The Last Chronicle of Barset quotes

He was a man between fifty and sixty years of age, with grey hair, rather short, and somewhat corpulent, but still gifted with that amount of personal comeliness which comfortable position and the respect of others will generally seem to give.

A man rarely carries himself meanly, whom the world holds high in esteem.

“I am very tired, my dear,” said Mr. Walker.

He had told her that she was a beggar, and that it was better to starve than to beg.

She had borne the rebuke without a word in reply, and had then begged again for him, and had endured the starvation herself.

Nothing in their poverty had, for years past, been a shame to her; but every accident of their poverty was still, and ever had been, a living disgrace to him.

Now, in his green old age, he had ceased to covet, but had not ceased to repine.

He had ceased to covet aught for himself, but still coveted much for his children

; and for him such a marriage as this which was now suggested for his son was encompassed almost with the bitterness of death. “I think it would kill me,” he had said to his wife; “by heavens, I think it would be my death!”

… terribly put out as she was at the idea of a marriage between her son and one standing so poorly in the world’s esteem as Grace Crawley, would not have brought forward the matter before her daughter, had she been left to her own desires.

A marchioness in one’s family is a tower of strength, no doubt; but there are counsellors so strong that we do not wish to trust them, lest in the trusting we ourselves be overwhelmed by their strength.

Now Mrs. Grantly was by no means willing to throw her influence into the hands of her titled daughter.

“But what about birth, mother?”

“One can’t have everything, my dear.”

“As far as I am concerned, I should like to have everything or nothing,” the major had said laughing.

Winthrop; but still on this subject he might know something, and when he shook his head he manifestly intended to indicate guilt. And Dr. Tempest, the rector of Silverbridge, did not hesitate to declare his belief in the guilt of the incumbent of Hogglestock.

No man reverences a clergyman, as a clergyman, so slightly as a brother clergyman.

To Dr. Tempest it appeared to be neither very strange nor very terrible that Mr. Crawley should have stolen twenty pounds. “What is a man to do,” he said, “when he sees his children starving?

but they who were near to her, and who had even become dear to her, or who even had been respected by her, were made, as it were, saints in her imagination. They were brought into the inner circle, and could hardly be expelled.

She was an old woman who thought all evil of those she did not know, and all good of those whom she did know

; and as she did know Mr. Crawley, she was quite sure he had not stolen Mr. Soames’s twenty pounds. She did know Mr. Soames also; and thus there was a mystery for the unravelling of which she was very anxious.

She could not even go to church, because the open air brought on neuralgia.

She was therefore perhaps taken to be magnificent, partly because she was unknown.

Miss Anne Prettyman, the younger, went about frequently to tea-parties—would go, indeed, to any party to which she might be invited; and was known to have a pleasant taste for pound-cake and sweetmeats.

but it was unavailing. “As he has asked to see me, I think you had better not,” said Annabella.

Miss Anne Prettyman bore her cross meekly

, offered no argument on the subject, and returning to the little parlour where she had left the major, brought him upstairs and ushered him into her sister’s room without even entering it again, herself.

“Nothing is blessed to me,” he said, when his wife pressed him to say the words for their child’s sake.

“Shall I say that I thank God when my heart is thankless? Shall I serve my child by a lie?”

Then for hours he sat in the same position, in the old armchair, hanging over the fire speechless, sleepless, thinking ever, as she well knew, of the injustice of the world.

“

Nothing can degrade but guilt,

” said his wife.

“

Yes⁠—misfortune can degrade, and poverty.

A man is degraded when the cares of the world press so heavily upon him that he cannot rouse himself. They have come to look at me as though I were a hunted beast.”

Proudie. What mode of getting rid of the bishop or his wife Lady Lufton proposed to herself, I am unable to say; but I think she lived in hopes that in some way it might be done.

If only the bishop could have been found to have stolen a cheque for twenty pounds instead of poor Mr. Crawley, Lady Lufton would, I think, have been satisfied.

In the course of these battles Framley Court would sometimes assume a clerical aspect—have a prevailing hue, as it were, of black coats, which was not altogether to the taste of Lord Lufton, and as to which he would make complaint to his wife, and …

suppose they have let him out, is he to go about like a roaring lion—among the souls of the people?”

The bishop shook in his shoes. When Mrs. Proudie began to talk of the souls of the people he always shook in his shoes.

She had an eloquent way of raising her voice over the word souls that was qualified to make any ordinary man shake in his shoes. The bishop was a conscientious man, and well knew that poor Mr.

