HOME LIFE.
My home during my early married life was in the town of Clinton, La. While
I never coveted the ownership of many slaves, my comfort was greatly
promoted by the possession of some who had been carefully trained to be
good domestics, and who were given to me by my father on my marriage. I
always liked to go into the kitchen, but sometimes my cook, who had been
for twelve years in training, scorned my inexperienced youth, would say
emphatically, “_Go_ inter de _house_, Miss Carrie! Yer ain’t no manner er
use heah only ter git yer face red wid de heat. I’ll have dinner like yer
wants it. Jes’ read yer book an’ res’ easy till I sen’s it ter de
dining-room.” I like just as much to go into the kitchen to-day, and am
accounted a “born cook,” by my family, being accredited with a genius for
giving those delicious and elusive flavors that are inspirations and
cannot be taught. The artist cook burns neither food nor fingers, is never
hurried or flurried, and does not reveal in appearance or manner that the
table is indebted to her handicraft.
The common idea of tyranny and ill-usage of slaves was often reversed in
my case, and I was subject at times to exactions and dictations of the
black people who belonged to me, which now seem almost too extraordinary
and incredible to relate. I made periodical visits to our plantation in
Point Coupe parish, over fifty miles distant from Clinton. _En route_ I
would often desire my coachman to drive faster, and he would do so for the
moment, then would fall back into the old pace. If I remonstrated he would
say: “I’s ’sponsible fer dese yeah horses, an’ dey got ter fotch us back
home, an’ I ain’t er gwine ter kill ’em gettin’ ter whar we gwine ter; an’
I’d tell Marse Edwin de same thing if he was heah.”
Gardening has always greatly claimed my heart and time. I have taken
prizes at horticultural exhibits, and have been no little vainglorious in
this last year of the century to be able to show the public the only
blooming century-plant in New Orleans, or indeed in the State, so far as I
know, and for whose blossoming I have been waiting thirty years. There is
a “mild and gentle” but indissoluble sympathy between the human soul and
the brown earth from which we have sprung, and to which we shall return.
There is no outward influence that can be compared to that of living,
growing, blooming things. The resurrections of the springtime cause an
epidemic of gardening fever that prevails until intenser sunshine
discourages exertions. When buds are bursting and color begins to glow on
every bush and trellis I do not see how any one can be wholly miserable.
The great season of hope and promise stirs into fruitfulness of some sort
the blood that has been marking time for many years. This ever renewed,
undiscouraged passion of making the earth produce seems a proof that
man’s natural occupation is husbandry. He keeps at it through love as well
as necessity, and every springtime he, as little subdued as nature, renews
the contest. It is his destiny.
Therefore it is hardly a matter for surprise that my first-born child
appealed so strongly to my love of growing things that the office of my
nurse was a mere sinecure, for my boy was always in my arms--perhaps the
more that I had been cut off prematurely from my dolls. With every moment
devoted to his interests he became such a precocious wonder that all the
servants prophesied: “Dat chile’s not long for _dis_ worl’, Miss
Cal_line_!” I was not disturbed, however, by these mournful predictions,
knowing how much time and patience had been invested in his baby
education. When I look back on this period I excuse myself on account of
my youth, yet at the same time I pity myself for my ignorance. The
experience I bought was high-priced.
The heavy and exacting responsibilities of a slaveholder did not rest upon
me with a lightness commensurate with my years. During my annual visits to
the plantation I was not sure of uninterrupted rest even at night, for I
never could refuse an interview to any of the negroes who called upon me.
I observe that my diaries of those days are full of notes of my attendance
upon sick servants. When President Lincoln issued his proclamation of
freedom to our slaves I exclaimed: “Thank heaven! I too shall be free at
last!”--forgetful of the legal disabilities to which white women of these
United States are yet in bondage.
In the year 1851 I made my first trip to the North.
While visiting in Ohio, my husband said: “I think a little longer stay
here will cure you of your anti-slavery principles;” but I rejected with
scorn the idea that I would allow my personal comfort to bias my judgment;
though I had to admit that one of my own trained “darkies” was superior
“help” to any that I had, so far, encountered. My diary of the day
records: “I find the children here are set to work as soon as they are
able ‘to do a turn’ or go on an errand, and are kept steadily at it until
they grow up, run away, or die. Dear little ‘Sis Daisy’ in this house is
running constantly all day long and her little fat hands are broader than
mine, from grasping things too large and heavy for so small a child to
handle. She drops to sleep sometimes in the big chair or on the lounge in
my room. I cover her with my dress and don’t know anything about her when
she is called--happy to be sure she is getting some rest. Night must be a
blissful time for the overworked hired girls of the North, as they know
nothing of the many restful stops our self-protected blacks allow
themselves ‘between times.’”
