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1860s newsprint

April 19, 1863, Mobile Register And Advertiser

(For the Advertiser and Register.)

 The surpassing patriotism, and unfaltering faith in right, of the women of America during the revolution of 1776, has given some of their purest and noblest themes to song and story for the last three quarters of a century. Romancers and troubadours, poets and historians, have alike found there their truth and their inspiration; song has had an added strain of sweetness and sorrow because of the last loved one of Pulaski, and history has had a brighter page since the flowers blossomed on the grave of Martha Washington. And it is well that we have kept green the memory of our grandmothers–that memory has bloomed and borne its precious fruit in our own day, and is the stronger and the better for its resurrection. The wives and maidens of 1776 were but the prototypes of those of 1861; the same spirit animated both; the same sublime faith prepared both for deeds of patience and fortitude.

 The history of the influence of the women of the South during this struggle will never be adequately presented to after times. An individual fact here and there may be gathered and bound like golden lilies in the wreath of history, but the brightest and best will hide themselves in meek abasement, and go down to dust with no story to tell the wondrous beauty of their lives. The facts–historical facts–are of that kind which are likely never to come to the knowledge of the chronicler; known only to a brother, a father, or a husband, they are not likely to be repeated–the actors themselves shunning, as far as possible, anything like public notice. The most careful and industrious writer would therefore be able to catch but a fleeting few, and would be further embarrassed by his delicacy in making them known to the world while the actors were still living. The modesty of our women is only equaled by their spirit and patriotism, so that it is likely that succeeding generations will be able only to guess at what they have done for us, guided by the few personal reminiscences which will go down to them by “legend and tradition.”

 There are, however, two general characteristics of which it is not improper to speak–their patriotism, and their lofty faith in the justice and final victory of the cause. That patriotism has never faltered. Whatever she could do, woman has done. She has labored and toiled to clothe the naked, to feed the hungry, and above all, to care for the sick and wounded, giving her angelic presence to the bedside of the dying soldier of her country, day after day, and night after night, cheering him with words of hope and faith–sending her prayers for him up to the heaven which seemed as close to her pure spirit–and sometimes bearing away from that contagious bedside, her own eternal leave of absence. And not only has she thus given time, labor, and even life to her country, but she has given that which to her was dearer than life itself. Go to any church in the land on next Sabbath, and count the black dresses there–the mourning banners that quiver in agony before the altar of Heaven. Ask, how come they there? And Sharpsburg and Shiloh, Fredericksburg and Seven Pines answer. There went down to his soldier’s grave the dear loved one woman had sent forth in his glorious manly beauty, and paid to the last farthing his debt to his country, and the funeral banner sweeps forever over the heart left desolate. She has given him–her all–dearer to her than life, to her country, freely and willingly; and the sorrow in her face grows bright with the light of heaven, as she tells you: “He fell with his face to the foe, in doing his duty to his country and his God.” Yes, freely and willingly given; and she would tell you, though her frame bowed to the storm of her sorrow, between each sob of her breaking heart, that the altar and the god were worthy of the sacrifice, even as the God of Abraham was worthy of the blood of his beloved Isaac.

 Yet, through all, woman’s faith has been true and steadfast. When man, weary and worn by fatigue and battle, has laid him down by the wayside and forgotten to hope, she has cheered him, and taught him to see, with her, through darkness to the light beyond. Sorrow has been her portion; but, whether wife mourning for the mouldering arm that should never clasp her more–whether mother weeping because of the unknown grave of her noble boy–

  “Or maiden waiting for her warrior-love”–

still, Faith has shone through her grief like the flash of early sunlight through the clouds, and from her lips have come the sweet and steadfast message of prophecy–messages of joy and peace to others, though her own sad spirit may spread its wings in search for the beloved who have gone before, and passed through bloody baptisms up to Heaven.

  D.

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