The temple of Janus is closed. But the war of pens, the contest of history, is upon us. For years Southern women had been written down as soulless ciphers or weakling wives, dragged by reckless husbands into an unholy cause. Text books of so-called history, teeming with such falsehoods, have been thrust even into Southern schools.
It is high time to protest. Before God we tell them our mothers were not dupes, but women; they and our men were not rebels, but patriots, obedient to every law, loyal to every compact, State and National, of their country; true, gloriously true, to every lesson taught by Washington and Jefferson, and moved by every impulse that has made this country great. But there must be no gall in the inkstand of history. No man can justly record the truth of the Confederate war who has not risen above the passions and prejudices incident to such terrible convulsions. No man with malice to the North can write justly of the South.
No man can appreciate our great Jefferson Davis, who can see nothing good in President Lincoln. No man can describe the glory of Lee and Jackson, who shuts his eyes to the soldiership of McClellan, the patriotism of Hancock, the generosity of Grant, and the knighthood of McPherson and Custer. About the best we could do 48 in war times is well shown in the preaching of a good old Alabama country Baptist preacher in the darker days of the war.
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He was of the old-fashioned type and talked a little through his nose. His text was the great day when the good people will be gathered to Heaven from the four corners of the world. They will come from the East on the wings of the morning,—ah! I hear them shouting Hallelujah, as they strike their harps of gold—ah! Christians grow in grace, you know. The war is over. There are no enemies now. We now believe a great many will come from the North. Our old preacher would not now have a misgiving about all four of the corners.
A few weeks after the surrender of Vicksburg, a large number of sick paroled Confederate soldiers were sent home on a Federal steamer by way of New Orleans and Mobile. The speaker was among them. He had been promoted to the chaplaincy of the Thirtieth Alabama Regiment and soon found himself strong enough at least to bury the dead as our poor fellows dropped away every day. The Federal guard on the boat was under command of Lieutenant Winslow, of Massachusetts, and a nobler and bigger hearted soldier never wore a sword. Between New Orleans and Mobile it was necessary to bury our dead in the Gulf.
Having no coffins the Federal lieutenant and the Confederate chaplain would lay the body, wrapped in the old blanket or quilt, on a plank and then bind it with ropes and, fastening heavy 49 irons to the feet, we would gently lower it and let it sink down, down in the briny deep, the cleanest grave man ever saw. The Northern lieutenant not only took off his cap and bowed in reverence when the Confederate chaplain prayed, but with his own hands assisted in all the details of every burial. So let the North and the South together bury the dead animosities of the past, take the corpse of bitter falsehood, the prolific mother of prejudice and hatred, bind it with the cords of patriotism and sink it into the ocean of oblivion.
But publish the truth.
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The truth lives and ought to live. Truth never does harm; but, with God and man, it is the peace angel of reconciliation. Let the testimony be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth and our people will abide by it and every patriot will welcome the verdict. Who were the women of ? My old Tennessee father used to teach me that there is a great deal more in the stock of people than there is in horses. Blood will tell. These women were the direct descendants of those bold, hardy Englishmen, who, under John Smith, Lord Delaware, Lord Baltimore and General Oglethorpe made settlements on the Southern shores and those who, from time to time, were added to their colonies.
They were broad men, bringing broad ideas. They came, not because they were driven out of England, but because they wanted to come to America; who thought it no sin to bring the best things of old England, and give them a new and better growth in the new world; who first gave the new world trial by jury and the election of governors by popular vote. English cavaliers who knew how to be gentlemen, even in the forest. This was the leading blood. From time to time it was made stronger by a considerable addition of Scotch and Scotch-Irish and an occasional healthful cross with the very best people of the North, more soulful and impulsive by some of the blood of Ireland, and more vivacious by the French Huguenot in the Carolinas and the Creole in Louisiana.
There thus grew up a new English race—English, but not too English; English but American-English blood, 50 of which old England is proud to-day. This was the blood that made America great, the blood from which the South gave her Washington and so many men like Henry, Jefferson, Madison and Monroe; that out of seventy-two first years of this Republic furnished the President for fifty-two years; the Chief Justice all the time, and the leaders of Senates and of Cabinets; the blood of Calhoun and Clay and Lowndes and Pinkney and Benton and Crawford; Cobb and Berrien, Hall and Jenkins, Toombs and Stevens; the blood that produced our Washington, Sumter and Marion to achieve our independence of Great Britain; Scott and Jackson to fight the war of , Clark and Jackson to conquer from the Indians all the splendid country between the mountains and the Mississippi, and Taylor and Scott to win vast territories from Mexico.
This was the blood that so often showed how naturally and gracefully a Southern woman could step from a country home to adorn the White House at Washington; the blood that made the South famous for its women, stars at the capital and at Saratoga; favorites in London and Paris; and queenly ladies in their homes, whether that home was a log cabin in the forest or a mansion by the sea. It was common for Northern and European people to praise the taste of Southern women, especially in matters of dress. They did have remarkable taste in dressing, for they had a form to dress and a face to adorn that dress.
