THE WARDEN
PART 7
Chapter
XIII
The Warden's Decision
The
meeting between Eleanor and her father was not so stormy as that described in
the last chapter, but it was hardly more successful. On her return from Bold's
house she found her father in a strange state. He was not sorrowful and silent
as he had been on that memorable day when his son-in-law lectured him as to all
that he owed to his order; nor was he in his usual quiet mood. When Eleanor
reached the hospital, he was walking to and fro upon the lawn, and she soon saw
that he was much excited.
"I am
going to London, my dear," he said as soon as he saw her.
"London,
papa!"
"Yes,
my dear, to London; I will have this matter settled some way; there are some
things, Eleanor, which I cannot bear."
"Oh,
papa, what is it?" said she, leading him by the arm into the house.
"I had such good news for you, and now you make me fear I am too
late." And then, before he could let her know what had caused this sudden
resolve, or could point to the fatal paper which lay on the table, she told him
that the lawsuit was over, that Bold had commissioned her to assure her father
in his name that it would be abandoned,—that there was no further cause for
misery, that the whole matter might be looked on as though it had never been
discussed. She did not tell him with what determined vehemence she had obtained
this concession in his favour, nor did she mention the price she was to pay for
it.
The warden
did not express himself peculiarly gratified at this intelligence, and Eleanor,
though she had not worked for thanks, and was by no means disposed to magnify
her own good offices, felt hurt at the manner in which her news was received.
"Mr Bold can act as he thinks proper, my love," said he; "if Mr
Bold thinks he has been wrong, of course he will discontinue what he is doing;
but that cannot change my purpose."
"Oh,
papa!" she exclaimed, all but crying with vexation; "I thought you
would have been so happy;—I thought all would have been right now."
"Mr
Bold," continued he, "has set great people to work,—so great that I
doubt they are now beyond his control. Read that, my dear." The warden,
doubling up a number of The Jupiter, pointed to the peculiar article
which she was to read. It was to the last of the three leaders, which are
generally furnished daily for the support of the nation, that Mr Harding
directed her attention. It dealt some heavy blows on various clerical
delinquents; on families who received their tens of thousands yearly for doing
nothing; on men who, as the article stated, rolled in wealth which they had
neither earned nor inherited, and which was in fact stolen from the poorer
clergy. It named some sons of bishops, and grandsons of archbishops; men great
in their way, who had redeemed their disgrace in the eyes of many by the
enormity of their plunder; and then, having disposed of these leviathans, it
descended to Mr Harding.
We alluded
some weeks since to an instance of similar injustice, though in a more humble
scale, in which the warden of an almshouse at Barchester has become possessed
of the income of the greater part of the whole institution. Why an almshouse
should have a warden we cannot pretend to explain, nor can we say what special
need twelve old men can have for the services of a separate clergyman, seeing
that they have twelve reserved seats for themselves in Barchester Cathedral.
But be this as it may, let the gentleman call himself warden or precentor, or
what he will, let him be never so scrupulous in exacting religious duties from
his twelve dependents, or never so negligent as regards the services of the
cathedral, it appears palpably clear that he can be entitled to no portion of
the revenue of the hospital, excepting that which the founder set apart for him;
and it is equally clear that the founder did not intend that three-fifths of
his charity should be so consumed.
The case
is certainly a paltry one after the tens of thousands with which we have been
dealing, for the warden's income is after all but a poor eight hundred a year:
eight hundred a year is not magnificent preferment of itself, and the warden
may, for anything we know, be worth much more to the church; but if so, let the
church pay him out of funds justly at its own disposal.
We allude
to the question of the Barchester almshouse at the present moment, because we
understand that a plea has been set up which will be peculiarly revolting to
the minds of English churchmen. An action has been taken against Mr Warden
Harding, on behalf of the almsmen, by a gentleman acting solely on public
grounds, and it is to be argued that Mr Harding takes nothing but what he
received as a servant of the hospital, and that he is not himself responsible
for the amount of stipend given to him for his work. Such a plea would
doubtless be fair, if anyone questioned the daily wages of a bricklayer
employed on the building, or the fee of the charwoman who cleans it; but we
cannot envy the feeling of a clergyman of the Church of England who could allow
such an argument to be put in his mouth.
