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During the last ten days of July in the year 1852, in the ancient cathedral city of Barchester, a most important question was asked every hour and answered every hour in different ways -- "Who is to be the new bishop?"

Old Dr Grantly, who had for many years occupied the bishop's chair, was dying, just as the government of the country was about to change. The bishop's son, Archdeacon Grantly, had recently taken on many of his father's duties, and it was fairly well understood that the present prime minister would choose him as the new bishop. It was a difficult time for the archdeacon. The prime minister had never promised him the post in so many words, but those who know anything of government will be well aware that encouragement is often given by a whisper from a great man or one of his friends. The archdeacon had heard such a whisper, and allowed himself to hope.

A month ago, the doctors had said the old man would live just four more weeks. Only yesterday they had examined him again, expressed their surprise, and given him another two weeks. Now the son was sitting by his father's bedside, calculating his chances. The government would fall within five days, that much was certain; his father would die within -- no, he refused to think that. He tried to keep his mind on other matters, but the race was so very close, and the prize so very great. He looked at the dying man's calm face. As far as he and the doctors could judge, life might yet hang there for weeks to come. The old bishop slept for twenty of the twenty-four hours, but during his waking moments he was able to recognize both his son and his dear old friend, Mr Harding, the archdeacon's father-in-law. Now he lay sleeping like a baby. Nothing could be easier than the old man's passing from this world to the next.

But by no means easy were the emotions of the man who sat there watching. He knew it must be now or never. He was already over fifty, and there was little chance that the next prime minister would think as kindly of him as the present one did. He thought long and sadly, in deep silence, and then at last dared to ask himself whether he really desired his father's death.

The question was answered in a moment. The proud man sank on his knees by the bedside, and, taking the bishop's hand in his own, prayed eagerly that his sins would be forgiven.

Just then the door opened and Mr Harding entered. Dr Grantly rose quickly, and as he did so, Mr Harding took both his hands and pressed them warmly. There was a stronger feeling between them than there had ever been before.

"God bless you, my dears," said the bishop in a weak voice as he woke. "God bless you!" and so he died.

At first neither the archdeacon nor his father-in-law knew that life was gone, but after a little while Mr Harding said gently, "I believe it's all over. Our dear bishop is no more -- dear, good, excellent old man! Well, it's a great relief, archdeacon. May all our last moments be as peaceful as his!"

In his mind Dr Grantly was already travelling from the darkened room of death to the prime minister's study. He had brought himself to pray for his father's life, but now that life was over, every minute counted. However, he did not want to appear unfeeling, so he allowed Mr Harding to lead him downstairs to the sitting room. Then, when a few more moments had passed, he said, "We should arrange for a telegraph message to be sent to the prime minister immediately."

"Do you think it necessary?" asked Mr Harding, a little surprised. He did not know how high the archdeacon's hopes of being appointed bishop were.

"I do," replied Dr Grantly. "Anything might happen if we delay. Will you send it?"

"I? Oh, certainly. Only I don't know exactly what to say."

Dr Grantly sat down and wrote out this message:

By electric telegraph, for the Prime Minister at 10 Downing Street, London. The Bishop of Barchester is dead. Message sent by Mr Septimus Harding.

"There," he said, "just take it to the telegraph office. Here's the money," and he pulled a coin out of his pocket.

Mr Harding felt very much like a messenger, but he accepted the piece of paper and the coin. "But you've put my name at the bottom, archdeacon," he said.

Dr Grantly hesitated. How could he sign such a note himself? "Well, yes," he said, "there should be the name of some clergyman, and who is more suitable than an old friend like yourself? But I beg you, my dear Mr Harding, not to lose any time."

Mr Harding got as far as the door of the room, when he suddenly remembered the news which he had come to tell his son-in-law, and which the bishop's death had driven from his mind. "But archdeacon," he said, turning back, "I forgot to tell you -- the government has fallen!"

"Fallen!" repeated the archdeacon, in a voice which clearly expressed his anxiety. After a moment's thought he said, "We had better send the message anyway. Do it at once, my dear friend -- a few minutes' time is of the greatest importance."

