THE YEARS OF SICKNESS AND RECOVERY
1873-1880
Clara Barton came back from Europe wearing the jewel of the Red Cross
presented to her by Queen Natalie of Serbia. She was the only person in
America who then, or for nine years thereafter, wore the Red Cross. She
was the sole person in the United States who, by service or any form of
official recognition, was entitled to that decoration. She wore also
the Iron Cross of Merit, presented to her by the Emperor and Empress of
Germany. She wore a Gold Cross of Remembrance, presented to her by the
Grand Duke and Duchess of Baden; and from Louise, the Grand Duchess,
she wore, and prized beyond all wealth, a magnificent amethyst, said
to have been the finest amethyst in this country. From poor, defeated
France she wore no official decoration, but she brought the love and
gratitude of innumerable people there to whom she had ministered.
On her return to America, she went to her old home in Washington, on
Pennsylvania Avenue and Capitol Hill, the home she had purchased before
leaving, but occupied so short a time before her nervous breakdown.
But she was not permitted to live there very long, because the corner
was too noisy. Her physician, Dr. Thompson, commanded her to live
elsewhere. The doctor assigned her her limits, “jail-limits” she called
them; she might live somewhere between Seventh and Sixteenth Streets,
and on the farther side of New York Avenue.
She established herself at the corner of Fourteenth and F. Her letters
to her nieces in this period are cheerful, but written under the burden
of physical pain and nerve fatigue.
On May 23 she received word that her sister Sarah, Mrs. Vester Vassall,
was fatally ill. Though far from well, she hastened to Massachusetts,
arriving in the evening to find that her sister had died that morning.
The shock of her sister’s death, coming as it did when her own health
was so precarious, brought back her old trouble with full force. For
several months she remained in Oxford and Worcester, and then went to
North Grafton--New England Village it was called--where her relatives,
the Learned family, had a country home. There she took a house, and
remained for a considerable time attended by Minnie Kupfer, who had
served with her in the Franco-Prussian War, and, like Antoinette
Margot, had followed her to this country. Her health varied with the
season and with other conditions not all of them easy to determine.
There were times when she had hard chills, followed by dripping sweats.
There were weeks when she had no strength even to lift her head. There
were bright days also, when she moved about with some approach to
health.
What was the real nature of Clara Barton’s illness during this long
period of suffering? Material is not lacking for a fairly accurate
diagnosis. Having exhausted the resources of local physicians, she
entered into correspondence with a series of doctors, each of whom
professed to be able to bring her permanent relief. Some of these
called for very little information about her condition. Their remedies
were supposed to cure almost anything. But others sent long lists
of questions calling for full and minute replies. Copies of these
questions and of her answers, she preserved.
From her replies it would appear that there was hardly a bodily
function which was not disturbed. She was subject to hard colds, to
severe headaches, a weak back, digestive trouble, and to periodic
attacks of camp diarrhœa from which so many soldiers suffered for so
many years after the war, this condition alternating with stubborn
constipation.
But it is evident, as one reads critically these pathetic catechisms,
that she had after all a basis of sound physical health. Her careful
answers to these questions do not appear to indicate a single organic
disease. She had yet to learn that her back, which she thought so weak,
was really remarkably strong, and that her head had little need to ache
when her eyes were not overstrained. And her digestion need not be
seriously disturbed if her nerves were not worn and shattered.
The most serious symptom that Clara Barton had, through all these
years, was a temperament abnormally sensitive. She was capable of
enduring almost any possible physical or nervous strain, and of
standing up under it well, but when the strain was over and she met
some trivial exhibition of ingratitude, some captious and wholly
negligible criticism, some petulant and despicable bit of opposition,
her nervous energy gave way with a sudden collapse. Her voice failed;
her eyes failed; whatever organ was weakest gave way first, and she
went to pieces like the deacon’s “one-hoss shay.”
To one who reads those letters at this distance, it seems a thousand
pities that some one, whose scientific judgment she could trust, did
not say to her: “You are organically sound. There is no good reason
why you should be sick. You are tired, and that is not surprising. And
you have magnified innumerable foolish little matters of irritation.
Forget them. Believe that you are well. Half your years are yet before
you,--the better and happier and far the more useful half of your life.
Get out in the fresh air. Live simply. Throw medicine away, and you can
be strong again.”
