Then the talk veered away from battle and back to social, literary and artistic affairs, to all of which Harry and Dalton listened eagerly.  Both had minds that responded to the more delicate things of life, and they were glad to hear something besides war discussed.  It was hard for them to think that everything was going on as usual in Europe, that new books and operas and songs were being written, and that men and women were going about their daily affairs in peace.  Yet both were destined to live to see the case reversed, the people of the States setting the world an example in moderation and restraint, while the governments of Europe were deluging that continent with blood.

“If this war should result in our defeat,” said Bagby, “we won’t get a fair trial before the world for two or three generations, and maybe never.”

“Why?” asked Dalton.

“Because we’re not a writing people.  Oh, yes, there’s Poe, I know, the nation’s greatest literary genius, but even Europe honored him before the South did.  We’ve devoted our industry and talents to politics, oratory and war.  We don’t write books, and we don’t have any newspapers that amount to much.  Why, as sure as I’m sitting here, the moment this war is over New England and New York and Pennsylvania, particularly New England, will begin to pour out books, telling how the wicked Southerners brought on the war, what a cruel and low people we are, the way in which we taught our boys, when they were strong enough, how to beat slaves to death, and the whole world will believe them.  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.  Both Harry and Dalton were glad to be in the company of these men, and to feel that there was something in the world besides war.  All the multifarious interests of peace and civilization suddenly came crowding back upon them.  Harry remembered Pendleton with its rolling hills, green fields, and clear streams, and Dalton remembered his own home, much like it, in the Valley of Virginia, not so far away.