A Hoosier holiday

by Theodore Dreiser

Those cold, snowy, silent streets, those small bleak homes, shut in from the February or March cold, with all the force of their country life centered around the parlor stove! H——, my fellow adventurer, had preceded me, occupying with his wife a comfortable portion of his father’s home, and it was he who met me at the train. He could live here comfortably and indefinitely, and think nothing of it. He was home. After a single day’s investigation, I now saw that there was nothing to his proposition as far as I or Grand Rapids was concerned—not a thing. The paper which he had outlined to me as having a working circulation of sixteen hundred and advertising to the value of a thousand or more had really nothing at all. The county, which had only perhaps 10,000 population, had already more papers than it could support. The last editor had decamped, leaving a novice who worked for the leading druggist, owner of the printing press and other materials of construction, to potter about, endeavoring to explain what was useless to explain. And I had thrown up a good position to pursue a chimera.

But in spite of this, H—— wished to see all the leading citizens to discover what encouragement they would offer to two aspiring souls like ourselves! I can see them yet—one a tall, bony man of a ministerial cast of countenance. He was the druggist, and by the same token one of several doctors living here. There was a short, fat, fussy man, who ran the principal feed and livery stable. He had advertised occasionally in other days. Then there were the local banker and four or five others, all of them meager, unimportant intellects.

They looked us over as if we were adventurers from Mars. They weren’t sure whether they needed a newspaper here or not. I agree now that they did not. They talked about small advertisements which they might or might not run, but which they were certain had never paid when they did—advertisements which they had placed as a favor to the former editor or editors. In addition, they wanted assurances as to how the paper would be run and whether we were good, moral boys and whether we would work hard for the interests of the town and against certain unsatisfactory elements. It was amazing. Oh, yes, the paper had to be Republican in politics.

“No, no, no,” I finally said to H——, in a spirit of dissatisfaction and at the end of a long, cold, windy day. We had walked out the country road toward his house and I had stopped to stare at an array of crows occupying a bleak woodpatch, and at the red sun, smiling over a floor of white. “There’s nothing in this. It would set me crazy. It’s a wild goose chase. Is there anything else around here, or shall I skip out tonight?”

He wanted me to stay and visit Bowling Green, a town near at hand. (This was the one we were now approaching.) There was another newspaper there for sale on easy terms. I agreed after some coaxing, and, having lingered three days to secure suitable roads—the distance was twentyfive miles—we drove over. That was the time I saw the gas wells. It was a better place than Grand Rapids, but the price of the paper, when we reached there, was much more than we could pay. I think we figured, between us, that we could put down two hundred dollars and the owners wanted five hundred, with the balance on mortgage and a total selling price of eight thousand. So that dream went glimmering. In the meanwhile, I browsed about studying country life, admiring the Maumee River at Grand Rapids (H——'s home faced it from a beautiful rise). Then one fine spring day the sun rose on fields from which the snow had suddenly melted, and I felt that I must be off. I went, as I have said, to Toledo first. Here I encountered the youth to whom I have frequently referred and with whom I was destined to lead a curious career.

But now that I am upon the subject, perhaps I might as well include the story of my journey into Toledo, where was a principal paper called the Blade with which I wished to connect myself, if possible. The place only had a hundred thousand at the time, and I did not think it worth the remaining years of my life, but I thought it might be good for a little while—say six months. Although I was considered (I am merely quoting others) an exceptional newspaper man, I did not know what I wanted to be. Already the newspaper profession was boring me. It seemed a hopeless, unremunerative, more or less degrading form of work, and yet I could think of nothing else to do. Apparently I had no other talent.

I shall never forget the first morning I went into Toledo. The train followed the bank of a canal and ran between that canal and the Maumee River. The snow which had troubled us so much a day or two before had gone off, and it was as bright and encouraging as one might wish. I was particularly elated by the natural aspects of this region, for the Maumee River, beginning at Fort Wayne, Indiana, and flowing northeastward, makes a peculiarly attractive scenic diversion. It is a beautiful stream, with gently sloping banks on either hand, and in places rapids and even slight falls. At Grand Rapids and farther along it broadened out into something essentially romantic to look upon, and Toledo itself, when I reached it, was so clean and new and industrious—without all the depressing areas of factory and tenement life which lowers the charm of some cities. It seemed to me as I looked at it this Spring morning as if life must be better here than in cities older, or at least greater—cities like St. Louis and Chicago, where so much of the oppressive struggle for existence had already manifested itself. And yet I knew I liked those cities better. Be that as it may, it was a happy prospect which I contemplated, and I sought out the office of the Blade with the air of one who is certain of his powers and not likely to be daunted by mere outward circumstances.

I have always felt of life that it is more fortuitous than anything else. People strive so mightily to do things—to arrange life according to some scheme of their own—but little, if anything, comes of it in most cases. Children are taught by their parents that they must be this, that, or the other to get along—economical, industrious, sober, truthful and the like—and what comes of it? Unless they are peculiarly talented and able to use life in a direct and forceful way—unless they have qualities or charms which draw life to them, or compel life to come, willy-nilly, they are used and then discarded. A profound schooling in manners, morals and every other virtue and pleasantry will not make up for lack of looks in a girl. Honesty, sobriety, industry, and even other solemn virtues, will not raise a lad to a seat of dignity. Life is above these petty rules, however essential they may be to the strong in ruling the weak, or to a state or nation in the task of keeping itself in order. We succeed or fail not by the socalled virtues or their absence, but by something more or less than these things. All good things are gifts—beauty, strength, grace, magnetism, swiftness and subtlety of mind, the urge or compulsion to do. Taking thought will not bring them to anyone. Effort never avails save by grace or luck or something else. The illusion of the self made is one of the greatest of all.

Here in Toledo I came upon one of the happiest illustrations of this. In the office of the Blade in the city editorial room, sat a young man as city editor who was destined to take a definite and inspiriting part in my life. He was small, very much smaller than myself, plump, rosy cheeked, with a complexion of milk and cream, soft light brown hair, a clear, observing blue eye. Without effort you could detect the speculative thinker and dreamer. In the rôle of city editor of a western manufacturing town paper, one must have the air, if not the substance, of commercial understanding and ability (executive control and all that), and so in this instance, my young city editor seemed to breathe a determination to be very executive and forceful.

“You’re a St. Louis newspaper man, eh?” he said, estimating me casually and in a glance. “Never worked in a town of this size though? Well, the conditions are very different. We pay much more attention to small items—make a good deal out of nothing,” he smiled. “But there isn’t a thing that I can see anyhow. Nothing much beyond a three or four day job, which you wouldn’t want, I’m sure. As a matter of fact, there’s a street car strike on—you may have noticed it—and I could use a man who would have nerve enough to ride round on the cars which the company is attempting to run and report how things are. But I’ll tell you frankly, it’s dangerous. You may be shot or hit with a brick.”