CHAPTER I

Ver.04.29.93*END*

BARCHESTER TOWERS

TABLE OF CONTENTS

I Who will be the new Bishop?

II Hiram's Hospital, according to Act of Parliament

III Dr and Mrs Proudie

IV The Bishop's Chaplain

V A Morning Visit

VI War

VII The Dean and Chapter take Counsel

VIII The Ex-Warden rejoices at his probable Return to the Hospital

IX The Stanhope Family

X Mrs Proudie's Reception--Commenced

XI Mrs Proudie's Reception--Concluded

XII Slope versus Harding

XIII The Rubbish Cart

XIV The New Champion

XV The Widow's Suitors

XVI Baby Worship

XVII Who shall be Cock of the Walk?

XVIII The Widow's Persecution

XIX Barchester by Moonlight

XX Mr Arabin

XXI St Ewold's Parsonage

XXII The Thornes of Ullathorne

XXIII Mr Arabin reads himself in at St Ewold's

XXIV Mr Slope manages matters very well at Puddingdale

XXV Fourteen Arguments in favour of Mr Quiverful's Claims

XXVI Mrs Proudie wrestles and gets a Fall

XXVII A Love Scene

XXVIII Mrs Bold is entertained by Dr and Mrs Grantly at Plumstead

XXIX A serious Interview

XXX Another Love Scene

XXXI The Bishop's Library

XXXII A New Candidate for Ecclesiastical Honours

XXXIII Mrs Proudie Victrix

XXXIV Oxford--The Master and Tutor of Lazarus

XXXV Miss Thorne's Fete Champetre

XXXVI Ullathorne Sports--Act I

XXXVII The Signora Neroni, the Countess De Courcy, and

Mrs Proudie meet each other at Ullathorne

XXXVIII The Bishop sits down to Breakfast and the Dean dies

XXXIX The Lookalofts and the Greenacres

XL Ullathorne Sports--Act II

XLI Mrs Bold confides her Sorrow to her Friend Miss Stanhope

XLII Ullathorne Sports--Act III

XLIII Mrs and Mrs Quiverful are made happy.

Mr Slope is encouraged by the Press

XLIV Mrs Bold at Home

XLV The Stanhopes at Home

XLVI Mr Slope's parting Interview with the Signora

XLVII The Dean Elect

XLVIII Miss Thorne shows her Talent at Match-making

XLIX The Belzebub Colt

L The Archdeacon is satisfied with the State of Affairs

LI Mr Slope's Farewell to the Palace and its Inhabitants

LII The new Dean takes Possession of the Deanery,

and the New Warden of the Hospital

LIII Conclusion

CHAPTER I

WHO WILL BE THE NEW BISHOP?

In the latter days of July in the year 185-, a most important

question was for ten days hourly asked in the cathedral city of

Barchester, and answered every hour in various ways--Who was to be

the new Bishop?

The death of old Dr Grantly, who had for many years filled the

chair with meek authority, took place exactly as the ministry of

Lord - was going to give place to that Lord -. The illness of the

good old man was long and lingering, and it became at last a matter

of intense interest to those concerned whether the new appointment

should be made by a conservative or liberal government.

Bishop Grantly died as he had lived, peaceably, slowly, without

pain and without excitement. The breath ebbed from him almost

imperceptibly, and for a month before his death, it was a question

whether he was alive or dead.

A trying time was this for the archdeacon, for whom was designed

the reversion of his father's see by those who then had the giving

away of episcopal thrones. I would not be understood to say that

the prime minister had in so many words promised the bishopric to

Dr Grantly. He was too discreet a man for that. There is a proverb

with reference to the killing of cats, and those who know anything

either of high or low government places, will be well aware that a

promise may be made without positive words, and that an expectant

may be put into the highest state of encouragement, though the

great man on whose breath he hangs may have done no more than

whisper that 'Mr So-and-so is certainly a rising man.'

Such a whisper had been made, and was known by those who heard it

to signify that the cures of the diocese of Barchester should not

be taken out of the hands of the archdeacon. The then prime

minister was all in all at Oxford, and had lately passed a night at

the house of the master of Lazarus. Now the master of

Lazarus--which is, by the bye, in many respects the most

comfortable, as well as the richest college at Oxford,--was the

archdeacon's most intimate friend and most trusted counsellor. On

the occasion of the prime minister's visit, Dr Grantly was of

course present, and the meeting was very gracious. On the following

morning Dr Gwynne, the master, told the archdeacon that in his

opinion the matter was settled.

