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Faculty of Culture and Society
School of Arts and Communication
The Rhetoric of Southern Supremacy: Romance as a Means to Validate the Myth of the
Lost Cause in the Trilogy of the Ku Klux Klan by Thomas Dixon Jr.
Rinaldi Lorenzo (840926-6452)
English Studies
BA Paper
Spring 2015
Supervisor: Berndt Clavier
Examiner:

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Table of Contents
1. Introduction.……………………………………………………….…………………3
2. Contexts….……………………………………………………………………...........5
2.1. Dixon and the Reconstruction Era……………………..…..............................6
2.2. The Lost Cause..………………………………………………………….…..7
2.3. Multifaceted romance and the power of imaginary..…....................................9
2.3. Historical romance: facts and fiction..............................................................12
3. Southern democrat vs radical republican………………………………....................14
3.1. Romance and religion…………………………………………………….....15
3.2. Romance and mythicization of the war.……………………………….........22
3.3. Romance and land………….……………………………………………….29
3.4. Romance and the righteous violence…..……………………………………35
4. Conclusion.……………………………………………………………………….....39
5. Works cited.………………………………………………………………………...42

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1 Introduction
Thomas Dixon Jr. is a pivotal figure to understand Southern literature and racial issues in
America at the dawning of the 20th century. Indeed, there is plenty of evidence supporting
the claim that even important southern writers whose vision of racial issues was divergent
from Dixon’s—of which perhaps Faulkner is the best example—had to deal with Dixon’s
baggage of rhetoric of white supremacy. Even though nowadays it is painfully difficult to
acknowledge that only a century ago Dixon’s theories were the mainstream, his melodramatic
call for the complete subjugation of the African American community shaped the beliefs of
more than a generation of southern Americans, providing fertile ground for and fuelling the
outburst of racial tensions. The underlying racism in Dixon’s Trilogy of the Ku Klux Klan has
already been analysed and condemned by many literary critics such as Andrew Leiter and
Anthony Slide who deemed Dixon’s works as caustic, biased, bigoted, and prejudiced.
Nonetheless, while the majority of criticism focused on the odious way African Americans
were depicted in Dixon’s trilogy, not as much attention has been paid to the way romance
was used by Dixon to both pass on his racist message and to differentiate between
mischievous radical republicans and gallant southern democrats. In other words, not much
attention has been paid to Dixon’s rhetoric of southern supremacy. In fact, in the mind of
many historians, English professors and literary critics, Thomas Dixon Junior is merely a
synonym for racial hatred towards African Americans. Nowadays, Dixon’s sensational call
for the enforcement of white supremacy in the American society as the only way to
counteract the miscegenation between African Americans and white Americans after the end
of the American Civil War sounds at very least objectionable. However, it will be a grave
error to disregard the persuasiveness of Dixon’s works because his “vivid” writing rekindled
the burning ashes of the Lost Cause.
A crucial aspect that must be taken into account to fathom the importance of Dixon’s

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works is temporality. In fact, while Dixon wrote the Trilogy of the Ku Klux Klan in the
first decade of the twentieth century, in the middle of the “Progressive Era” —a period of
social and political turmoil in the U.S.—he narrates about the past. Indeed, in the trilogy he
mainly deals with the Reconstruction Era (1865-1877). Consequently, it was easy for him, in
a period characterized by war and profound social reforms, to captivate his audience by
describing the American South as stable, loyal, hierarchical, almost heroic in its simplicity
and, as Gildersleeve would argue, romantically bound by heritage to the classical past (Curtis,
453). Dixon’s idealised portrayal of southern society made him one of the most important
spokespersons of the literature of the Lost Cause. Moreover, as claimed by Charles Reagan
Wilson in Baptised in Blood: The Religion of the Lost Cause, Dixon’s embracement of
racism was the result of “nationwide developments” (114), namely the Spanish-American
War and the subsequent Philippine-America War fought in 1898 and 1902, respectively. In
Wilson’s view, Dixon reassessed his writing in accordance with the aggressive, imperialistic
foreign policy of the US and his ability to align his message with the sociocultural
developments in the American society was one of the keys to his success.
Furthermore, Dixon’s rhetoric of white supremacy was further empowered by the
release of the movies The Birth of a Nation (1915) and Gone with the Wind (1939). While the
former was merely an adaptation of Dixon’s novels The Leopard’s Spots and The Clansman
to cinematography, Gone with the Wind was the adaptation of Margaret Mitchell’s
homonymous novel published in 1936. Mitchell’s stereotyped and discriminatory depiction
of African Americans in her novel mirrors Dixon’s perspective in the Trilogy of the Ku Klux
Klan and highlights the importance of Dixon’s legacy in the history of American literature.
Additionally, Dixon’s heritage is not in the slightest limited to literature. Indeed, both Gary
W. Gallagher’s and Euan Berich Hague’s books mention several examples of extreme right-
wing associations that took after Dixon’s racist ideas across the entire US. Therefore,

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my study will disclose something new about a writer who “probably did more to shape the
lives of modern Americans than have some Presidents” (Williamson, 140).
Considering Dixon’s fame and his central role in what can be called the literature of
the Lost Cause, it becomes imperative to analyse how Dixon managed to pass on his “racist
and southern message” (Gillespie, 207). I will argue that without the recourse to literary
devices associated with romance—especially what Frye calls the dichotomy between “good”
and “evil”—Dixon could not have passed on his vitriolic message of white and southern
supremacy. Given that Dixon’s rhetoric of white supremacy has already been analysed by
many literary critics, my study will be focused exclusively on his rhetoric of southern
superiority; an aspect of Dixon’s writing that has often been overlooked. Indeed, the aim of
this essay is to analyse and discuss how Dixon in the Trilogy of the Ku Klux Klan intertwined
romance with some tenets of the Lost Cause such as religion—in particular an unwavering
faith in the southern society and its institutions—the mythicization of the war, the relation
between southerners and their land and the Klan’s righteous violence, to legitimize both the
fairness of the Lost Cause and its rhetoric of southern supremacy.
2. Contexts
To begin with, I will briefly outline the Reconstruction Era in American history because that
is the period in which the Trilogy of the Ku Klux Klan is set. Moreover, this tumultuous
period allowed Dixon to fully exploit the romance dichotomy between “good” and “evil.”
Secondly, I will introduce the “myth” of the Lost Cause and use Northrop Frye’s Anatomy of
Criticism to link it with romance. Thirdly, I will discuss romance and the almost limitless
power of the imagination in this multifaceted genre. Finally, I will use Winfried Fluck’s
theory to explain both the connection between romance and history and the romance’s need
of history to underpin its sociocultural claims. The clarification of the historical and
theoretical backgrounds is pivotal to enhance the understanding of how Dixon, by

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interweaving central tenets of the myth of the Lost Cause with romance, vouched for his
rhetoric of southern supremacy.
2.1 Dixon and the Reconstruction Era
As explained by Eric Foner in his article on the Encyclopaedia Britannica, the
Reconstruction Era in U.S. history (1865-1877) was the period “during which attempts were
made to redress the inequities of slavery and its political, social, and economic legacy and to
solve the problems arising from the readmission to the Union of the 11 states that had
seceded at or before the outbreak of war.” These attempts failed spectacularly in 1866 when
voters rejected “President Johnson’s reconciliatory policies”—which had allowed the
Southern States to pass the infamous Black Codes discriminating against African
Americans—and radical republicans took control over the two houses, Foner claims. These
latter passed in 1867 the Reconstruction Act, placing the Southern Governments under
martial law and inaugurating a new phase defined by Foner as “Radical Reconstruction”
which lasted until 1877. It is precisely the “Radical Reconstruction” and its baggage of race
equality that Dixon in the Trilogy of the Ku Klux Klan reviles the most. Nonetheless, the
measures imposed by radical republicans upon the South such as the enfranchisement of
African Americans and the recognition of their right to own land were met by increasingly
violent opposition from white southerners, gathered together in the Democrat Party, Foner
affirms. The most striking example of white southerners’ opposition to the national
government was the rise and fall of the Ku Klux Klan to whom Dixon’s trilogy is dedicated.
Moreover, although the activity of the first Klan was stifled by military intervention,
Foner argues that paramilitary groups continued to exert violence on African Americans and
radical republican leaders. This constant opposition between antagonistic, opposite factions—
radical republican and southern democrat—fighting for the control over the Southern states
was expressed by Dixon using what Frye regarded as one of the central tenets of romance: the

