mself in the close half an hour before
the time named by the bishop. But on no account would he have rung
the palace bell one minute before two o'clock. So he walked up and
down under the towers of the cathedral, and cooled himself, and
looked up at the pleasant plate-glass in the windows of the house of
his friend the dean, and told himself how, in their college days, he
and the dean had been quite equal,--quite equal, except that by the
voices of all qualified judges in the university, he, Mr. Crawley, had
been acknowledged to be the riper scholar. And now the Mr. Arabin of
those days was Dean of Barchester,--travelling abroad luxuriously at
this moment for his delight, while he, Crawley, was perpetual curate
at Hogglestock, and had now walked into Barchester at the command of
the bishop, because he was suspected of having stolen twenty pounds!
When he had fully imbued his mind with the injustice of all this, his
time was up, and he walked boldly to the bishop's gate, and boldly
rang the bishop's bell.

CHAPTER XVIII

The Bishop of Barchester Is Crushed

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. It
may, indeed, be that the slightest dab in the world justifies the
wearer in demanding hot meat three times a day, and wine at any rate
on Sundays. I think, however, that a bishop's wife may enjoy the
privilege without such heavy attendant expense; otherwise the man
who opened the bishop's door to Mr. Crawley would hardly have been so
ornamented.

The man asked for a card. "My name is Mr. Crawley," said our friend.
"The bishop has desired me to come to him at this hour. Will you be
pleased to tell him that I am here." The man again asked for a card.
"I am not bound to carry with me my name printed on a ticket," said
Mr. Crawley. "If you cannot remember it, give me pen and paper, and I
will write it." The servant, somewhat awed by the stranger's manner,
brought the pen and paper, and Mr. Crawley wrote his name:--

THE REV JOSIAH CRAWLEY, M.A.,
Perpetual Curate of Hogglestock

He was then ushered into a waiting-room, but, to his disappointment,
was not kept there waiting long. Within three minutes he was ushered
into the bishop'