A Hairdresser's Experience in High Life

Eliza Potter, Xiomara Santamarina

• Publisher: The University of North Carolina Press
• Year: 2009
• Print ISBN: 9780807859827, 9780807833353
• eBook ISBN: 9780807898666
• Topic: Social Sciences
• Subtopic: Social Science Biographies
• Index: Social Sciences

Here is the first fully annotated edition of a landmark in early African American literature — Eliza Potter’s 1859 autobiography, A Hairdresser’s Experience in High Life. Potter was a freeborn black woman who, as a hairdresser, was in a unique position to hear about, receive confidences from, and observe wealthy white women — and she recorded it all in a revelatory book that delighted Cincinnati’s gossip columnists at the time. But more important is Potter’s portrait of herself as a wage-earning woman, proud of her work, who earned high pay and accumulated quite a bit of money as one of the nation’s earliest “beauticians” at a time when most black women worked at the bottom of the socioeconomic ladder. Because her work offered insights into the private lives of elite white women, Potter carved out a literary space that featured a black working woman at the center, rather than at the margins, of the era’s transformations in gender, race, and class structure. Xiomara Santamarina provides an insightful introduction to this edition that includes newly discovered information about Potter, discusses the author’s strong satirical voice and proud working-class status, and places the narrative in the context of nineteenth-century literature and history.

The Author’s Appeal

It may perhaps be considered presumptive for one in my humble sphere of life to think of writing a book; but, influenced by the earnest persuasions of many ladies and gentlemen, I have at last concluded that I might just as well note down a few of my experiences for their amusement as not.

The unlettered of all ages have numbered in their ranks many with sufficient observation and intelligence to have written more entertaining books than many which have emanated from cultivated pens, had they only possessed the courage to tell what they knew in simple, plain language—could they only remember that the mouths of babes and sucklings have, in other days, perfected the praise of the mightiest. Those days may come again.

The physician writes his diary, and doubtless his means of discovering the hidden mysteries of life are great. The clergyman, whose calling inspires the deepest confidence, and into whose ear the tales of sorrow are unreservedly breathed, sends forth his diary to an eager world, and other innumerable chroniclers of fireside life have existed; but the hair-dresser will yield rivalship to none in this regard. If domestic bitterness and joy, and all the heart-emotions that exist, cannot be discovered by her, she defies all the rest of the world to find them out.

My avocation calls me into the upper classes of society almost exclusively; and there reign as many elements of misery as the world can produce. No one need go into alleys to hunt up wretchedness; they can find it in perfection among the rich and fashionable of every land and nation. Oh! if tesselated hearths and satin tapestries could speak, what tales of agony they might tell! If the marble statues that adorn the riches of lordly mansions could open their mouths, how would they outrival all poetry and romance in the incidents they could proclaim! and could the nuptial couch, with its silken hangings, unfold its memories, could we bear to listen to its disclosures? But nowhere do hearts betray themselves more unguardedly than in the private boudoir, where the hair-dresser’s mission makes her a daily attendant. Why, then, should not the hair-dresser write, as well as the physician and clergyman? She will tell her story in simpler language; but it will be none the less truthful, none the less strange.¹

Chapter 1

MY DEBUT

I HAVE PROMISED to give you a sketch of my experiences in those walks of life where fate has led me, up to the present time. You will find them somewhat rambling and desultory; but I beg you will overlook much that you will find a little harum scarum, considering the humble condition of your narrator.¹

I was brought up in New York, and went out, at an early age, to earn my living, in the service of people of ton.² For some years, this occupation was agreeable to me; but at length I wearied of it, and being at liberty to choose my own course, I determined to travel, and to gratify my long-cherished desire to see the world—and especially the Western world: so I started as soon as possible toward the setting sun.³ At Buffalo, however, my journey was suddenly arrested by a sort of ceremony called matrimony, which I entered into very naturally, and became quieted down under it for a length of time, just as naturally. I have seen other persons do the same thing, and so, I suppose, I need not be ashamed to own having committed a weakness, which has, from the beginning of time, numbered the most respectable of the earth among its victims.⁴ But it matters not how or why, after a season of quiet, or unquiet, just as you please to call it, the desire for roving again took possession of me; and I determined to visit Canada, before going to Ohio. I therefore proceeded to Queenstown, and there took passage on a steamer for Toronto.