Slavery had many aspects. On the occasion of my sister Ellen’s marriage I
was visiting at my father’s home. Julia, my nurse, was of course deeply
interested in the preparations; and at one time when she wished to be a
spectator, my nine-months-old baby declined to oblige her by going to
sleep. I happened to follow her into a darkened room where she had taken
the child to be rocked, and was just in time to witness a heavy blow
administered in anger to the little creature. In an instant the child was
in my arms. “Go out of my sight,” I said, “you shall never touch her
again. You are _free_ from this hour!” At the end of the week I was seated
in the carriage with the baby on my lap, about to return home. Julia stood
awaiting orders. I gave her none. “Shall I get in?” she finally asked.
“You are free,” said I, “do as you please.” She hesitated until the
coachman peremptorily ordered her to get in and let him drive on.
I held the child during the long drive to Clinton, though I was very
tired, and installed another nurse as soon as I reached home, ignoring
Julia’s existence. She had her home in the yard and her meals from my
table as before. One of the other servants finally came to me saying: “I
declare, Miss Cal_line_, Julia goin’ to die if you doan’ giv’ her
somethin’ ter do. She doan’ eat nothin’. Can’t yo set her ter washin’?”
“She may wash for herself or for you if she wishes,” I replied; “she is
free!” At the end of two weeks Julia threw herself at my feet in a deluge
of tears begging to be forgiven and to be allowed to nurse her baby again.
I gave it back to her; but the child had turned against her, and it was
several days before the old relations were restored. There were afterward
no similar ruptures, but Julia always resented the slightest reproof or
adverse criticism administered to that child by parent or teachers.
At twenty I was the mother of three children, born in Clinton, Louisiana.
My last and youngest came twelve years later. When my friends remarked
upon the late arrival I informed them that he had come in answer to
special prayer, like Hannah’s of old, so that my husband might have a
child to comfort his old age when the others were all settled in homes of
their own.
Children are our treasure-idols; we are joined to them by our
heartstrings. We spend anxious days and sleepless nights soothing their
cries and comforting their wailings, and we rejoice in our power to
cherish and nourish them into a full and happy life by any sacrifice of
ourselves. God pity the desolate little ones who come into the world
unwelcomed, and grow up in loveless homes! When in the great yellow fever
epidemic of 1878 I lost my eldest daughter, my good children, David and
Lula, gave me their baby Bessie to comfort my sorrow. She was my own for
four years. I was in the habit of inviting my cousin, Miss Carrie Brewer,
to come regularly to instruct and play with her, making the visits a
recreation for both. In this manner one of the most successful teachers of
the kindergartens of this city began her development, and thus my interest
in systematic child culture was inaugurated.
Various children certainly require various management. Their education
cannot begin too soon. The Froebel system of kindergarten teaching has
usually a salutary influence on troublesome little folks, and is deserving
of the increasing attention it is receiving. It is only in these latest
days of the century that the initiatory period before school-life begins
has had any worthy recognition.
Mr. Merrick and I belonged to the New Orleans Educational Society. I was
chairman of a committee which was requested to make a report of its views
on the meeting of June 4th, 1884. Shortly after handing in this
report--which it had been thought proper a man should read--we attended a
special meeting for the annual election of officers. When the balloting
began, I found I was not to be allowed any part in this matter, though
paying the same dues ($5.00) as the men, and a working member of a
committee. In my disgust I said: “I always thought that a vote in
political affairs was withheld from woman because it is not desirable for
her to come in contact with the common rabble lest her purity be soiled.
She should never descend into the foul, dusty arena of the polling booth;
but here in Tulane Hall where we are specially invited, in the respectable
presence of many good men--some of them our ‘natural protectors’--it is
not fair; it is as unjust as it would be for me to invite a party to
dinner and then to summon half of them to the table while the other half
are required to remain as spectators only of the feast to which all had
had the same call.” After that I attended no other meeting of the
Educational Society, and requested my husband to discontinue paying my
dues.