But what would happen if now, even now, he were to rebel? That he would personally become very uncomfortable, he was well aware, but he thought that he could bear that.

The food would become bad⁠—mere ashes between his teeth, the daily modicum of wine would lose its flavour, the chimneys would all smoke, the wind would come from the east, and the servants would not answer the bell.

Little miseries of that kind would crowd upon him. He had arrived at a time of life in which such miseries make such men very miserable; but yet he thought that he could endure them. And what other wretchedness would come to him?

And he well knew that should he now rebel, the whole house would be in a turmoil.

He would be bishoped here, and bishoped there, before the eyes of all palatial men and women, till life would be a burden to him.

So he got up from his seat over the fire, and went to his desk and wrote the letter. The letter was as follows:—

“And they do say if a poor man had done it, it’d been stealing, for sartain.”

“And I’m a poor man⁠—the poorest in all Hogglestock; and, therefore, of course, it is stealing. Of course I am a thief. Yes; of course I am a thief. When did not the world believe the worst of the poor?”

Having so spoken, Mr. Crawley rose from his chair and hurried out of the cottage, waiting no further reply from Dan Morris or his wife.

And as he made his way slowly home, not going there by the direct road, but by a long circuit, he told himself that there could be no sympathy for him anywhere. Even Dan Morris, the brickmaker, thought that he was a thief.

“And am I a thief?” he said to himself, standing in the middle of the road, with his hands up to his forehead.

“Though ten bishops had sent me—a council of archbishops if you will!” Mr. Thumble started back, appalled at the energy of the words used to him. “

Shall a man have nothing of his own;⁠—no sorrow in his heart, no care in his family, no thought in his breast so private and special to him, but that, if he happen to be a clergyman, the bishop may touch it with his thumb?

”

“Shall a man have nothing of his own;—no sorrow in his heart, no care in his family, no thought in his breast so private and special to him, but that, if he happen to be a clergyman, the bishop may touch it with his thumb?”

“I am not the bishop’s thumb,” said Mr. Thumble, drawing himself up.

“I intended not to hint anything personally objectionable to yourself. I will regard you as one of the angels of the church.” Mr. Thumble, when he heard this, began to be sure that Mr. Crawley was mad;

Though the letter was full of Mr. Crawley and his affairs there was not a word in it about Grace. This, however, was quite natural. Major Grantly perfectly well understood his father’s anxiety to carry his point without seeming to allude to the disagreeable subject.

“My father is very clever,” he said to himself, “very clever. But he isn’t so clever but one can see how clever he is.”

On the next day he went into Silverbridge, intending to call on Miss Prettyman. He had not quite made up his mind what he would say to Miss Prettyman;

“Certainly not, without your leave,” said Mrs. Thorne.

“Don’t you know that I’m the soul of honour?”

If Lily Dale were now to marry Mr. Crosbie, anything so perversely cruel as the fate of John Eames would never yet have been told in romance. That was his own idea on the matter as he sat smoking his cigar.

I have said that he was proud of his constancy, and yet, in some sort, he was also ashamed of it.

He acknowledged the fact of his love, and believed himself to have out-Jacobed Jacob; but he felt that it was hard for a man who had risen in the world as he had done to be made a plaything of by a foolish passion.

Boyce; and be sure you don’t let Mr. Swanton be long tomorrow.” To this parting shot Mrs. Boyce made no rejoinder; but she hurried out of the church somewhat the quicker for it, and closed the door after her with something of a slam.

Of all persons clergymen are the most irreverent in the handling of things supposed to be sacred, and next to them clergymen’s wives, and after them those other ladies, old or young, who take upon themselves semi-clerical duties.

And it is natural that it should be so; for is it not said that familiarity does breed contempt?

He will be more humble-minded here than at Hogglestock.” In saying this the lady showed some knowledge of the general nature of clergymen and of the world at large.

She understood how much louder a cock can crow in its own farmyard than elsewhere, and knew that episcopal authority, backed by all the solemn awe of palatial grandeur, goes much further than it will do when sent under the folds of an ordinary envelope.

But though she understood ordinary human nature, it may be that she did not understand Mr. Crawley’s nature.

Who inquires why it is that a little greased flour rubbed in among the hair on a footman’s head⁠—just one dab here and another there⁠—gives such a tone of high life to the family?

And seeing that the thing is so easily done, why do not more people attempt it? The tax on hair-powder is but thirteen shillings a year.

… the habitual frown, the long nose and large powerful mouth, the deep furrows on the cheek, and the general look of thought and suffering, all combined to make the appearance of the man remarkable, and to describe to the beholders at once his true character.