At this time the bishop was quite on his last legs; but the

ministry was also tottering. Dr Grantly returned from Oxford happy

and elated, to resume his place in the palace, and to continue to

perform for the father the last duties of a son; which, to give him

his due, he performed with more tender care than was to be expected

from his usual somewhat worldly manners.

A month since the physicians had named four weeks as the outside

period during which breath could be supported within the body of

the dying man. At the end of the month the physicians wondered, and

named another fortnight. The old man lived on wine alone, but at

the end of the fortnight he still lived; and the tidings of the

fall of the ministry became more frequent. Sir Lamda Mewnew and Sir

Omicron Pie, the two great London doctors, now came down for the

fifth time, and declared, shaking their learned heads, that another

week of life was impossible; and as they sat down to lunch in the

episcopal dining-room, whispered to the archdeacon their own

private knowledge that the ministry must fall within five days. The

son returned to his father's room, and after administering with his

own hands the sustaining modicum of madeira, sat down by the

bedside to calculate his chances.

The ministry were to be out within five days: his father was to be

dead within--No, he rejected that view of the subject. The ministry

were to be out, and the diocese might probably be vacant at the

same period. There was much doubt as to the names of the men who

were to succeed to power, and a week must elapse before a Cabinet

was formed. Would not vacancies be filled by the out-going men

during that week? Dr Grantly had a kind of idea that such would be

the case, but did not know; and then he wondered at his own

ignorance of such a question.

He tried to keep his mind away from the subject, but he could not.

The race was so very close, and the stakes were so very high. He

then looked at the dying man's impassive, placid face. There was no

sign there of death or disease; it was something thinner than of

yore, somewhat grayer, and the deep lines of age more marked; but,

as far as he could judge, life might yet hang there for weeks to

come. Sir Lamda Mewnew and Sir Omicron Pie had thrice been wrong,

and might yet be wrong thrice again. The old bishop slept during

twenty of the twenty-four hours, but during the short periods of

his waking moments, he knew both his son and his dear friend Mr

Harding, the archdeacon's father-in-law, and would thank them

tenderly for their care and love. Now he lay sleeping like a baby,

resting easily on his back, his mouth just open, and his few gray

hairs straggling from beneath his cap; his breath was perfectly

noiseless, and his thin, wan hand, which lay above the coverlid,

never moved. Nothing could be easier than the old man's passage

from this world to the next.

But by no means easy were the emotions of him who sat there

watching. He knew it must be now or never. He was already over

fifty, and there was little chance that his friends who were now

leaving office would soon return to it. No probable British prime

minister but he who was now in, he who was so soon to be out, would

think of making a bishop of Dr Grantly. Thus he thought long and

sadly, in deep silence, and then gazed at that still living face,

and then at last dared to ask himself whether he really longed for

his father's death.

The effort was a salutary one, and the question was answered in a

moment. The proud, wishful, worldly man, sank on his knees by the

bedside, and taking the bishop's hand within his own, prayed

eagerly that his sins might be forgiven him.

His face was still buried in the clothes when the door of the

bed-room opened noiselessly, and Mr Harding entered with a velvet

step. Mr Harding's attendance at that bedside had been nearly as

constant as that of the archdeacon, and his ingress and egress was

as much a matter of course as that of his son-in-law. He was

standing close beside the archdeacon before he was perceived, and

would have also knelt in prayer had he not feared that his doing so

might have caused some sudden start, and have disturbed the dying

man. Dr Grantly, however, instantly perceived him, and rose from

his knees. As he did so Mr Harding took both his hands, and pressed

them warmly. There was more fellowship between them at that moment

than there had ever been before, and it so happened that after

circumstances greatly preserved the feeling. As they stood there

pressing each other's hands, the tears rolled freely down their

cheeks.

'God bless you, my dears,'--said the bishop with feeble voice as he

woke--'God bless you--may God bless you both, my dear children:'

and so he died.

There was no loud rattle in the throat, no dreadful struggle, no

palpable sign of death; but the lower jaw fell a little from its

place, and the eyes, which had been so constantly closed in sleep,

now remained fixed and open. Neither Mr Harding nor Dr Grantly knew

that life was gone, though both suspected it.

'I believe it's all over,' said Mr Harding, still pressing the

other's hands. 'I think--nay, I hope it is.'

