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Our Women in the War — A Reader’s Guide

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In Category - Fantasy Juvenile Worlds

Authors: Dawson, Francis Warrington, 1840-1889 Digital Source: Project Gutenberg Gutenberg Release Year: 2018 First Publication Year: Not confirmed

Key Word: United States -- History -- Civil War, 1861-1865 -- Women; Women -- United States -- History; United States -- History -- Civil War, 1861-1865 -- War work Target Reader: Readers of public-domain and historical texts

Book Edition: Project Gutenberg digital edition Book Language: en

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Words 21,459

Reading time 94 min

Text sections 3

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Source: Project Gutenberg record #56495

This editorial note examines how Francis W. Dawson's 1887 address uses opening epigraphs, a comparative structure, and later Congressional reports to shape a first reading of Southern women's Civil War sacrifices.

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as no Milroy, no Butler, no Hunter, no Sheridan, no Sherman, to taunt and upbraid them, to strip them of their most precious mementoes, to steal or scatter their scanty store of provisions and burn their homes over their head.

The Southern women, dwelling in a land which was hedged about with armies and fleets, and cut off from all regular and expeditious communication with the rest of the world, encountered every form of hardship and privation. Living almost alone on their plantations, they were at the mercy of their slaves. It is true that the slaves were, as a rule, faithful and submissive, but the peril existed all the same. There was difficulty, from the beginning, in obtaining such necessaries or luxuries as could not be home-made. As the years went by the privations became more and more intense. There was actual lack of meat and bread in many parts of the South. And, behind the black spectre, there was the threat of rapine and revenge whenever a raiding party should come within reach.

Therefore, it is that the lives of “Our Women in the War” are beyond the reach of comparison, and stand nobly, supremely alone, without peer or rival. Physical suffering, the torment of the body, was added to “crucifixion of the soul.”

What was the depth of their dolor, none but the All-seeing Eye could discern. But those who were with them, who were bound to them by ties of blood or affection, know this, at least, that the Southern women never hesitated or faltered; that every rich sacrifice on the altar of country but confirmed their resolution to surrender whatever else remained; that, in fine, they were joined to the Southern cause to love, to honor, to obey—for richer or for poorer, for better and for worse, and until death them should part!

The bloody struggle ended more than twenty years ago. Many a vacant chair has been filled, and merciful time has brought its consolations. Far be it from any of us to sow the bitter seeds of discord, or to revive the poignant regret at the loss of what “might have been.” For us, there is no country but this country. There is no flag but “the old flag.” To that country and to that flag we are true, in the measure of our truth to the cause that was lost and the flag that is furled forever. How could it be otherwise? The harder the soldier fights, and the better soldier he is, the more is he to be trusted when the strife and carnage are over. The noblest Americans in the North to-day are those who came first to the front, in the battle, and stayed there unto the end. And side by side with them are the Southern soldiers—the old Confederates—who met them face to face, and were as true as they. The better the soldier, the better the citizen. On that platform—broad as our blessed country—stand all our people—all of us—to-day.

Yet right is right. Truth is truth. It is well enough to cover our wounds and hide our scars. But never let it be denied—never should it be denied—that the scars and wounds are there. They are there, however, not to rankle or to irritate, but as signs and tokens of the days that are dead, and of glories and disasters whose memory we could not blot out if we would, and would not if we could! Too much history has already been written for us—too little has been written by ourselves, and for the justification of our people. It is, then, but meet and right that, on such an occasion as this, the truth shall be told, and the whole truth, even if it hurt the feelings of “our friends, the enemy.” It is not for their sake but for ours—not to pain them, but to set forth, in proper light and in true colors, the unexampled conduct of Southern women and Southern men, in the unsuccessful struggle for independence—that the eventful story, with its sunshine and shadow, should and must be told.