Mr Harding went out and sent the message. Within thirty minutes of leaving Barchester, it arrived on the prime minister's desk in London. The great man read it, then sent it on to the man who was to take his place. In this way our unfortunate friend the archdeacon lost his chance of becoming a bishop.

There was much discussion in the newspapers about who would take old Dr Grantly's place. The Jupiter, that well-regarded daily paper which is known for the accuracy of its information, was silent for a while, but at last spoke out, saying that Dr Proudie would be chosen.

And so it was. Just a month after the old bishop's death, Dr Proudie became Bishop of Barchester.

There was a home for elderly men in Barchester, called Hiram's Hospital. Previously Mr Harding had been warden of the home, and he had greatly enjoyed his duties there. But when there were accusations in the newspapers, including The Jupiter, that the large income he received could more usefully be spent on the old men themselves, he had given up the post, and become vicar of a small church in the city. Modest man that he was, his one desire was to do what was right, and to avoid any publicity.

However, his family and friends were very angry that he had been unjustly accused, and public discussion of the wardenship became so heated that the government had to take action. Consequently a law was passed, stating that the warden's income should be ￡450 a year, and that it was the bishop's duty to appoint the warden; Mr Harding's name was not mentioned.

Mr Harding had two daughters. The elder, Susan, was married to the archdeacon, and Mr Harding spent much of his time with his younger daughter, Eleanor. She had fallen in love with and married a young man called John Bold, but only two years after their marriage, he had become ill and died. For weeks after he was gone, the idea of future happiness in this world was hateful to the young widow; tears and sleep were her only relief. But when she realized she was pregnant, she regained her interest in life, and when her son was born, eight months after his father's death, her joy was inexpressible.

The baby, young Johnny, was all that could be desired. "Is he not delightful?" Eleanor would say to Mr Harding, looking up from her knees in front of her child, her beautiful eyes wet with soft tears, and naturally he would agree with her.

The baby really was delightful: he took his food eagerly, waved his toes joyfully in the air whenever his legs were uncovered, and did not scream. These are supposed to be the strongest points of baby perfection, and in all these our baby was excellent.

It should not be thought that Eleanor ever forgot her dead husband; she kept his memory fresh in her heart. But yet she was happy with her baby. It was wonderful to feel that a human being existed who owed everything to her, whose needs could all be satisfied by her, whose little heart would first love her and her only, and whose childish tongue would make its first effort in calling her by the sweetest name a woman can hear. And so her feelings became calmer, and she began a mother's duties eagerly and gratefully.

John Bold had left his widow everything that he possessed, and, with an income of a thousand pounds a year, Eleanor felt comparatively rich. John's sister, Mary, came to live with Eleanor, to help take care of baby Johnny. Eleanor had hoped her father, Mr Harding, would also come to live in her house, but he refused, saying that he was quite happy in his modest rooms over a shop in Barchester High Street.

The new bishop, Dr Proudie, was a man who was well aware of his own importance. He considered he was born to move in high circles, and circumstances certainly supported his opinion so far. For some years he had lived in London, where he had been chaplain to the Queen's officers. This high connection and his own natural gifts recommended him to persons in power. Liberal ideas were beginning to take hold of the country as a whole, and as a liberal clergyman, Dr Proudie was involved in various changes in religious matters. His name began to appear in the newspapers, and he became known as a useful and rising churchman. Although he was not a man of great intelligence, and did not even have much business sense, he added a certain weight to the meetings he attended, and his presence at them was generally appreciated.

During this period, he had never doubted his own powers, but always looked forward patiently to the day when he himself would give the orders, while lesser people obeyed. Now his reward and his time had come. He was an ambitious man, and, with his fashionably open-minded views, was not prepared to bury himself at Barchester as the old bishop had done. No! London would still be his ground, for some of the year, at least. How else could he keep himself in the public eye, how else give the government, in all religious matters, the full benefit of his wise advice?

In person Dr Proudie was a good-looking man, smartly dressed, but perhaps a little below medium height. People may have thought him fortunate in becoming Bishop of Barchester, but he still had his cares. He had a large family, of whom the three eldest were grown-up daughters, and he had a wife. No one dared breathe a word against Mrs Proudie, but she did not appear to add much to her husband's happiness. The truth was that in all domestic matters she ruled over her husband. But she was not satisfied with making the decisions at home, and tried to stretch her power over all his movements, even involving herself in spiritual matters. In other words, the bishop was henpecked.

