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Sarah Morgan was only human. At 16 she thought little of her own talents and never recognized how awesome her literary talents were – as you will discover for yourself in this document. She knew her own thoughts and spoke her mind. Her diary brings the Civil War to life as never before accomplished. Here below is a small extraction revealing her self-examination. At sixteen, Harry gave me a guitar. At first I thought, “Here is a new field where I have no competitors.” I knew no one who played on the guitar; so I set to work, and taught myself to manage it, mother only teaching me how to tune it. But all of a sudden, Miriam took a fancy to it as well. She begged me to teach her how to play the guitar, and I taught her all I knew; but as she gained enthusiasm for the instrument, 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 she has performed. 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 off. It is not selfishness; I love her too much to be selfish with 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. Well, 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 because to "know as many songs as Sarah" is a family proverb. These are 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. |
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I hold that every family has one genius, in some line, no matter what — except in our family, where each of us is a genius, in his own way. Miriam has a genius for the piano. Now I never could bear to compete with any one, knowing that it is inevitably the law of my being to always fall inferior to others, consequently to fail every time I compete with anyone, and failure is so humiliating to me. So it is, that people have this power over me that they may force me to abandon any pursuit simply by competing with me; for knowing that failure is inevitable, rather than fight against my destiny I give up de bonne grâce and begin cheering for the other party. Originally, I was said to have a talent for the piano, as well as Miriam. Sister and Miss Isabella even said I would make a better musician than she because I have 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 again every year or so. People say to me, "Of course you play, what makes you think you can't play?" to which I invariably respond, "Oh, no, I do not play. But you watch Miriam. She plays beautifully!" Or someone will say, "You sing, I heard someone say?" "Oh no, not me. I don't play at all — but you just listen to father sing." That is what I used to say. "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 the one fond of society, and she goes to all the parties and returns everyone's visits for me." The consequence is, that if the person who questions is a stranger, he goes off satisfied that "that Miriam must be one 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. Indeed it is a dull day. Miriam went to Linwood with Lydia yesterday, and I miss them beyond all means of expression. Miriam is so humorous! She says she cannot live without me, and yet she can go away, and stay for months without even thinking of me in the slightest degree. That is extremely funny! And I — well, it is absurd to fancy myself as alive without Miriam to spark my thoughts off of. Miriam would rather not visit with me at all when she is at home, and yet, be it for an hour or a month, I never halfway enjoy myself with 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 boat that forms so ludicrous a contrast to the grand scene around me. Sarah Morgan was only human and subject to several errors in judgment -- but her frank honesty endears Sarah Morgan's world to us continuously from the first page to the last. The only liberties I have taken in presenting this book are to rearrange the very beginning of the diary, as I have done here, and to add a very few words in some of the sentences to add clarification to portions that were quite clear in the 1860s but which needed amplification for us in the 21st century. Other than these subtle changes that I pray you won't even notice -- this is the legitimate work and writing from the (often daily) diary of Sarah Morgan Dawson, a young Confederate girl – and reveals her response to the Civil War as it exploded around her. Lin Stone. |