Neither war nor poverty could mar their grace of form nor beauty of face. Imagine his chagrin when Bascomb walked up, looking in homespun as he looked in broadcloth, an Apollo in form and a Brummel in style. But by their fruits ye shall know them. Walk with me on the streets of Richmond and Charleston. Go with me to any of our country churches throughout these Southern States and I will show you, among the many poor daughters of these women, that same classic face that tells of the blood in their veins. Stuart, Price, Hampton, Tracy, Ramseur, Ashby and thousands of private soldiers that face and form that tell of the knightly blood in the veins of the mothers that bore them.
South Georgia is to be congratulated that in the Confederate monument recently unveiled at Cuthbert, the artist has at least given what is sadly lacking in other Confederate monuments to private soldiers, the genuine face of the Southern soldier, that face which is a just compliment to the Confederate mother. The artists who cast some other monuments in the South had seen too little of Southern people, and had put on some of our monuments the pug nose and bullet head of other people.
Our mothers and grandmothers lived mostly in the country, and drank in a splendid vigor from the ozone of 52 field, and forest, and mountain. They were taught the philosophy of life by fathers who thought and manners by mothers who were the soul of inborn refinement. They thought for themselves, and indulged no craze for things new, and they aped no foreigners.
Their entertainments were famous for elegance and pleasure, but they had no euchre-clubs. They were clothed and in their right mind. They never mounted platforms to speak nor pulpits to preach, and yet their influence and inspiration gave Southern pulpits and platforms a world-wide fame.
Their highest ambition was to be president of home. They were Southern women everywhere, at home and abroad, in church and on the streets, in parlor and kitchen, when they rode, when they walked. Gentle, but brave; modest, but independent. Seeking no recognition, the true Southern woman found it already won by her worth; courting no attention, at every turn it met her, to do willing homage to her native grace and genuine womanhood. Now, to appreciate the enthusiasm of such women in the Confederate war, you must remember that great principles were at stake in that struggle, and that woman 53 grasps great principles as clearly as man, and with a zeal known only to herself.
See with what prompt intuition and sober enthusiasm woman received the Christian religion. Martha, of Bethany, uttered the great keynote of the Christian creed long before an apostle penned a line.
The primitive evangelist Timothy, the favorite of the great Apostle Paul, was trained by his grandmother Lois and his mother Eunice; and the pulpit orator Apollos studied at the feet of Priscilla. The great lamented Dr. In politics, as in religion, our mothers may not have read much, and they talked less, but they heard much and thought the more. Before the war the reproach was often hurled at Southern men that they talked politics.
They had a religion to talk. Our fathers did talk politics, for, thank God, they had politics worth talking—not the picayune politics of the demagogue office-seeker of our day; not the almighty dollar politics of the bloated bond-holder and the trusts, the one-idea craze of the silver mine-owner, nor the tariff greed of the manufacturer; not the imported European communism that would crush one class to build up another, not the wild anarchy that would pull down everything above it and blast everything around it.
The South was intensely American, and her people loved American politics and talked American politics. She entered into the Revolutionary war with all her soul. This was the great secession of To the Revolutionary war the South sent one hundred out of every two hundred and nine men of military age, while the North sent one hundred out of every two hundred 54 and twenty-seven. We quote from the official report of General Knox, Secretary of War.
Virginia sent 56, men. South Carolina sent 31, men, while New York, with more than double her military population, sent 29, New Hampshire, with double the population of South Carolina, sent only 18, The little Southern States sent more men in proportion to population than even Massachusetts and Connecticut, who did their part so well in that war. It was Southern politics that proposed the great union of the sovereign States in To that union the three States of Virginia, North Carolina, and Georgia have added out of their own bosoms ten more great States. Southern politics, prevailing in the national councils against the bitter protests of New England, carried through the war of ; added Florida to the Union, and, by the purchase of Louisiana, all the Trans-Mississippi valley from the Gulf to Canada.
It was Southern politics against the furious opposition of New England that annexed Texas, and, by the war with Mexico, brought in the vast territory far away to the Pacific. The South sent 45, volunteers to the Mexican war; the whole North, with three times the population, sent 23, Thus the South was the mother of territories, and was it not natural that she should talk of territories and of her rights in the territories? In political platforms, in legislative enactments, and notably in the election of Mr.
Lincoln in , the more populous North declared that the Southern States should be shut out from all share in the territories bought with common treasure and blood. Our women, a child, a negro, could see the iniquity of the claim. The action of the North in regard to national territory was an edict, too, that the negroes, through no fault of their own, should be shut up in one little corner of the country.
Then when the South sought the only alternative left her, that of peaceable secession, her right to go was justified 55 by the terms of the Constitution; by the distinct understanding among the sovereign States when they entered the Union, more directly insisted and put on record by the three States of Virginia, New York, and Rhode Island than any other State; by the secession convention of New England in the war of ; by the Northern secession convention in Ohio in and the reiterated declarations of Henry Ward Beecher, and by Wendell Phillips, and Horace Greeley, William Lloyd Garrison and the other great leaders of Northern thought in Again, remember that wrongs pierce deeper into the heart of woman than into the more callous soul of man.
