Baton Rouge, Louisiana.
March 9th, 1862.
Here I am, at your service, Madame Idleness, waiting for any
suggestion it may please you to put in my weary brain, as a means to pass this
dull, cloudy Sunday afternoon; for the great Pike clock over the way has this
instant struck only half-past three; and if a rain is added to the high wind
that has been blowing ever since the month commenced, and prevents my going to
Mrs. Brunot's before dark, I fear I shall fall a victim to “the blues” for the
first time in my life. Indeed it is dull. Miriam went to Linewood with Lydia
yesterday, and I miss them beyond all expression. Miriam is so funny!
She says she cannot live without me, and yet she can go away, and stay for
months without missing me in the slightest degree. Extremely funny! And I —
well, it is absurd to fancy myself alive without Miriam. She would rather not
visit with me, and yet, be it for an hour or a month, I never halfway enjoy
myself without her, away from home. Miriam is my “Rock ahead” in life; I'll
founder on her yet. It's a grand sight for people out of reach, who will not
come in contact with the breakers, but it is quite another thing to me,
perpetually dancing on those sharp points in my little cockleshell that forms
so ludicrous a contrast to the grand scene around. I am sure to founder!
I hold that every family has at heart one genius, in some
line, no matter what — except in our family, where each is a genius, in his own
way. Hem! And Miriam has a genius for the piano. Now I never could bear to
compete with any one, knowing that it is the law of my being to be inferior to
others, consequently to fail, and failure is so humiliating to me. So it is,
that people may force me to abandon any pursuit by competing with me; for
knowing that failure is inevitable, rather than fight against destiny I give up
de bonne grรขce.
Originally, I was said to have a talent for the piano, as well as Miriam.
Sister and Miss Isabella said I would make a better musician than she, having
more patience and perseverance. However, I took hardly six months' lessons to
her ever so many years; heard how well she played, got disgusted with myself,
and gave up the piano at fourteen, with spasmodic fits of playing every year or
so. At sixteen, Harry gave me a guitar. Here was a new field where I would have
no competitors. I knew no one who played on it; so I set to work, and taught
myself to manage it, mother only teaching me how to tune it. But Miriam took a
fancy to it, and I taught her all I knew; but as she gained, I lost my relish,
and if she had not soon abandoned it, I would know nothing of it now. She does
not know half that I do about it; they tell me I play much better than she; yet
they let her play on it in company before me, and I cannot pretend to play
after. Why is it? It is not vanity, or I would play, confident of
excelling her. It is not jealousy, for I love to see her show her talents. It
is not selfishness; I love her too much to be selfish to her. What is it then? “Simply
lack of self-esteem” I would say if there was no phrenologist near to correct
me, and point out that well-developed hump at the extreme southern and
heavenward portion of my Morgan head. Self-esteem or not, Mr. Phrenologist, the
result is, that Miriam is by far the best performer in Baton Rouge, and I would
rank forty-third even in the delectable village of Jackson.
And yet I must have some ear for music. To “know as many
songs as Sarah” is a family proverb; not very difficult songs, or very
beautiful ones, to be sure, besides being very indifferently sung; but the
tunes will run in my head, and it must take some ear to catch
them. People say to me, “Of course you play?” to which I invariably respond,
"Oh, no, but Miriam plays beautifully!" "You sing, I
believe?" "Not at all — except for father" (that is what I used
to say) — “and the children. But Miriam sings.” “You are fond of
dancing?” “Very; but I cannot dance as well as Miriam.” “Of course, you are
fond of society?” “No, indeed! Miriam is, and she goes to all the parties and
returns all the visits for me.” The consequence is, that if the person who questions
is a stranger, he goes off satisfied that “that Miriam must be a great girl;
but that little sister of hers—! Well! a prig, to say the least!”
So it is Miriam catches all my fish — and so it is, too,
that it is not raining, and I'm off.
SOURCE: Sarah Morgan Dawson, A Confederate Girl's Diary, p. 1-4
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