I was alone in the world—self-exiled from home and friends, to be sure— but it was not until we were out some distance upon the rolling waters of the lake, that I realized my isolated condition. I sat upon the deck, surrounded by people; but being a stranger among strangers, I had no claim upon the notice of any one; and I gazed out, with somewhat saddened feelings, upon the waste of waters before me. My nature is sympathetic, however; and as confusion reigned everywhere upon the boat, I soon grew nervous with excitement. Among the passengers was the Governor-General of Canada, with his family and suite, beside many distinguished persons of the Province. They observed my embarrassed manner, and spoke kindly to me; for which I was extremely grateful, and did not fail to express to them my thanks. But at dinner, these kind people really made me feel uncomfortable: my situation was a novel one; I had never before been associated with those who considered themselves my superiors—at table; but upon this occasion, I was invited to sit and take my meal with those who, had they been educated in my own country, would have indignantly repudiated any such arrangement: and it was not until after repeated solicitations from them, that I consented to take my seat. The whole party was merry and pleasant, and I soon felt at my ease, and not at all like an intruder. Well-bred people perfectly understand the art of making all comfortable around them, no matter what their color or condition may be.⁵ I have observed that parvenu ladies and gentlemen know nothing whatever of this gentle art: born and brought up in coarse atmospheres, refined conduct should never be expected of them. Society is made up of varieties; but it is easy for the humblest servant to distinguish the well-born and highly-bred lady, under the plainest garb, from the parvenu woman, whose sudden good luck and well-filled purse dresses her in lace, seats her in a carriage, and places her in circles where she is more endured than courted.⁶

The table was loaded with every luxury; but the excitement occasioned by the novelty of my position deprived me of appetite. I was entirely unfamiliar with table etiquette, and felt conscious of looking awkward and embarrassed; but the kind ladies and gentlemen, understanding the nature of my discomfort, spared no pains to put me at my ease.

On sped the vessel, with its precious freight of human life, each heart beating quicker as the distance from land, and home, and friends was shortened by the revolutions of the mighty wheels. How much of the happiness of this world is comprised in such anticipated meetings! and how miserable they must be who know nothing of such joys as these!

Before we touched the shores of Toronto I felt perfectly at home among my new-found friends. They had descended from their high position to be civil and agreeable to the humble stranger, and from my heart I shall bless and pray for them to the end of my days. Their gentle treatment will never be forgotten, and I hope the eyes of these dear people may some day meet this poor tribute to their kindness and worth.

At Toronto I was welcomed by my own relatives and their numerous friends and acquaintances, and received many invitations to balls, parties and social gatherings. After mingling in these gay assemblies for some weeks, I felt strongly inclined to identify myself with the English soil. Still I resisted the impulse.⁷ Thinking it was time to leave pleasure for something more important, I again returned to Buffalo, where there was no attraction to detain me for even a moment. As my husband had already preceded me to the West, I therefore hastened to Pittsburg by stage route, which was not without its incidents. Those who have traveled in those primitive days, before the invention of railroads, will readily recognize the truth of many discomforts which I might here relate, but for the fear of fatiguing the indulgent reader, who is about to follow my footsteps over land, ocean and prairie. We broke down innumerable times in the dismal recesses of the forests, were sheltered and fed by the kind Samaritans who inhabited the wilderness, where snow and ice-clothed field and dell, and where Winter seemed too firmly established ever again to yield to Spring’s soft influences.