For years vast multitudes of the people of the North had kept up a furious war against the South in books and newspapers; in pulpits and religious conventions; in political platforms and State assemblies. Oh, it makes the blood run cold to think of the relentless malignity of the fanaticism of those days.
No parlors nor churches too sacred for bitter onslaught on Southern people; no epithets too vile; no slanders too black; no curses too deadly to be hurled at Southern men and women. The North made him a hero martyr. The Northern applause of John Brown drove her away from our unhappy land. Puritan intolerance scourged Roger Williams out of Massachusetts for nonconformity in religion; and 56 Puritanism scourged the South out of the Union in for nonconformity in politics.
This is an age of monuments, and your speaker has undertaken to erect one in book form to the memory of Confederate women. When this thought comes to be put in marble or brass, as it will some day soon, let that monument rest on the broad granite foundation of truth. Then as the artist begins to put in bas relief the symbols of the virtues of the Southern women of , and the souvenirs of her heroic life, let the first scene be that of a scroll, the Constitution of the United States, held in the unsullied hands of the great Jefferson Davis, as he marches out from the United States court, under whose warrants he had been held for treason, again a free man.
Let that picture tell of the undying loyalty of our mother and her people to the organic law of the land: that Southern men wrote it and their sons have ever honored and loved it: Tell it in Gath, publish it in the streets of Aekelon, that those who crushed us were the men who despised, hawked at and cursed the Constitution. The South at Montgomery swore fresh allegiance to the Constitution handed down by our American fathers, and carried with her through all the wilderness march the sacred old Ark of the Covenant. In the distance picture the faithful Bob or Mingo coming from the battlefield, bearing the dead body of his young master.
Let that picture tell to all generations the story of slavery.
We had slavery, but, thank God, it was Southern slavery,—Christian slavery. Truth will explain the paradox, if there was any paradox. It had its evils, and nobody blushes because we had it, nor whines because it is gone. But as for any sin of the South in it, let the first stone of condemnation be thrown by that people who had no fathers cruel to their children, no husbands harsh to their wives, and no rich man unjust to the poor laborer. The South never enslaved a single negro, never brought one to America. Georgia was the first of the settlements to forbid slavery, and Georgia and Virginia were the foremost States in cutting off the slave trade.
The colony of Virginia petitioned twenty times against the continuance of the slave trade. The negroes were enslaved by their own savage chiefs in Africa. England and the Northern people brought them to America and sold them for gold. The Dutch brought twenty to Virginia, but were forbidden to bring any more. When found less profitable in the colder climate of the North, the negroes were sold South to become valuable tillers of the soil, and, after the invention of the cotton gin, to make the country rich. The Northern people at a good profit sold their slaves down South, put the money at interest, suddenly got pious, and waged a fierce war on the people who bought them.
In , on the first Sunday after the news of the fall of Fort Sumter reached England, the author, in company with a friend from Pennsylvania, who was an anti-slavery man, attended services in Mr. The great city was wrapped in the deepest gloom. The war storm in America was expected to ruin manufactures and trade throughout Great Britain. Spurgeon and his people seemed bowed down with sorrow.
We blame nobody for being anti-slavery, but we do abominate fanatical abolitionism. Spurgeon is no fanatic. A dreadful war beyond the ocean has cut off our commerce and closed our factories, and thousands of our poor must sadly suffer. The people of the American States are bone of our bone and flesh of our flesh. O Lord, pity them, and pity us. O God, they and we have sinned in enslaving our fellow men. England put slavery on her colonies against the protest of those Southern people, and England must suffer Thy judgments for her part.
Forgive the North, forgive the South, and forgive England. O pity especially the people of that section where the war will bear so heavily and pity the poor everywhere. Somebody will get hurt, but we people up this way will come out all right because we are so innocent and so righteous. O Lord, we thank Thee that we are holy and not as other men are, especially these wicked Southern people.
We thank Thee for short memories; that we have forgotten that we brought the negroes from Africa, kept them as long as it paid us, and then sold them to these Southerners; that we have forgotten that when Virginia and Maryland wanted to put an end to the slave trade, we out-voted them and kept the slave 59 trade open until Lord, we could have seceded from these savage Southern States long ago and got rid of any connection with slavery, for we believed in secession until just now.
But, Lord, if we let the South go, as Mr. Lincoln says, where will we get our revenues? Lord, we thank Thee that we can see nothing but our own righteousness. Now, Lord, we have brought on a war and we turn it over to Thee. The truth is that in Southern homes, the negro prospered and multiplied as no other laboring class has ever done. The South shared with him its bread, its medicines, its homes and its churches. God forgive the fanatic who in later days put folly in his head and the devil in his heart.
Our mothers trusted him and he trusted them. All through the war, while nearly all the white men were away in the army, the negro slave was the protector and the support of Southern families. Our mothers would have died for the negroes, and negroes would have died for them. The brave woman took her gun and declared she would shoot the first man that touched her property. In their rage they raised their 60 rifles to shoot her down. When Sherman was plundering South Carolina, some of his soldiers heard that a young lady had a very fine gold watch concealed in her bosom.
