evail in everything, in bishoprics as
in all other matters; and he could not understand that they should
give way on the very first appearance of a skirmish. In his open talk
he was loud against many a god; but in his heart of hearts he was
bitter enough against both Porphyrion and Orion.

"My dear doctor, it would not do;--not in this session; it would not
indeed." So had spoken to him a half-fledged but especially esoteric
young monster-cub at the Treasury, who considered himself as up to
all the dodges of his party, and regarded the army of martyrs who
supported it as a rather heavy, but very useful collection of fogies.
Dr. Grantly had not cared to discuss the matter with the half-fledged
monster-cub. The best licked of all the monsters, the giant most like
a god of them all, had said a word or two to him; and he also had
said a word or two to that giant. Porphyrion had told him that the
bishop bill would not do; and he, in return, speaking with warm face,
and blood in his cheeks, had told Porphyrion that he saw no reason
why the bill should not do. The courteous giant had smiled as he
shook his ponderous head, and then the archdeacon had left him,
unconsciously shaking some dust from his shoes, as he paced the
passages of the Treasury chambers for the last time. As he walked
back to his lodgings in Mount Street, many thoughts, not altogether
bad in their nature, passed through his mind. Why should he trouble
himself about a bishopric? Was he not well as he was, in his rectory
down at Plumstead? Might it not be ill for him at his age to
transplant himself into new soil, to engage in new duties, and live
among new people? Was he not useful at Barchester, and respected
also; and might it not be possible, that up there at Westminster, he
might be regarded merely as a tool with which other men could work?
He had not quite liked the tone of that specially esoteric young
monster-cub, who had clearly regarded him as a distinguished fogy
from the army of martyrs. He would take his wife back to Barsetshire,
and there live contented with the good things which Providence had
given him.

Those high political grapes had become sour, my sneering friends will
say. Well? Is it not a good thing that grapes should become sour
which hang out of reach? Is he not wise who can regard all grapes as
sour which are manifestly too high for his hand? Those grapes of the
Treasury bench, for which gods and giants fight, suffering so much
whe