If this
plea be put forward we trust Mr Harding will be forced as a witness to state
the nature of his employment; the amount of work that he does; the income which
he receives; and the source from whence he obtained his appointment. We do not
think he will receive much public sympathy to atone for the annoyance of such
an examination.
As Eleanor
read the article her face flushed with indignation, and when she had finished
it, she almost feared to look up at her father.
"Well,
my dear," said he, "what do you think of that;—is it worth while to
be a warden at that price?"
"Oh,
papa;—dear papa!"
"Mr
Bold can't un-write that, my dear;—Mr Bold can't say that that sha'n't be read
by every clergyman at Oxford; nay, by every gentleman in the land;" and
then he walked up and down the room, while Eleanor in mute despair followed him
with her eyes. "And I'll tell you what, my dear," he continued,
speaking now very calmly, and in a forced manner very unlike himself; "Mr
Bold can't dispute the truth of every word in that article you have just
read—nor can I." Eleanor stared at him, as though she scarcely understood
the words he was speaking. "Nor can I, Eleanor: that's the worst of all,
or would be so if there were no remedy. I have thought much of all this since
we were together last night;" and he came and sat beside her, and put his
arm round her waist as he had done then. "I have thought much of what the
archdeacon has said, and of what this paper says; and I do believe I have no
right to be here."
"No
right to be warden of the hospital, papa?"
"No
right to be warden with eight hundred a year; no right to be warden with such a
house as this; no right to spend in luxury money that was intended for charity.
Mr Bold may do as he pleases about his suit, but I hope he will not abandon it
for my sake."
Poor
Eleanor! this was hard upon her. Was it for this she had made her great
resolve! For this that she had laid aside her quiet demeanour, and taken upon
her the rants of a tragedy heroine! One may work and not for thanks, but yet
feel hurt at not receiving them; and so it was with Eleanor: one may be
disinterested in one's good actions, and yet feel discontented that they are
not recognised. Charity may be given with the left hand so privily that the
right hand does not know it, and yet the left hand may regret to feel that it
has no immediate reward. Eleanor had had no wish to burden her father with a
weight of obligation, and yet she had looked forward to much delight from the
knowledge that she had freed him from his sorrows: now such hopes were entirely
over: all that she had done was of no avail; she had humbled herself to Bold in
vain; the evil was utterly beyond her power to cure!
She had
thought also how gently she would whisper to her father all that her lover had
said to her about herself, and how impossible she had found it to reject him:
and then she had anticipated her father's kindly kiss and close embrace as he
gave his sanction to her love. Alas! she could say nothing of this now. In
speaking of Mr Bold, her father put him aside as one whose thoughts and sayings
and acts could be of no moment. Gentle reader, did you ever feel yourself
snubbed? Did you ever, when thinking much of your own importance, find yourself
suddenly reduced to a nonentity? Such was Eleanor's feeling now.
"They
shall not put forward this plea on my behalf," continued the warden.
"Whatever may be the truth of the matter, that at any rate is not true;
and the man who wrote that article is right in saying that such a plea is revolting
to an honest mind. I will go up to London, my dear, and see these lawyers
myself, and if no better excuse can be made for me than that, I and the
hospital will part."
"But
the archdeacon, papa?"
"I
can't help it, my dear; there are some things which a man cannot bear:—I cannot
bear that;" and he put his hand upon the newspaper.
"But
will the archdeacon go with you?"
To tell
the truth, Mr Harding had made up his mind to steal a march upon the
archdeacon. He was aware that he could take no steps without informing his
dread son-in-law, but he had resolved that he would send out a note to
Plumstead Episcopi detailing his plans, but that the messenger should not leave
Barchester till he himself had started for London; so that he might be a day
before the doctor, who, he had no doubt, would follow him. In that day, if he
had luck, he might arrange it all; he might explain to Sir Abraham that he, as
warden, would have nothing further to do with the defence about to be set up;
he might send in his official resignation to his friend the bishop, and so make
public the whole transaction, that even the doctor would not be able to undo
what he had done. He knew too well the doctor's strength and his own weakness
to suppose he could do this, if they both reached London together; indeed, he
would never be able to get to London, if the doctor knew of his intended
journey in time to prevent it.