They demanded it, and on her refusal they were about to seize her, when Delia, her faithful servant, defied them. The monument to the Southern woman will be a monument to our faithful old Dinahs and Delias too. Let the next picture be an ear of corn, a spinning-wheel, and a hand-loom. Ceres was the goddess of the Sunny South, and the staff of our armies was the corn of our own fields. The South, however prosperous, was not made up of rich people. Not one man in ten owned a slave; not one slave holder in ten was wealthy. While Minerva taught our men war she taught our women household work, and quickly did she make Southern beauties Arachnes at the loom and Penelopes with the knitting needles.
False histories have pictured our mothers as doll babies. Let that monument 61 tell of the wonderful pluck, energy, and strength, while it tells of the patriotism of the smartest and sweetest and bravest and strongest doll babies the world ever saw. The artist must do his best when he puts on that monument a little white hand—the well-shaped, classic hand of the Southern woman.
In that hand must be held the little white handkerchief. What a part that handkerchief played in the war! Perhaps it was held in the rheumatic hand of Mrs. I tell you, my countrymen, the bonny blue flag or the Southern Cross was the banner of the soldier on the battlefield, but the little white handkerchief was our sacred banner behind the battlefield. Put here a knapsack, the rough, old, oil-cloth knapsack of the Confederate soldier. Poor fellow! He kept them all, the most of them written on the blank side of old wall paper and inclosed in brown envelopes, which perhaps had been turned so as to be twice used.
When our poor boys were killed, their letters were gathered by the chaplains, litter bearers and burial details, to be sent to their homes. Here is a specimen of a letter from home in a Confederate knapsack:. This leaves us all getting along very well. Nobody sick, and we finished laying by the corn. The cattle are fat and the hogs doing finely. We sell some butter and eggs every week. But we are all so proud that you are fighting for your country. Will be so glad when you can get a furlough, but we know that you must, and will stick to your post of duty.
Willie and Jennie send kisses to their brave papa. We never forget to pray for you. Let that knapsack tell forever of the fortitude, the purity, the loyalty and refinement of the Southern woman. Our women gave their carpets to make blankets, their dresses to be made into shirts for the soldiers, and their linen to furnish lint for their wounds, and then, clad in homespun, they gave themselves.
Thousands and thousands of the poor 63 fellows were taken to private houses, even away out in the country, and tenderly cared for. There was scarcely a woman near a battlefield or a railroad who did not nurse a soldier. Nearly every woman in Richmond served regularly on hospital committees. One of these, a Mrs. Roland, was blind, and her sweet guitar and sweeter song cheered many a poor hero.
Among the sick in Richmond was a brave young fellow, who was a great favorite and the only son of a widowed mother, who was far away beyond the Mississippi. One morning the report got out that he was dying in the hospital, and one of the prettiest and sweetest young ladies in the city was so touched by the sad story that she determined to go and kiss him for his mother. She hastened to the ward where the poor youth was lying high up on one of the upper tiers of bunks and quickly told her mission to the nurses. Put on this monument a pair of crutches. A plain country woman was standing in the group by the road side.
The good woman wore number threes, and the soldier who got them was Jake Quarles, of Company B, Dade County, Georgia, who wore number twelves.
Soon after the war I once expressed my sympathy to a young lady friend who was about to marry a young one-armed soldier. Among them was Miss Carrie McNeil, to whom he was engaged. After he had passed safely through the ordeal she, of course, was allowed to be the first to go in to see him.
They were left alone for a while. Let the next emblem be the oak riven by the lightning, and the tender ivy entwining itself around it. Let it tell of the sufferings of the refugee father and the wreck of the old man in the track of such vandals as Sherman, Hunter, Sheridan, Milroy and Kilpatrick. Let it tell of the horrors of the years of so-called peace that followed the war. Northern soldiers killed our young men in war; politicians killed our old men in peace. Sherman burned houses 65 from Atlanta to Bentonville.
The war of shot and shell lasted four years; the war of blind, revengeful reconstruction legislation lasted twenty years. War marshalled our enemies on the battlefield; reconstruction made enemies of the men who had held our plow handles and stood around our tables.
War put the South under the rule of soldiers; reconstruction put us under the heel of the rapacious carpet-bagger and negro plunderers. War crushed some of our people. Vindictive legislation crushed all our people. War made the South an Aceldama; reconstruction made it a Gehenna. Grant held back the red right hands of Stanton and Holt from the throats of Lee and his paroled soldiers: alas, Lincoln was dead, and his patriotic arm was not there to hold back Thad Stevens and his revolutionary congress from our prostrate citizens.
Amid these horrors our young men could hope, but to our old men was nothing left but despair. Robbed of their property after peace was declared, without a dollar of compensation, their lands made valueless or confiscated; they themselves disfranchised and their slaves made their political masters, too old to change and recuperate, too old to hope even, but too manly to whine, they stood as desolate and uncomplaining as that old oak.
Do you see that tender vine binding up the shattered tree and hiding its wounds? In the schoolroom and behind the counter, over the sewing machine and the cooking stove, in garden and field, everywhere showing the gems of Southern character washed up from its depths by the ocean of Southern woe. Let the last symbol on the monument be the clasped 66 right hands of the Union. These Southern women of were the daughters of the great American Union. Their fathers under the leadership of Jefferson, Madison and Washington, had proposed the Union, devised the Union, loved the Union, and, under Clay and Calhoun and Benton, had preserved the Union.
