Sarah Jane

By Beth Carty and Mary Newton Stanard

Evrybodys poor, arent they, Billy? All the nicest people are, he replied. Billy was a war baby. He had a message from General Lee congratulating him on being born, and was quite wise. I was only a since-the-war baby. I climbed on a cricket table and looked at myself in the mahogany-framed glass hanging over Granmunnys dimity dressing table. I decided a girl with a shingled head was utterly, hopelessly ugly, and I wondered why God hadnt made me a boy. What place would there be in the world for an ugly girl?
As a child who grew to womanhood in the years following the war of Aggression on my Southern countrymen, I think I am the one most qualified to write this book. I have told only one womans experience, however, I have been well known in my time as a writer of Virginia history and its people. I cannot say I am an authority on your heritage and neighbors, but I can say that I am on mine. Mary Newton Stanard

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Dec 30, 2014
• ISBN: 9781490842202

Beth Carty

As Mary’s niece I wasn’t born until 114 years after her entrance on the world scene, in 1865. My coming-of-age on a little farm in the hills of southwest Missouri was not unlike hers. I felt a kinship to her joys and struggles as I edited her story from the soft, old pages of her original manuscript—a little at a time—while I changed toddler’s diapers, kept house for my father and sister, and awaited my husband’s return from his work in the North. —Beth Carty Sarah Jane is a fascinating account of the fallen Confederacy brought vividly to life as she learns that downfall of pride in politics, fashion, friendship, and romance isn’t necessarily the end of her world. Overall, faith in God shines bright. Sarah Jane is a fascinating account of the fallen Confederacy brought vividly to life as she learns that downfall of pride in politics, fashion, friendship, and romance isn’t necessarily the end of her world. Overall, faith in God shines bright.

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Copyright © 2014 Elizabeth Carty.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

WestBow Press

A Division of Thomas Nelson & Zondervan

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Bloomington, IN 47403

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ISBN: 978-1-4908-4151-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4908-4152-6 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4908-4220-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014911106

WestBow Press rev. date: 12/03/2014

Contents

Home

The Black Members of the Family

The Dumb Members

Sarah Jane and Fardy

The Big House

The Broken Image

Sarah Jane at Church

Visiting the Patients

Learning To Read

Eleanor

The Move

The New Home

Day-Dreams

Farnham Society

Farnham Fashions

The Ear-Rings

Miss Betsy

Queen O’ The May

The Death of Eleanor

Sarah Jane’s Politics

School Days

Elmwood Revisited

Full-Fledged

Shouldering Responsibilities

Sarah Jane in the Wide World

Sarah Jane Goes Shopping

A Dish of Gossip

Sarah Jane at the Theatre

Sorely Perplexed

Tony’s Return

Epilogue

Other books by Mary Newton Stanard

Other books by her niece, Beth Carty

Bibliography

Images

Munny

Fardy

Gran’munny

Mamie (seated)

Sarah Jane with one of her little brothers

Mamie

Billy

Sarah Jane

Tony

Sarah Page, first recipient of the Page Bible

Dedicated to the characters from Sarah Jane’s world

A True Story, written by the hand of the lady who lived it, Mary Mann Page Newton Stanard, herein as, Sarah Jane Newton.

Copied and edited from the original manuscript by her niece, Beth Carty, four generations later.

Home

The world as I first made note of it consisted of Home and Elmwood, with a short stretch of sandy, country road between.

There was on either side of the road a deep ditch, edged with weeds and queen’s lace and wild-rose bushes.

Beyond the ditch—on either side—a row of cedars with white-washed trunks stood still when you were walking, but stalked past rapidly in the opposite direction when you were driving.

Christmas Day Elmwood carriage was sent over for us to dine with Gran’pa and Gran’ma. Riding in the carriage I watched the cedars, every twig heavily laden with snow. As the horses trotted over the frozen ground it was delightful to me to watch these trees, racing past, looking like huge iced cakes set on legs.