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dichotomy between “good” and “evil.” Indeed, as suggested by Jameson in his analysis of
Frye, the abovementioned dichotomy is more evident in "time of troubles, in which central
authority disappears and marauding bands of robbers and brigands range geographical
immensities with impunity” (104). Thus, it can be argued that the widespread violence in the
Reconstruction Era enabled Dixon to depict the republican-driven national government as
absolutely evil, consequently emphasizing southerners’ goodness in the Trilogy of the Ku
Klux Klan.
The unflagging opposition met by the national government meant that both
racial equality and federal power began to wane in the Republican Party agenda and vanished
completely in 1877 when republicans and democrats struck a deal allowing Pres. Hayes, a
republican, to be elected in exchange for the withdrawal of Union troops from the South. This
event brought about the end of the Reconstruction Era, allowing southern democrats to take
over all the Southern States. As argued in the following chapters, the appeal to romance
allowed Dixon to provide readers with a justification of the Klan’s violence insofar as it was
necessary to recover the status quo of the idealised antebellum southern society.
2.2. The Lost Cause
In The Myth of the Lost Cause and Civil War History, Gallagher et al. maintain that the Lost
Cause was a cultural movement representing the Confederates’ attempt “to find something
positive in all-encompassing failure” (1), namely the devastating loss in the American Civil
War. To deal with the loss, to “vindicate their heritage” Confederates transformed the Civil
War into a myth (Gallagher et al. 186). As explained by the authors, myth should not be
considered a synonym for “falsehood” but rather a carrier of meaning, a “means for the
expression of religious belief” (189). Although nowadays this religious belief, based on the
ideas of the uniqueness of the south, its right to secede and the rejection of slavery as the
casus belli, has been considered a “caricature of truth” (Gallagher et al. 29), it provided

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southerners with much required meaning in a particularly trying period of American history.
According to Gallagher et al., southerners not only mythicized—relying heavily on religious
symbolism—the past but also “made sacred the Southern way of life, laying the foundation
for a Southern culture religion” (186). Similar conclusions are drawn by Wilson in Baptized
in Blood: the Religion of the Lost Cause, 1865-1920. In fact, the “religion” of the Lost Cause
encouraged “a sense of belonging in the shattered Southern community” and its symbols
“created long-lasting moods and motivations which lead men to act on their religious
feelings” (Wilson, 10).
In the Trilogy of the Ku Klux Klan the myth was the Old South, an idealization of the
antebellum southern society, whose aim—as suggested by Gallagher—was to allow
southerners to cope with the loss in the American Civil War. Although the birth of the
romantic myth of the Old South can be traced back to the 1830’s when the Old South started
to create “a particular self-image in order to persuade itself, and the world outside, of its own
distinct identity” (Ranson and Hook, 87), it was the outburst of the American Civil War that
validated claims of southern uniqueness inasmuch as the Old South had to fight for its own
existence (Ranson and Hook, 89). Indeed, the different identity of the Old South could not
have been justified by mere hatred towards northern abolitionists; the Old South “needed to
be seen to embody a positive social good that was worth preserving and maintaining at
whatever cost” (Ranson and Hook, 95). Having specified the origin of the claim of southern
uniqueness, a question arises: which literary genre is the most suitable to describe myth? My
answer will rely on Frye’s Anatomy of Criticism.
In his book, Frye suggests a link between romance and myth. In fact, he believes in
the romance’s power to organize “myths and archetypal symbols in literature” (139).
Romance is defined as “the tendency to displace myth in a human direction and yet, in
contrast to ‘realism,’ to conventionalize content in an idealized direction […]” (Frye, 136). In

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other words, “the tendency to suggest implicit mythical patterns in a world more closely
associated with human experience” (Frye, 139). This idealization of events is borne out by
Jameson in his Political Unconscious. Indeed, according to Jameson, “Romance is for Frye a
wish-fulfillment or Utopian fantasy which aims at the transfiguration of the world of
everyday life in such a way as to restore the conditions of some lost Eden” (96-97).
Therefore, it can be argued that romance was a suitable literary genre to describe the myth of
the Lost Cause insofar as it bridged the gap between the myth of the Old South and everyday
experience. Starting from Frye’s description of romance, impinged upon the dichotomy
between “good” and “evil,” it will be later discussed how the myth of the Old South—an
amiable, traditional, generous society, whose central values were honour and moral
integrity—needed a diametrically opposite foe, namely a money-driven, rootless northern
society.
2.3. Multifaceted romance and the power of imaginary
As acknowledged by Zeno Ackerman, in literature the definition of the term “romance” is
constantly changing. In fact, Ackerman claims that a wide variety of texts “have been
referred to––or have referred to themselves––as romances" (5). In Ackerman’s view, the
power of the imaginary is what makes romance captivating, for this imagination allows
writers to “impose literary form which is thought to possess archetypal stability […] onto the
dynamics of social reality” (7). Fluck correlates Ackerman’s perspective with his own
affirming that although the different types of romances share “fictionality” as their lowest
common denominator––which makes them fully able to “articulate the imaginary dimension”
(174)––the role of the imaginary in romance changes according to the “wide array of possible
combinations within the genre” (145).
For White the romance imagination is deeply connected to the expression of desire.
Indeed, in the article “Getting out of History” he argues that the “authority of art and

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literature” resides in the ability to justify how desire will be fulfilled and in doing so literature
“enters into contention with practice, common sense, and science” because a scientific
approach to life cannot lead us towards “what we ought to desire” (3). He insists that culture
possesses an authority based on “the universal translatability of the forms of its products” and
that narrative is a privileged form insofar as it can “master the dispiriting effects of the
corrosive force of temporal processes” (White, 3). In other words, narrative justifies a dream
“grounded in the real conditions of the dreamer's life but goes beyond these, to the imagining
of how, in spite of these conditions, things might be otherwise” (White, 3). Starting from
White’s findings, Ackerman suggests that narrative and more specifically romance—because
of the central role of imagination in it—can rewrite history in terms of “the forms of desire”
(195).
Ackerman maintains that his theory is corroborated by White’s analysis of Jameson’s
Political Unconscious. In fact, in the article “Getting out of History” White claims that the
task of making sense of what Jameson called the “history of Necessity” must be consigned to
the “narrative capacity of imagination” (5). Since history for Jameson is an “absent cause”
that can be apprehended only through its narrativization, to make sense of history, to solve
the Jamesonian “mystery of the cultural past” we need to rely on the power of the
imagination. Thus, only by imagining the human adventure as a great collective one will it be
possible to “return to life the great artefacts of world culture” (White, 5). Furthermore, given
that this “collective” human adventure is the history of class struggle, the dominant class will
use narrative to legitimize its authority, while the subjugated class will try to undermine it
(Jameson, 70). In Ackerman’s words, both classes will use narrative to “rewrite history in the
forms of desire” (5). Additionally, in The Political Unconscious there is evidence that seems
to confirm Ackerman’s claim that romance holds a special place in Jameson’s analysis of
how narrative relates to the modes of production. In fact, to those critics who think of

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Marxism as a romantic myth Jameson answers that “the association of Marxism and romance
[…] does not discredit the former so much as it explains the persistence and vitality of the
latter, which Frye takes to be the ultimate source and paradigm of all storytelling (91).
Frye does believe in the romance’s archetypal role. Indeed, in The Secular Scripture:
A Study of the Structure of Romance he emphasizes how the difference between mythical and
fabulous lies in “authority and social function, not in structure” (88). Thus, Frye rhetorically
asks whether it is possible to turn fables into mythology: “is it possible to look at secular
stories as a whole, and as forming a single integrated vision of the world, parallel to the
Christian and biblical vision?” (15). Frye believes that romance is the structural core of all
fiction and can be considered as a “total verbal order with the outlines of an imaginative
universe in it” (15). The process is carried out through displacement, namely by adjusting the
stereotyped structures to a more plausible context (Frye, 36). Furthermore, in Anatomy of
Criticism he maintains that the kinship between myth and the “abstractly literary” of romance
is particularly conspicuous in “popular fiction which is realistic enough to be plausible in its
incidents and yet romantic enough to be a good story, which means a clearly designed one”
(138). He argues that the introduction of an omen as one of the devices to connect myth and
romance, to make the “whole story the fulfilment of a prophecy given at the beginning”
(138), is a “piece of pure literary design” shaped by the author’s will, not a sign of ineluctable
fate. A compelling piece of evidence illustrating how Dixon “displaces myth in human
direction” can be found in The Leopard’s Spots when Dixon describes a late march snowfall
in North Carolina. To bestow upon the extraordinary event the role of “harbinger of sure and
terrible calamity,” Dixon describes the snowflakes as having a blood-like red spot inside (96).
This aberration—suggesting that even nature itself refuses to accept racial equality—connects
the story with the myth of the Old South. However, as argued by Frye, it is a literary scheme
in which “the only ineluctable will involved is that of the author” (139). Hence, the tension