As an inducement for union between the original States, without which the Northern States would not come into it, Virginia, the great mother of the Union, gave up all her splendid territory north of the Ohio, embracing what is now Ohio, Illinois, Indiana, Wisconsin, and Michigan, and agreed that they should be made States without slavery. She afterwards gave Kentucky. Southern influence and Southern statesmanship made the Union strong at home and respected abroad by the war of , which was gallantly fought by the South and bitterly opposed by New England—opposed to the very verge of secession from the Union in the Hartford convention.
The Southern States had shown their devotion to the Union by yielding to the compromises on the tariff, the bounty, and the territorial questions. The South demanded no tariff tribute, no bounties and no internal improvements as the price of her devotion to the Union. All that she demanded was that in the territory, while it was territory, belonging to the government, her sons, with their families, white and black, should have an equal share. John C. Calhoun was not a disunionist. It was the protest of a sovereign State against unconstitutional Federal taxation levied through the tariff on the consumer, not for government revenue, but for the benefit of the manufacturer.
The nation heard the manly voice of the little State, and Calhoun and Clay stood side by side in the great compromise that followed. Calhoun and his people loved the Union, but they wanted a union that was a union. True religion is that which is laid down in the 67 Bible, not theory nor sentiment. True political union is the union formed by the Sovereign States and expressed in the Constitution.
Constitutional union was the only true union. Everything else was a mere sentiment or a sham. History will yet hold that the secession of the Southern States in was itself a union movement. The Northern States had destroyed the old union. By their numerous nullification acts in State assemblies they had repudiated the legislative branch of the government; by their defiance of the Supreme Court they had virtually abolished the judiciary, the second branch; and in , by the sectional platform of the dominant party and the election of a sectional president, they had denationalized the executive branch of the government.
Where was the union? Gone, utterly gone. South Carolina only cut herself off from the union-breakers and attached herself to such States as clung to the Constitution and Union of the fathers. Secession in meant the preservation of the union of Coercion in was rebellion against the Federal compact and death of the old Union. The Star-Spangled Banner became the labarum of invasion, and the Southern Cross the standard of all the Union that was left.
The Union that our fathers and mothers loved lay buried for twenty-five years. From March, , to March, , any true Southern man in the national capital found himself a stranger in a strange land, and was looked upon as a political Pariah by those in power,—an intruder even in the house of his fathers. Every government office all over the land in the hands of the Northern States. What a travesty of union! The North a dictator, the South a satrapy. The Northern man, lord; the Southern man, a vassal. But, thank God, the resurrection came; the door-stone of the tomb was rolled away by the national election of Cleveland in Then go to the capital and you find the first national administration since Buchanan—Bayard, the champion of the South, in the 68 first place in the Cabinet, and by his side the Confederate leaders, Lamar and Garland.
About the first act of the administration was to appoint General Lawton, the quartermaster-general of the Confederate army, to one of the most conspicuous embassies in Europe, Curry to Spain and other Confederates wherever there was a place for them. The sons of our Southern mothers were no longer under the ban.
Peace, real peace, had come. The Union, real union, was herself again. Again in the electoral votes of the Northern States alone were sufficient to make Grover Cleveland, the great pacificator, twice the choice of the solid South, again President of the United States. Once more there is a national Cabinet, the South having half of it, with a Confederate colonel in command of the navy, another minister to France, another to Mexico, another to Guatemala—Southern men at Madrid and Constantinople; and when this country needs a man to represent her in the crisis in Cuba to a Virginia Lee is given the conspicuous honor.
The last unjust election law is repealed; the last taint taken from the fair name of Confederate officers. The North has extended the right hand of union. The South has grasped it; and withered be the arm that would tear those hands asunder. High above these hands, artist, place the crowning statue of the Southern woman. Let it be the queenly form of the proudest of the proud mothers of Southern chivalry. Let her sweet, calm image face the north,—no frown on her brow,—no scorn on her lip.
Let her happy, hopeful smile tell the world that Southern womanhood felt most sadly the Union broken, and hails most joyfully the Union restored. My countrymen, we have a country! In the name of God, our mothers, as they look down from heaven, beseech you to preserve it. The art of sculpture was finished in ancient Greece, and 69 the statue of Venus de Medici will never be surpassed. In it the artist has put in marble the perfect form, face, majesty and grace of woman.
The ancients in their sensual materialism adored beauty in form and feature and many moderns worship at the same shrine. The German poet Heine, when an invalid in Paris, had himself carried every day in a roller chair to the Tuilleries, to gaze upon the marble beauty of Venus de Milo. If in our age, the artist ever attempts to sculpture the true woman, the woman with soul, the Christian Psyche, with heart as perfect as her face, with character more charming than her form, the modern Praxitiles will take for his model the Southern woman, from among your mothers and grandmothers. They are your models in character now.