No one ever on seeing Mr. Crawley took him to be a happy man, or a weak man, or an ignorant man, or a wise man.

“You are very punctual, Mr. Crawley,” said the bishop. Mr. Crawley simply bowed his head, still keeping his hands beneath his cloak. “Will you not take a chair nearer to the fire?” Mr.

“Sir, you will find that your wicked threats will fall back upon your own head,” said Mrs. Proudie.

“Peace, woman,” Mr. Crawley said, addressing her at last.

The bishop jumped out of his chair at hearing the wife of his bosom called a woman. But he jumped rather in admiration than in anger. He had already begun to perceive that Mr.

“Woman!” said Mrs. Proudie, rising to her feet as though she really intended some personal encounter.

“Madam,” said Mr. Crawley, “you should not interfere in these matters. You simply debase your husband’s high office. The distaff were more fitting for you. My lord, good morning.”

And before either of them could speak again, he was out of the room, and through the hall, and beyond the gate, and standing beneath the towers of the cathedral. Yes, he had, he thought, in truth crushed the bishop.

“You have sometimes been ill, Josiah, as any of us may be,” she said, “and that has been the cause.”

“There are different kinds of sickness. There is sickness of the body, and sickness of the heart, and sickness of the spirit;⁠—and then there is sickness of the mind, the worst of all.”

“With you, Josiah, it has chiefly been the first.”

Wifelike, she desired to worship him, and that he should know that she worshipped him. But if a word might save him! “Josiah, where did it come from?”

“Yes,” said he; “yes; that is the question. Where did it come from?”

—and he turned sharp upon her, looking at her with all the power of his eyes. “It is because I cannot tell you where it came from that I ought to be—either in Bedlam, as a madman, or in the county gaol as a thief.”

not even they who thought he had stolen the money. Mr. Robarts himself was certain of it, and told himself that he knew it by evidences which his own education made clear to him. But how was it that the grooms knew it?

For my part I think that there are no better judges of the article than the grooms.

Thinking still of all which he had heard, Mr. Robarts found himself at Mr. Crawley’s gate at Hogglestock.

What! Did his father think to bribe him by giving him ’20 port? He would certainly go down to Allington, and he would tell his mother tomorrow morning, or certainly on the next day, what he was going to do.

“Pity it should be all gone; isn’t it, sir?”

said the archdeacon to his father-in-law. “It has lasted my time,” said Mr. Harding, “and I’m very much obliged to it. Dear, dear; how well I remember your father giving the order for it!

“One is from Mrs. Jones; the other, I think, is a letter on business.” Then Lily said nothing further, but she observed that her mother only opened one of her letters at the breakfast-table.

Lily was very patient;⁠—not by nature, I think, but by exercise and practice. She had, once in her life, been too much in a hurry; and having then burned herself grievously, she now feared the fire.

She did not therefore follow her mother after breakfast, but sat with Grace over the fire, hemming diligently at certain articles of clothing which were intended for use in the Hogglestock parsonage. The two girls were making a set of new shirts for Mr. Crawley.

“No, Lily; I cannot tell you that.”

“Then, mamma, out with it at once. What is the use of shivering on the brink?”

“It was from Mr. Crosbie.”

Crawley’s shirts, as though she had no such letter in her pocket. And yet there was not a moment in which she was not thinking of it. To Grace, just before she went to bed, she did say one word.

“I wonder whether it can ever come to a person to be so placed that there can be no doing right, let what will be done;⁠—that, do or not do, as you may, it must be wrong?”

“I hope you are not in such a condition,” said Grace.

Do you imagine that I have ever crossed our own lawn, or gone down through the garden-path there, without thinking of the times when he and I walked there together? There needs no fostering for such memories as those.

They are weeds which will grow rank and strong though nothing be done to foster them. There is the earth and the rain, and that is enough for them.

You cannot kill them if you would, and they certainly will not die because you are careful not to hoe and rake the ground.”

When a man has cheated you once, you think he will cheat you again, and you do not deal with him. You do not look to gather grapes from thistles, after you have found that they are thistles.”

“I still go for the roses though I have often torn my hand with thorns in looking for them.”

“But you do not pluck those that have become cankered in the blowing.”

“I know very well that men are friends when they step up and shake hands with each other. It is the same as when women kiss.”

“When I see women kiss, I always think that there is deep hatred at the bottom of it.”

“And there may be deep hatred between you and Mr. Crosbie for anything I know to the contrary,” said Miss Demolines.