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between plausibility and fictionality is exploited by Dixon to make his alternative history of
the Reconstruction Era more credible in the eye of his audience. Given that this tension is
regarded by Fluck as one of the defining characteristics of the historical romance genre, I will
use Fluck’s theory to outline the connections between history and romance. Moreover, the
introduction of White’s discussion of the value of narrativity in the representation of reality,
presented in The Content of Form, will clarify why narrative is dependent on history.
2.4. Historical Romance
In the article “Getting out of History,” White points out that the term “history” generates
confusion in the reader insofar as it lends itself to many interpretations. Indeed, it applies to
“past events, to the record of those events, to the chain of events which make up a temporal
process, […] to explanations of such systematically ordered accounts, and so forth” (White,
5). He also suggests that historical knowledge depends on the historian’s persuasiveness, for
the past cannot be experienced but must be imagined. In other words, White argues that
history is a structured narrative where the author’s perspective skews the way the past is
remembered by choosing the events he or she considers relevant for their culture. Granted
these premises, a question arises: why do we need history in literature? According to White,
because a proper history “reveals to us a world that is putatively finished” and this need for
completion equals to a demand for “moral meaning” (21). He insists that although non-
narrative forms might epitomize a more faithful representation of reality, the reader cannot
conceive of an authentic representation of reality without narrative, without a didactic end.
Consequently, it can be argued that there is not a unique definition of truth insofar as the
concept of truth is related to moral meaning. Given that a univocal definition of romance is
yet to be found and that the term history can be misleading, it seems an apparently impossible
challenge to define the historical romance genre. Nevertheless, in this essay I am going to use
Fluck’s description of the genre, for it elucidates the bond between history and romance,

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between plausibility and fictionality in Dixon’s trilogy.
According to Fluck, historical romances portray a world where the threat to the stable,
unquestionable social and historical hierarchy is expressed as “a struggle between
representatives of hostile civilizations” (152). Although in the Trilogy of the Ku Klux Klan
the first civilization clash that comes to mind is the one concerning white and African
Americans, I argue that another clash is also represented, the one opposing southern
democrats to radical republicans. Given that, to my knowledge, no one has applied Fluck’s
theory of historical romance to the Trilogy of the Ku Klux Klan, the present study aims at
bringing to light how romance allowed Dixon to put forth his rhetoric of southern superiority.
In fact, radical republicans are portrayed as disloyal, deceitful, cowardly people, in striking
opposition to the chivalrous figure of the typical southern democrat. This diametrical
opposition mirrors the dichotomy between “good” and “evil” considered by Frye to be one of
the fundamental characteristics of romance:
The central form of romance is dialectical: everything is focused on a conflict
between the hero and his enemy, and all the reader's values are bound up with the
hero. Hence the hero of romance is analogous to the mythical Messiah or deliverer
who comes from an upper world, and his enemy is analogous to the demonic powers
of a lower world. (Frye 186)
Furthermore, Fluck argues that “to elevate the romance to the level of a national epic […]
[writers of historical romances] introduce fictional elements designed to make their stories
[…] interesting and effective as a discourse of civilization” (153). He maintains that historical
romances are paradoxical inasmuch as they use fiction to both “fuel the imagination” (154)
and to underpin the romance’s sociocultural claims. It can be argued that in The Trilogy of the
Ku Klux Klan it is precisely this interaction between “fictional” and “historical” that engages
the reader who, lured by the excitement of the Klan’s apparently heroic actions, but also

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reminded of the “need for self-discipline” (155), is driven to the legitimization of a
“historically reaffirmed social hierarchy” (154). This need for restraint, whose aim is to
legitimize the historical hierarchy of the antebellum southern society, is evident in both The
Leopard’s Spots and The Traitor when Dixon has the leaders of the Ku Klux Klan—once
they have attained their goals—dismantling the still powerful and attractive organization only
to protect southerners from being jailed by the federal government. In doing so, Dixon on the
one hand deems the Klan’s violent actions as heroic and necessary to save the nation from the
threat posed by the degeneration of recently freed African Americans. On the other hand, he
idealizes the Klan’s leaders, men who, after having reaffirmed the social hierarchy of the Old
South, are willing to step down from a position of power to preserve the newly acquired
peace. In The Clansman the need for restraint is epitomized by the exemplary behaviour
exhibited by both Dr. Cameron and his son. Indeed, as Clansmen their aims are to protect the
defenceless and uphold Constitution of the United States, not to exert gratuitous violence
(320-321).
Finally, it can be contended that Fluck’s description of the historical romance as a
genre in which the romance imagination is partially curbed by the need of self-containment is
modelled on Frye’s theories of the romance. In fact, Frye maintains that “the quest-romance
is the search of the libido or desiring self for a fulfilment that will deliver it from the anxieties
of reality but will still contain that reality” (192). Therefore, for both Frye and Fluck it is the
interaction between “fictional” and “historical” that underpins the romance’s sociocultural
claims. Having categorized Dixon’s trilogy as a historical romance, I am ready to start
analysing how the Manichean structure of romance is used by Dixon to emphasize the
differences between southern democrats and radical republicans, consequently giving
credibility to the myth of the Lost Cause and its rhetoric of southern supremacy.
3. Southern Democrat vs Radical Republican

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Although in the Trilogy of the Ku Klux Klan Dixon pays lips service to the reunified nation,
stressing the importance of white brotherhood to achieve a better future, he also loses no
opportunity to emphasize the deep-rooted differences between radical republicans and
southern democrats. I argue that to highlight these differences Dixon intertwined romance
with central themes of the myth of the Lost Cause such as religion, the mythicization of the
war, the intimate relation between southerners and their land, and the Klan’s righteous
violence. In this section a close analysis of the novels will bring to light plenty of textual
evidence demonstrating the importance of romance in substantiating Dixon’s claim of
southern supremacy.
3.1 Romance and religion
In his Crucible of Race: Black-White Relations in the American South since Emancipation,
Williamson argues for the central role of religion in the myth of the Lost Cause. He insists
that the name given by southern democrats to the period in which they regained control of the
southern states at the end of the Reconstruction Era, namely “Redemption” is laden with
religious meaning. Indeed, Williamson implies that southern democrats were given a new life
at the end of the Reconstruction Era because, by regaining control over the southern states,
they re-established the status quo of the idealized antebellum southern society. In
Williamson’s words, “they were born-again southerners” (82).
Williamson’s emphasis on the centrality of religion in the myth of the Lost Cause is
buttressed by Wilson who in Baptized in Blood the Religion of the Lost Cause, 1865-1920
claims that the “southern religion also contributed to the defence of Southern society” (4).
For example, southern ministers tried to find legitimization of slavery in passages of the
Bible and depicted African Americans as scions of sinners to justify racial segregation in the
“God-ordained” society of the Old South (Wilson, 11). Southern churches interpreted the
Civil War as a “religious crusade” (Wilson, 8) and, once defeated, feared that the society

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would not live up to its heroic, mythicized past; a past required “to create long lasting moods
and motivations” (Wilson, 10).
Williamson’s and Wilson’s findings are complemented by the analysis carried out by
Gallagher et al. in The Myth of the Lost Cause and Civil War History. Indeed, Gallagher et al.
argue that ex-Confederates, in the construction of the myth of the Lost Cause, interwove
religion, in particular evangelicalism, with romance to create an alternative, usable truth
which allowed people to deal with the devastating loss of the American Civil War. For
instance, romance was used by writers such as LaSalle Pickett to describe “the admirable
slaveholding South that persevered despite the cruel tests of a great war” (Gallagher et al.,
15). This alternative truth represented “the deepest and most authentic means for the
expressions of religious understanding and belief” (Gallagher et al. 189). Taking into account
the connections between religion and the myth of the Lost Cause put forth by Williamson,
Wilson, Gallagher and what Frye defined as the romance’s capacity to correlate myth with
everyday experience, it does not come as a surprise that Dixon—one of the most important
spokespersons of the Lost Cause—in his trilogy coalesced religion with romance. Granted
that evangelicalism is the branch of religion that emphasizes the importance of the “born-
again” experience, a brief description of this religious movement will represent the incipit of
my analysis.
John Gordon Melton, the director of the Institute for the Study of American Religion,
in his article on the Encyclopaedia Britannica defines the Evangelical church as “any of the
classical Protestant churches […] that stress the preaching of the gospel of Jesus Christ,
personal conversion experiences, Scripture as the sole basis for faith, and active evangelism
[in sharing the Christian message].” Starting from this definition I am going to analyse how
in the Trilogy of the Ku Klux Klan Dixon used evangelicalism to distinguish loyal, principled
southern democrats from faithless, immoral radical republicans; thus, emphasizing the

