Colonel O’Brien was more practical.
“Come out and feed the press and then fold these papers.”
And almost before I knew it my job of uplifting the South was on. I suppose you might call me a “useful citizen.” I fed the press, set type, swept the office, did the mailing, acted as fighting editor, tried to sing in the church choir, taught “elocution,” pitched baseball on the town nine and filled columns of the paper with soul-stirring editorials. At least, they stirred me if they had no effect upon any other reader. Those were the days when living was a joy. Some days there would be a little run of subscriptions and perhaps a big advertisement would come. Now and then some ball club would come to town and our boys would send them home in defeat and disgrace. These occasions were bright spots on the calendar, but they were as nothing in the bright lexicon of youth to the great editorials I ground out at that battered and shaky table in the corner. Among other things I broke a labor strike in that town, alone and unassisted. It was the talk of the town, but to me it seemed a very poor thing beside the great editorial on “The South’s Future,” which I wrote on that stormy day in Christmas week.
It comes back to me now as I write this. In those days everybody “knocked off” during Christmas week and we printed no paper. Yet we all seemed to come to the shop a few hours each day as part of our “holiday.” It was cold and wet, with mud nearly to your hips. Colonel O’Brien had started a fire in the fireplace, and he and Sergeant Hill stood before it smoking their pipes and telling war stories. Colonel O’Brien was telling how he heard the soldiers around their fires at night saying it was “a rich man’s war and a poor man’s fight.” Sergeant Hill told about the Indian who went after the molasses and glue to make into printer’s rollers, and how in consequence the Yankees captured the printing outfit. I must tell you that story some day. And while these two old vets kept down on the ground in thought I was up on the heights developing a glorious future for the “Sunny South.” And at the last flourish of the pen I cleared my throat and read it to these old soldiers. And, honestly, I did not get the humor of it. These two men had given all they had of youth, ambition, money and hope to their section. They must walk softly all their remaining days amid the ruins and the melancholy of defeat. And here was I without the least conception of what life must have meant to the Southern people, with the enthusiasm of a boy, pouring out dreams of a future which seemed even beyond the vision of an Isaiah. Great is youth and glorious are its prophetic visions. At any rate, the old soldiers let their pipes go out as they listened.
“Fine,” said Sergeant Hill. “Splendid. I reckon you’ll have us all in Heaven 40 years hence?”
“Fine,” said Colonel O’Brien. “Fine. I hope I’ll be here to see it; but today I saw that paper collector from New Orleans in town. We can’t pay his bill. He’ll have to leave on the night train. Better shut up the office.” And they tramped out into the mud, and I knew that as they plowed up the street they were looking at each other as men do when they feel a pity for some weak-minded lunatic who has stepped out in front of the crowd with a thought or an act that is called unorthodox. And I locked the door and sat before the fire polishing that editorial. Collectors might pound on the door, paper and ink might run short—what were these poor material things to one whose winged thoughts were to save the country? Surely, I had it all planned out that night, and went home, rising far up above the fog and rain, and bumping my head against the stars! Do I not know just how Henry Barkman felt about his great oration? Heaven give him the philosophy to endure with patience the day which finally came to me when I had to realize that I was not an uplifter, after all! And yet cursed be he who would, with a sneer, deny to youth the glorious foolishness with which he
“Longs to clutch the golden keys;
To mold the mighty state’s decrees
And shape the whisper of the throne!”
And now, 37 years after, there is nothing left of all these dreams. Colonel O’Brien and Sergeant Hill have answered the last call.