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Hiram's Hospital, as the retreat is called, is a picturesque
building enough, and shows the correct taste with which the
ecclesiastical architects of those days were imbued. It stands
on the banks of the little river, which flows nearly round the
cathedral close, being on the side furthest from the town. The
London road crosses the river by a pretty one-arched bridge,
and, looking from this bridge, the stranger will see the windows
of the old men's rooms, each pair of windows separated by a
small buttress. A broad gravel walk runs between the building
and the river, which is always trim and cared for; and at
the end of the walk, under the parapet of the approach to the
bridge, is a large and well-worn seat, on which, in mild
weather, three or four of Hiram's bedesmen are sure to be seen
seated. Beyond this row of buttresses, and further from the
bridge, and also further from the water which here suddenly
bends, are the pretty oriel windows of Mr Harding's house,
and his well-mown lawn. The entrance to the hospital is
from the London road, and is made through a ponderous
gateway under a heavy stone arch, unnecessary, one would
suppose, at any time, for the protection of twelve old men,
but greatly conducive to the good appearance of Hiram's
charity. On passing through this portal, never closed to anyone
from 6 A.M. till 10 P.M., and never open afterwards,
except on application to a huge, intricately hung mediaeval
bell, the handle of which no uninitiated intruder can possibly
find, the six doors of the old men's abodes are seen, and beyond
them is a slight iron screen, through which the more happy
portion of the Barchester elite pass into the Elysium of Mr
Harding's dwelling.
Mr Harding is a small man, now verging on sixty years, but
bearing few of the signs of age; his hair is rather grizzled,
though not gray; his eye is very mild, but clear and bright,
though the double glasses which are held swinging from his
hand, unless when fixed upon his nose, show that time has told
upon his sight; his hands are delicately white, and both
hands and feet are small; he always wears a black frock coat,
black knee-breeches, and black gaiters, and somewhat scandalises
some of his more hyperclerical brethren by a black
neck-handkerchief.
Mr Harding's warmest admirers cannot say that he was
ever an industrious man; the circumstances of his life have
not called on him to be so; and yet he can hardly be called
an idler. Since his appointment to his precentorship, he has
published, with all possible additions of vellum, typography,
and gilding, a collection of our ancient church music, with
some correct dissertations on Purcell, Crotch, and Nares. He
has greatly improved the choir of Barchester, which, under
his dominion, now rivals that of any cathedral in England.
He has taken something more than his fair share in the
cathedral services, and has played the violoncello daily to
such audiences as he could collect, or, faute de mieux, to no
audience at all.
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