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southern supremacy. My analysis will be focused on two of the most defining characteristics
of evangelicalism, namely the pivotal importance of personal conversion and the need for a
total commitment to sharing the Christian message, which in the American South meant
providing southerners with “a sense of belonging to the community” (Wilson, 10).
To begin with, The Traitor, The Clansman and The Leopard’s Spots contain several
examples of “conversion.” However, the term here indicates a change lying not in the
religious sphere, but in the political realm. Given Dixon’s role as one of the spokespersons of
the Lost Cause, in the majority of cases it is a northerner who changes his political ideas from
hatred to empathy towards the South. For instance, in the Leopard’s Spots, Major Grant, a
Union soldier, admits: “I’ve learned to like you Southerners, and to love these beautiful skies,
and fields of eternal green” (77). Additionally, in the same novel we also have an example of
conversion gone awry, namely a Southerner who, driven by profit and egoism, decides to
betray his own brethren and becomes a republican. Indeed, Allan McLeod, a son of the South
and member of the Ku Klux Klan, becomes an “enthusiastic Republican” (173), hence, a foe,
because of his lack of morals and opportunism. Since Dixon depicts all southern democrats as
heroic characters, he cannot admit such behaviour and provides the reader with the
explanation that McLeod is not a full-bloodied southerner because of his mother’s
miscegenation with members of Indian tribes (81).
In the second novel of the trilogy, The Clansman, the main foe, Mr. Stoneman,
eventually recognizes his mistakes while talking to one of the leaders of the Ku Klux Klan:
“you are the man at whom I aimed the blow that has fallen on my head. I wish to confess to
you and set myself right before God. He may hear my cry and have mercy on me” (371).
While Stoneman’s conversion takes place only at the end of the novel, his son’s spiritual
change happens progressively as the novel unfolds. Indeed, Phil Stoneman, a Union Captain
“had early learned to respect a brave foe, and bitterness had long since melted out of his

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heart” (61). Moreover, he disapproves his father’s “wild scheme of vengeance against the
South” (215). The different behaviour between father and son can be explained by the fact
that Phil partook in the American Civil War. In fact, in the trilogy all the main villains are
characters who avoided their military duty. This stratagem is used by Dixon to pass on the
message that all Union soldiers who fought in the American Civil War must have recognized
the heroism, the bravery of Confederate soldiers. Consequently, they have learnt to respect
such brave foes. Dixon’s belief that being a brave soldier equals to being a good citizen is
aligned with the myth of the Lost Cause. In fact, as argued by Rod, “[in the Old South] the
lines between martial, moral, and civic virtues were very fine indeed” (63).
In The Traitor there are two characters being “converted” to the southern way of
life—Stella Butler and Detective Ackerman—and one character playing the Allan McLeod
role, the “traitor” Steve Hoyle. Stella’s and Ackerman’s conversions, although eased by
romantic relationships with southern people, allow Dixon to emphasize the moral superiority
of southern democrats. Indeed, Stella is divided between the lofty ideals inherited from her
aristocratic mother, who pertained to “the old regime of the South” (77), and a deceitful
attitude taken after her Scalawag father—a white Southerner who supported Republican
policy during the Reconstruction Era. By choosing her mother’s heritage, Stella pinpoints
how in Dixon’s world no clash between the southern democrat and the radical republican can
see this latter prevail. Furthermore, Ackerman is first described as “pudgy, rosy-cheeked,
boyish” (161), not exactly the portrait of manhood. However, once he changes sides and
allies with southern democrats he is able to jump on an enemy who wanted to escape “with
the spring of a tiger” (314). Apparently, for Dixon becoming a democrat is a rejuvenating
experience which entails unexpected moral and physical perks. Finally, there is also an
example of “morally wrong” conversion. Indeed, Steve Hoyle—like McLeod in The
Leopard’s Spots—does not hesitate to betray his southern brethren and becomes a radical

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republican when faced with a possibly fatal challenge, namely being hanged by the national
government as one of the members of the Klan (273-286). Although Hoyle was born and
grew in the South, his malevolent and cowardly behaviour is explained by Dixon by
mentioning how Hoyle’s father was “a secret Union man “(286) who became rich avoiding
military service during the war. Thus, remembering Dixon’s belief that real men are those
who serve for their country, Hoyle cannot be considered a true southern democrat because of
his father’s misdemeanour. Analysing one of the novel’s final scenes in which Hoyle flees at
full throttle from a confrontation with Stella, it can be argued that while being converted to
the southern way of life involves both physical and moral improvements, those southerners
who betray their brethren are abased to the status of egoistic cowards.
Regarding the religious message of being totally committed to the community, in The
Leopard’s Spots there are two characters that perfectly epitomize this concept. The first is
Rev Durham who refused a tenfold pay raise offered by a northern deacon to stay in the
South to serve his brethren “who have suffered so much and are still in the grip of poverty,
and threatened with greater trials” (331). Additionally, his heroic behaviour and adamant will
are rendered when although almost burnt to death by his foes, he apologises to Tom Camp for
not having being able to see him when Tom’s daughter was killed: “I am sorry, Tom, I’m so
weak this morning I couldn’t come to see you. I know your poor wife is heartbroken” (127).
The other martyr-like character is Tom Camp himself, a one-legged ex-Confederate soldier
whose religious beliefs are not tainted by radical republicans’ dirty stratagems. For example,
he shows unwavering faith even when his family gets evicted from their house because he
believes that “the Lord’s just trying our faith” (131). Furthermore, although when Tom comes
back from the war the South is poverty-stricken, he feels happy nevertheless: “I’m at home
with a bed to sleep on, a roof over my head, a woman to pet me and tell me I’m great and
handsome […] I could live a whole month without eating a bite” (27). Seemingly, morality

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and unwavering faith in the community are what differentiate Rev. Durham from Ezra
Perkins, his northern counterpart. Indeed, while Durham is almost starving and gives
everything he has to his people, the money-driven Perkins lodges in a fancy house, indulges
with his comrades in reckless spending and uses his authority to extort money and goods
from poor white southerners. Moreover, disloyalty and immorality seem to be typical among
all radical republicans. In fact, in The Leopard’s Spots the main foe, Allan McLeod, “took
special pride in scoffing at religion before the young converts of Durham’s church” and
would rather be rich than God himself (257-258). Finally, the confrontation between McLeod
and Gaston, the southern hero, impeccably embodies the Manichean opposition between
upright southern democrats and faithless radical republicans. In fact, Gaston replies to
McLeod’s proposition to join the republican party that “principles are eternal” (194).
Although Gaston “felt as sure of McLeod’s success as if he already saw it” (196), he decided
to commit himself to his southern brethren because “there were things more to be desired
than gold” (205).
In The Clansman, both the exemplary figure, Dr. Cameron, and the main villain, Mr.
Stoneman, mirror their counterparts in The Leopard’s Spots. For instance, Dr Cameron—like
Rev Durham in The Leopard’s Spots—is always concerned about spreading a positive
message and urges his wife to go home even when his own life is at stake in prison: “there
are so many who need us. They have always looked to me for guidance and help. You can do
more for them than any one [sic] else. My calling is to heal others” (110). Moreover, he
expects nothing in return for his services because being a doctor was his vocation and his
patients have nothing with which to pay him back. This commitment to the community
reminds us of Williamson’s words about religion as a means to fill with spirituality the
crushed southern society during the Reconstruction Era. Conversely, Mr. Stoneman, the main
foe, plans to blot the southern States from history (181) and his only concern seems to be

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expediency: “you’re a born politician. You’re what I call a natural liar, just as a horse is a
pacer and a dog a setter. You lie without effort, with an ease and grace that excels all art”
(92-93). Stoneman believes that in politics “the moral law cuts no figure” (143). Therefore, in
Dixon’s world, wicked radical republicans are no match for principled southern democrats.
In The Traitor, it is the southern hero, John Graham, who lives by example providing
a sense of unity to the shattered southern community. For instance, when Gen. Champion, a
Union soldier whose main aim is to dismantle the Klan, proposes to him to betray his
southern brethren to save his life, John becomes so furious to punch the General in the face:
“I couldn’t kill him […], but I shall always thank God that he stood close enough for my fist
to reach his mouth” (281). A peculiarity of The Traitor is the presence of three main villains:
Judge Butler, Alexander Larkin and Steve Hoyle. I argue that their presence enables Dixon to
emphasize radical republicans’ lack of morals. In fact, the presence of both Butler and Larkin
is required because when Butler is killed, the southern hero, John Graham, needs an enemy to
continue his commendable political fight against faithless opponents who spare no effort to
carry out their political schemes. The third villain, Steve Hoyle, plays the Allan McLeod role.
Indeed, he does not hesitate to betray his southern brothers to Gen. Champion, both to save
his life and climb the social ladder, while John Graham had punched Champion in the face
outraged by the General’s proposal. Once again radical republicans are shown to believe in
nothing except for money and power.
According to Wilson, religion can account for this clear-cut distinction between
heroes and villains in Dixon’s trilogy:
Religion divides existence into two realms, the sacred and the profane, based upon the
perception of holiness, rather than upon the inherent qualities of the sacred items.
Sacredness depends not on the item itself, but on the perception of its holiness by a
religious person or group. The South was sacred to its citizens because they saw a

