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Page 59
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
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