I must confess, sitting and writing is somewhat an unnatural state. Communication of thought and passion are more natural in person, allowing for the instant gratification of the speaker and the listener. To force words, for no other reason than to produce things to be read without passion, is unfortunate and without beauty.
Beauty, that which is pleasing to the senses, need be the inspiration in our movement. It seems odd to find beauty in a political movement. And, in our present environment, I would agree. But, we are not engaged in this to restore a system of economics, a parliamentary standard, all those things we most assuredly will engage at some point in time. Our rivals do that expressly, and they do it with great passion, but their passion is not beautiful. Rather, it is ugly.
We are engaged in something much more, we are driven to restore the very nature of beauty in our culture; a culture that produced the greatest minds on this continent, regardless of subject, secular or religious. We are the sons of Jefferson, Madison, the Fire Eaters, Vanderbilt poets, Dabney, Thornwell, etc. Their words, their beautiful words, echo through the pines and oaks, drift slowly down the rivers, and crash against our conscience, as the salty waves do the shores from Maryland to Texas. We are tasked to help our sons and daughters learn of them and remember.
Beauty is sometimes found in the oddest of places, such as on battlefields, those lonely resting places sometimes long forgotten. We know their names, we have read their stories, and we are filled with passion as they are recalled in our memories. The Southern warrior is faithful and true to his mission, people, and land. With the shout of a Rebel Yell, he is quick to come to the aid of his brothers, his people, and that is an expression of beauty that has born the pain for us all.
But, the real beauty we fight for is the beauty of remembrance. To be remembered by those that we love, for our wives and daughters, and for Dixie, for she is the crown of all. If she does not remember us, then we have failed.
She closes her eyes, drifts away
Eyes flickering as she dreams
Memories of things, bought to mind
Of kind whispers, it would seem
A time that now, recalls a smile
Of something, no one ever “knew”
Would remember, from long ago
A recollection, of only you
Rocking there with grey hair down
The peaceful Southern breeze
Recalls with warmth, within her voice
Of a name, now said with ease
Past and Present the line now blurred
Between smiles, corners to edge
A not so common beautiful thought
And a not forgotten pledge
Would hope all others, shared such dreams
That appoints the heart to melt
Reposed in shadowed love, so sweet
And a passion, she has ever felt.
-By Father Dabney
O I’m a good old rebel, now that’s just what I am. For this “fair land of freedom” I do not care at all. I’m glad I fit against it, I only wish we’d won, And I don’t want no pardon for anything I done.
