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 Glouces...

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 anyone begrudges to Mr. Hard...

Bold at once repaired to the hospital. The day was now far advanced, but he knew that Mr. Harding dined in the summer at four, that Eleanor was accustomed to drive in the evening, and that he might th...

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 arch...

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, ...

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 ...

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 lov...

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 ma...

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 ba...

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...

When Eleanor laid her head on her pillow that night, her mind was anxiously intent on some plan by which she might extricate her father from his misery; and, in her warmhearted enthusiasm, self-sacrif...

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, certai...

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...

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 archdeaco...

“Ah, Bold! how are you? You haven’t breakfasted?” “Oh yes, hours ago. And how are you?” When one Eskimo meets another, do the two, as an invariable rule, ask after each other’s health? is it inherent ...

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 sch...

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 ...

“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...

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, serv...

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 bett...

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 ...