to give his son-in-law the slip; and as he had not 
the courage to avow it, he said nothing.
'Papa has been too much for you,' said the lady.
The archdeacon took another turn, and again ejaculated, 'Good heavens!' 
this time in a very low whisper, but still audible.
'I think I'll go to bed,' said the warden, taking up a side candle.
'At any rate, you'll promise me to take no further step without 
consultation,' said the archdeacon. Mr Harding made no answer, but slowly 
proceeded to light his candle. '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 son-in-law's face. 
The archdeacon thought he knew his father-in-law, 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 wardenship.'
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 
do what I know to be wrong.'
'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 of giving offence by making his 
reference to scripture too solemn.
'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 archdeacon.
'And the precentorship,' said the father-in-law.
'It goes with the wardenship,' said the son-in-law. 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 it - you can' 
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 tittle-tattle - any more newspaper 
articles.'
'That's what I want, too,' said the warden.
'And to prevent that,' continued the other, 'we mustn't let any talk of 
resignation get abroad.'
'But I shall resign,' said the warden, very, very meekly.
'Good heavens! Susan, my dear, what can I say to him?' 
'But, papa,' said Mrs Grantly, getting up, and putting her arm through that 
of her father, 'what is Eleanor to do if you throw away your income?' 
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 end of all his 
trouble.
'Think of Eleanor, papa,' said Mrs Grantly.
'I do think of her,' said her father.
'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 attorney-
general up at twelve o'clock at night for nothing - but of course your 
father has not thought of this.'
'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 the costs.'
'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 house - with nothing to 
do. The very place for him. And to throw that up because some scoundrel 
writes an article in a newspaper! Well - I have done my duty. If he chooses 
to ruin his child I cannot help it'; and he stood still at the fire-place, 
and looked at himself in a dingy mirror which stood on the chimney-piece.
There was a pause for about a minute, and then the warden, finding that 
nothing else was coming, lighted his candle, and quietly said, 'Good-
night.'
'Good-night, papa,' said the lady.
And so the warden retired; but, as he closed the door behind him, he heard 
the well-known ejaculation - slower, lower, more solemn, more ponderous 
than ever - 'Good heavens!'



Chapter 19

The Warden Resigns

The party met the next morning at breakfast; and a very sombre affair it 
was - very unlike the breakfasts at Plumstead Episcopi.
There were three thin, small, dry bits of bacon, each an inch long, served 
up under a huge old plated cover; there were four three-cornered 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 and therefore 
nothing was said of the scanty fare.
The guests were as sorry as the viands - hardly anything was said over the 
breakfast-table. 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 confabulation of that morning.
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 tablecloth; and Mrs 
Grantly, seating herself on the sofa, began to knit.
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 10a.m. That 
was out of the question, for it was nearly ten already. Another at 3 P.M.; 
another, the night-mail train, at 9 P.M. The three o'clock train would take 
him home to tea, and would suit very well.
'My dear,' said he, 'I think I shall go back home at three o'clock today. I 
shall get home at half-past eight. I don't think there's anything to keep 
me in London.'
'The archdeacon and I return by the early train tomorrow, papa; won't you 
wait and go back with us?' 
'Why, Eleanor will expect me tonight; and I've so much to do; and - '
'Much to do!' said the archdeacon sotto voce; but the warden heard him.
'You'd better wait for us, papa.'
'Thank ye, my dear! I think I'll go this afternoon.' The tamest animal will 
turn when driven too hard, and even Mr Harding was beginning to fight for 
his own way.
'I suppose you won't be back before three?' said the lady, addressing her 
husband.
'I must leave this at two,' said the warden.
'Quite out of the question,' said the archdeacon, answering his wife, and 
still reading the shopkeepers' names; 'I don't suppose I shall be back till 
five.'
There was another long pause, during which Mr Harding continued to study 
his Bradshaw.
'I must go to Cox and Cummins,' said the archdeacon at last.
'Oh, to Cox and Cummins,' said the warden. It was quite a matter of 
indifference to him where his son-in-law 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 judgement 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 name of warden of Barchester Hospital.
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 suppose 
I shall see you at Barchester the day after tomorrow,' said he.
The warden supposed he would.
'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 Churchyard, and then commenced 
her task of talking her father over.
'Papa,' she began, 'this is a most serious business.'
'Indeed it is,' said the warden, ringing the bell.
'I greatly feel the distress of mind you must have endured.'
'I am sure you do, my dear '; and he ordered the waiter to bring him pen, 
ink, and paper.
'Are you going to write, papa?' 
'Yes, my dear - I am going to write my resignation to the bishop.'
'Pray, pray, papa, put it off till our return - pray put it off till you 
have seen the bishop - dear papa! for my sake, for Eleanor's! - '
'It is for your sake and Eleanor's that I do this. I hope, at least, that 
my children may never have to be ashamed of their father.'
'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 blotting-
book, which the hotel afforded, and sat himself down to write.
'You won't refuse me one request, papa?' continued his daughter; 'you won't 
refuse to delay your letter for two short days? Two days can make no 
possible difference.'
'My dear,' said he naively, 'if I waited till I got to Barchester, I might, 
perhaps, be prevented.'
'But surely you would not wish to offend the bishop?' said she.
'God forbid! The bishop is not apt to take offence, and knows me too well 
to take in bad part anything that I may be called on to do.'
'But, papa - '
'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 take no 
advice, I cannot alter the resolution to which I have come.'
'But two days, papa - '
'No - nor 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 fixed 
his eyes intently on the paper.
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 knitting, and very shortly after left the room.
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.
The letter of resignation ran as follows:

