Beech Grove,
September 6th,
Saturday.
Another perch for Noah's duck! Where will I be in a week or
two from this? I shall make a mark, twenty pages from here, and see where I
shall be when I reach it. Here, most probably; but oh, if I could then be at
home! General Carter, who spent the evening with us day before yesterday,
remarked that the first thing he heard as he reached town was that all the
gentlemen and ladies of Clinton were hunting for country lodgings for us. It was
pretty much the case. The General was as kind as ever, bless his gray head! and
made us promise to go back to Linwood with him when he passes back next week.
This is the way we keep the promise — coming out here.
Early yesterday morning we received a note from Eliza
Haynes, one of our indefatigable agents, saying her grandmother, Mrs. McCay,
had consented to receive us, and would come for us in the evening. Immediately
my packing task was begun. But imagine my disappointment, just as I had
finished one trunk, to hear mother announce her determination to let us go
alone, while she remained with Lilly! Prayers, entreaties, tears, arguments,
all failed; and we were forced to submit. So with a heart fuller than I can
express, I repacked the trunk with Miriam's and my clothing, and got ready to
depart. In the evening the carriage drove up to the door with Eliza and her
grandmother, and with a hasty and rather choky good-bye to Lilly and mother, we
were hurried in, and in another moment were off.
I fancied the house would be north of Clinton, so of course
the horses took the road south. Then I decided on a white cottage to the left
of the road, and about two miles out, found that it was to the right, not
painted, and no cottage at all, but a nondescript building, besides. “’T was ever
thus from childhood's hour!” When did I ever fancy anything exactly as it was?
But the appearance does not affect the house, which is really very comfortable,
though apparently unfinished. The same objection might be made to it that I made
to Mrs. Moore's, for there is not a shutter on the place. But fine shade trees
take their place, and here I do not feel the want of them so much, as our room
is in the back of the house, to the west, where the rising sun cannot salute my
nose as it did at Mrs. Moore's. As to what effect the setting sun has, I must
wait for the evening to decide, though I always enjoy that At Greenwell, we
used to walk a mile away from home to see the sun set in an open field.
I find Mrs. McCay an excellent, plain old lady, with neither
airs nor pretentions, and very kindhearted. Here she lives alone, with the
exception of an orphan girl called Jane, whose position, half-menial,
half-equal, it would be hard to define. Poor girl! the name of orphan alone was
enough to make me sorry for her. She must be Friday's child”! she is so “ready
and willing.” Eliza, who it seems stays a great deal with her grandmother, is
one of the brightest little girls I have seen for a long while. She sings and
plays on the piano with a style and assurance that I can only mutely covet. Why
can not I have the confidence I see all others possess? She took me to the
gin-house last evening, though I could not see much, as it was almost sunset
when we arrived. An early tea, and singing, and music after, completed our
evening, and then we were shown to our room.
Mrs. McCay has only room for us two, so it is fortunate that
mother would not come. She says she wants us to spend a few days with her, to see
if we like it, or if we will be willing to be separated from mother. In the
mean time, we can look around for lodgings in a larger and more comfortable
place where we can be together. She tells such stories about the house Lilly
lives in, of its age, and unhealthiness, that I am frightened about mother. She
says she will die if she stays there this month. Miriam and Eliza have gone to
town to see them, and are then going to Mrs. George's to see if she can
accommodate us.
I wanted to have a splendid dream last night, but failed. It
was pleasant, though, to dream of welcoming George and Gibbes back. Jimmy I
could not see; and George was in deep mourning. I dreamed of fainting when I
saw him (a novel sensation, since I never experienced it awake), but I speedily
came to, and insisted on his “pulling Henry Walsh's red hair for his insolence,”
which he promised to do instantly. How absurd! Dreams! dreams! That pathetic “Miss
Sarah, do you ever dream?” comes vividly back to me sometimes. Dream? Don't I!
not the dreams that he meant; but royal, purple dreams, that De Quincey could
not purchase with his opium; dreams that I would not forego for all the
inducements that could be offered. I go to sleep, and pay a visit to heaven or
fairyland. I have white wings, and with another, float in rosy clouds, and look
down on the moving world; or I have the power to raise myself in the air
without wings, and silently float wherever I will, loving all things and
feeling that God loves me. I have heard Paul preach to the people, while I
stood on a fearful rock above. I have been to strange lands and great cities; I
have talked with people I have never beheld. Charlotte Bronte has spent a week
with me — in my dreams — and together we have talked of her sad life.
Shakespeare and I have discussed his works, seated tête-à-
tête over a small table. He pointed out the character of each of his heroines,
explaining what I could not understand when awake; and closed the lecture with “You
have the tenderest heart I have ever read, or sung of” — which compliment,
considering it as original with him, rather than myself, waked me up with
surprise.
SOURCE: Sarah Morgan Dawson, A Confederate Girl's
Diary, p. 213-7
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