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Francis W. Dawson's 1887 address, delivered at the fifth annual reunion of the Association of the Maryland Line, opens with epigraphs from Count Montholon and Macaulay that frame women's virtue as an impulsive, heart-driven devotion. This rhetorical move immediately positions Southern women as exemplars of a selflessness that men, governed by calculation, cannot match. The address then pivots to a direct comparison: Northern soldiers were well-clad and well-fed, while Confederates were "bare-backed and bare-footed." The same test is applied to women, with Dawson asserting that Southern women faced greater anguish because their families risked more, and they themselves endured enemy depredations—named generals like Milroy and Sheridan—that Northern women did not.

Epigraphs as Argumentative Anchors

The address begins not with Dawson's own words but with two borrowed authorities. Montholon's observation that women's virtue springs from the heart, and Macaulay's praise of "perfect disinterestedness and self-devotion," are presented as universal truths. Dawson then declares that this virtue was "manifested on every side" by Southern women during the war. A first-time reader should note how these epigraphs do more than decorate: they supply a moral framework that the rest of the speech will attempt to prove. The quotations are not attributed to specific works, only to "the writings of Count Montholon" and "one of [Macaulay's] essays," which may signal that Dawson values their rhetorical weight over scholarly precision.

Comparative Structure and Its Limits

Dawson builds his case through a sustained comparison between Northern and Southern experiences. He acknowledges that both sides' soldiers faced fatigue and battle, and that women on both sides felt anxiety. But he then lists asymmetries: Northern soldiers were better supplied; Southern families risked more men per household; Southern women were directly threatened by enemy generals who "taunt and upbraid them, to strip them of their most precious mementoes." The comparison is carefully one-sided—Dawson does not explore Northern women's hardships such as factory labor or bereavement. Readers should recognize that this structure serves a commemorative, not an analytical, purpose. The address was delivered at a reunion of Confederate veterans, and its aim is to honor a specific group, not to balance accounts.

The Turn to Official Documents

Midway through the excerpts, Dawson shifts from his own voice to that of Confederate Congressional committees. He quotes an address adopted in December 1863 that catalogs enemy atrocities: "Houses are pillaged and burned, churches are defaced, towns are ransacked, clothing of women and infants is stripped from their persons." The list continues with stolen mementoes, destroyed salt works, and forced oaths of allegiance. This section introduces a different register—legalistic, cumulative, and accusatory. For a first reader, the shift signals that Dawson is not relying solely on personal recollection but is embedding his argument in institutional authority. The quoted language is more graphic than his own, with phrases like "that dishonor which is infinitely worse than death" and "citizens have been murdered by the Butlers and McNeils and Milroys."

Poetry as Emotional Evidence

Following the Congressional report, Dawson inserts a poem by S. Teakle Wallis, introduced with the line "Well can we understand the burning lines." The poem uses vivid, first-person imagery: "From the far-off conquered cities / Comes the voice of a stifled wail," and later, "I found, on the fallen lintel, / This tress of my wife's torn hair!" The verses depict a landscape of ashes, murdered civilians, and violated homes. A first-time reader should observe that Dawson uses poetry to supply emotional testimony that official documents cannot. The poem's refrain of "halter, and torch, and Bible" ties religious hypocrisy to violence. Dawson notes that the committee reports were written "long before the blackest hours of the Confederacy," implying that the worst was yet to come—a hint that the address may build toward a darker climax not fully captured in these excerpts.

Dawson's address weaves together epigraph, comparison, official record, and verse to construct a unified portrait of Southern women's suffering and fortitude. A first-time reader will benefit from tracking how each section reinforces the central claim of unparalleled devotion. The excerpts break off before the conclusion, leaving open whether Dawson returns to his opening authorities or offers a peroration. Readers should approach the text as a period artifact of commemorative rhetoric, where evidence is marshaled for moral elevation rather than historical balance.

Sometimes I think about how epigraphs feel like whispers from another room, and Dawson’s address has that same hush. It reminds me of the quiet gift in Prose Fancies (Second Series) — Inside the Classic, where the space around a thought matters as much as the thought itself. A familiar ache, almost like remembering a voice I once knew.