When we had caught Gran’pa and Gran’ma’s Chris’mas gif’ and eaten as much turkey and plum-pudding as could stuff, and fired all of our pop-crackers, the carriage took us Home. Then the trees turned around and marched the other way; but I never could see whether any of them stopped at our gate, because I always went to sleep in the carriage.

Beyond the two important points that made my world there was an unexplored wilderness and uninhabited save by bears and Yankees and kukluxes and knights rescuing beautiful ladies.

Home was a dear place to me, notwithstanding a conspicuous absence of anything akin to splendor. The house was much smaller than Elmwood and was just a rented cottage, for my mother and father were a war-time couple and had married without knowing how or where they would live after the war. They were certain the war would not last long and they would settle down happily in the success of their beloved Confederacy.

The house was built of wood, painted white. There was a pretty grove of different kinds of trees, including hickories, which bore nuts I thought very good, though they were rather hard to crack, and oaks whose beautiful acorns served me as toys.

In the grove too, was a well, with a cool, damp bucket hanging in it, which I loved to see lowered and brought up again filled with beautiful sparkling water that was oh, so good when you were tired and warm from play.

Immediately around the house were fine locust and black walnut trees. Behind it was a garden where fig, raspberry, gooseberry and currant bushes grew; beyond the garden a small orchard, and then the fields.

Inside the house there were – downstairs – a parlor and a dining-room, where there was nothing children might not handle save the clock and the vases on the mantles, and the mantles were so high that these things were out of temptation’s way. I sometimes looked at them, dreamily, and thought how nice it would be to be a grown-up and wind the clock and put fresh flowers from the garden in the vases.

There were no carpets on the floors, summer or winter – which Munny (as we called our mother) lamented, and we children liked – but Black John kept them white and smooth by frequent use of the dry-rubbing brush and occasional application of bee’s-wax. The parlor contained very little furniture, which we liked—it made room for sliding and other kinds of play on rainy days.

There were the four portraits of ladies and gentlemen who never leaned back—one on either side of the mantle, one on either side the door. Their eyes continually followed me and sometimes made me very uncomfortable, especially if I had been naughty. And there were the already mentioned tall china vases – flowered, with gilt ears for handles, far out of harm’s way.

Then there was the center-table holding the lamp, the Family Bible and the daguerreotypes (in leather cases that closed with little clasps) of my father and uncles in their confederate uniforms; and the cane-seated chairs around the wall.

The velvet chairs at Elmwood, all dressed up in their little tidies were much finer, of course, but I had a very special weakness for the cane-seated ones at Home. Every morning when Fardy (as we called our father) read from the big Bible and had Family prayers, and I knelt beside one of these chairs, I would see how many times I could count the little holes in the seat, while we were upon our knees. It made the time go by much faster.

My favorite room downstairs was Munny’s room, where there was always a fire of logs or hickory chips in the wide fireplace and where everybody went for comfort. I don’t know which I loved best—the sparks, some of them popping out on the hearth, others dancing up the chimney, the flames that crackled and leaped, or the still red heart of the fire that did nothing but glow and glow. I loved it all and knew it loved me too.

Munny’s room, as well as Gran’munny’s room, which was just over it, boasted of a floor covering, in the shape of a home-made rag carpet.

In Munny’s room the next to the littlest baby slept upon a little trundle-bed that was rolled out from under the big four poster bed at night, and on the opposite side of the big bed was the littlest baby’s cradle. Billy and I slept in the nursery adjoining Gran’munny’s room, except when I had earache, when I was allowed to have the trundle-bed and the next to the littlest baby went up to the nursery.

I often had earache—had it terribly, but I made it my proudest boast that I did not cry. I found that it helped me to bear the pain just as much, to sing, so I sang, as best I could, my favorite:

I want to be an angel, and with the angels stand, a crown upon my forehead, a harp within my hand.

