"And such subjects are most interesting," replied the Professor, "if only the selection be proper and the study exhaustive. The bones," he continued, laying a pungent emphasis on the word,—"the bones of the Paugussetts, the Potatucks, and the Quinnipiacs are beneath our feet. The language of these extinct tribes clings to river, lake, and mountain. Coming from the contemplation of a people historically older, I have been refreshed in the proximity of these native objects of research. Consider the mysterious mounds on either side of the Ohio. What better reward for a life of scrutiny than to catch the slightest glimpse of the secret they have so long guarded!"
After this manner talked Professor Owlsdarck. Our conversation continued long enough to show me his complete adaptation to the admiring friendship of Colonel Prowley. He had the desperate, antiquarian dilettanteism of our host, with a really accurate knowledge in unpopular, and most people would think unprofitable, branches of learning. His love of what may be called the faded upholstery and tattered millinery of history was, indeed, remarkable. His imagination was decidedly less than that of Prowley, but his capacity for genuine rummaging in the dust of ages was vastly superior. Colonel Prowley (to borrow a happy illustration from Mr. Grant White) would much rather have had the pen with which Shakspeare wrote "Hamlet" than the wit to understand just what he meant by it. Owlsdarck, on the contrary, would have preferred to understand the anatomy and habits of life of the particular goose which furnished the quill, and the exact dimensions of the onions with which it was finally served. Yet, notwithstanding a quivering sensation produced by the mouldy nature of his contemplations, I found the Professor's conversation, within the narrow limits of his specialities, intelligent and profitable. He had none of the morbid horror of giving exact information sometimes encountered in more pretentious society; and I confess it is never disagreeable to me to meet a man whose objects of pursuit are not precisely those of that commonplace, highly respectable citizen we all hope to become.
It must have been an hour before Colonel Prowley rejoined us, and when he returned it was easy to see that something annoying had happened.
"Ah, my dear friend," he began, "here has been a sad mistake! Your wife has shown your address to the chief leader of the party which opposes your election. Captain Strype, editor of the "Foxden Weekly Regulator," did not come here for nothing. He sent me out of the room to get some beans to illustrate the Athenian manner of voting, and then he managed to get a sight of your manuscript."
"I hope it is no very serious blunder," said Kate, who had followed the Colonel to the piazza. "It was thoughtless, I admit; but the gentleman told me that he was an editor, and that it was always the custom to give the press information withheld from the general public. And then, he promised secrecy; and, after all, he had the manuscript only about five minutes,—just long enough to get an idea of the subject and its style of treatment; so I hope there's no great harm done."
"I should have thought you would have remembered Strype's connection with Howke and his Indian quackery," said I, a little irritated. "But it can be no great matter, since it will only give him an hour or two more to prepare the adverse criticism with which he will honor my performance."
"It is of much more matter than you think," said Colonel Prowley, sadly. "For the 'Regulator,' which appears to-morrow, goes to press this afternoon. Strype don't like to have it known, as it lessens the interest of the 'Latest Intelligence' column; but I happened to find it out some time ago."
"Then we are worsted indeed," I cried. "His eagerness is well explained; for, of course, any strictures he might make, on hearing the exercises this evening, would be useless for his purpose."
"A critique of the performance, purporting to come from an impartial auditor, will be printed in a thousand 'Regulators' before you open your lips in our Town Hall," said the Colonel, bitterly.
I knew for the first time that stinging indignation felt by all decent aspirants for public favor upon encountering the underhand knavery which dims the lustre of democratic politics. It is not the blunt, open abuse, my young republican, which you will find galling,—but the contemptible meanness of dastards who have not mettle enough to be charlatans. For an instant my blood ran fiery hot; I grasped my cane, and for a moment had an impulse to fly after Strype and favor him with an assault-and-battery case for his despicable journal. But the passion was speedily over; for, upon reflection, I saw that no real injury could be done me with those who witnessed the success I confidently expected. And—it is awkward to acknowledge it—I nearly regained my former complacency when my wife whispered that Strype had declared to her that Professor Owlsdarck had come upon a bootless errand; for the Wrexford Trustees would never provide their Academy with so dark and gloomy a Principal, though he carried the Astor Library in his head. Do not mistake the encouragement I derived from this announcement: there was in it not the slightest ill-will to the distinguished antiquary, but only a comfortable appreciation of my own sagacity in putting it out of the power of any mischievous person to oppose my election on similar grounds.