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.
CHAPTER XV

Tom Towers, Dr Anticant, and Mr Sentiment
'Ah, Bold! how are you? You haven't breakfasted?'

'Oh yes, hours ago. And how are you?'
When one Esquimau meets another, do the two, as an

invariable rule, ask after each other's health? is it inherent in all
human nature to make this obliging inquiry? Did any reader

of this tale ever meet any friend or acquaintance without asking
some such question, and did anyone ever listen to the reply?

Sometimes a studiously courteous questioner will show so much
thought in the matter as to answer it himself, by declaring that

had he looked at you he needn't have asked; meaning thereby to
signify that you are an absolute personification of health: but

such persons are only those who premeditate small effects.
'I suppose you're busy?' inquired Bold.

'Why, yes, rather; or I should say rather not. I have a
leisure hour in the day, this is it.'

'I want to ask you if you can oblige me in a certain matter.'
Towers understood in a moment, from the tone of his

friend's voice, that the certain matter referred to the newspaper.
He smiled, and nodded his head, but made no promise.

'You know this lawsuit that I've been engaged in,' said Bold.
Tom Towers intimated that he was aware of the action

which was pending about the hospital.
'Well, I've abandoned it.'

Tom Towers merely raised his eyebrows, thrust his hands
into his trowsers pockets, and waited for his friend to proceed.

'Yes, I've given it up. I needn't trouble you with all the
history; but the fact is that the conduct of Mr Harding--

Mr Harding is the--'
'Oh yes, the master of the place; the man who takes all

the money and does nothing,' said Tom Towers, interrupting him.
'Well, I don't know about that; but his conduct in the

matter has been so excellent, so little selfish, so open, that I
cannot proceed in the matter to his detriment.' Bold's heart

misgave him as to Eleanor as he said this; and yet he felt that
what he said was not untrue. 'I think nothing should now be

done till the wardenship be vacant.'
'And be again filled,' said Towers, 'as it certainly would,

before anyone heard of the vacancy; and the same objection
would again exist. It's an old story that of the vested rights of

the incumbent; but suppose the incumbent has only a vested
wrong, and that the poor of the town have a vested right, if they

only knew how to get at it: is not that something the case here?'
Bold couldn't deny it, but thought it was one of those cases