Maybe the next generation
of Southerners will believe them too."
"Why?" asked Harry.
"Why? Why? Because we don't have any writers, and won't have any for a
long time! The writer has not been honored among us. Any fellow with
a roaring voice who can get up on the stump and tell his audience that
they're the bravest and best and smartest people on earth is the man for
them. You know that old story of Andy Jackson. Somebody taunted him
with being an uneducated man, so at the close of his next speech he
thundered out: _E pluribus unum! Multum in parvo! Sic semper tyrannis!_
So it was all over. Old Andy to that audience, and all the others that
heard of it, was the greatest Latin scholar in the world."
"But that may apply to the North, too," objected Harry.
"So it would. Nevertheless they'll write this war, and they'll get their
side of it fastened on the world before our people begin to write."
"But if we win we won't care," said Randolph. "Success speaks for
itself. You can squirm and twist all you please, and make all the
excuses for it that you can think up, but there stands success glaring
contemptuously at you. You're like a little boy shooting arrows at the
Sphinx."
Thus the conversation ran on.
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