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sacred quality in it. (Wilson 15)
This dichotomy between sacred and profane, between good and evil is regarded by Frye as
one of the central characteristics of romance:
Characters tend to be either for or against the quest. If they assist it they are idealized
as simply gallant or pure; if they obstruct it they are caricatured as simply villainous
or cowardly. Hence every typical character in romance tends to have his moral
opposite confronting him, like black and white pieces in a chess game. (Frye 193)
Furthermore, Frye’s standpoint is confirmed by Jameson. Indeed, Jameson considers romance
“a symbolic answer to the perplexing question of how my enemy can be thought of as being
evil” (105). By “evil,” Jameson means different from me, “evil because he is Other, alien,
different, strange, unclean, and unfamiliar” (101). Therefore, in the trilogy all radical
republicans—being against the quest of reaffirming the social structure of the antebellum
southern society—must be depicted as villains, while pro-quest southern democrats are
idealized.
To enable southerners democrats to achieve their goal, Dixon relied on one of the
central tenets of the myth of the Lost Cause, the mythicization of the American Civil War,
which is the subject of the forthcoming chapter. In particular, I will examine the interrelation
between romance and the Confederacy’s loss in the American Civil War as the result of lack
of resources, the consequent heroism of Confederate soldiers who fought bravely
notwithstanding being at a disadvantage, and the forthright rejection of slavery as the casus
belli. On the one hand, the transfiguration of the Civil War into a myth was needed to spur in
southerners an enduring motivation to fight for their unique community (Wilson, 10). On the
other hand, romance was needed to displace myth in human direction, to make the myth more
credible in the eye of the reader (Frye, 136).
3.2 Romance and mythicization of the war

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The myth of the Lost Cause stemmed from ex-Confederates’ desires to justify the defeat and
to provide the future generations with “a correct narrative of the war” (Gallagher et al., 1)
which “denied the importance of slavery in triggering secession, […] celebrated antebellum
Southern slaveholding society, [...] extolled the gallantry of Confederate soldiers and
attributed northern victory to sheer weight of numbers and resources” (Gallagher et al., 4).
Such a description of the Lost Cause is buttressed and complemented by Wilson’s book
Baptized in Blood the Religion of the Lost Cause, 1865-1920. Wilson claims that the basis of
the myth of the Lost Cause were cast in the first half of the nineteenth century when the
South became conservative and developed “a new image of itself as a chivalric society,
embodying many of the agrarian and spiritual values that seemed to be disappearing in the
industrializing north” (3). Although the relation between romance and myth has been
analysed by many literary critics, in the following section I am going to focus on Frye’s and
Jameson’s theories, for they are pivotal to understand how the interweaving of romance with
the mythicization of the American Civil War allowed Dixon to differentiate pusillanimous
radical republicans from valiant southern democrats.
Firstly, for each novel I will highlight how the heroic behaviour of southern
democrats—who fought for the Confederacy against a much more powerful Union—lies in
stark contrast with the pusillanimity of radical republicans. As explained by Gallagher et al.,
southern writers “manipulated semantics” (17) to reach the conclusion that the Confederacy
had not been really defeated, it had been overpowered by the Union. For instance, in The
Leopard’s Spots Dixon has the southern hero say to his political rival—who was about to win
the election—that “defeat that’s seen has lost its bitterness before it comes” (199). Therefore,
soldiers who decided to partake in a war that could not have been won must be depicted as
heroic, indefatigable, courageous and dauntless.
Secondly, I will emphasize how Dixon’s portrayal of radical republicans as equally

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racist as southern democrats and the image of the faithful and happy slave both dismantle the
centrality of slavery in the outburst of the war and accentuate the villainy of radical
republicans who are guilty of using African Americans for their political schemes. Even
though Dixon’s claim that slaves lived happily in bondage in the Old South and his depiction
of all radical republican politicians as racist have been widely rejected and proven
groundless, we have to remember that the introduction of fictional elements in historical
novels makes them “interesting and effective as a discourse of civilization” (Fluck, 153).
To begin with, the gallantry, the heroism of Confederate soldiers is immediately
validated in The Leopard’s Spots when Dixon portrays the Confederates’ military behaviour
at Gettysburg, a decisive battle in the American Civil War. Indeed, Dixon suggests that
confederate soldiers “had answered those awful commands to charge without a murmur” (5).
Apparently, the heroic Confederates faced death during Pickett’s charge, an infantry assault
carried out by Confederates against the Union defence in which the great majority of the
Confederate soldiers died, without hesitation because they were fighting to defend their
beloved southern society. Even though they knew they were going to die “through level
sheets of blinding flame” (5), they did not falter. According to Dixon, and to the myth of the
Lost Cause, such valiant behaviour is archetypal for true southerners. Moreover, never in the
Leopard’s Spots do we face an ex-Confederate willing to recur to foul play to achieve his
goals. In fact, Dixon contends that the Ku Klux Klan is “simply the old answer of organized
manhood to organized crime” (150). The criminals are the leaders of the Reconstruction
government, all belonging to the Republican Party, who hide behind the force of the Union
army and are willing to use every possible means to stamp out their rivals. On the contrary,
the members of the Klan are depicted as chivalrous, honourable men who will recur to
violence only as the last resort. Additionally, they are not afraid of risking their life to protect
their southern brethren. For example, both Gaston—the southern hero—and his putative

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father—Rev. Durham—are only worried about the southern community even when they are
unjustly jailed and their life is at stake.
From such a heroic depiction of Confederate soldiers another theme of the Lost Cause
emerges: the Confederacy’s loss as the result of sheer disadvantage of numbers. Indeed, if
those Confederate soldiers who at Gettysburg “walked straight into the jaws of hell” (5) had
had the same resources as their northern counterparts, the war would probably have ended
differently. To substantiate his claim Dixon portrays all the military leaders of the republican-
driven reconstruction government as cowards hiding behind “a million bayonet” (92). This
multitude of bayonets represents the overwhelming power of Union, a power so irresistible
that it prevented heroic Confederates from winning the American Civil War.
Connected with the theme of southern heroism, and northern cowardice, is the
rejection of slavery as the main cause of the American Civil War. For instance, the return of
Nelse, a loyal slave, to his owner’s family at the end of the war—whereas he could have
escaped in the North as a free citizen—is one of Dixon’s stratagems to imply that slaves were
happy to be held in bondage. Indeed, “the position of inferiority assigned him [Nelse] in no
sense disturbed his pride” (43). Another Dixonian literary expedient aimed at fortifying this
alternative view of slavery is the introduction of two characters taken from Beecher’s Uncle
Tom’s Cabin: George Harris, a brilliant African American, and Simon Legree, a former
slave-owner. In fact, when the gifted Harris declares to the Hon. Everett Lowell—a northern
politician preaching absolute equality and acting as Harris’ patron—to be in love with
Lowell’s daughter, he is told by his benefactor: “I will not permit a mixture of Negro in my
family” (393). Enraged by such a hypocritical answer, Harris affirms that southern democrats
are more honest regarding racial issues, for they express their opinion forthrightly.
Furthermore, convinced to find a job suitable to his sharp intellect, Harris decides to move to
the North, but there he is discriminated against possibly even more violently than in the

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South. Indeed, he has to ask for work from Simon Legree; a former slave-owner who turned
into a successful, therefore, admired, capitalist. Legree is used by Dixon to harshly criticize
the northern society. In fact, although Legree is portrayed as a merciless, ill-intentioned
tycoon, he is revered in the North because of his economic success (403-405). Furthermore,
Harris’ unsuccessful job search in the North allows Dixon to emphasise how life for African
Americans was much better during the “old days of slavery” (403) than in the money-driven
Northern society, consequently dismantling the idea that the North fought to free slaves from
bondage. Dixon’s alternative historical account reminds the reader of Ackerman’s words
about the power of romance “to rewrite history in the forms of desire”, namely to rewrite
history to make the Confederacy victorious, at least on the literary field.
At the beginning of The Clansman Dixon merges two of the themes of the myth of the
Lost Cause: the Confederacy’s loss as the result of the sheer difference in numbers and the
heroism of Confederate soldiers. Indeed, Ben Cameron, a young Confederate Colonel, takes
care of some wounded enemies in the battlefield before leading a final, impossible charge
against the Union soldiers: “he [Ben] deliberately walked down the embankment in a hail of
musketry and began to give water to our wounded men” (7). In this passage Dixon attempts
to convince his audience that Confederate soldiers always retain some morals in a battle.
Moreover, although Ben’s last, desperate assault on the Union trench is unsuccessful, he
gains the admiration of his enemies by ramming the Confederacy flag into a cannons’ mouth
—a token of Pyrrhic victory—before passing out because of his injuries (8). This heroism
underpins the idea that if Confederate soldiers of the calibre of Ben had had the same military
resources as their northern counterparts, the Confederacy would probably have been
victorious in the battlefield, for in Dixon’s world heroism is exclusively bestowed upon
southern democrats. On the other hand, the leaders of the Reconstruction governments are
depicted as sneaky cowards willing to use any means, however base, to reach their goals. For