“We live in Porchester Gardens,” said Miss Demolines. “Upon my word, I believe that the farther London stretches in that direction, the farther mamma will go. She thinks the air so much better. I know it’s a long way.”

“Distance is nothing to me,” said Johnny; “I can always set off over night.”

Conway Dalrymple did not get invited to call on Mrs. Van Siever, but before he left the house he did say a word or two more to his friend Mrs. Broughton as to Clara Van Siever. “She is a fine young woman,” he said;

“What the devil are you doing here?” said Dobbs Broughton to his friend the artist. “You’re always here. You’re here a doosed sight more than I like.”

Husbands when they have been drinking are very apt to make mistakes as to the purport of the game.

“Why, Dobbs,” said the painter, “there’s something wrong with you.”

There had been that between him and her which justified him in supposing that he was dear to her, although no expression of affection had ever passed from her lips to his ears.

Men may know all that they require to know on that subject without any plainly spoken words.

Grace Crawley had spoken no word, and yet he had known—at any rate had not doubted, that he could have the place in her heart of which he desired to be the master.

“But why not, dear Grace?” said Mrs. Dale.

“Because the people say that papa is a thief!”

Having said this, Grace walked slowly out of the room, and neither Mrs. Dale nor Lily attempted to follow her.

“Because the people say that papa is a thief!” Having said this, Grace walked slowly out of the room, and neither Mrs. Dale nor Lily attempted to follow her.

“She’s as good as gold,” said Lily, when the door was closed.

“I think he is good, too; but she has told me nothing yet of what he has said to her. He must be good, or he would not have come down here after her.

He was thinking solely of what had just occurred, and of what, on his part, should follow as the result of that meeting.

Half at least of the noble deeds done in this world are due to emulation, rather than to the native nobility of the actors.

A young man leads a forlorn hope because another young man has offered to do so. Jones in the hunting-field rides at an impracticable fence because he is told that Smith took it three years ago.

Mr. Toogood, as he said this, felt a little twinge of conscience. He did believe Mr. Crawley to be innocent, but he was not so sure of it as his words would seem to imply. Nevertheless he repeated the words again;—“as innocent as I am.”

“I don’t know,” said Mr. Crawley. “I don’t know. I think I am; but I don’t know.”

“I believe you are. But you see the case is a very distressing one. A jury has a right to say that the man in possession of a cheque for twenty pounds should account for his possession of it.

and he shook his head in regret—in a regret of which he was only half conscious, though it was very keen, and which he did not attempt to analyze—as he reflected that his rage would hardly be able to survive that ordeal.

How common with us it is to repine that the devil is not stronger over us than he is.

The archdeacon, who was a very wealthy man, had purchased a property in Plumstead, contiguous to the glebe-land, and had thus come to exercise in the parish the double duty of rector and squire.

“

When men get so high as that, there’s no knowing whether they work or whether they don’t.

There isn’t much for them to do, as far as I can see. They have to look beautiful, and frighten the young ones.”

“When men get so high as that, there’s no knowing whether they work or whether they don’t. There isn’t much for them to do, as far as I can see.

They have to look beautiful, and frighten the young ones.

”

Mrs. Dale’s little scheme for bringing the two together was very transparent, but it was not the less wise on that account.

Schemes will often be successful, let them be ever so transparent.

Little intrigues become necessary, not to conquer unwilling people, but people who are willing enough, who, nevertheless, cannot give way except under the machinations of an intrigue.

And now I accept the thing as finished. You wrote something in your book, you dear John—something that could not be made to come true. Dear John, I wish for your sake it was otherwise.

I will go home and I will write in my book, this very day, Lilian Dale, Old Maid.

If ever I make that false, do you come and ask me for the page.”

“Yes;—that is to be the end of it. Not the end of our friendship.

Old maids have friends.

”

If there is not Grace, and she has caught me before I have turned back. Goodbye, dear, dear John. God bless you. I think you the finest fellow there is in the world. I do, and so does mamma.

Remember always that there is a temple at Allington in which your worship is never forgotten.

” Then she pressed his hand and turned away from him to meet Grace Crawley. John did not stop to speak a word to his cousin, but pursued his way alone.

“

Likes her money! By George she does; her own and anybody else’s that she can get hold of.

For a downright leech, recommend me always to a woman. When a woman does go in for it, she is much more thorough than any man.”

A woman, when she is jealous, is apt to attribute to the other woman with whom her jealousy is concerned, both weakness and timidity, and to the man both audacity and strength.

A woman who has herself taken perhaps twelve months in the winning, will think that another woman is to be won in five minutes.