"No,
I think not," said he. "I think I shall start before the archdeacon
could be ready;—I shall go early to-morrow morning."
"That
will be best, papa," said Eleanor, showing that her father's ruse was
appreciated.
"Why
yes, my love. The fact is, I wish to do all this before the archdeacon can—can
interfere. There is a great deal of truth in all he says;—he argues very well,
and I can't always answer him; but there is an old saying, Nelly: 'Everyone
knows where his own shoe pinches!' He'll say that I want moral courage, and
strength of character, and power of endurance, and it's all true; but I'm sure
I ought not to remain here, if I have nothing better to put forward than a
quibble: so, Nelly, we shall have to leave this pretty place."
Eleanor's
face brightened up, as she assured her father how cordially she agreed with
him.
"True,
my love," said he, now again quite happy and at ease in his manner.
"What good to us is this place or all the money, if we are to be
ill-spoken of?"
"Oh,
papa, I am so glad!"
"My
darling child! It did cost me a pang at first, Nelly, to think that you should
lose your pretty drawing-room, and your ponies, and your garden: the garden
will be the worst of all;—but there is a garden at Crabtree, a very pretty
garden."
Crabtree
Parva was the name of the small living which Mr Harding had held as a minor
canon, and which still belonged to him. It was only worth some eighty pounds a
year, and a small house and glebe, all of which were now handed over to Mr
Harding's curate; but it was to Crabtree glebe that Mr Harding thought of
retiring. This parish must not be mistaken for that other living, Crabtree
Canonicorum, as it is called. Crabtree Canonicorum is a very nice thing; there
are only two hundred parishioners; there are four hundred acres of glebe; and
the great and small tithes, which both go to the rector, are worth four hundred
pounds a year more. Crabtree Canonicorum is in the gift of the dean and
chapter, and is at this time possessed by the Honourable and Reverend Dr Vesey
Stanhope, who also fills the prebendal stall of Goosegorge in Barchester
Chapter, and holds the united rectory of Eiderdown and Stogpingum, or Stoke
Pinquium, as it should be written. This is the same Dr Vesey Stanhope whose
hospitable villa on the Lake of Como is so well known to the élite of
English travellers, and whose collection of Lombard butterflies is supposed to
be unique.
"Yes,"
said the warden, musing, "there is a very pretty garden at Crabtree;—but I
shall be sorry to disturb poor Smith." Smith was the curate of Crabtree, a
gentleman who was maintaining a wife and half a dozen children on the income
arising from his profession.
Eleanor
assured her father that, as far as she was concerned, she could leave her house
and her ponies without a single regret. She was only so happy that he was
going—going where he would escape all this dreadful turmoil.
"But
we will take the music, my dear."
And so
they went on planning their future happiness, and plotting how they would
arrange it all without the interposition of the archdeacon, and at last they
again became confidential, and then the warden did thank her for what she had
done, and Eleanor, lying on her father's shoulder, did find an opportunity to
tell her secret: and the father gave his blessing to his child, and said that
the man whom she loved was honest, good, and kind-hearted, and right-thinking
in the main,—one who wanted only a good wife to put him quite upright,—"a
man, my love," he ended by saying, "to whom I firmly believe that I
can trust my treasure with safety."
"But
what will Dr Grantly say?"
"Well,
my dear, it can't be helped;—we shall be out at Crabtree then."
And Eleanor
ran upstairs to prepare her father's clothes for his journey; and the warden
returned to his garden to make his last adieux to every tree, and shrub, and
shady nook that he knew so well.
Chapter
XIV
Mount Olympus
Wretched
in spirit, groaning under the feeling of insult, self-condemning, and
ill-satisfied in every way, Bold returned to his London lodgings. Ill as he had
fared in his interview with the archdeacon, he was not the less under the
necessity of carrying out his pledge to Eleanor; and he went about his
ungracious task with a heavy heart.