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instance, Mr. Stoneman justifies his immorality by saying that in a world full of injustice a
man cannot keep his face straight (182). Therefore, to carry out his vengeful scheme against
the South he relies on any type of stratagem, legal or not. Dixon’s description of Stoneman as
a bald man who walks lamely, with “cold, colourless eyes, with the frost of his native
Vermont sparkling in their depth” (39) brings to mind Frye’s description of the romance
dichotomy between “good” and “evil”. In fact, while the Messiah figure of the hero is
associated with the vigour and youth that Ben shows throughout the novel, the enemy is
connected to coldness, darkness, sickness and old age (Frye, 186-187).
Furthermore, the depiction of radical republican politicians as amoral liars allows
Dixon to undermine radical republicans’ claim that slavery was the main reason for the
outbreak of the war. In the novel, the Lost Cause’s alternative view of slavery is borne out by
the southern hero, Ben Cameron, lecturing his northern lover, Elsie. Ben affirms that the
North is as equally culpable as the South for the issue of slavery inasmuch as the North
started the slave trade and kept it alive notwithstanding the South’s attempt to abolish it
(125). Granted these premises, it would be inconceivable to think of slavery as the main
reason leading to the war. Thus, radical republicans are hypocrites who pay lip service to
African Americans, but in reality only use black people to achieve their political aims. For
example, Senator Sumner, a republican, while giving public speeches about the urge of racial
equality, “could not endure personal contact with a Negro” (92). Although Dixon’s tenet on
slavery nowadays can be considered a “caricature of truth” (Gallagher et al. 4), it should not
be forgotten that it allowed Southerners to reconcile with the tremendous defeat in the
American Civil War, moving northbound the blame for the onset of the fight.
Also in The Traitor, the heroism of ex-Confederate soldiers—intertwined with the
theme of the justification of the Confederacy’s loss—contrasts sharply with the pusillanimous
behaviour of radical republicans. For example, the southern hero and former leader of the

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Klan, John Graham, organises a vigilance committee to prevent the young members of the
mischievous, new Klan from committing crimes. Moreover, he urges his younger brother—
who was indirectly accountable for the homicide of the Scalawag Judge Butler—to leave the
county while he stays to face the possibly fatal consequences, namely being hanged by the
national government as the responsible for the homicide (172-174). Conversely, radical
republican leaders are depicted as dishonourable cowards. For instance, Judge Butler is
scared to death by the approaching of a member of the Klan who just wanted to ask the Judge
the permission to use a fan (127). Butler is described as “a man of low origin and no
principle, […] a renegade who betrayed his people for thirty pieces of silver, […] a
contemptible office seeker” (155). Considering the way radical republicans are portrayed,
there can only be one explanation for the Confederacy defeat in the war: the Union held an
overwhelming majority of men and resources.
Dixon’s negative portrayal of radical republicans also accounts for the belittlement of
the importance of slavery as casus belli. Indeed, republicans merely use African Americans
to get their votes, but in the profundity of their soul they are as racist as southerners. As a
case in point, Judge Butler, the leader of the Republican Party in the Piedmont region, “had to
associate with them to get their votes, but […] hated them without measure” (120). Thus, if
the North had really fought to abolish slavery, the representatives of the Union-imposed
reconstruction governments would have been adamant supporters of the enfranchisement of
African Americans as an inalienable civil right rather than merely using their votes for their
political schemes.
From this analysis emerges that in Dixon’s world southern democrats and radical
republicans are the extreme of the romance dichotomy between “good” and “evil.” This
antithesis will be further buttressed by the introduction of another theme of the myth of the
Lost Cause, the unique link between southerners and their land, which will be analysed in the

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following chapter. Clearly, an appeal to nature can corroborate many social issues such as the
disenfranchisement of African Americans and the denial of their property rights. Indeed,
given that the discrimination against African Americans was inherent in the idealised
antebellum southern society, the southern democrats’ fight to subjugate African Americans
was merely a return to the natural state of things. In other terms, an appeal to nature will lead
the reader towards the reaffirmation of the social hierarchy of the Old South.
3.3 Romance and Land
In the previous sections, I have analysed how radical republicans are portrayed by Dixon as
money-driven, immoral people, while southern democrats are described as loyal, gallant and
amiable. This complete dichotomy can be further explained by taking into account how in the
myth of the Lost Cause North and South developed two diametrically opposite civilizations.
As outlined by Ranson and Hook, the agrarian civilization of the South “gave its allegiance to
such values as honour and personal integrity” and its society was “conservative, upholding
the values of a traditional way of life,” whereas the North was “an aggregate of money-
driven, competing individuals” and its society was “rootless, changing, fluid” (95).
Consequently, Dixon’s description of radical republicans and southern democrats adheres to
the myth of the Lost Cause. Furthermore, according to Post Halleck, the preference for a
highly hierarchical society, the loyalty to tradition and the “aversion to rapid change” deeply
affected the type of literature put forth by southern writers. Indeed, southern literature,
emphasizing the beauty and uniqueness of the Southern land, showed a penchant for romance
(Post Halleck, 264). Similar findings are presented by Cash in The Mind of the South where
he claims that the unique southern environment represented “a sort of conspiracy against
reality in favour of romance” (46). Although Dixon in the trilogy seems to acknowledge that
after the American Civil War the US was a united nation, he never loses the opportunity to
emphasize the unique bond between southerners and their land, often referred to as “her.”

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Gallagher et al. consider this privileged bond with nature one of the central tenets of the myth
of the Lost Cause:
As Southerners sanctified their past, with its tales of valor and martyrdom, they also
imparted holiness to the region in which their past had occurred. Dixie was, they
believed, the Sacred South—made inviolable by those who loved it, baptized in the
blood of those who died for it, and ordained to permanent changelessness by the God
who guided it. (Gallagher et al., 195)
The sacralisation of the land provided southerners with much needed identity, especially
after the defeat in the American Civil War. Southerners did need to believe they were
different from, and superior to, northerners and an appeal to nature substantiated their claim.
Among the many theories discussing the way the land can substantiate claims of identity, I
am going to use Larsen’s understanding of how landscapes can provide “a common unity to
people and places (284). Although Larsen’s theory is focused on landscapes, by taking into
account the way both historical and natural processes can affect the environment, Larsen’s
ideas can be applied to the whole southern land and help the reader understand how the
privileged relation between southerners and their land was used by Dixon to underpin his
claim of southern supremacy.
In Larsen’s view, the landscape can contribute to the construction of a national
identity insofar as “it gives unity to people, it provides people and place with a common
origin, and it naturalizes the unity and the origin” (286). He further explains how in literature
the “meaning in the landscape” (289), namely the traces left on the landscape by both natural
and historical processes, is linked to “the meaning of the landscape” (289) that is, the feeling
of belonging to a place brought about by the landscape. This feeling allows writers to
describe the landscape as “heroic, romantic, free, noble, and loaded with greatness and hope
(Larsen, 295). In Dixon’s trilogy, “the meaning in the landscape” can be evinced both in the

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rich, generous natural setting—in startling contrast with the abject poverty of the South after
the American Civil War—and in the cotton mills that, as explained by Davenport, allow
Dixon to claim the special power of the South to harness the industrial revolution. Taking this
into account, I will argue that the generous natural setting and the capacity of the southern
land to bridle the industrial revolution—in the form of the cotton mills—bring about in
southern democrats the unwavering feeling of belonging to a unique place, which in turn
differentiates them from radical republicans.
In The Leopard’s Spots we have a description of the uniqueness of the southern land
which strikes the reader’s attention when compared with the severe poverty characterizing
postbellum southern society:
The sun was pouring his hot rays down into the moist earth, and the heat began to feel
like summer. As he drank in the beauty and glory of the spring his soul was melted
with joy. The fruit trees were laden with the promise of the treasures of the summer
and autumn a cat-bird was singing softly to his mate in the tree over his head, and a
mocking-bird seated in the topmost branch of an elm near his cabin home was leading
the oratorio of feathered songsters. The wild plum and blackberry briars were in full
bloom in the fence corners, and the sweet odour filled the air. (Dixon, 25)
The person whose soul is melted with joy is an ex-Confederate soldier who returns home to
face widespread poverty. Nonetheless, his outlook is positive because in the novel there are
several examples substantiating the claim that such a fairy-tale environment begets and rears
children who are bound to become generous, honest, and nature-loving men. Moreover, as
suggested by Davenport, the depiction of the South as a stable, idealized, pastoral
environment of which Gen. Worth’s splendid old Southern mansion “gleaming through the
green trees like polished ivory” (214) is just an example, allows Dixon to put forth a bucolic,
reassuring image of the South in the trilogy.