To you much is given; of you will much be required. Study your mothers and may Heaven help you to learn the God-given lesson. Young men, the model man, Jesus Christ, the divine Saviour of our world, asked for no carved stone, no statue to his memory. He wanted no marble cathedral. He demanded living monuments,—men and women to set forth in holy lives the lessons of his example. From childhood He honored his mother, nor did He forget her on the cross. With something of his exalted spirit your mothers, who have gone before you, demand of you not a chiseled monument, but they do beseech you to honor them in manly life.
Hold sacred the very blood they gave you. Lay hold of their lofty principles; drink in their noble spirit. Set forth their glorious patriotism, and you will be a crown to them, a blessing to your country, and an honor to your God. Throughout the South the women went to work from the first drum-beat.
A great deal of it was done privately, the left hand itself hardly knowing what the modest, humble right hand was doing. Supplies of every kind were constantly gathered and forwarded where most needed. The old men and women did an immense amount of work. But the truth is seldom simple—and Lola may not like the shocking answers she uncovers.
She has trained in her time as a masseur and a chef, and has worked as a website editor, quote hunter, toy-shop clerk, and publisher. She spends most of her free time writing,… More about Kit Whitfield. Read An Excerpt. Paperback —. Add to Cart. Also by Kit Whitfield. Product Details.
Notable deaths of 2018
Janet Tanner, The Years to Come , romantic suspense about a beautiful young woman who must struggle to survive and protect her siblings after her father's murder in nineteenth century New South Wales. Margaret Tanner, Savage Utopia , historical romance about a young man and woman who meet and fall in love aboard a convict ship on its way to Australia.
Margaret Tanner, Stolen Birthright , historical romance about a convict's daughter and an English aristocrat in the s; sequel to Savage Utopia. Margaret Tanner, Frontier Wife , historical romance about an Australian frontier man and a beautiful young Englishwoman.
Margaret Tanner, Devil's Ridge , historical romance set during World War I about a girl who masquerades as a boy to help her brother, suffering from shell-shock, and then falls in love with her boss. Margaret Tanner, The Trouble With Playboys , historical romance set during World War II about a nurse and a young man who marry in Singapore and are then separated during the invasion when each believes the other has been killed. Margaret Tanner, Wild Oats , historical romance about a young woman betrayed by an older man during the First World War years; prequel to The Trouble with Playboys.
Ian Townsend, Affection: There is No Cure , about a doctor sent to northern Australia in to investigate a suspected plague outbreak. Harmony Verna, Daughter of Australia , about a girl found abandoned as a child in a Western Australian desert of at the turn of the twentieth century, who returns as a young woman and renews her friendship with a man she knew as a child in an orphanage. Peter Watt, The Silent Frontier , about three siblings separated during a massacre at the Eureka Stockade goldfields, who go on to become involved in the New Zealand Maori wars and Australia's Palmer River gold fields during the late nineteenth century.
Jessica White, A Curious Intimacy , about a nineteenth-century woman botanist who falls in love with a grieving and isolated woman while traveling through a remote part of Western Australia. Patrick White, Voss , about a nineteenth century German adventurer who sets off on a trek across the Australian continent and the woman who waits for him after she receives his letter proposing marriage; the author won the Nobel Prize for Literature.
Anne Whitfield, A Noble Place , about an adventurous young woman who persuades her parents and twin to emigrate to Australia. Tim Winton, Cloudstreet , about a family who inherits a large house in a Perth suburb in and takes as tenants another family who runs a grocery store on the lower floor. Janet Woods, Hearts of Gold , historical romance about an orphaned young woman rescued after her father dies in the goldfields by a wealthy adventurer who later sends her to his home in England, where she meets his nephew.
Robin Adair, Death and the Running Patterer , about a former London policemen wrongfully condemned and exiled to New South Wales where he works as a "running patterer" a news crier and in is asked to help the government track down a serial killer. Angela Badger, The Water People , a mystery set in early nineteenth century Australia during the convict period.
Tim Flannery, The Mystery of the Venus Island Fetish , about a lovelorn curator at a Sydney anthropological museum in who investigates sinister alterations in a ceremonial mask. Kerry Greenwood, Cocaine Blues ; also titled Death by Misadventure , a humorous murder mystery featuring a London society woman who goes to Australia and becomes a lady detective at the end of the s; 1 in the Phryne Fisher mystery series. Kerry Greenwood, Flying Too High , a humorous murder mystery featuring a glamorous lady detective in s Australia who flies a Tiger Moth airplane; 2 in the Phryne Fisher mystery series.
Kerry Greenwood, Murder on the Ballarat Train , about a glamorous lady detective in s Australia who investigates a case of murder by chloroform on a train; 3 in the Phryne Fisher mystery series. Kerry Greenwood, Death at Victoria Dock , a glamorous lady detective in s Australia investigates the murder of a tattooed anarchist who bleeds to death in her arms; 4 in the Phryne Fisher mystery series. Kerry Greenwood, The Green Mill Murder , a glamorous lady detective in s Australia investigates a murder at a dance hall; 5 in the Phryne Fisher mystery series.
