The Warden HTML version
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 inter-view
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
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