It is not to be supposed that Mrs. Dobbs Broughton had ever been won by anyone except by Mr. Dobbs Broughton. At least, let it not be supposed that she had ever acknowledged a spark of love for Conway Dalrymple.

As it was she had nothing to do. She had no child. She was not given to much reading. She could not sit with a needle in her hand all day. She had no aptitude for May meetings, or the excitement of charitable good works.

Life with her was very dull, and she found no amusement within her reach so easy and so pleasant as the amusement of pretending to be in love.

If all that she did and all that she said could only have been taken for its worth and for nothing more, by the different persons concerned, there was very little in it to flatter Mr. Dalrymple or to give cause for tribulation to Mr.

And now that this little play was going on about Miss Van Siever, he did think that Mrs. Dobbs Broughton was doing her very best to overcome an unfortunate attachment.

It is so gratifying to a young man’s feelings to suppose that another man’s wife has conceived an unfortunate attachment for him!

Conway Dalrymple ought not to have been fooled by such a woman; but I fear that he was fooled by her.

“He may do that—and yet quarrel with him.

He’d quarrel with his own right hand, if he had nothing else to quarrel with.

That makes the difficulty, you see. He’ll take nobody’s advice. He thinks that we’re all against him.”

“

Gentleman is such a frightful word to have to use to a gentleman; but I did not know what else to say.

Mamma, if you please, we won’t talk about it;—not about the letter I mean. As for him, I’ll talk about him forever if you like it. I don’t mean to be a bit brokenhearted.”

And Mr. Walker was correct in his opinion of Mr. Toogood. As regards the two attorneys I will not venture to say that either of them was not a “perfect gentleman.”

A perfect gentleman is a thing which I cannot define.

But undoubtedly Mr. Walker was a bigger man in his way than was Mr. Toogood in his, and did habitually consort in the county of Barsetshire with men of higher standing than those with whom Mr. Toogood associated in London.

But there would come an explanation—how Crawley was too honourable to employ a man whom he could not pay, and there would be a romance, and it would all go down with the jury.

One wants sympathy in such a case as that⁠—not evidence.

”

Dobbs Broughton. To Mr. Dobbs Broughton he owed five hundred pounds; and as regarded a bill for the one-half of that sum which was due tomorrow, Mr. Dobbs Broughton had refused to grant him renewal for a single month!

I know no more uncomfortable walking than that which falls to the lot of men who go into the City to look for money, and who find none.

Of all the lost steps trodden by men, surely the steps lost after that fashion are the most melancholy. It is not only that they are so vain, but that they are accompanied by so killing a sense of shame!

“I don’t mean that I shall. I’m too much of a coward, I fancy.”

A man who desires to soften another man’s heart, should always abuse himself. In softening a woman’s heart, he should abuse her.

“But life has been so bitter with me for the last three years! I haven’t had an hour of comfort;—not an hour. I don’t know why I should trouble you with all this, Butterwell. Oh—about the money; yes; that’s just how I stand.

The squire had had taken for them a gloomy lodging in Sackville Street.

Lodgings in London are always gloomy.

Gloomy colours wear better than bright ones for curtains and carpets, and the keepers of lodgings in London seem to think that a certain dinginess of appearance is respectable.

“I shall get on very well with him,” he said to his wife before he started; “but I am afraid of the woman. If she interferes, there will be a row.”

“Then, my dear,” said his wife, “there will be a row, for I am told that she always interferes.”

On reaching the palace about half-an-hour before dinnertime, Dr. Tempest found that other guests were expected, and on descending to the great yellow drawing-room, which was used only on state occasions, he encountered Mrs.

He would say not a word of what had happened to the bishop, and he thought it probable that neither would Mrs. Proudie speak of it—at any rate till after he was gone.

Generals who are beaten out of the field are not quick to talk of their own repulses.

He, indeed, had not beaten Mrs. Proudie out of the field. He had, in fact, himself run away. But he had left his foe silenced; and with such a foe, and in such a contest, that was everything.

“My dear,” said she, “let us forget what occurred this morning. If there has been any anger we are bound as Christians to forget it.” She stood over him as she spoke, and put her hand upon his shoulder almost caressingly.

“When a man’s heart is broken, he cannot forget it,” was his reply.

She still stood by him, and still kept her hand upon him; but she could think of no other words of comfort to say. “I will go to bed,” he said. “It is the best place for me.”

On the next day he appeared again at the office in his ordinary costume, and an idea crossed Sir Raffle’s brain that he had been partly “done” by the affectation of a costume.