The day was dark and dreary upon our arrival at Pittsburg. Smoke hung like a pall over town and country, and but for the sociability and hospitality that reigns within doors, Pittsburg would be the gloomiest of places. I could dwell for pages upon this theme; but the steam is up, I am seated upon the deck of the “David Marshall,” and to the cloud-enveloped city and its heartlighted homes I must bid farewell, and wend my way down the beautiful Ohio. Lovely river! how I turn to thee, as to an old, pleasant friend, upon whose bosom I have laughed and wept, thinking my joys and sorrows over and over again. Our boat proceeded slowly, in consequence of the floating ice, and at Wheeling we were obliged to cast anchor for days and days. Here, though the passengers resorted to many means for beguiling the hours, the time dragged, and the morning of our departure was one of joy to all on board. The weather had softened, and earth and sky were clad with a serenity I can not describe. The ice floated thinly upon the waters, and the boatmen sang cheerily as we glided over the moonlit and sunlit waves. Buoyant and happy were the hearts of all upon the deck and in the cabin. The outward and the homeward-bound seemed equally excited by some bright hope. The number of our passengers had increased. Among the new ones was a negro trader, whose name was W.; he had with him a number of unfortunate beings in chains and shackles. They were destined for the Southern market, and were all confined, with the exception of one—a good-looking, well-formed girl, for whom he had obtained a cabin passage, and who was treated better than her unfortunate companions. Why? Be- cause the trader doomed her to ignominy. He knew he would be paid for his trouble and expense. She had beauty enough to arouse the base lust of some Southern buyer. I objected to sit at table with her—not through any feeling of superiority on my part toward the girl, but I thought if she came to that table her companions on the lower deck ought to have the same privilege— and it grieved me to contemplate the cause of the distinction shown between those who had been equally bought, and were alike to be sold. My objection caused some disturbance, and considerable discussion arose in regard to it among the passengers. Mr. W. was highly indignant that I should have questioned his right to treat his goods and chattels as he pleased. Those of the passengers who were opposed to the system came to my aid, and Mr. W., not possessing arguments sufficient to silence me, thought his best plan was to brow-beat me, and called me a meddler, an abolitionist, and many other such names. Not noticing these epithets, I pursued my way untroubled by anything he could say.⁸

On my arrival in Cincinnati, I obtained a situation as lady’s maid, in the family of Mr. W., whose wife was the beautiful and accomplished daughter of Major O., of Kentucky; they were then stopping, temporarily, at the “Broadway Hotel.” About a week after I had been with them, I had the pleasure of witnessing the distress of a Louisville lady, consequent upon the sudden disappearance of a beautiful slave girl, whom she had brought with her for a few day’s stay in the Queen City.⁹ This girl was fairer and more lovely than her mistress, and despising the low servitude which oppressed her, it was scarcely to be wondered at, that, finding herself on free soil, she should seize the first opportunity to escape from it. She was sent out one morning to make purchases, and never returned, but found a happy home, I trust, on English soil. The lady related to me her loss and grievances, but, as I could not recognize the right of one human being to own another, I did not sympathize with her in the least.

Shortly after this, Mrs. W. visited Louisville, and I accompanied her as child’s nurse. We stopped at the Louisville Hotel, where it happened that the brother of the missing slave, of whom I have just spoken, was employed as a servant. This brother the lady had publicly threatened to sell unless the girl should produce herself. I saw him—pitied him, and had some conversation with him, during which he told me a sad story of suffering, and asked me, in imploring accents, if I knew of a spot on this wide earth, where he could be free? I frankly told him all I knew of Canada. I informed him how he could reach there; and yet I trembled for his youth and inexperience in a strange country, and a doubt rose in my mind, as to whether I had been his friend, or his enemy, in thus directing his footsteps to a new world and a new home. Future accounts of him, however, set my heart at rest upon this point, and on my knees I thanked God that I had been the humble means of unloosing the shackles of one upright and manly soul. His owners pursued him, but he was beyond their reach, and I was pounced upon by them, after having returned to Cincinnati, and arrested as accessory to the deed. When the officers came for me, I was alone with the baby, and refused accompanying them until Mrs. W.’s return, to which determination they reluctantly assented. I also refused riding to the place of justice in a carriage which they had provided for the purpose, which very much disconcerted plans on foot in my behalf, as they intended, doubtless, conveying me to Kentucky, where I should, probably, in the excitement of the moment, have been severely handled. At the court of justice, I was questioned, with great minuteness, as to my complicity in this affair, which was now creating a wonderful stir in the sister cities. I did not deny giving the boy all the information I possessed upon the subject, and for this, I was sentenced to be tried before the bar of my country. Before the bar of God, I know well how such a trial would terminate, but in presence of human justice, I could not so easily decide the matter. At the expiration of three days, during which time I was under bail, given by Mr. W., I was delivered over to Kentuckians, notwithstanding the opinions to the contrary of Judges Spencer, Starr, Storer, and other distinguished lawyers.¹⁰ Thousands of persons followed me to the ferry-boat, which was to convey me across the Ohio River— some in sorrow and some in joy; all believing that I had made my final exit from Cincinnati—which, however, as the reader will see, was a mistake.