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As aforementioned, Dixon wrote the trilogy in the middle of the Progressive Era, a
period of profound social reforms and widespread social mobility due to the rise of
capitalism. Thus, in such a frantic period it was easy for Dixon to paint an enticing image of
the South as a society embodying those “agrarian and spiritual values that seemed to be
disappearing in the industrializing north” (Wilson, 3). Those spiritual values allowed the
South to even harness the industrial revolution. Indeed, Davenport highlights how Gen.
Worth’s water-powered mills produce a noise which is defined by Dixon as “ravishing
music” (280). Hence, by being naturally incorporated in the surrounded environment—and
using a clean source of energy—those mills allow the community to “reap the benefits of
industrialization without sacrificing any of its agrarian innocence or its freedom from
industrial complexity” (Davenport, 361). Certainly, such an extraordinary land heightens in
her inhabitants an ardent feeling of belonging, as expressed by the southern hero, Charles
Gaston:
So, I confess I love my people. I love the South […] The South, old-fashioned,
medieval, provincial, worshipping the dead and raising men rather than making
money, family-loving, home building, tradition ridden. The South, cruel and cunning
when fighting a treacherous foe, with brief volcanic burst of wrath and vengeance.
The South, eloquent, bombastic, romantic, chivalrous, lustful, proud, kind and
hospitable […] the South, generous and reckless, never knowing her own interest, but
living her own life in her own way!—Yes, I love her! In my soul are all her sins
and virtues. And with it all she is worthy to live.” (Dixon, 441)
In this passage, taken from a convention of the Southern Democrat Party, Gaston implies that
southern men are different from northerners because they have taken after their qualities from
the generous, unique environment of the South. In fact, for the typical southerner the land is
not merely a place where to live, it is like a mother. Finally, Gaston’s love for the South

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results in open nationalism. Indeed, he believes that “a shallow cosmopolitanism is the mask
of death for the individual” because “the true citizen of the world loves his country” (441). In
this extract, Gaston rejects the idea that all human beings belong to a single community. In
fact, as proven in the novel, southerners are part of a privileged, traditional, generous,
community whose life pace follows the rhythm of nature. On the contrary, northerners’
individualism and lack of morals are the heritage of the capitalist, money-driven, highly
industrialised northern society.
In The Clansman, the southern land is described as “a land of sunshine, eternal
harvests and everlasting songs” (130) where “everything seemed to favour marriage” (211).
Dixon’s words immediately bring to mind both Cash’s idea of the South as an environment
“conspiring” towards romance and Post Halleck’s description of southern literature showing
a predilection for romance. In the novel, Dixon makes several attempts to persuade the reader
that the southern life follows a much slower and more humane pace than in the industrialized
north. For example, in the South characters are so poor that they do not have carpets or
curtains (194), but still relish in spending time in the nature looking for birds’ nest (199-201)
rather than making money. The more humane and relaxed pace of life is further emphasized
when a doctor recommends Mr. Stoneman, the main foe in the novel, to move south because
the ever busy northern life was damaging his health. Moreover, we have another example of
the capacity of the South to harness the industrial revolution in the form of cotton mills
“whose spindles added a new note to the river’s music” (278). In Dixon’s view, southerners
are deeply connected to such a land, as it can be evinced by the death of an old ex-
Confederate, Dr. Lenoir, whose last wish was to see once again the “moonlit woods” because
“their singing boughs, stirred by the breezes have played for me oratorios grander than all the
scores of human genius” (118). Finally, in The Clansman not only does the motherly southern
land rear her inhabitants, but heals them too. Indeed, Ben’s mother decides to bring the

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wounded Confederate soldier home so that “the sunshine and flowers will give you strength
again” (14). Hence, during the Reconstruction Era southerners might be extremely poor from
a materialistic—and typically northern—point of view, but in the profundity of their soul they
are rich, for the unique bond with their land will eventually allow them, and the Confederacy,
to rise again.
Arguably, the final scene of The Traitor represents the most convincing example of
southern uniqueness. In fact, the southern hero, John Graham, decides to quit his successful
law practice to start manufacturing cotton goods using the water-powered mills. Once again
the reader is reminded of the unique capacity of the South to integrate the industrial
revolution within the society without losing any of its idyllic, bucolic setting. This
unparalleled capacity convinces the hero to abandon a surely prosperous but dispassionate
career and to start over a business strictly related to nature. Therefore, using Larsen’s theory I
argue that “the meaning in the landscape” in The Traitor, namely the generous natural setting
capable of harnessing the industrial revolution, is what spurs in the hero “the meaning of the
landscape”—a strong feeling of belonging to the South. This feeling of belonging is not
present in the industrialised north where its money-driven society cannot even be described
as a community because it is just “an aggregate of competing individuals” (Ranson and
Hook, 95).
So far I have analysed how the interweaving of romance with both religion and the
mythicization of the American Civil War allowed Dixon to depict radical republicans as
wicked, opportunistic cowards. This portrayal was underpinned by the appeal to the
uniqueness of the southern land which begot a civilization antipodal from that of the North.
Dixon’s vilification of radical republicans, further substantiated by his appeal to nature, leads
the discussion to the last tenet of this essay, the Klan’s righteous violence. Indeed, although
during the Reconstruction Era radical republicans represented the official authority, their

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vicious, malevolent behaviour enables Dixon to portray the violence exerted by the Klan
against the republican-run government as strictly necessary to recover the lost Eden of the
Old South.
3.4 Romance and the righteous violence
In his article “Romance and Riot” Hebard argues that “by erasing the boundary between
society and the State, romantic indeterminacy allows the violence that should be contained by
the state to bleed into everyday social relations” (484). I claim that in the Trilogy of the Ku
Klux Klan this violence is needed to protect what Fluck in his study of the American
Romance has defined as the “historically reaffirmed social hierarchy” (154), namely the
hierarchical society of the Old South. As abovementioned, the interweaving of romance with
central tenets of the myth of the Lost Cause allowed southern writers to describe the Old
South as an idealized, “God-ordained” society, a model to aspire to. Therefore, “romance
becomes synonymous with an idyllic Southern culture” (Hebard, 476). In this culture marked
by plain racism “terms like honour, courage, and heritage take on an exaggerated importance
in guiding narrative events and character development” (Hebard, 478). Indeed, to restore the
“right” political order the hero must rely on a “social field of honour rather than to the courts”
(Hebard, 481). In Dixon’s trilogy the southern hero’s need to act within the field of honour
rather than relying on the official law is correlated with the defamation of radical republicans.
Given that the republican-driven government is portrayed as the realm of vice, the hero is
forced to momentarily upend the law and use violence to restore the right political order.
Furthermore, relying on White’s take on narrative, described in the article “Getting
out of History,” it can be argued that the Klan’s violence is justified insofar as it is needed to
fulfil “a dream grounded in the real conditions of the dreamer’s life”—the troublesome
Reconstruction Era—but capable of going beyond these limitations and reaching the
idealized antebellum southern society (8). This idealization of the Old South is reminiscent of

