"I hope to die
shouting, the Lord will provide!"
There is no use in trying to break off journalizing,
particularly in “these trying times.” It has become a necessity to me. I
believe I should go off in a rapid decline if Butler took it in his head to
prohibit that among other things. . . .
I reserve to myself the privilege of writing my opinions, since I trouble no
one with the expression of them. . . . I
insist, that if the valor and chivalry of our men cannot save our country, I
would rather have it conquered by a brave race than owe its liberty to the
Billingsgate oratory and demonstrations of some of these “ladies.” If the women
have the upper hand then, as they have now, I would not like to live in a
country governed by such tongues. Do I consider the female who could spit in a
gentleman's face, merely because he wore United States buttons, as a fit
associate for me? Lieutenant Biddle assured me he did not pass a street in New
Orleans without being most grossly insulted by ladies. It was a friend
of his into whose face a lady spit as he walked quietly by without looking
at her. (Wonder if she did it to attract his attention?) He had the sense to
apply to her husband and give him two minutes to apologize or die, and of
course he chose the former.1 Such things are enough to disgust any
one. “Loud” women, what a contempt I have for you! How I despise your
vulgarity!
Some of these Ultra-Secessionists, evidently very recently
from “down East,” who think themselves obliged to “kick up their heels over the
Bonny Blue Flag,” as Brother describes female patriotism, shriek out, “What!
see those vile Northerners pass patiently! No true Southerner could see it
without rage. I could kill them! I hate them with all my soul, the murderers,
liars, thieves, rascals! You are no Southerner if you do not hate them as much
as I!” Ah รงa!
a true-blue Yankee tell me that I, born and bred here, am no Southerner! I
always think, “It is well for you, my friend, to save your credit, else you
might be suspected by some people, though your violence is enough for me.” I
always say, “You may do as you please; my brothers are fighting for me,
and doing their duty, so that excess of patriotism is unnecessary for me, as my
position is too well known to make any demonstrations requisite.”
This war has brought out wicked, malignant feelings that I
did not believe could dwell in woman's heart. I see some of the holiest eyes,
so holy one would think the very spirit of charity lived in them, and all
Christian meekness, go off in a mad tirade of abuse and say, with the holy eyes
wondrously changed, “I hope God will send down plague, yellow fever, famine, on
these vile Yankees, and that not one will escape death.” O, what unutterable
horror that remark causes me as often as I hear it! I think of the many
mothers, wives, and sisters who wait as anxiously, pray as fervently in their
faraway homes for their dear ones, as we do here; I fancy them waiting day
after day for the footsteps that will never come, growing more sad, lonely, and
heart-broken as the days wear on; I think of how awful it would be if one would
say, “Your brothers are dead”; how it would crush all life and happiness out of
me; and I say, “God forgive these poor women! They know not what they say!” O
women! into what loathsome violence you have abased your holy mission! God will
punish us for our hard-heartedness. Not a square off, in the new theatre, lie
more than a hundred sick soldiers. What woman has stretched out her hand to
save them, to give them a cup of cold water? Where is the charity which should
ignore nations and creeds, and administer help to the Indian and Heathen
indifferently? Gone! All gone in Union versus Secession! That is what
the American War has brought us. If I was independent, if I could work my own
will without causing others to suffer for my deeds, I would not be poring over
this stupid page; I would not be idly reading or sewing. I would put aside
woman's trash, take up woman's duty, and I would stand by some forsaken man and
bid him Godspeed as he closes his dying eyes. That is woman's mission!
and not Preaching and Politics. I say I would, yet here I sit! O for liberty!
the liberty that dares do what conscience dictates, and scorns all
smaller rules! If I could help these dying men! Yet it is as impossible as
though I was a chained bear. I can't put out my hand. I am threatened with
Coventry because I sent a custard to a sick man who is in the army, and with
the anathema of society because I said if I could possibly do anything for Mr.
Biddle — at a distance — (he is sick) I would like to very much. Charlie thinks
we have acted shockingly in helping Colonel McMillan, and that we will suffer
for it when the Federals leave. I would like to see any man who dared
harm my father's daughter! But as he seems to think our conduct reflects on
him, there is no alternative. Die, poor men, without a woman's hand to close
your eyes! We women are too patriotic to help you! I look eagerly on,
cry in my soul, “I wish —“; you die; God judges me. Behold the woman who dares
not risk private ties for God's glory and her professed religion! Coward,
helpless woman that I am! If I was free—!
_______________
1 This passage was later annotated by Mrs. Dawson
as follows: “Friend (Farragut). Lady (I know her, alas!). Husband
(She had none!).”
SOURCE: Sarah Morgan Dawson, A Confederate Girl's
Diary, p. 78-81
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