The
attorneys whom he had employed in London received his instructions with
surprise and evident misgiving; however, they could only obey, and mutter
something of their sorrow that such heavy costs should only fall upon their own
employer,—especially as nothing was wanting but perseverance to throw them on
the opposite party. Bold left the office which he had latterly so much
frequented, shaking the dust from off his feet; and before he was down the
stairs, an edict had already gone forth for the preparation of the bill.
He next
thought of the newspapers. The case had been taken up by more than one; and he
was well aware that the keynote had been sounded by The Jupiter. He had
been very intimate with Tom Towers, and had often discussed with him the
affairs of the hospital. Bold could not say that the articles in that paper had
been written at his own instigation. He did not even know, as a fact, that they
had been written by his friend. Tom Towers had never said that such a view of
the case, or such a side in the dispute, would be taken by the paper with which
he was connected. Very discreet in such matters was Tom Towers, and altogether
indisposed to talk loosely of the concerns of that mighty engine of which it
was his high privilege to move in secret some portion. Nevertheless Bold
believed that to him were owing those dreadful words which had caused such
panic at Barchester,—and he conceived himself bound to prevent their
repetition. With this view he betook himself from the attorneys' office to that
laboratory where, with amazing chemistry, Tom Towers compounded thunderbolts
for the destruction of all that is evil, and for the furtherance of all that is
good, in this and other hemispheres.
Who has
not heard of Mount Olympus,—that high abode of all the powers of type, that
favoured seat of the great goddess Pica, that wondrous habitation of gods and
devils, from whence, with ceaseless hum of steam and never-ending flow of
Castalian ink, issue forth fifty thousand nightly edicts for the governance of
a subject nation?
Velvet and
gilding do not make a throne, nor gold and jewels a sceptre. It is a throne
because the most exalted one sits there,—and a sceptre because the most mighty
one wields it. So it is with Mount Olympus. Should a stranger make his way
thither at dull noonday, or during the sleepy hours of the silent afternoon, he
would find no acknowledged temple of power and beauty, no fitting fane for the
great Thunderer, no proud façades and pillared roofs to support the dignity of
this greatest of earthly potentates. To the outward and uninitiated eye, Mount
Olympus is a somewhat humble spot,—undistinguished, unadorned,—nay, almost
mean. It stands alone, as it were, in a mighty city, close to the densest throng
of men, but partaking neither of the noise nor the crowd; a small secluded,
dreary spot, tenanted, one would say, by quite unambitious people at the
easiest rents. "Is this Mount Olympus?" asks the unbelieving
stranger. "Is it from these small, dark, dingy buildings that those
infallible laws proceed which cabinets are called upon to obey; by which
bishops are to be guided, lords and commons controlled, judges instructed in
law, generals in strategy, admirals in naval tactics, and orange-women in the management
of their barrows?" "Yes, my friend—from these walls. From here issue
the only known infallible bulls for the guidance of British souls and bodies.
This little court is the Vatican of England. Here reigns a pope,
self-nominated, self-consecrated,—ay, and much stranger too,—self-believing!—a
pope whom, if you cannot obey him, I would advise you to disobey as silently as
possible; a pope hitherto afraid of no Luther; a pope who manages his own
inquisition, who punishes unbelievers as no most skilful inquisitor of Spain
ever dreamt of doing;—one who can excommunicate thoroughly, fearfully,
radically; put you beyond the pale of men's charity; make you odious to your
dearest friends, and turn you into a monster to be pointed at by the
finger!" Oh heavens! and this is Mount Olympus!
