The Warden | Page 8

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