Barchester Towers

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BARCHESTER TOWERS

by

ANTHONY TROLLOPE

First published in 1857







CONTENTS

Chapter

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 in 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 Cleverly 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. Mr. 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 Beelzebub Colt
L. The Archdeacon Is Satisfied with the State of Affairs
LI. Mr. Slope Bids 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 that
chair with meek authority, took place exactly as the ministry of
Lord ---- was going to give place to that of 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.

It was pretty well understood that the outgoing premier had made his
selection and that if the question rested with him, the mitre would
descend on the head of Archdeacon Grantly, the old bishop's son. The
archdeacon had long managed the affairs of the diocese, and for some
months previous to the demise of his father rumour had confidently
assigned to him the reversion of his father's honours.

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 were
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 by, 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 thing was settled.

At this time the bishop was quite on his last legs; but the ministry
also were 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 outgoing men during this 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 on 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 old 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 bedroom
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 also have
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
low with solemn face; "his lordship's gone more like a sleeping babby
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 as 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
consoling 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, minutes were too precious to be lost. It was now
useless 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 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 women." 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 consequence of delay. Will you do it?'

"I! Oh, yes; certainly. I'll do anything, 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 in 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 the 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
his anxiety and 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 someone,
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 it off again on its journey.

Thus terminated our unfortunate friend's chances 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 awhile 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
moments 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 wishes, that it cannot be thought
to express the true 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 Fitzjeames, 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
for no 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
bishop. But he certainly did desire to play first fiddle; he did
desire to sit in full lawn sleeves among the peers of the realm; and
he did desire, if the truth must out, to be called "My lord" by his
reverend brethren.

His hopes, however, were they innocent or sinful, were not fated to
be realized, and Dr. Proudie was consecrated Bishop of Barchester.




CHAPTER II

Hiram's Hospital According to Act of Parliament


It is hardly necessary that I should here give to the public
any lengthened biography of Mr. Harding up to the period of the
commencement of this tale. The public cannot have forgotten how ill
that sensitive gentleman bore the attack that was made on him in
the columns of "The Jupiter," with reference to the income which he
received as warden of Hiram's Hospital, in the city of Barchester.
Nor can it yet be forgotten that a lawsuit was instituted against
him on the matter of that charity by Mr. John Bold, who afterwards
married his, Mr. Harding's, younger and then only unmarried daughter.
Under pressure of these attacks, Mr. Harding had resigned his
wardenship, though strongly recommended to abstain from doing so
both by his friends and by his lawyers. He did, however, resign it,
and betook himself manfully to the duties of the small parish of St.
Cuthbert's, in the city, of which he was vicar, continuing also to
perform those of precentor of the cathedral, a situation of small
emolument which had hitherto been supposed to be joined, as a matter
of course, to the wardenship of the hospital above spoken of.

When he left the hospital from which he had been so ruthlessly driven,
and settled himself down in his own modest manner in the High Street
of Barchester, he had not expected that others would make more fuss
about it than he was inclined to do himself; extent of his hope was,
that the movement might have been made in time to prevent any further
paragraphs in "The Jupiter." His affairs, however, were not allowed to
subside thus quietly, and people were quite as much inclined to talk
about the disinterested sacrifice he had made, as they had before been
to upbraid him for his cupidity.

The most remarkable thing that occurred was the receipt of an
autographed letter from the Archbishop of Canterbury, in which the
primate very warmly praised his conduct, and begged to know what his
intentions were for the future. Mr. Harding replied that he intended
to be rector of St. Cuthbert's, in Barchester, and so that matter
dropped. Then the newspapers took up his case, "The Jupiter" among
the rest, and wafted his name in eulogistic strains through every
reading-room in the nation. It was discovered also that he was the
author of that great musical work, _Harding's Church Music_,--and a
new edition was spoken of, though, I believe, never printed. It is,
however, certain that the work was introduced into the Royal Chapel
at St. James's, and that a long criticism appeared in the "Musical
Scrutator," declaring that in no previous work of the kind had so much
research been joined with such exalted musical ability, and asserting
that the name of Harding would henceforward be known wherever the
arts were cultivated, or religion valued.

This was high praise, and I will not deny that Mr. Harding was
gratified by such flattery; for if Mr. Harding was vain on any
subject, it was on that of music. But here the matter rested. The
second edition, if printed, was never purchased; the copies which had
been introduced into the Royal Chapel disappeared again, and were laid
by in peace, with a load of similar literature. Mr. Towers of "The
Jupiter" and his brethren occupied themselves with other names, and
the undying fame promised to our friend was clearly intended to be
posthumous.

Mr. Harding had spent much of his time with his friend the bishop;
much with his daughter Mrs. Bold, now, alas, a widow; and had almost
daily visited the wretched remnant of his former subjects, the few
surviving bedesmen now left at Hiram's Hospital. Six of them were
still living. The number, according to old Hiram's will, should
always have been twelve. But after the abdication of their warden,
the bishop had appointed no successor to him, no new occupants of the
charity had been nominated, and it appeared as though the hospital at
Barchester would fall into abeyance, unless the powers that be should
take some steps towards putting it once more into working order.

During the past five years, the powers that be had not overlooked
Barchester Hospital, and sundry political doctors had taken the
matter in hand. Shortly after Mr. Harding's resignation, "The Jupiter"
had very clearly shown what ought to be done. In about half a column
it had distributed the income, rebuilt the buildings, put an end to
all bickerings, regenerated kindly feeling, provided for Mr. Harding,
and placed the whole thing on a footing which could not but be
satisfactory to the city and Bishop of Barchester, and to the nation
at large. The wisdom of this scheme was testified by the number of
letters which "Common Sense," "Veritas," and "One that loves fair
play" sent to "The Jupiter", all expressing admiration and amplifying
on the details given. It is singular enough that no adverse letter
appeared at all, and, therefore, none of course was written.