'I will ring the bell,' said the other, speaking all but in a

whisper. 'Mrs Phillips should be here.'

Mrs Phillips, the nurse, was soon in the room, and immediately,

with practised hand, closed those staring eyes.

'It's all over, Mrs Phillips?' asked Mr Harding.

'My lord's no more,' said Mrs Phillips, turning round and

curtseying with a solemn face; 'His lordship's gone more like a

sleeping baby than any that I ever saw.'

'It's a great relief, archdeacon,' said Mr Harding, 'A great

relief--dear good, excellent old man. Oh that our last moments may

be as innocent and peaceful as his!'

'Surely,' said Mrs Phillips. 'The Lord be praised for all his

mercies; but, for a meek, mild, gentle-spoken Christian, his

lordship was--' and Mrs Phillips, with unaffected but easy grief,

put up her white apron to her flowing eyes.

'You cannot but rejoice that it is over,' said Mr Harding, still

counselling his friend. The archdeacon's mind, however, had already

travelled from the death chamber to the closet of the prime

minister. He had brought himself to pray for his father's life, but

now that that life was done, to dally with the fact of the bishop's

death--useless to lose perhaps everything for the pretence of a

foolish sentiment.

But how was he to act while his father-in-law stood there holding

his hand? How, without appearing unfeeling, was he to forget his

father in the bishop--to overlook what he had lost, and think only

of what he might possibly gain?

'No; I suppose not,' said he, at last, in answer to Mr Harding. 'We

have all expected it for so long.'

Mr Harding took him by the arm and led him from the room. 'We will

see him again to-morrow morning,' said he; 'We had better leave the

room now to the woman.' And so they went downstairs.

It was already evening and nearly dark. It was most important that

the prime minister should know that night that the diocese was

vacant. Everything might depend on it; and so, in answer to Mr

Harding's further consolation, the archdeacon suggested that a

telegraph message should be immediately sent off to London. Mr

Harding who had really been somewhat surprised to find Dr Grantly,

as he thought, so much affected, was rather taken aback; but he

made no objection. He knew that the archdeacon had some hope of

succeeding to his father's place, though he by no means knew how

highly raised that hope had been.

'Yes,' said Dr Grantly, collecting himself and shaking off his

weakness, 'We must send a message at once; we don't know what might

be the consequences of delay. Will you do it?'

'I! Oh yes; certainly: I'll do it, only I don't know exactly what

it is you want.'

Dr Grantly sat down before a writing table, and taking pen and ink,

wrote on a slip of paper as follows:-

By Electric Telegraph,

For the Earl of -, Downing Street, or elsewhere.

'The Bishop of Barchester is dead.'

Message sent by the Rev. Septimus Harding.

'There,' said he. 'Just take that to the telegraph office at the

railway station, and give it as it is; they'll probably make you

copy it on to one of their own slips; that's all you'll have to do:

then you'll have to pay them half-a-crown.' And the archdeacon put

his hand in his pocket and pulled out the necessary sum.

Mr Harding felt very much like an errand-boy, and also felt that he

was called on to perform his duties as such at rather an unseemly

time; but he said nothing, and took the slip of paper and the

proffered coin.

'But you've put my name into it, archdeacon.'

'Yes,' said the other, 'There should be the name of some clergyman,

you know, and what name so proper as that of so old a friend as

yourself? The Earl won't look at the name you may be sure of that;

but my dear Mr Harding, pray don't lose any time.'

Mr Harding got as far as the library door on his way to the

station, when he suddenly remembered the news with which he was

fraught when he entered to poor bishop's bedroom. He had found the

moment so inopportune for any mundane tidings, that he had

repressed the words which were on his tongue, and immediately

afterwards all recollection of the circumstance was for the time

banished by the scene which had occurred.

'But, archdeacon,' said, he turning back, 'I forgot to tell

you--the ministry are out.'

'Out!' ejaculated the archdeacon, in a tone which too plainly

showed the anxiety of his dismay, although under the circumstances

of the moment he endeavoured to control himself: 'Out! Who told you

so?'

Mr Harding explained that news to this effect had come down by

electric telegraph, and that the tidings had been left at the

palace door by Mr Chadwick.

