“No book worth reading ever fails to be steeped with the spirit of the person who wrote it. The man on the stage is instinct with emotion and feeling, but does he express more of his true individuality than the man in real life? The historian puts fewer of his own feelings into his work, but he plays far less to the gallery, and so is more truthful in what he reveals of himself.”
“Your simile reminds me of a thought of my own, after my first reading of this book: that the novelist is the demagogue of letters, striving to please, and suing for public favor by catering to all its whims and weaknesses; but the historian is the aristocrat of literature, knowing the right, and proudly above taking heed of popular prejudice or moods. I liked Mr. Whitely’s book for many things, but most of all for its fearless attitude towards whatever it touched upon. I felt that it was the truth, because the whole atmosphere told me that a man was writing, too brave to tell what was untrue. That evidently pleases you, again,” you laughed. “Oh, it is horrible to see this consuming jealousy!”
When the ladies withdrew, the men, as usual, clustered at one end of the table; but my host beckoned me to join him, and sat down apart from his guests.
“Dr. Hartzmann, what is the matter at the Philomathean?” he demanded, in a low voice.
“Matter?” I questioned.
“Yes. What is the reason they don’t elect me?”
“I am not on the membership committee, Mr. Whitely,” I replied.
“Are you popular up there? Mr. Blodgett said that you were.”
“I have some good friends,” I answered.
“Then electioneer and get me put in,” he explained, revealing to me in a flash why he had volunteered that the paper should pay the expenses of my membership.