It is many years since those dark events transpired, and yet, under my own vine and fig tree, in the very heart of that same populous city, am I now, endeavoring to recall to myself, and those who may honor me with a perusal, some few of the strange incidents of my life.¹¹

I was placed in the jail of Newport, where I remained three days, without experiencing any very great discomfort, owing to the kind and sympathizing attentions of the jailor, whom I have always thanked, from my inmost heart, for a jail is not a place to be coveted under the best of circumstances. I was then removed to Louisville, where I was for three months a prisoner, and this for doing what I conscientiously felt to be a Christian deed. Here every persuasion was resorted to, to induce me to confess having committed a wrong. Then I was threatened, and told that I should be tried with Jones and Leavitt, the murderers; but, like Job, I adhered to my integrity to the last, preferring to be tried with, and die with (if necessary), those who had killed the body, rather than shrink from owning that I had boldly aided in rescuing the soul of an oppressed fellow-being.¹² I said in reply to those who examined me, that I recognized no crime in what I had done—meant none. My speech to the court resulted in my acquittal, and I was permitted to go free ever afterward, in both free and slave states.

After these things, I sojourned awhile in Madison, Indiana, in the family of Mr. W., whose wife was the daughter of Mr. L., of Baltimore, well known from his interest in the colonization cause.¹³ But Madison was too quiet a town for me, and I returned to the Queen City, where I was fortunate enough to obtain a situation in the family of Mr. N. L., as nurse to a favorite grandchild, and son of Mrs. A.¹⁴ This dear lady I can not thank too much for her kind advice on many a serious occasion. I had a fiery temper, and she taught me to control it to a degree astonishing even to myself.

Of my little charge, I was very fond; and am as proud now of the grown young gentleman, whose little feet I trained to walking, and whose lips I taught to lisp many a childish sentence.

In this family, the cook and myself fell to open war, and I left. After this I obtained a situation in the family of Mr. G., our recent member of Congress; ¹⁵ and the little baby girl I nursed there, is now in the full blush of early womanhood, whom none can behold but with admiration and respect; and when I see her floating along, with the dignity, grace, and ease of a sylph, upon the street and in the drawing-rooms, I can scarcely realize that it was I who taught her, in her babyhood, to walk. But, as I had rather a vagabond disposition, and loved change, I, soon after this, left the service of this pleasant family, and engaged again as child nurse to a sister of this lady, who was soon to embark with her husband and family for Europe—he having been partially promised a FOREIGN APPOINTMENT by General Harrison, who had just entered upon his office.¹⁶ The paternals on both sides of my new employers were judges, in high position, and possessed much public influence.

Having accomplished the ceremony of obtaining passports in Washington City, we sailed from New York in February on the “Louis Phillippe,” and had a rough passage of twenty-four days across the ocean.¹⁷ A storm, which lasted forty-eight hours, drove us into the Bay of Biscay. The passengers were all fearfully alarmed, and gathered themselves together in groups in the cabin to die together, if such must be their fate. But our vessel weathered the gale, while many others sank beneath it, to be heard from no more till the sea shall give up its dead.

On the twenty-fourth day “Land ho!” was shouted from the mast-head, and in a few hours more our feet touch...

Table of contents

• Title Page
• Copyright Page
• Table of Contents
• Acknowledgments
• A Note on the Text
• INTRODUCTION
• THE AUTHOR’S APPEAL
• APPENDIX A Biographical Information onEliza Potter (1820?–1893)
• APPENDIX B Newspaper Reviews of A Hairdresser’s Experience in High Life
• Notes