Der Praefekt

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 interview 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 bill.
     
    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
    Veranlassung. 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’
    office 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 façades 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