“I’ll be even with him some day yet,” said Sir Raffle to himself.

“I’ve got my leave, boys,” said Eames when he went out into the room in which his three friends sat.

Had Mrs. Arabin thoroughly understood the difference in her father’s feeling toward herself and toward her sister, I think she would hardly have gone forth upon any tour while he remained with her in the deanery.

It is very hard sometimes to know how intensely we are loved, and of what value our presence is to those who love us!

Mrs. Grantly saw the look—did not analyse it, did not quite understand it—but felt, as she had so often felt before, that it was not altogether laden with welcome. But all this had nothing to do with the duty on which she had come;

These words were very cold, and the voice in which they were spoken was very cold. They made Lady Lufton feel that it was beyond her power to proceed with the work of her mission in its intended spirit.

It is ever so much easier to proffer kindness graciously than to receive it with grace.

Lady Lufton had intended to say, “Let us be women together;—women bound by humanity, and not separated by rank, and let us open our hearts freely. Let us see how we may be of comfort to each other.”

The giving of dinner-parties had been his glory, and she had made the suggestion simply with the view of pleasing him.

“If the world were going round the wrong way, a woman would still want a party,” he had said, sneering at her.

“It was of you I was thinking, Dobbs,” she replied; “not of myself. I care little for such gatherings.”

“It is the heart that gives success,” she said, while he was considering how he might best put an extinguisher upon her romance for the occasion.

“Not at all, Mrs. Broughton; success depends on elbow-grease.”

“On elbow-grease—hard work, that is—and I must work hard now if I mean to take advantage of today’s sitting. The truth is, I don’t give enough hours of work to it.”

Dobbs Broughton was so fond. Nevertheless, if she insisted that he should now descend into the arena and go through the paraphernalia of a mock tournament, he must obey her.

It is the hardship of men that when called upon by women for romance, they are bound to be romantic, whether the opportunity serves them or does not.

A man must produce romance, or at least submit to it, when duly summoned, even though he should have a sore-throat or a headache.

He was rejoiced, and I think that Mrs. Broughton did not regret the interference.

It is always well that these little dangerous scenes should be brought to sudden ends.

The last details of such romances, if drawn out to their natural conclusions, are apt to be uncomfortable, if not dull. She did not want him to go down on his knees, knowing that the getting up again is always awkward.

So Lily accepted the habit; but made a stand at the hat, and paid for that out of her own pocket. When the squire had seen Lily on horseback he asked her questions about it. “It was a hired horse, I suppose?” he said.

“I think it came direct from heaven,” said Lily.

“What do you mean, Lily?” said the squire, angrily.

“

Then go and get an ‘it’ for yourself. Why don’t you have an ‘it’ for yourself?

You can have an ‘it’ tomorrow, if you like—or two or three, if all that I hear is true.”

But with all of us, in the opinion which we form of those around us, we take unconsciously the opinion of others.

A woman is handsome because the world says so. Music is charming to us because it charms others.

We drink our wines with other men’s palates, and look at our pictures with other men’s eyes.

But with all of us, in the opinion which we form of those around us, we take unconsciously the opinion of others. A woman is handsome because the world says so. Music is charming to us because it charms others.

We drink our wines with other men’s palates, and look at our pictures with other men’s eyes.

When Lily heard John Eames praised by all around her, it could not be but that she should praise him too—not out loud, as others did, but in the silence of her heart. And then his constancy to her had been so perfect!

and another man who had been arrested for stealing two-and-sixpence which was found afterwards sticking to a bit of butter at the bottom of a plate. Mrs. Thorne had heard all this, and had answered him,

“Dear me, Sir Raffle,” she had said, “what a great many thieves you have had among your acquaintance!”

This had rather disconcerted him, and then there had been no more talking about Mr. Crawley.

But Lily had cast all such caution to the winds. She had given herself to the man entirely, and had determined that she would sink or swim, stand or fall, live or die, by him and by his truth.

He had been as false as hell.

She had been in his arms, clinging to him, kissing him, swearing that her only pleasure in the world was to be with him—with him her treasure, her promised husband; and within a month, a week, he had been false to her.

“Why did you not go away and leave me that day when I told you?”

“Did you ever know a woman who liked to be turned out of a room in her own house?” said Mrs. Proudie.

When Mrs. Proudie had condescended so far as this, it must be admitted that in those days there was great trouble in the palace.

Lady Lufton was a very good woman, devoted to her duties, affectionate and just to those about her, truly religious, and charitable from her nature; but I doubt whether the thorough worldliness of the archdeacon’s appeal struck her as it will strike the reader.

