Der Praefekt

chairs, a
    half-filled deal book-case with hangings of dingy green baize, an old
    office table covered with dusty papers, which are not moved once in
    six months, and an older Pembroke brother with rickety legs, for all
    daily uses; a despatcher for the preparation of lobsters and coffee,
    and an apparatus for the cooking of toast and mutton chops; such
    utensils and luxuries as these did not suffice for the well-being of
    Tom Towers.  He indulged in four rooms on the first floor, each of
    which was furnished, if not with the splendour, with probably more
    than the comfort of Stafford House.  Every addition that science
    and art have lately made to the luxuries of modern life was to be
    found there.  The room in which he usually sat was surrounded by
    book-shelves carefully filled; nor was there a volume there which was
    not entitled to its place in such a collection, both by its intrinsic
    worth and exterior splendour: a pretty portable set of steps in one
    corner of the room showed that those even on the higher shelves were
    intended for use.  The chamber contained but two works of art:—the
    one, an admirable bust of Sir Robert Peel, by Power, declared the
    individual politics of our friend; and the other, a singularly long
    figure of a female devotee, by Millais, told equally plainly the
    school of art to which he was addicted.  This picture was not hung,
    as pictures usually are, against the wall; there was no inch of wall
    vacant for such a purpose: 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
    zuvor.
     
    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
    Kinder. But they are anything but happy in their change. Als
    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. Diese
    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
    intim. 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. Es ist
    true he wore no ermine, bore no outward marks of a world’s