Chapter Hotel, St. Paul's, London,
August, 18-

My Lord Bishop,
'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 which my legal claim appears 
doubtful.
'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 to subscribe myself - Your 
Lordship's most obedient servant,

Septimus Harding,
Warden of Barchester Hospital, and Precentor of the Cathedral'

He then wrote the following private note:

My Dear Bishop,
'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 conviction, I 
cannot believe that you will think me wrong in what I am doing.
'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 
suit me so well, or come so much within my power of adequate performance.
'I thank you from my heart for the preferment which I am now giving up, and 
for all your kindness, and am, dear bishop, now as always - Yours most 
sincerely,

'Septimus Harding
'London, - August, 18-'

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 tallow-chandler 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 heart.
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 
son-in-law, and manfully combated against great odds - against the 
archdeacon's wife as well as the archdeacon? Had he not gained a great 
victory, and was it not fit that he should step into his cab with triumph?
He had not told Eleanor when he would return, but she was on the look-out 
for him by every train by which he could arrive, and the pony-carriage 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 
degree of respect for the vicar of Crabtree.'
'Dear papa,' said she, 'I am so glad.'
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 furniture - the 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 hospital, and that the sale of 
the furniture was his only resource.
'Not all, papa,' said Eleanor pleadingly.
'Not quite all, my dear,' said he; 'that is, if we can help it. We must 
have a little at Crabtree - but it can only be a little; we must put a bold 
front on it, Nelly j 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 means of 
escape from the solitude of the Crabtree vicarage.
When the archdeacon left his wife and father-in-law 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 waiting-room, 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 as a reason to his wife for a trip 
to London.
Married ladies, when your husbands find they are positively obliged to 
attend their legal advisers, the nature of the duty to be performed is 
generally of this description.
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 goes there to pay 
his bill.
Dr Grantly, however, in the eyes of Messrs Cox and Cummins, represented the 
spirituality's of the diocese of Barchester, as Mr Chadwick did the 
temporalities, and was, therefore, too great a man to undergo the half-hour 
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 father-in-law, 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 bull-necked man, was very near a fit of apoplexy when he first 
attempted to ejaculate that fatal word - resign!
Over and over again did Mr Cox attempt to enforce on the archdeacon the 
propriety of urging on Mr Warden the madness of the deed he was about to 
do.
'Eight hundred a year!' said Mr Cox.
'And nothing whatever to do!' said Mr Cummins, who had joined the 
conference.
'No private fortune, I believe,' said Mr Cox.
'Not a shilling,' said Mr Cummins, in a very low voice, shaking his head.
'I never heard of such a case in all my experience,' said Mr Cox.
'Eight hundred a year, and as nice a house as any gentleman could wish to 
hang up his hat in,' said Mr Cummins.
'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 some people 
was past belief.
'I'll tell you what he might do,' said Mr Cummins, brightening up. 'I'll 
tell you how you might save it - let him exchange.'
'Exchange where?' said the archdeacon.
'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 months without his minding them.'
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.