People are so much more worldly in practice than they are in theory, so much keener after their own gratification in detail than they are in the abstract

, that the narrative of many an adventure would shock us, though the same adventure would not shock us in the action. One girl tells another how she has changed her mind in love; and the friend sympathizes with the friend, and perhaps applauds.

He looked into her eyes, which were turned eagerly towards his, and when doing so was quite sure that the promise would be kept.

It would have been sacrilege⁠—he felt that it would have been sacrilege⁠—to doubt such a promise.

He almost relented. His soft heart, which was never very well under his own control, gave way so far that he was nearly moved to tell her that, on his son’s behalf, he acquitted her of the promise.

“It is a comfortable feeling to know that you stand on your own ground.

Land is about the only thing that can’t fly away.

And then, you see, land gives so much more than the rent. It gives position and influence and political power, to say nothing about the game. We’ll go back now. I daresay your mother will be at home by this time.”

But it was of no use. And Mrs. Grantly when she went to her bed could only lament in her own mind over what, in discussing the matter afterwards with her sister, she called the cross-grainedness of men.

“They are as like each other as two peas,” she said, “and though each of them wished to be generous, neither of them would condescend to be just.”

Early on the following morning there was, no doubt, much said on the subject between the archdeacon and his wife before they met their son at breakfast;

“He ought to have passed on and not to have stood an instant when he saw you,” said Mrs. Thorne, with indignation. “

There are moments when it is a man’s duty simply to vanish, to melt into the air, or to sink into the ground

—in which he is bound to overcome the difficulties of such sudden self-removal, or must ever after be accounted poor and mean.”

It was thus that he thought of himself, pitying himself, as he sat upon the gate, while the rain fell ruthlessly on his shoulders.

He pitied himself with a commiseration that was sickly in spite of its truth.

It was the fault of the man that he was imbued too strongly with self-consciousness. He could do a great thing or two. He could keep up his courage in positions which would wash all courage out of most men.

“Ay, and worse than the cholera.

A man is killed all over when he is struck in his pride;⁠—and yet he lives.

”

“Tell ’ee what, Master Crawley;—and yer reverence mustn’t think as I means to be preaching; there ain’t nowt a man can’t bear if he’ll only be dogged. You go whome, Master Crawley, and think o’ that, and maybe it’ll do ye a good yet.

It’s dogged as does it. It ain’t thinking about it.

” Then Giles Hoggett withdrew his hand from the clergyman’s, and walked away towards his home at Hoggle End. Mr. Crawley also turned homewards, and as he made his way through the lanes, he repeated to himself Giles Hoggett’s words. “It’s dogged as does it.

The cross-grainedness of men is so great that things will often be forced to go wrong, even when they have the strongest possible natural tendency of their own to go right.

It was so now in these affairs between the archdeacon and his son. The original difficulty was solved by the good feeling of the young lady—by that and by the real kindness of the archdeacon’s nature.

But Musselboro had gone, and Dalrymple could not learn from the head woman-servant whom he saw, whether before going he had told to anyone in the house the tale of the catastrophe which had happened in the City.

Servants are wonderful actors, looking often as though they knew nothing when they know everything⁠—as though they understood nothing, when they understand all.

Dalrymple made known all that was necessary, and the discreet upper servant listened to the tale with a proper amount of awe and horror and commiseration. “Shot hisself in the City;—laws!

As she looked at him a hundred different thoughts came into her mind. She had loved him dearly, and she loved him still; but she knew now—at this moment felt absolutely sure—that by him she was hated!

In spite of all her roughness and temper, Mrs. Proudie was in this like other women⁠—that she would fain have been loved had it been possible.

She had always meant to serve him. She was conscious of that; conscious also in a way that, although she had been industrious, although she had been faithful, although she was clever, yet she had failed.

It may be doubted whether he quite knew for what he was praying. The idea of praying for her soul, now that she was dead, would have scandalized him. He certainly was not praying for his own soul.

I think he was praying that God might save him from being glad that his wife was dead.

But she was dead;—and, as it were, in a moment! He had not stirred out of that room since she had been there with him. Then there had been angry words between them—perhaps more determined enmity on his part than ever had before existed;

But yet his thoughts were very tender to her. Nothing reopens the springs of love so fully as absence, and no absence so thoroughly as that which must needs be endless.

We want that which we have not; and especially that which we can never have.

She had told him in the very last moments of her presence with him that he was wishing that she were dead, and he had made her no reply. At the moment he had felt, with savage anger, that such was his wish.

But yet his thoughts were very tender to her.