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Jameson’s words about the power of the romance imagination to transfigure reality and
recover the conditions of a Lost Eden (96-97). I maintain that the Klan’s violence in Dixon’s
trilogy is what enables the romance imagination to transfigure everyday life and recover the
conditions of the idyllic antebellum southern society. Indeed, although the actions of the Ku
Klux Klan could be perceived by the modern reader as violent and unjustified, the romance’s
appeal to the moral principles of the “God-ordained” society of the Old South justified these
actions in the eyes of the local white community; a community whose prejudices were
considered part and parcel of the “right” political order being lost, namely the hierarchical
structure of the antebellum southern society.
In the first place, the southern hero’s reliance on honour rather than law to restore the
social hierarchy of the antebellum southern society can be seen in The Leopard’s Spots when
southern democrats, to regain control over the ballots, threaten every African American the
day before the election. In fact, they “warn every one as he values his life not to approach the
polls at this election” (160). To differentiate the clansmen’s behaviour from that of
governmental officers, consequently underlying the Klan’s moral superiority over the federal
government, Dixon explains how the clansmen’s threat against African Americans will never
be carried out. In fact, one of the leaders of the Klan tells his acolytes that “those who come
[to the voting booths] will be allowed to vote without molestation. All cowards will stay at
home” (160). This passage clarifies how in Dixon’s trilogy courage and honour are much
more important than the official law. Indeed, what should simply be a democratic procedure
becomes “a test for manhood” (160). Even though southern democrats know that their action
is not legal, they nevertheless carry it out because the extraordinary circumstances oblige
them to. They believe they are in war, “the most ghastly and hellish ever waged” (161).
Therefore, being at war provides southern democrats with a justification for their violence.
Nowadays, it cannot be denied that Dixon’s rhetoric appears as plain demagogy. However,

37. 37Rinaldi
we have to remember that the Klan’s prejudices mirrored the southern society’s and were
embedded in the unquestionable social hierarchy of the Old South. In fact, given that slavery
was a cardinal institution of the antebellum southern society, the disenfranchisement of
African Americans was merely a return to the natural state of things. As noted by
Williamson, “one Southern white perception of Radical Reconstruction was that it seemed to
be precisely a concerted attempt to put things out of place” (79).
To further support the southern democrats’ need to act outside the law, Dixon depicts
the sphere of official politics—run by radical republicans—as the realm of vice where
political leaders are opportunistic turncoats. Indeed, Governor Hogg, a Scalawag, and his
right-hand men steal as much as they can from poor white southerners and levy taxes on bales
of cotton, households, which allow them to “rake millions” (133).Once more, the reliance on
the romance dichotomy between “good” and “evil” proffers an explanation for the Klan’s
violence. Indeed, the violent actions of the Messiah-like southern hero and his acolytes
become indispensable to defeat the loathsome radical republicans and restore the right
political order.
In The Clansman, the rejection of the governmental authority is evident towards the
end of the novel when Ben Cameron, one of the leaders of the Klan, urges all members of the
“Negro Militia” to surrender because the Klan has become “the sole guardian of Society”
(327). Ben insists that the Klan’s actions are legitimate insofar as “the criminals who claim to
be our officers are usurpers placed there by the subversion of law” (334). Dixon gives
credibility to Ben’s point of view by vilifying radical republicans throughout the novel. As a
case in point, Mr. Stoneman, one of the fathers of Reconstruction, is even willing to
disenfranchise southern whites and place them under the rule of “loyal” African Americans to
carry out his political scheme. Clearly, Stoneman’s plan is at odds with the “God-ordained”
society of the Old South in which African Americans not only were not entitled to own land,

38. 38Rinaldi
but did not hold any civil rights. Hence, the southern hero is authorized to use violence to
restore the proper socio-political order. For example, it becomes acceptable to whip the
mayor of the town—who is not responsible of any misdemeanour—because his belonging to
the Republican Party makes him a character against the romance quest; therefore, a villain.
Furthermore, the Klan’s actions may be deemed unjustified by the modern reader, but
were well received by the local southern white community insofar as their aim was the
reestablishment of the antebellum status quo. Indeed, “women and children had eyes and saw
not, ears and heard not. Over four thousand disguises for men and horses were made by the
women of the South, and not one secret ever passed their lips” (343). As argued by Reynolds,
when the power of official authority clashes with apparently inalienable rights—in Dixon’s
case southerners’ right to govern their states during the Reconstruction Era—the reader has to
choose “whose violence can be considered righteous” (1). It can be argued that in the Trilogy
of the Ku Klux Klan the reader is bereft of this choice insofar as the vilification of the
members of the republican-driven federal government and the idealization of southern
democrats lead him to the foregone conclusion that the only justifiable violence is the Klan’s.
The support of the local white community to the Klan is also crystal clear in The
Traitor. In fact, not even the homicide of the defenceless Judge Butler, a Scalawag, can move
the white community to betray the Klan because “the masses of the people knew the
necessity which had called this dreaded order [the Klan] into existence” (131). As already
discussed for the first two novels comprising the trilogy, to support the southern community’s
belief in the righteousness of the Klan’s violence, Dixon depicts radical republicans as felons.
One particularly apt example is given when the opportunistic Larkin—the Chairman of the
Republican State Executive Committee—brings to light the fact that his political rival within
the Republican Party, Judge Butler, had used his power and position to illegally buy a house
for a small fraction of its price. Although Larkin thought that the news was going to force the

39. 39Rinaldi
judge to resign because of public outrage, the result was quite the opposite since other radical
republican politicians and supporters considered Butler a persecuted martyr. Hence, Larkin
mumbles to himself: “I’ve miscalculated. They’re all thieves and scoundrels. I’ve made him a
hero (79). Given that all radical republicans are rogues, those who run the Reconstruction
government have no authority over the morally and physically superior southern community.
In conclusion, the analysis performed in this chapter confirms that Dixon used romance to
blur the line between the southern society’s beliefs and the republican-run Reconstruction
government, providing a justification for the violent actions carried out by the Klan to restore
the “historically affirmed social hierarchy” (Fluck, 154) of the Old South.
4. Conclusion
Dixon’s widespread popularity and success in the first two decades of the 20th
century made
him an important figure in the history of Southern literature and one of the most important
spokespersons of the myth of the Lost Cause. In fact, his baggage of racist rhetoric, further
empowered by the release of movies either based on or inspired by his novels, influenced
both southern writers and the perception of racial issues in the United States long after his
death in 1946. Due to Dixon’s fame, the Trilogy of the Ku Klux Klan has been the object of
many literary studies that deemed both Dixon’s claim of white supremacy and his execration
of African Americans spiteful and untenable. However, the majority of those studies
overlooked what I reckon an important aspect of Dixon’s works, namely the way he used
romance to pass on his “racist and southern message” (Gillespie, 207). Consequently, my
investigation was focused on analysing how Dixon intertwined romance with central tenets of
the myth of the Lost Cause to give credibility to the myth of the Lost Cause and its rhetoric of
southern supremacy.
The starting point of my analysis was Frye’s description of romance as “the tendency
to displace myth in human direction and to idealize events” (136-137), which allowed me to

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explain why romance is a suitable genre to describe the myth of the Lost Cause. Moreover,
using Frye’s and Fluck’s theories I explained the connections between romance and history.
Frye was also pivotal in my examination of the noticeable differences between southern
democrats and radical republicans insofar as it was what Frye defined as the romance
dichotomy between “good” and “evil” that allowed Dixon to demonize radical republicans
and idealize southern democrats. Furthermore, I accounted for the way Dixon’s trilogy
Manichean structure was substantiated by the historical background, the tumultuous
Reconstruction Era, by referring to Jameson who argued that the binary “good-evil” is more
conspicuous in violent times when the official authority is seen to vanish (104).
After having clarified the theoretical background, I have analysed how romance and
its dialectical structure was intertwined by Dixon with four tenets of the myth of the Lost
Cause: religion, mythicization of the war, the unique bond between southerners and their land
and the Klan’s righteous violence. The result of my analysis was that romance allowed Dixon
to describe radical republicans as immoral cowards and southern democrats as gallant heroes.
To further underpin the differences between radical republicans and southern democrats
Dixon appealed to nature, justifying this antithesis in terms of different heritage. Indeed, for
Dixon both the heroism and the amiability of southern democrats are taken after the generous
motherly southern land, while the lack of morals and the individualism of radical republicans
represent the heritage of the industrialized, highly capitalistic northern society. Granted these
premises of southern supremacy, Dixon was able to legitimize the Klan’s violence as strictly
necessary to save the southern society. In fact, given that the sphere of official politics was
for Dixon riddled with corruption, the republican-driven national government had no right to
impose its will on white southerners. Therefore, the Klan was authorised to use violence to
restore the “historically affirmed social hierarchy” (Fluck, 154), which in Dixon’s trilogy was
the hierarchy of the antebellum southern society.

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Possibly, the conclusive explanation of the link between romance and the myth of the
Lost Cause is provided by Jameson. In fact, he argues that the final representation of romance
resides in a transitional moment in which two modes of production coexist. Their opposition
“is not yet articulated in terms of the struggle of social classes, so that its resolution can be
projected in the form of a nostalgic (or less often Utopian) harmony” (Jameson, 135). In the
Trilogy of the Ku Klux Klan those modes of productions were the agrarian southern society
and the antipodal industrialist northern society and the resolution to their fight was projected
in the form of the nostalgic harmony of the hierarchical society of the Old South.

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