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 Tower