Mrs Grantly, the archdeacon's wife, in her happy home at Plumstead, knew how to give orders, but in a pleasant and lady-like way. She never brought shame to her husband; her voice was never loud or her looks sharp. Doubtless she valued power, but she understood the limits of a woman's influence.

Not so Mrs Proudie. It was this lady's habit to give the sharpest of orders to everybody, including her husband, even in public. Successful as he had been in the eyes of the world, it seemed that in the eyes of his wife he was never right. All hope of defending himself had long passed; indeed, he was aware that instant obedience produced the closest to peace which his home could ever achieve.

Mrs Proudie was in her own way a religious woman, and one of her strongest beliefs was the need to keep Sunday completely separate from the other days of the week. During the week her daughters were permitted to wear low-cut dresses and attend evening parties, always accompanied by their mother. But on Sunday they had to pay for these sins, by going to church three times and listening to lengthy evening prayers read by herself. Unfortunately for those under her roof who had no such weekday pleasures as low-cut dresses and evening parties to pay for, namely her servants and her husband, strict observance of Sunday duties included everybody.

In these religious matters Mrs Proudie allowed herself to be guided by a young clergyman, Mr Slope. So, because Dr Proudie was guided by his wife, Mr Slope had, through Mrs Proudie, gained a good deal of control over Dr Proudie's religious thinking. When Dr Proudie was appointed Bishop of Barchester, Mr Slope was happy to give up his post as vicar in a poor part of London, to become chaplain to the bishop.

Obadiah Slope and Mrs Proudie shared similar religious beliefs; their relationship was close and their conversations confidential. Mr Slope had regularly visited the Proudies' London home and knew the Misses Proudie well. It was no more than natural that his heart should discover some softer feeling than friendship for Mrs Proudie's eldest daughter, Olivia, and he made a declaration of affection to her. However, after finding how little money her father would give her on marrying, he withdrew his offer. As soon as it was known that Dr Proudie would become bishop, Mr Slope regretted his earlier caution, and began to look more kindly on Miss Proudie again. But he had lost his chance; Olivia was too proud to look at him a second time, and, besides, she had another lover showing interest in her. So Mr Slope sighed his lover's sighs without reward, and the two of them soon found it convenient to develop a hatred for each other.

It may seem strange that Mrs Proudie's friendship for the young vicar should remain firm in such circumstances, but to tell the truth, she had known nothing of his relationship with Olivia. Although very fond of him herself, she expected her daughters to make much more impressive marriages.

Mr Slope soon comforted himself with the thought that, as chaplain to the bishop, he might become richer and more powerful than if he had married the bishop's daughter. As he sat in the train, facing Dr and Mrs Proudie as they started their first journey to Barchester, he began to make a plan for his future life. He understood, correctly, that public life would suit the new bishop better than the small details of cathedral business. Therefore, he, Slope, would in effect be Bishop of Barchester. He knew he would have a hard battle to fight, because power would be equally desired by another great mind -- Mrs Proudie would also choose to be Bishop of Barchester. He felt confident, however, that he would win in the end.

In appearance he was tall, with large hands and feet, but on the whole his figure was good. His face, however, was the colour of bad-quality beef, and his hair, which was long, straight, and a dull reddish colour, was kept plentifully oiled. His mouth was large, but his lips were thin and bloodless. It was not a pleasant experience to shake his hand, as there was always a cold dampness to his skin. His face usually wore a frown, as if he thought most of the world far too wicked for his care.

A man of courage and above average intelligence, he firmly believed, like Dr Proudie, in simplifying church ceremony, and like Mrs Proudie, in enforcing total respect for Sunday churchgoing. He had excellent powers of self-expression, which were appreciated more by women than by men. A frequent guest in many London homes, he had been admired by the ladies and unwillingly accepted by the men, but he had an oily, unpleasant way with him which did not seem likely to make him popular in Barchester society.