[Illustration: Caroline E. Merrick]
OLD TIMES IN DIXIE LAND
A Southern Matron’s Memories
BY CAROLINE E. MERRICK
NEW YORK
THE GRAFTON PRESS
1901
COPYRIGHT, 1901,
BY CAROLINE ELIZABETH MERRICK
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. COTTAGE HALL 5
II. OLD TIMES 11
III. HOME LIFE 17
IV. RUMORS OF OUR CIVIL WAR 24
V. MY DAUGHTER LAURA’S DIARY 37
VI. WAR MEMORIES: HOW BECKY COLEMAN WASHED HESTER WHITEFIELD’S
FACE 48
VII. WAR MEMORIES: THE STORY OF PATSY’S GARDEN. 59
VIII. HOW WOMAN CAME TO THE RESCUE 69
IX. MISS VINE’S DINNER PARTY AND ITS ABRUPT CONCLUSION 83
X. OUR FEDERAL FRIENDS AND THE COLORED BROTHER 104
XI. LAURA’S DEATH IN THE EPIDEMIC OF ’78 116
XII. A FIRST SPEECH AND SOME NOTED WOMEN 124
XIII. FRANCES WILLARD 141
XIV. SORROW AND SYMPATHY 153
XV. BECKY SPEAKS UP IN MEETING IN THE INTERESTS OF MORALITY 164
XVI. MRS. JULIA WARD HOWE AND THE BLESSED COLORED PEOPLE 171
XVII. NERVOUS PROSTRATION AND A VENERABLE COUSIN 186
XVIII. ENTER--AS AN EPISODE--MRS. COLUMBIANA PORTERFIELD 197
XIX. THE SOUTHERN WOMAN BECOMES A “CLUBABLE” BEING 212
XX. “THE BEST IS YET TO BE” 229
OLD TIMES IN DIXIE LAND
CHAPTER I.
COTTAGE HALL.
I have not written these memoirs entirely for the amusement or instruction
of my contemporaries; but I shall feel rewarded if I elicit thereby the
interest and sympathy which follows an honest effort to tell the truth in
the recollections of one’s life--for, after all, truth is the chief virtue
of history. My ancestry may be of as little importance in itself as this
book is likely to be after the lapse of a few years; yet it is
satisfactory to know that your family is respectable,--even if you cannot
prove it to be so ancient that it has no beginning, and so worthy that it
ought to have no end. I am willing, however, that my genealogy should be
investigated; there are books giving the whole history; and it is surely
an innocent and praiseworthy pride--that of good pedigree.
I was born November 24th, 1825, at our plantation home, called Cottage
Hall, in the parish of East Feliciana, in the State of Louisiana. My
father was a man of firmness and of courage amounting to stoicism. He
appeared calm and self-possessed under all circumstances. He ruled his own
house, but so judicious was his management that even his slaves loved him.
Though I was very young when my mother died, I can remember her and the
great affection manifested for her by the entire family. While not
realizing the importance of my loss, I knew enough to resent the coming of
another to fill her place. My father said he wanted a good woman who could
see that his family of six children were properly brought up and educated.
His nephew, Dr. James Thomas, introduced him to Miss Susan Brewer, who he
thought would fill all these requirements. The marriage was soon arranged,
and I was brought home, to Cottage Hall, by my eldest sister, with whom I
had been living. The other children had laid aside their mourning and I
was informed that I also had new dresses; but I declined to wear them or
to call the new mistress of the household by the name of “Mother,” which
had been freely given her by the rest of the family. When my father lifted
me from the carriage he said: “My child, I will now take you to your new
mother.” As he kissed me affectionately I turned away and said: “I am not
your child, and I have no mother now.” I have never forgotten the sad look
he gave me nor the tenderness he manifested toward my waywardness as he
took me in his arms and carried me into the house. I was a troublesome
little girl with an impetuous temper; perhaps it was on this account that
he often said: “This golden-haired darling is the dearest little one in
the house--and the most exacting.” My father had a vein of quaint humor
and abounded in proverbial wisdom. I have heard him say, “Yes, I have a
very bad memory--I remember what should be forgotten.”
