The Barsetshire Chronicles - All 6 Books in One Edition. Anthony Trollope

by the magnitude of his appetite — by the power of his gorge; his only occupation is to swallow the bread prepared with so much anxious care for these impoverished carders of wool — that, and to sing indifferently through his nose once in the week some psalm more or less long — the shorter the better, we should be inclined to say.

      ‘Oh, my civilised friends!— great Britons that never will be slaves, men advanced to infinite state of freedom and knowledge of good and evil — tell me, will you, what becoming monument you will erect to an highly-educated clergyman of the Church of England?’

      Bold certainly thought that his friend would not like that: he could not conceive anything that he would like less than this. To what a world of toil and trouble had he, Bold, given rise by his indiscreet attack upon the hospital!

      ‘You see,’ said Towers, ‘that this affair has been much talked of, and the public are with you. I am sorry you should give the matter up. Have you seen the first number of The Almshouse?’

      No; Bold had not seen The Almshouse. He had seen advertisements of Mr Popular Sentiment’s new novel of that name, but had in no way connected it with Barchester Hospital, and had never thought a moment on the subject.

      ‘It’s a direct attack on the whole system,’ said Towers. ‘It’ll go a long way to put down Rochester, and Barchester, and Dulwich, and St Cross, and all such hotbeds of peculation. It’s very clear that Sentiment has been down to Barchester, and got up the whole story there; indeed, I thought he must have had it all from you, it’s very well done, as you’ll see: his first numbers always are.’

      Bold declared that Mr Sentiment had got nothing from him, and that he was deeply grieved to find that the case had become so notorious.

      ‘The fire has gone too far to be quenched,’ said Towers; ‘the building must go now; and as the timbers are all rotten, why, I should be inclined to say, the sooner the better. I expected to see you get some eclat in the matter.’

      This was all wormwood to Bold. He had done enough to make his friend the warden miserable for life, and had then backed out just when the success of his project was sufficient to make the question one of real interest. How weakly he had managed his business! he had already done the harm, and then stayed his hand when the good which he had in view was to be commenced. How delightful would it have been to have employed all his energy in such a cause — to have been backed by The Jupiter, and written up to by two of the most popular authors of the day! The idea opened a view into the very world in which he wished to live. To what might it not have given rise? what delightful intimacies — what public praise — to what Athenian banquets and rich flavour of Attic salt?

      This, however, was now past hope. He had pledged himself to abandon the cause; and could he have forgotten the pledge he had gone too far to retreat. He was now, this moment, sitting in Tom Towers’ room with the object of deprecating any further articles in The Jupiter, and, greatly as he disliked the job, his petition to that effect must be made.

      ‘I couldn’t continue it,’ said he, ‘because I found I was in the wrong.’

      Tom Towers shrugged his shoulders. How could a successful man be in the wrong! ‘In that case,’ said he, ‘of course you must abandon it.’

      ‘And I called this morning to ask you also to abandon it,’ said Bold.

      ‘To ask me,’ said Tom Towers, with the most placid of smiles, and a consummate look of gentle surprise, as though Tom Towers was well aware that he of all men was the last to meddle in such matters.

      ‘Yes,’ said Bold, almost trembling with hesitation. ‘The Jupiter, you know, has taken the matter up very strongly. Mr Harding has felt what it has said deeply; and I thought that if I could explain to you that he personally has not been to blame, these articles might be discontinued.’

      How calmly impassive was Tom Towers’ face, as this innocent little proposition was made! Had Bold addressed himself to the doorposts in Mount Olympus, they would have shown as much outward sign of assent or dissent. His quiescence was quite admirable; his discretion certainly more than human.

      ‘My dear fellow,’ said he, when Bold had quite done speaking, ‘I really cannot answer for The Jupiter.’

      ‘But if you saw that these articles were unjust, I think that You Would endeavour to put a stop to them. Of course nobody doubts that you could, if you chose.’

      ‘Nobody and everybody are always very kind, but unfortunately are generally very wrong.’

      ‘Come, come, Towers,’ said Bold, plucking up his courage, and remembering that for Eleanor’s sake he was bound to make his best exertion; ‘I have no doubt in my own mind but that you wrote the articles yourself, and very well written they were: it will be a great favour if you will in future abstain from any personal allusion to poor Harding.’

      ‘My dear Bold,’ said Tom Towers, ‘I have a sincere regard for you. I have known you for many years, and value your friendship; I hope you will let me explain to you, without offence, that none who are connected with the public press can with propriety listen to interference.’

      ‘Interference!’ said Bold, ‘I don’t want to interfere.’

      ‘Ah, but, my dear fellow, you do; what else is it? You think that I am able to keep certain remarks out of a newspaper. Your information is probably incorrect, as most public gossip on such subjects is; but, at any rate, you think I have such power, and you ask me to use it: now that is interference.’

      ‘Well, if you choose to call it so.’

      ‘And now suppose for a moment that I had this power, and used it as you wish: isn’t it clear that it would be a great abuse? Certain men are employed in writing for the public press; and if they are induced either to write or to abstain from writing by private motives, surely the public press would soon be of little value. Look at the recognised worth of different newspapers, and see if it does not mainly depend on the assurance which the public feel that such a paper is, or is not, independent. You alluded to The Jupiter: surely you cannot but see that the weight of The Jupiter is too great to be moved by any private request, even though it should be made to a much more influential person than myself: you’ve only to think of this, and you’ll see that I am right.’

      The discretion of Tom Towers was boundless: there was no contradicting what he said, no arguing against such propositions. He took such high ground that there was no getting on it. ‘The public is defrauded,’ said he, ‘whenever private considerations are allowed to have weight.’ Quite true, thou greatest oracle of the middle of the nineteenth century, thou sententious proclaimer of the purity of the press — the public is defrauded when it is purposely misled. Poor public! how often is it misled! against what a world of fraud has it to contend!

      Bold took his leave, and got out of the room as quickly as he could, inwardly denouncing his friend Tom Towers as a prig and a humbug. ‘I know he wrote those articles,’ said Bold to himself. ‘I know he got his information from me. He was ready enough to take my word for gospel when it suited his own views, and to set Mr Harding up before the public as an impostor on no other testimony than my chance conversation; but when I offer him real evidence opposed to his own views, he tells me that private motives are detrimental to public justice! Confound his arrogance! What is any public question but a conglomeration of private interests? What is any newspaper article but an expression of the views taken by one side? Truth! it takes an age to ascertain the truth of any question! The idea of Tom Towers talking of public motives and purity of purpose! Why, it wouldn’t give him a moment’s uneasiness to change his politics tomorrow, if the paper required it.’

      Such were John Bold’s inward exclamations as he made his way out of the quiet labyrinth of the Temple; and yet there was no position of worldly power so coveted in Bold’s ambition as that held by the man of whom he was thinking. It was the impregnability of the place which made Bold so angry with the possessor of it, and it was the same quality which made it appear so desirable.

      Passing into the Strand, he saw in a bookseller’s window an announcement of the first number of The Almshouse;