The archdeacon sat silent for awhile, meditating, and Mr Harding

stood looking at him. 'Never mind,' said the archdeacon at last;

'Send the message all the same. The news must be sent to some one,

and there is at present no one else in a position to receive it. Do

it at once, my dear friend; you know I would not trouble you, were

I in a state to do it myself. A few minutes' time is of the

greatest importance.'

Mr Harding went out and sent the message, and it may be as well

that we should follow it to its destination. Within thirty minutes

of its leaving Barchester it reached the Earl of - in his inner

library. What elaborate letters, what eloquent appeals, what

indignant remonstrances, he might there have to frame, at such a

moment, may be conceived, but not described! How he was preparing

his thunder for successful rivals, standing like a British peer

with his back to the sea-coal fire, and his hands in his breeches

pockets,--how his fine eye was lit up with anger, and his forehead

gleamed with patriotism,--how he stamped his foot as he thought of

his heavy associates,--how he all but swore as he remembered how

much too clever one of them had been,--my creative readers may

imagine. But was he so engaged? No; history and truth compel me to

deny it. He was sitting easily in a lounging chair, conning over a

Newmarket list, and by his elbow on the table was lying open an

uncut French novel on which he was engaged.

He opened the cover in which the message was enclosed, and having

read it, he took his pen and wrote on the back of it--

'For the Earl of -,

With the Earl of -'s compliments,'

and sent off again on its journey.

Thus terminated our unfortunate friend's chance of possessing the

glories of a bishopric.

The names of many divines were given in the papers as that of the

bishop elect. The British Grandmother declared that Dr Gwynne was

to be the man, in compliment to the late ministry.

This was a heavy blow to Dr Grantly, but he was not doomed to see

himself superseded by his friend. The Anglican Devotee put forward

confidently the claims of a great London preacher of austere

doctrines; and The Eastern Hemisphere, an evening paper supposed to

possess much official knowledge, declared in favour of an eminent

naturalist, a gentleman most completely versed in the knowledge of

rocks and minerals, but supposed by many to hold on religious

subjects no special doctrines whatever. The Jupiter, that daily

paper which, as we all know, is the only true source of infallibly

correct information on all subjects, for a while was silent, but at

last spoke out. The merits of all these candidates were discussed

and somewhat irreverently disposed of, and then The Jupiter

declared that Dr Proudie was to be the man.

Dr Proudie was the man. Just a month after the demise of the late

bishop, Dr Proudie kissed the Queen's hand as his successor elect.

We must beg to be allowed to draw a curtain over the sorrows of the

archdeacon as he sat, sombre and sad at heart, in the study of his

parsonage at Plumstead Episcopi. On the day subsequent to the

dispatch of the message he heard that the Earl of - had consented to

undertake the formation of a ministry, and from that moment he knew

that his chance was over. Many will think that he was wicked to

grieve for the loss of episcopal power, wicked to have coveted it,

nay, wicked even to have thought about it, in the way and at the

moment he had done so.

With such censures, I cannot profess that I completely agree. The

nolo episcopari, though still in use, is so directly at variance

with the tendency of all human aspirations of rising priests in the

Church of England. A lawyer does not sin in seeking to be a judge,

or in compassing his wishes by all honest means. A young diplomat

entertains a fair ambition when he looks forward to be the lord of

a first-rate embassy; and a poor novelist when he attempts to rival

Dickens or rise above Fitzjames, commits no fault, though he may be

foolish.

Sydney Smith truly said that in these recreant days we cannot

expect to find the majesty of St. Paul beneath the cassock of a

curate. If we look to our clergymen to be more than men, we shall

probably teach ourselves to think that they are less, and can

hardly hope to raise the character of the pastor by denying to him

the right to entertain the aspirations of a man.

Our archdeacon was worldly--who among us is not so? He was

ambitious--who among us is ashamed to own that 'last infirmity of

noble minds!' He was avaricious, my readers will say. No--it was

not for love of lucre that he wished to be bishop of Barchester. He

was his father's only child, and his father had left him great

wealth. His preferment brought him in nearly three thousand a year.

The bishopric, as cut down by the Ecclesiastical Commission, was

only five. He would be a richer man as archdeacon, than he could be

as a bishop. But he certainly did desire to play first fiddle; he

did desire to sit in full lawn sleeves amongst the peers of the

realm; and he did desire, if the truth must be out, to be called

'My Lord' by the reverend brethren.

His hopes, however, were they innocent or sinful, were not fated to

be realised; and Dr Proudie was consecrated Bishop of Barchester.