Nothing reopens the springs of love so fully as absence, and no absence so thoroughly as that which must needs be endless.

We want that which we have not; and especially that which we can never have. She had told him in the very last moments of her presence with him that he was wishing that she were dead, and he had made her no reply.

“Indeed she is, Mr. Harding,” said Mrs. Baxter, putting both her hands together piously.

“We’re just grass, ain’t we, sir! and dust and clay and flowers of the field?”

Whether Mrs. Proudie had most partaken of the clayey nature or of the flowery nature, Mrs. Baxter did not stop to consider.

“Mrs. Proudie dead!” said Posy, with a solemnity that was all her own.

“Then she won’t scold the poor bishop any more.”

“No, my dear; she won’t scold anybody any more; and it will be a blessing for some, I must say. Everybody is always so considerate in this house, Miss Posy, that we none of us know nothing about what that is.”

“

The proverb of De mortuis is founded on humbug.

Humbug out of doors is necessary. It would not do for you and me to go into the High Street just now and say what we think about Mrs. Proudie;

Proudie had been so thoroughly hated as she had been at the Plumstead rectory. There had been hatred at the deanery; but the hatred at the deanery had been mild in comparison with the hatred at Plumstead.

The archdeacon was a sound friend; but he was also a sound enemy.

From the very first arrival of the Proudies at Barchester, Mrs. Proudie had thrown down her gauntlet to him, and he had not been slow in picking it up. The war had been internecine, and each had given the other terrible wounds.

I have always known my own unfitness, by reason of the worldly cares with which I have been laden.

Poverty makes the spirit poor, and the hands weak, and the heart sore⁠—and too often makes the conscience dull.

May the latter never be the case with any of you.” Then he uttered another short prayer, and, stepping down from the pulpit, walked out of the church, with his weeping wife hanging on his arm, and his daughter following them, almost dissolved in tears.

It was written like a telegraph message, and was about as long. It was the kind of thing Miss Demolines liked, Johnny thought; and there could be no reason why he should not gratify her. It was her favourite game.

Some people like whist, some like croquet, and some like intrigue.

Madalina would probably have called it romance—because by nature she was romantic. John, who was made of sterner stuff, laughed at this. He knew that there was no romance in it.

“

O.M., for Old Maid. I don’t see why it shouldn’t be as good as B.A. for Bachelor of Arts. It would mean a great deal more.

”

“I cannot tell, dear. It is so.

If you take a young tree and split it, it still lives, perhaps. But it isn’t a tree. It is only a fragment.

”

“I can understand myself.

I love him so well⁠—with that intimate, close, familiar affection⁠—that I could wash his clothes for him tomorrow, out of pure personal regard, and think it no shame.

He could not ask me to do a single thing for him—except the one thing—that I would refuse. And I’ll go further. I would sooner marry him than any man in the world I ever saw, or, as I believe, that I ever shall see.

“Yes; the heartless and unfeeling do. As the bodily strength fails and the power of control becomes lessened, the natural aptitude of the man pronounces itself more clearly. I take it that that is it.

Had Mrs. Proudie lived to be a hundred and fifty, she would have spoken spiteful lies on her deathbed.

” Then Mrs. Grantly told herself that her husband, should he live to be a hundred and fifty, would still be expressing his horror of Mrs. Proudie—even on his deathbed.

I have nothing to regret, nothing to make me unhappy. I know how poor and weak has been my life; but I know how rich and strong is that other life. Do not cry, Nelly—not till I am gone; and then not beyond measure.

Why should anyone weep for those who go away full of years⁠—and full of hope?

”

“And I am well aware how hard Mrs. Arabin strove to take away from the alms she bestowed the bitterness of the sting of eleemosynary aid. If you please, Arabin, we will not talk any more of that.

I can never forget that I have been a beggar, but I need not make my beggary the matter of conversation.

I hope the Holy Land has fulfilled your expectation?”

“The reasons are many, and on the face of things.

The reason, perhaps, the most on the face is to be found in my wife’s gown, and in my coat.

” This Mr. Crawley said very gravely, looking neither to the right nor to the left, nor at the face of any of them, nor at his own garment, nor at hers, but straight before him;

He had really loved her and she was never to be his. He had wanted her—and it is so painful a thing to miss what you want when you have done your very best to obtain it!

To struggle in vain always hurts the pride; but the wound made by the vain struggle for a woman is sorer than any other wound so made.

He gnashed his teeth, and struck the iron railings with his stick;—and then he hurried home, swearing that he would never give another thought to Lily Dale.