We often had friends and schoolmates to spend the day or night at Cottage
Hall; but when these visits were returned we were always accompanied by
our married sister or some equally responsible _chaperone_. We complained
much of this rigid rule, yet I now think it was a wise exaction that every
night should find us sheltered under the home roof. My father had no
patience with the innocent flirtations of young people; he thought such
conduct implied a lack of straight-forward honesty which was inexcusable.
Few men can understand the temptations of a young girl’s environment,
which sometimes cause her to make promises in good faith that cannot be
carried out, and my father had no pity on one who so doted on general
admiration that she was unwilling to contract her life into a simple home
with one true, brave heart. Such an one, he thought, deserved to become a
lonely old maid and hold a pet dog in her arms, with never a child of her
own, because she had turned away from her highest vocation--and all for
pure vanity and folly.
My stepmother was a gifted woman. She was born in Wilbraham,
Massachusetts, in 1790, and died July 25th, 1876. She had come South by
the advice of Dr. Wilbur Fisk, and was instrumental in bringing into
Alabama, Mississippi and Louisiana over sixty accomplished teachers, she
herself having been at the head of successful schools in New York,
Baltimore, Tuscaloosa and Washington. The calling of teaching she gave up
when she married my father, but the cause of education in the South was
greatly promoted by her influence, for which reason she has been compared
to Mary Lyon of New England.
On one occasion, when my stepmother had a large party of Northern people
at tea, they began praising the products of their own State and
depreciating those of Louisiana. My childish anger was stirred, and I
asked our guests why they had come down here if they had everything so
much nicer and better in Massachusetts? I said no more, for a maid was
called and I was sent to bed, retiring with indignation while the company
laughed spiritedly at my impertinence. One of my sisters wrote me later,
“Ma has no occasion to teach you how to manage, for you were born with a
talent for ruling--whether wisely or not time will show.”
Cottage Hall was five miles from Jackson, Louisiana. My father was for
many years trustee of the college there which afterward became Centenary
College of the Methodist Episcopal Church South. His death occurred in
1849, and I have preserved a eulogy delivered by President Augustus
Baldwin Longstreet during the Commencement exercises of the year. From
this I transcribe a few sentences:
“A sad announcement will be anticipated by those who have been long in
the habit of attending these occasions when they cast their eyes over
the Board of Trustees and see that the seat of Captain David Thomas is
vacant. Never since the foundation of the College was it so before.
He was present at the birth of this institution; he saw it in all its
promising and dispiriting visitations; and while it had no peculiar
claims upon him, he watched over it with parental solicitude. At
length he rejoiced in its commitment to the care of his own church;
and under the management of my predecessor, he saw it assume an
honorable rank among the kindred institutions of our Southern clime.
His head, his heart and purse were all at its service. He was
anticipating the events of this week with hopeful gratification when,
within forty-eight hours of the time he expected to mingle his
counsels with his colleagues, it pleased God to cut him down. Were our
griefs always proportioned to our losses, his wife, his children, the
orphan, the poor, the church, the trustees, the faculty, and the
students would all have raised one wild shriek at the twang of the
archer’s bow which laid him low. Were the joys of friendship
proportioned to the good fortune of a friend, we should all rejoice
and mingle our voices in loud hallelujahs that death had snatched him
away; for that he has gone direct from earth to heaven none can doubt
who knew him. I find it hard to restrain the starting tears; but this
is my weakness. We all should rejoice, but this our nature will not
permit; yet we must testify our respect for his memory.”
Then Judge Longstreet read the resolutions of the Board of Trustees of
Centenary College, which had been placed in his hands. This extraordinary
man was a dear friend of our family, and every child in the house enjoyed
his visits. He played on a glass flute for us, and it was a choice
privilege when we were allowed to hear him read from his “Georgia Scenes”
about the comical doings of Ned Brace and Cousin Patsy. His peculiarities
bordered on eccentricity and his wit was inimitable and irresistible.
Mrs. Longstreet was a lovely woman of whose presence one never wearied.
She wore the daintiest of white caps, and seemed in the eyes of all like
the angel she was. Of Byron, Walter Scott, and historical literature she
could give pages from memory with great expression and in the sweetest
voice imaginable. She was ideally sweet even in her most advanced years--a
vision which once seen can never be forgotten.