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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' 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 facades 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!
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