Sometimes the pain was so great I could not sing the words, but just hummed the tune softly to myself. Strange, though I did not cry, Munny and Fardy did. I could feel their soft tears falling on my face as they bent over me.

The most interesting object in Gran’munny’s room was a tall secretary with the most fascinating little drawers and pigeon-holes and, above them, a bookcase full of books. Into one of the little drawers I was sometimes permitted to peep—the one where the peppermint drops stayed.

I longed to see inside the others too, though with a fearful longing, for I had been told that they held larovers to catch meddlers. Now larovers were creatures of which I had often been warned, but had never seen, and, naturally, I had great curiosity to know what they were like. I associated them with those other dreadful beings of whom I had heard much talk, but had never seen – Yankees.

Of the two species of terror, Yankees must be the most savage, I decided, for while larovers seemed to be dangerous to meddlers and children only, I judged from the talk I constantly heard that grown-ups too, were afraid of Yankees. As to those other mysterious creatures, Kukluxes, which Mammy Dilcie said would catch me if I did not behave myself, I bothered my mind very little about them, for Billy said only colored people who did not know any better, believed in them.

Billy was a war-baby and had a message from General Lee, congratulating him on being born, and was quite wise. I was only a since-the-war baby.

One thing concerning larovers seemed plain and that was that they must be very small, judging from the tiny places in which they were able to conceal themselves. I finally concluded that a larover must be about the size of a mouse.

The company-room, which was over the parlor, contained two awe-inspiring features, which combined to make it a place to be avoided, though it had a certain fascination. One of these was a wardrobe, which was empty except when there was staying company, save for a single garment. From one of its hooks hung–long, narrow and limp–Mr. Barlow’s black silk gown.

Mr. Barlow was the minister who lived somewhere in the wilderness with the bears and the beautiful ladies, and who came every first Sunday to spend the day and night with us and have service in the old church, which I did not wonder was Lonial, since nobody ever went near it (as far as I knew) save once a month.

Mr. Barlow slept in the company-room and although the gown had slits in several of its folds, took it with him when he preached. I hoped the slits did not show when he had it on. The fact that he came out of the wilderness, together with his great height and the stentorian voice in which he said: Well, my little girl, how do you do? inspired me with awe, a little less degree of which I felt whenever I caught a glimpse of the limp, black garment that seemed like an unsubstantial reproduction of Mr. Barlow’s own person. Even when the wardrobe door was closed I knew the gown was inside of it and contemplation of the wardrobe itself produced in me the sensations, I fancy, a haunted house would arouse in a believer in ghosts.

Why Mr. Barlow’s gown should remain in the company-room at Home all the time, when he only came out of the wilderness on first Sundays, was a puzzle I never was able to solve.

On the opposite side of the company-room from the wardrobe the ceiling sloped to a wall only a little higher than my head.

A small door led through this wall to a cuddy as black as midnight. Even more uncanny to my mind than the wardrobe with its ghostly gown, was the dark cuddy. Yet I often told myself, with a shudder, that if I should be in serious danger from Yankees, larovers, or anything else, the cuddy would be a safe hiding-place. Who would be able to find me in that pitchy dark?

There was little furniture in the room beside the wardrobe, and the bed with its four tall posts, and a little pair of steps to help the company to climb into it. The floor was bare save for a little rag-rug or two, and the whitewashed walls were bare save for the picture of a beautiful lady in a turban, called, Beatrichi, (though her name was not spelled like that) which hung over the mantle. Munny called her a chromo and I wondered why she was not a portrait. She looked just like one—only her eyes did not stare at you so when you were naughty.

There were curtains at the company-room windows. They were raised or lowered by green cords with tassels, which worked on little pulleys at the side of the window. Dry goods boxes draped with dimity, which had the virtue of being easily washed and thus kept snowy white, did duty as dressing-table and wash-stand.