Chapter 20

Farewell

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 rate, come to me at once.'
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 starve - not 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 pocket-
money; but that he would positively perish of inanition for want of bread.
'How is a man to live, when he gives up all his income?' said the bishop to 
himself. And then the good-natured little man began to consider how his 
friend might be best rescued from a death so horrid and painful.
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 chaplain - not a young working chaplain, but a steady, 
middle-aged 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 understand that 
such would be the nature of the service required.
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 his friend.
'The girls, you know,' said he, 'will have it just the same when you're 
gone - and they won't want it sooner - and 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 poorly - not 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 situation - an opinion from which no one 
differed; and it was therefore soon settled among all the parties 
concerned, that Mr Harding should still be the precentor of the cathedral.
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 portion of the 
periodical press.
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, he 
repeated the question in a severer form: 'Why not do, my lord?' 
His lordship looked very unhappy, and shuffled about in his chair, but 
still didn't give way; he thought Puddingdale wouldn't do for Mr Harding; 
it was too far from Barchester.
'Oh! of course he'll have a curate.'
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 Puddingdale 
under any circumstances.
'How is he to live?' demanded the archdeacon.
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 since entered it from that day to this.
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 harm - a 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 should see more of his weakness than his strength.
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 father-in-law 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 city.
For his present use Mr Harding took a lodging in Barchester, and thither 
were conveyed such articles as he wanted for daily use - his music, books, 
and instruments, his own arm-chair, and Eleanor's pet sofa; her teapoy and 
his cellaret, and also the slender but still sufficient contents of his 
wine-cellar. 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 sitting-room, 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 ex-warden, 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 
thinking - especially 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 such an abdication must do 
much harm, and could do but little good.
On the evening before he left, he summoned all the bedesmen into his 
parlour to wish them good-bye. 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 enabled to leave their rooms were assembled.
'Come in, my friends, come in,' said the warden - he 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 master was a 
coal of fire burning on their heads.
When first the news had reached them that Mr Harding was going to leave the 
hospital, it had been received with a kind of triumph - his 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 faint-hearted 
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 two-pence a day, his own peculiar 
gift, must of necessity be withdrawn.
And this was to be the end of all their mighty struggle - of their fight 
for their rights - of their petition, and their debates, and their hopes! 
They were to change the best of masters for a possible bad one, and to lose 
two-pence a day each man! No; unfortunate as this was, it was not the 
worst, or nearly the worst, as will just now be seen.
'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 mien and slow step got 
into his accustomed seat near the fire-place.
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 you.'
There was a sort of murmur ran round the room, intended, perhaps, to 
express regret at his departure; but it was but a murmur, and might have 
meant that or anything else.
'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 therefore thought it best to go.'
'We never wanted to drive your reverence out of it,' said Handy.
'No, indeed, your reverence,' said Skulpit. 'We never thought it would come 
to this. When I signed the petition - that is I didn't sign it, because - '
'Let his reverence speak, can't you?' said Moody.
'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 man in the hospital.'
Here Bunce uttered a kind of groan, very clearly expressive of 
disagreement.
'I am neither angry nor displeased with any man in the hospital,' repeated 
Mr Harding, emphatically. 'If any man has been wrong - and I don't say any 
man has - he 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 you my advice.'
The men all declared that they would from henceforth be entirely guided by 
Mr Harding's opinion in their affairs.
'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 hardly be improved.'
'God bless your reverence, we knows it?' said Spriggs.
'It's all true, your reverence,' said Skulpit. 'We sees it all now.'
'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 again - 
now that they're like to be in sore want of a friend.'
'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 along of us; and I don't see for what 
Mr Bunce speaks up agen us that way.'
'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, 
and himself handed each a glass to the men round him, and raising his own 
said:
'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 bless 
you, my friends!' and Mr Harding drank his wine.
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 roof-tree? They did their best, 
however; they drank their wine, and withdrew.
As they left the hall-door, 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, and 
retreated to their dens, a sorrowful repentant crew.
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 good-bye to you, Bell,' said Mr Harding, speaking loud, 
for the old man was deaf.
'And are you going away, then, really?' asked Bell.
'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 Mr Harding; 'good-bye, my old friend.'
'And so you're really going?' the man again asked.
'Indeed I am, Bell.'
The poor old bed-ridden 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, then?' 
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 bounty! Not on him, poor sinner as he was, be the load of 
such sin!
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 Harding's hand; 'I have now to forgive those 
who have injured me - and to die.'
And so the old man went out, and then Mr Harding gave way to his grief and 
he too wept aloud.



Chapter 21

Conclusion

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 pleasant 
face.
'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 
Barchester Hospital accomplish his flitting, and change his residence.
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 will be wrong to put any other gentleman into so 
cruel a position.'
It was in vain that the archdeacon argued and lectured, and even 
threatened; in vain he my-lorded 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 caused by Mr Harding's retirement.
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 father - the 
man considered by all the world as being in such matters under his, Dr 
Grantly's control - had positively resolved to capitulate, and own himself 
vanquished!
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 one-eyed 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 constant presence of a master, a neighbour, and a friend.
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 last - some one wretched 
being would be alone there in that now comfortless hospital - the miserable 
relic of what had once been so good and so comfortable.
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 flower-beds are 
bare, and the un-shorn 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 room - perhaps twenty-seven 
feet long by eighteen wide - but still it is a perfect church. It contains 
an old carved pulpit and reading-desk, a tiny altar under a window filled 
with dark old-coloured glass, a font, some half-dozen 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 faces - two 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 seventy-five pounds a year.
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 Bunce, decently arrayed in his bedesman's 
gown.
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 course removed 
to her husband's house.
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 do so again.
Not long after the marriage, perhaps six months, when Eleanor's bridal-
honours were fading, and persons were beginning to call her Mrs Bold 
without twittering, the archdeacon consented to meet John Bold at a dinner-
party, and since that time they have become almost friends. The archdeacon 
firmly believes that his brother-in-law 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 feud of the 
hospital.
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 
have his violoncello permanently removed to his daughter's house.
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 well-known name of Warden. It had become so customary to say Mr 
Warden, that it was not easily dropped. 'No, no,' he always says when so 
addressed, 'not warden now, only precentor.'