Kerry Greenwood, Blood and Circuses , a glamorous lady detective in s Australia goes undercover at the circus to investigate a murder; 6 in the Phryne Fisher mystery series. Kerry Greenwood, Ruddy Gore , a glamorous lady detective in s Australia investigates a strange death during a theatre performance; 7 in the Phryne Fisher mystery series. Kerry Greenwood, Urn Burial , a glamorous lady detective in s Australia investigates murder at the Gothic mansion she is visiting on holiday; 8 in the Phryne Fisher mystery series. Kerry Greenwood, Raisins and Almonds , a glamorous lady detective in s Australia investigates a poisoning at a bookshop; 9 in the Phryne Fisher mystery series.
Kerry Greenwood, Death Before Wicket , a glamorous lady detective in s Australia investigates murder while on holiday in Sydney; 10 in the Phryne Fisher mystery series. Kerry Greenwood, Away With the Fairies , a glamorous lady detective in s Australia investigates the death of an author and illustrator of fairy tales; 11 in the Phryne Fisher mystery series.
Kerry Greenwood, Murder in Montparnasse , a glamorous lady detective in s Australia investigates an old case of murder witnessed by seven Australian soldiers in Paris in ; 12 in the Phryne Fisher mystery series. Kerry Greenwood, The Castlemaine Murders , a glamorous lady detective in s Australia investigates after a mummified corpse ridden with bullets falls in front of her during an amusement park ride; 13 in the Phryne Fisher mystery series.
Kerry Greenwood, Queen of the Flowers , a glamorous lady detective in s Australia investigates the disappearance of a flower maid while she is serving as a queen in the town parade; 14 in the Phryne Fisher mystery series. Kerry Greenwood, Death by Water , a glamorous lady detective in s Australia embarks on a luxury cruise wearing a fabulous sapphire necklace in order to investigate a series of jewel thefts; 15 in the Phryne Fisher mystery series.
Kerry Greenwood, Murder in the Dark , a glamorous lady detective in s Australia investigates a kidnapping during a Christmas party; 16 in the Phryne Fisher mystery series. Kerry Greenwood, Murder on a Midsummer Night , a glamorous lady detective in s Australia investigates an apparent suicide while she hunts for a lost child who may be the heir to a fortune; 17 in the Phryne Fisher mystery series.
Kerry Greenwood, Dead Man's Chest , a glamorous lady detective in s Australia goes to a resort for a rest, where she finds an abundance of mysteries to solve; 18 in the Phryne Fisher mystery series. Victoria Holt, The Black Opal , about a gypsy foundling taken in by a family in England but sent to Australia at age ten after a murder, who returns to England determined to find out what really happened. Catherine Jinks, The Dark Mountain , about a widow from New South Wales who married a vicious man, and her daughter who is determined to ferret out the secrets her mother has been guarding for years; not readily available in the U.
Maxine Alterio, Ribbons of Grace , about the love affair between a Scottish stonemason and a young Chinese woman who borrows her dead brother's identity to work in the nineteenth century Otago goldfields. Andresen, Johanna's World , about a young Norwegian woman who migrates to New Zealand in ; based on the true story of Johanna Christensen.
Angela Badger, Charlotte Badger: Buccaneer , a biographical novel about a woman convict transported to Australia who becames a buccaneer and the first white woman to live in New Zealand. Heretaunga Pat Baker, Behind the Tattooed Face , about the Maori at the zenith of their power in the late s, just as overpopulation began to upset the delicate balance of their society. Heretaunga Pat Baker, The Strongest God , about religious conflicts in a Maori tribe during the s when traditional beliefs clash with a new tribal religion and the religion brought by Europeans.
Zana Bell, Forbidden Frontier , about a woman convict who travels to Australia with her baby in the eighteenth century, and becomes a pirate and one of the first white women to settle in New Zealand. Barry Brailsford, Song of the Circle , loosely based on ancient Maori legends about the Great Migration, which imagines how a prehistoric master stone carver and his companions set out on a spiritual journey from the Americas; 1 in the Chronicles of the Stone series. Barry Brailsford, Song Of The Whale , loosely based on ancient Maori legends about the Great Migration, which imagines how a prehistoric master stone carver and his companions left Easter Island and followed whales to the "Lands of the Double Sea;" 2 in the Chronicles of the Stone series.
Barry Brailsford, Song of the Eagle , loosely based on ancient Maori legends about the Great Migration, and imagines how a prehistoric master stone carver and his companions travel through the icy waters of the Pacific Northwest; 3 in the Chronicles of the Stone series. Barry Brailsford, Song of the Silence , loosely based on ancient Maori legends about the Great Migration, and imagines how a prehistoric master stone carver and his companions travel the Silk Road from China, eventually reaching as far as Egypt; 5 in the Chronicles of the Stone series.
Barry Brailsford, Song of the Sacred Wind , loosely based on ancient Maori legends about the Great Migration, and imagines how a prehistoric master stone carver and his companions travel to Ireland and then on to South America; 6 and last in the Chronicles of the Stone series. Beverley Bassett Broad, West Coast Reins , about a woman who finds her great-great-grandmother's journal about the voyage to New Zealand and her struggle to make a life on the West Coast of the South Island during the late nineteenth century.
