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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.
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