It is a
fact amazing to ordinary mortals that The Jupiter is never wrong. With
what endless care, with what unsparing labour, do we not strive to get together
for our great national council the men most fitting to compose it. And how we
fail! Parliament is always wrong: look at The Jupiter, and see how
futile are their meetings, how vain their council, how needless all their
trouble! With what pride do we regard our chief ministers, the great servants
of state, the oligarchs of the nation on whose wisdom we lean, to whom we look
for guidance in our difficulties! But what are they to the writers of The
Jupiter? They hold council together and with anxious thought painfully
elaborate their country's good; but when all is done, The Jupiter
declares that all is naught. Why should we look to Lord John Russell;—why
should we regard Palmerston and Gladstone, when Tom Towers without a struggle
can put us right? Look at our generals, what faults they make; at our admirals,
how inactive they are. What money, honesty, and science can do, is done; and
yet how badly are our troops brought together, fed, conveyed, clothed, armed,
and managed. The most excellent of our good men do their best to man our ships,
with the assistance of all possible external appliances; but in vain. All, all
is wrong—alas! alas! Tom Towers, and he alone, knows all about it. Why, oh why,
ye earthly ministers, why have ye not followed more closely this heaven-sent
messenger that is among us?
Were it
not well for us in our ignorance that we confided all things to The Jupiter?
Would it not be wise in us to abandon useless talking, idle thinking, and
profitless labour? Away with majorities in the House of Commons, with verdicts
from judicial bench given after much delay, with doubtful laws, and the
fallible attempts of humanity! Does not The Jupiter, coming forth daily
with fifty thousand impressions full of unerring decision on every mortal
subject, set all matters sufficiently at rest? Is not Tom Towers here, able to
guide us and willing?
Yes
indeed, able and willing to guide all men in all things, so long as he is
obeyed as autocrat should be obeyed,—with undoubting submission: only let not
ungrateful ministers seek other colleagues than those whom Tom Towers may
approve; let church and state, law and physic, commerce and agriculture, the
arts of war, and the arts of peace, all listen and obey, and all will be made
perfect. Has not Tom Towers an all-seeing eye? From the diggings of Australia
to those of California, right round the habitable globe, does he not know,
watch, and chronicle the doings of everyone? From a bishopric in New Zealand to
an unfortunate director of a North-west passage, is he not the only fit judge
of capability? From the sewers of London to the Central Railway of India,—from
the palaces of St Petersburg to the cabins of Connaught, nothing can escape
him. Britons have but to read, to obey, and be blessed. None but the fools
doubt the wisdom of The Jupiter; none but the mad dispute its facts.
No
established religion has ever been without its unbelievers, even in the country
where it is the most firmly fixed; no creed has been without scoffers; no
church has so prospered as to free itself entirely from dissent. There are
those who doubt The Jupiter! They live and breathe the upper air,
walking here unscathed, though scorned,—men, born of British mothers and nursed
on English milk, who scruple not to say that Mount Olympus has its price, that
Tom Towers can be bought for gold!
Such is
Mount Olympus, the mouthpiece of all the wisdom of this great country. It may
probably be said that no place in this 19th century is more worthy of notice.
No treasury mandate armed with the signatures of all the government has half
the power of one of those broad sheets, which fly forth from hence so
abundantly, armed with no signature at all.
Some great
man, some mighty peer,—we'll say a noble duke,—retires to rest feared and
honoured by all his countrymen,—fearless himself; if not a good man, at any
rate a mighty man,—too mighty to care much what men may say about his want of
virtue. He rises in the morning degraded, mean, and miserable; an object of
men's scorn, anxious only to retire as quickly as may be to some German
obscurity, some unseen Italian privacy, or indeed, anywhere out of sight. What
has made this awful change? what has so afflicted him? An article has appeared
in The Jupiter; some fifty lines of a narrow column have destroyed all
his grace's equanimity, and banished him for ever from the world. No man knows
who wrote the bitter words; the clubs talk confusedly of the matter, whispering
to each other this and that name; while Tom Towers walks quietly along Pall
Mall, with his coat buttoned close against the east wind, as though he were a
mortal man, and not a god dispensing thunderbolts from Mount Olympus.