UPDATE: Sheree Whitfield
Beverley Bassett Broad, Fool's Gold , about a woman who finds her great-great-grandmother's journal about the voyage to New Zealand and her struggle to make a life on the West Coast of the South Island during the late nineteenth century; sequel to West Coast Reins. Jane Campion and Kate Pullinger, The Piano , a novel based on Campion's Academy-Award-winning screenplay about a mute woman whose husband trades her beloved piano for a plot of land. Deborah Challinor, Tamar , about an orphaned Cornish girl in the late nineteenth century who emigrates to New Zealand and is befriended by a woman whose goal is to establish an upscale brothel; 1 in the Children of War trilogy.
Deborah Challinor, Kitty , historical romance about an year-old English girl who compromises her reputation and is sent to missionary relatives in New Zealand, where she falls in love with a gun runner; 1 in the Smuggler's Wife series. Deborah Challinor, Amber , historical romance about a ship captain's wife who becomes separated from her husband when they land in the middle of a Maori war against the New Zealand colonists; 2 in the Smuggler's Wife series.
Deborah Challinor, Band of Gold , historical romance about a woman grieving the death of her husband when she accepts the devotion of her husband's long-time shipmate; 3 in the Smuggler's Wife series. Deborah Challinor, The Cloud Leopard's Daughter , about a couple who agree to search for the kidnapped daughter of a Chinese friend; 3 in the Smuggler's Wife series. Judy Corbalis, Tapu , about a missionary and his wife who were among the first settlers to New Zealand in , their relationship with the Maori chief Hongi Hika, and their trespass upon a "tapu" world, a world sacred and forbidden.
Daphne de Jong, Gather the Wind , about a mid-nineteenth century whaler who forms alliances with Maori chiefs, and two women who become more important in his life, each in their own way, than he anticipates. Barbara Else, Wild Latitudes , about a beautiful, blonde English girl shipwrecked on a New Zealand beach in the nineteenth century, where she struggles to make a new life amid rough seal hunters and naked Maori men and women.
Barbara Ewing, The Trespass , about a girl hoping to escape her sexually abusive father by following her cousin to New Zealand. John Hinchcliff, Parihaka , about a Maori village which greeted an invading armed force in with songs and freshly baked bread, an act said to have inspired Ghandi. Annamarie Jagose, Slow Water , about an English missionary who falls in love during his voyage to New Zealand, and finds himself in danger of losing not only his reputation but his life when he arrives in the colony. Denise Keay, The Stove Rake , a literary novel about a spinster in Edwardian New Zealand whose incorrect assumption that people notice her only because she is useful to fill out a table at dinner party ends by wreaking havoc in her rural community.
Frances Keinzley, House of Hogs , about an abused young heiress from Victorian Liverpool who emigrates to New Zealand with her illegitimate baby. Sarah Lark, Toward the Sea of Freedom , about Irish sweethearts who are separated when the woman is forced to marry another man and emigrate to New Zealand; 1 in the Sea of Freedom trilogy. Sarah Lark, Beneath the Kauri Tree , about two young women as the struggle for women's suffrage comes to New Zealand, one from a poor Welsh coal-mining family, the other the daughter of a white businesswoman and a descendant of Maori royalty; 2 in the Sea of Freedom trilogy.
Sarah Lark, Flight of a Maori Goddess , about a pioneering female student at the Canterbury College of Engineering and a young man whose conservative farming community disapproves of her Maori blood; 3 in the Sea of Freedom trilogy. Jane Mander, The Story of a New Zealand River , about an educated woman in a timber milling settlement who adheres to a strict moral code and her less conventional daughter, who takes a job and lives with her lover; a New Zealand classic contemporary when originally published.
Jenny Pattrick, The Denniston Rose , about the spirited young daughter of a woman who settles in a bleak and isolated West Coast coal-mining community during the s. Jenny Pattrick, Heart of Coal , about an unconventional young woman in the West Coast coal-mining community of Denniston and her choice between two young men who wish to marry her; sequel to The Denniston Rose. Jenny Pattrick, Landings , about the people who lived on New Zealand's Whanganui River at the turn of the twentieth century.
Maurice Shadbolt, Season of the Jew , about a colonial army officer in nineteenth century New Zealand and the Maori leader Te Kooti, with whom he sympathizes even while attempting to destroy him; 1 in the New Zealand Wars trilogy. Maurice Shadbolt, House of Strife , about a nineteenth century author of penny dreadful novels set in New Zealand who emigrates there and acts as a go-between during the Maori rebellion of Hone Heke; 3 in the New Zealand Wars trilogy.
Patricia Shaw, Bay of Exiles , about convicts struggling to establish a state in Tasmania. Stead, Mansfield , a novel about three years in the life of the noted New Zealand author Katherine Mansfield during the First World War when she is living in London, striving for a new fictional voice, and frequently traveling to France, including a trip to the war zone to join her French lover. Carol Thomas, Consequences , about a young woman immigrant to New Zealand who adopts the identity of a woman who did not survive the voyage.
Carol Thomas, The Cost of Courage , about a young woman who marries a widower with a daughter in order to provide for her younger brother after her parents die.
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