One day I did actually hide in the cuddy – though it was from neither Yankees nor larovers that I hid, but from Quinine.

In the neighborhood of Home dwelt a fearful enemy named Malaria upon whom it was necessary to wage continual warfare, and the chief weapon employed in this warfare was quinine – liquid quinine – quinine-in-solution, as it was called.

This monster, Malaria, seemed to have a special grudge against poor little me and would often throw me into a violent ague, which would shake my body until my teeth chattered, and be followed by scorching fever. To ward off these attacks, I would, at certain seasons of the year, be given a dose of quinine-in-solution—a dessert-spoon full of it—every morning before breakfast, for weeks together.

During these weeks the swallowing of the bitter dose made this world a cruel place to me. Well I knew that resistance did no good – that it made matters worse, in fact; yet when time came for the dose to be administered I invariably resisted with all my might and main.

The grown folks seemed to want to help me. One by one the jars of apple-jam upon the store-room shelves were given me until I owned them all. Auntie would promise me peppermint-drops from the secretary drawer, Munny to cut paper-dolls for me, Fardy to take me to ride upon Ole Ned.

Everybody offered to do something for my pleasure, yet in regard to the one thing I begged and prayed them not to do, they were utterly unrelenting. They not only insisted that I must swallow the nauseous stuff, but when I positively declined (as I always did) they insultingly forced it upon me.

They held my legs and my arms when – in the agony the thought of the bitter dose produced – I kicked and struggled. Paying no attention to my screams of woe, they even held my nose – pinching it till it hurt – and forced the stuff down my throat.

When they had succeeded, they first gave me water to drink – then a swallow of coffee – then stuck a pickle in my mouth, or gave me a morsel of ham to suck; as though with belated mercy, they would undo what they had done.

But it was no use! No matter what there was for breakfast, no matter what there was for dinner, no matter what there was for supper, it all had one flavor – the lasting, cruel bitter of quinine-in-solution.

During one of these periods of taking quinine every morning I had inspiration – I thought of the cuddy. Mr. Barlow was there and soon after breakfast all the grown-ups would go with him to church. Why not slip out of the room during family prayers, steal up-stairs and hide myself in the cuddy? They would search for me until service-time, no doubt, when they would give it up and go off to church, and then I would come out of my hiding-place, and perhaps Patsy would give me some batter-cakes and molasses, and contentment, as Munny called the delicious, sweetened hot-water and milk she gave us in place of tea and coffee.

The idea seemed to be a brilliant one and I promptly put it into execution.

When I opened the cuddy door and looked in, my heart almost failed me. I hesitated – listening.

Presently I knew from sounds in the room below that prayers were over. In a minute more I heard them calling me first in one room and then another–heard somebody start up-stairs. I hastily entered the dark hole and pulled the little door to behind me.

I shivered. Fright made me cold, and my brow and palms were clammy with the icy dew that suddenly gathered upon them. I shut my eyes tight that I might not see the dark. I could scarcely breathe. Something was clutching my heart and my throat, which was dry, so that I felt sure if I screamed no sound would come. Still, nearly paralyzed with terror as I was, I felt that the suffering was worthwhile if by it I could escape the bitter dose.

I knew they were searching for me, for I could dimly hear them running about and calling.

Finally I heard somebody enter the company-room. It was Mammy Dilcie – I knew by the shuffling step. Still, I felt safe – Mammy knew my fear of the dark cuddy too well to look for me in there, I assured myself. But the next moment Mammy Dilcie had opened the door and was dragging me—kicking and screaming—out, and calling,

Heah she, Mistis! Heah she, Marster! Heah Sa’Jane! She done hide in de cuddy, de bad chile!

Never had the prospect of the dose seemed so terrible to me as on that bright Sunday morning, when I had suffered so much to escape it. In my disappointment I raged – striking and biting at Mammy Dilcie and uttering piercing shrieks. I made up