It was not
to Mount Olympus that our friend Bold betook himself. He had before now
wandered round that lonely spot, thinking how grand a thing it was to write
articles for The Jupiter; considering within himself whether by any
stretch of the powers within him he could ever come to such distinction;
wondering how Tom Towers would take any little humble offering of his talents;
calculating that Tom Towers himself must have once had a beginning, have once
doubted as to his own success. Towers could not have been born a writer in The
Jupiter. With such ideas, half ambitious and half awe-struck, had Bold
regarded the silent-looking workshop of the gods; but he had never yet by word
or sign attempted to influence the slightest word of his unerring friend. On
such a course was he now intent; and not without much inward palpitation did he
betake himself to the quiet abode of wisdom, where Tom Towers was to be found
o' mornings inhaling ambrosia and sipping nectar in the shape of toast and tea.
Not far
removed from Mount Olympus, but somewhat nearer to the blessed regions of the
West, is the most favoured abode of Themis. Washed by the rich tide which now
passes from the towers of Cæsar to Barry's halls of eloquence; and again back,
with new offerings of a city's tribute, from the palaces of peers to the mart
of merchants, stand those quiet walls which Law has delighted to honour by its
presence. What a world within a world is the Temple! how quiet are its
"entangled walks," as someone lately has called them, and yet how
close to the densest concourse of humanity! how gravely respectable its sober
alleys, though removed but by a single step from the profanity of the Strand
and the low iniquity of Fleet Street! Old St Dunstan, with its bell-smiting
bludgeoners, has been removed; the ancient shops with their faces full of
pleasant history are passing away one by one; the bar itself is to go—its doom
has been pronounced by The Jupiter; rumour tells us of some huge
building that is to appear in these latitudes dedicated to law, subversive of
the courts of Westminster, and antagonistic to the Rolls and Lincoln's Inn; but
nothing yet threatens the silent beauty of the Temple: it is the mediæval court
of the metropolis.
Here, on
the choicest spot of this choice ground, stands a lofty row of chambers,
looking obliquely upon the sullied Thames; before the windows, the lawn of the
Temple Gardens stretches with that dim yet delicious verdure so refreshing to
the eyes of Londoners. If doomed to live within the thickest of London smoke
you would surely say that that would be your chosen spot. Yes, you, you whom I
now address, my dear, middle-aged bachelor friend, can nowhere be so well
domiciled as here. No one here will ask whether you are out or at home; alone
or with friends; here no Sabbatarian will investigate your Sundays, no
censorious landlady will scrutinise your empty bottle, no valetudinarian
neighbour will complain of late hours. If you love books, to what place are
books so suitable? The whole spot is redolent of typography. Would you worship
the Paphian goddess, the groves of Cyprus are not more taciturn than those of
the Temple. Wit and wine are always here, and always together; the revels of
the Temple are as those of polished Greece, where the wildest worshipper of
Bacchus never forgot the dignity of the god whom he adored. Where can
retirement be so complete as here? where can you be so sure of all the
pleasures of society?
It was
here that Tom Towers lived, and cultivated with eminent success the tenth Muse
who now governs the periodical press. But let it not be supposed that his
chambers were such, or so comfortless, as are frequently the gaunt abodes of
legal aspirants. Four chairs, a half-filled deal book-case with hangings of
dingy green baize, an old office table covered with dusty papers, which are not
moved once in six months, and an older Pembroke brother with rickety legs, for
all daily uses; a despatcher for the preparation of lobsters and coffee, and an
apparatus for the cooking of toast and mutton chops; such utensils and luxuries
as these did not suffice for the well-being of Tom Towers. He indulged in four
rooms on the first floor, each of which was furnished, if not with the
splendour, with probably more than the comfort of Stafford House. Every
addition that science and art have lately made to the luxuries of modern life
was to be found there. The room in which he usually sat was surrounded by
book-shelves carefully filled; nor was there a volume there which was not
entitled to its place in such a collection, both by its intrinsic worth and
exterior splendour: a pretty portable set of steps in one corner of the room
showed that those even on the higher shelves were intended for use. The chamber
contained but two works of art:—the one, an admirable bust of Sir Robert Peel,
by Power, declared the individual politics of our friend; and the other, a
singularly long figure of a female devotee, by Millais, told equally plainly
the school of art to which he was addicted. This picture was not hung, as
pictures usually are, against the wall; there was no inch of wall vacant for
such a purpose: it had a stand or desk erected for its own accommodation; and
there on her pedestal, framed and glazed, stood the devotional lady looking
intently at a lily as no lady ever looked before.
Our modern
artists, whom we style Pre-Raphaelites, have delighted to go back, not only to
the finish and peculiar manner, but also to the subjects of the early painters.
It is impossible to give them too much praise for the elaborate perseverance
with which they have equalled the minute perfections of the masters from whom
they take their inspiration: nothing probably can exceed the painting of some
of these latter-day pictures. It is, however, singular into what faults they
fall as regards their subjects: they are not quite content to take the old
stock groups,—a Sebastian with his arrows, a Lucia with her eyes in a dish, a
Lorenzo with a gridiron, or the Virgin with two children. But they are anything
but happy in their change. As a rule, no figure should be drawn in a position
which it is impossible to suppose any figure should maintain. The patient
endurance of St Sebastian, the wild ecstasy of St John in the Wilderness, the
maternal love of the Virgin, are feelings naturally portrayed by a fixed
posture; but the lady with the stiff back and bent neck, who looks at her
flower, and is still looking from hour to hour, gives us an idea of pain
without grace, and abstraction without a cause.
It was
easy, from his rooms, to see that Tom Towers was a Sybarite, though by no means
an idle one. He was lingering over his last cup of tea, surrounded by an ocean
of newspapers, through which he had been swimming, when John Bold's card was
brought in by his tiger. This tiger never knew that his master was at home,
though he often knew that he was not, and thus Tom Towers was never invaded but
by his own consent. On this occasion, after twisting the card twice in his
fingers, he signified to his attendant imp that he was visible; and the inner
door was unbolted, and our friend announced.
I have
before said that he of The Jupiter and John Bold were intimate. There
was no very great difference in their ages, for Towers was still considerably
under forty; and when Bold had been attending the London hospitals, Towers, who
was not then the great man that he had since become, had been much with him.
Then they had often discussed together the objects of their ambition and future
prospects; then Tom Towers was struggling hard to maintain himself, as a
briefless barrister, by shorthand reporting for any of the papers that would
engage him; then he had not dared to dream of writing leaders for The
Jupiter, or canvassing the conduct of Cabinet ministers. Things had altered
since that time: the briefless barrister was still briefless, but he now
despised briefs: could he have been sure of a judge's seat, he would hardly
have left his present career. It is true he wore no ermine, bore no outward
marks of a world's respect; but with what a load of inward importance was he
charged! It is true his name appeared in no large capitals; on no wall was
chalked up "Tom Towers for ever;"—"Freedom of the Press and Tom
Towers;" but what member of Parliament had half his power? It is true that
in far-off provinces men did not talk daily of Tom Towers but they read The
Jupiter, and acknowledged that without The Jupiter life was not
worth having. This kind of hidden but still conscious glory suited the nature
of the man. He loved to sit silent in a corner of his club and listen to the
loud chattering of politicians, and to think how they all were in his
power;—how he could smite the loudest of them, were it worth his while to raise
his pen for such a purpose. He loved to watch the great men of whom he daily
wrote, and flatter himself that he was greater than any of them. Each of them
was responsible to his country, each of them must answer if inquired into, each
of them must endure abuse with good humour, and insolence without anger. But to
whom was he, Tom Towers, responsible? No one could insult him; no one could
inquire into him. He could speak out withering words, and no one could answer
him: ministers courted him, though perhaps they knew not his name; bishops
feared him; judges doubted their own verdicts unless he confirmed them; and
generals, in their councils of war, did not consider more deeply what the enemy
would do, than what The Jupiter would say. Tom Towers never boasted of The
Jupiter; he scarcely ever named the paper even to the most intimate of his
friends; he did not even wish to be spoken of as connected with it; but he did
not the less value his privileges, or think the less of his own importance. It
is probable that Tom Towers considered himself the most powerful man in Europe;
and so he walked on from day to day, studiously striving to look a man, but
knowing within his breast that he was a god.
To be
continued