In an undated letter written in the early spring of 1876, she gives to
Mr. Dwight an account of her experience since her return to America:
[Undated. 1876, early spring]
DEAR MR. DWIGHT:
I am at New England Village. Some good angel must have inspired you
to write me. I was so anxious to hear of you, and only my physical
weakness has kept me from commencing a search for you long ago. I had
“somewhat” to say to you, as you know, and as soon as I am strong
enough shall find a way to say it. Yes, it is true I am at New England
Village and have been since last April.
The “world” has not treated me badly in the last four years; but I
could have better borne some bad treatment from others than all I have
had to bear from myself. I have been an invalid most of the time.
I grew very weak at Carlsruhe directly after Belfort, recovered a
little, went to England in the spring of ’72, kept about some months,
but in October broke down with a cough, became too ill to get off
the island, was confined to my bed eight months; in June, ’73, was
able to get over to Paris and recovered sufficiently to come home in
October. My cough had left me, but I was weak, and fearing its return
went to Washington as soon as I could for the winter, broke down again
with “prostration of the nervous system,” if any one knows what that
is, which was deepened and nearly rendered fatal by the illness of
my only sister in Worcester, whom I strove for months to reach. Was
finally brought to Worcester at the peril of my life on the 23d of
May, ’74, arriving at 4 P.M. to find that she had died at 6 in the
morning. I never saw her dead face even. It was one year from that
time before I left the house again, and that to be removed here. I
could not tell you the suffering, physical and mental, of that year,
and I would not if I could. Only a small portion of the time could
I stand alone; averaged less than two hours’ sleep in twenty-four
for almost a year; could not write my name for over four months, and
could not have a letter read to me or see my friends or scarcely my
attendants. Little by little I have grown better until now I am about
my house (for I always keep house). I have for attendant and nurse and
housekeeper Miss Kupfer, of Berne, Suisse, a friend I made there, and
who came to me as soon as she heard of my illness here a year or more
ago and who never leaves me. I am gaining slowly, though weak still;
have had neither physician nor medical treatment for over a year.
Nature does her work as best she knows how; what measure of strength
she may ever give me back I cannot know, probably not great. I suppose
diseased nerve centers and worn-out systems are not likely to mend
very firmly. But one day I shall want to see you, and you will let me
do so, I think. If I am not able to go to Boston, you will come to see
me, I believe, and when I see how it is likely to be with me I shall
write and tell you. Meantime, it would interest me just as deeply to
know how the world has treated you in these last few years as it does
you to hear of me. Can I not know something of you and can I not send
my most sincere and respectful regards to Mr. Jackson, whom I hope one
day to see?
While Clara Barton was touring New York State on her lecture tours, she
spoke at Dansville, New York, and was entertained at the sanitarium,
popularly spoken of as the water cure. On March 16, 1876, a lady from
Worcester who had been a patient at Dansville called and spent the
greater part of a day with her. She told her that Dansville was “The
place to go and get well.” Miss Barton had resumed her diary, and she
recorded that this Miss Adams seemed to her “not an enthusiast, but a
calm, sensible girl; looks at things in the light of reason and common
sense; and I feel that I can take her reports without discount, and her
opinions on trust.”
Before many days she had practically determined to go to Dansville,
and that place became her home for about ten years. At first she lived
in the sanitarium; then she bought a home of her own. She adopted the
simple habits of life which there were inculcated. Little by little
her strength returned, until, instead of being an invalid, she was
for her years a woman in remarkably good health. With the return of
health came back her determination to establish the American Red Cross,
and it was in Dansville that the first local organization in America
was established under that name. How she secured the organization and
official recognition we shall presently learn. From her letters at this
time, two may be selected which give some account of the troubled years
through which she had passed, and the great hope which she was now
ardently cherishing. One of these was addressed to the Public Printer
at Washington, whose services she remembered kindly, and with whom she
hoped to have dealings. The other was to her cherished friend, the
Grand Duchess Louise of Baden.
DANSVILLE, Sept. 8, 1877
JOHN D. DE FRIEZE, ESQ.
Public Printer, Washington, D.C.
DEAR AND ESTEEMED SIR:
It occurs to me that it may not be entirely necessary to introduce
myself to you. Even after a lapse of almost a decade you will not
quite have forgotten that there was once a woman by the name of
Clara Barton who, in common with the rest of the moving world, gave
you more or less trouble. However faint these traces remain in your
memory, that cannot dim the brightness which gilds her recollection
of the uncounted favors you so kindly and generously meted out to her
in the hard, busy days when she tried, with little strength and less
power, to carry heavy burdens, and accomplish hard things. Through all
these years the grateful memory of these kindnesses has never waned,
and it so presses itself upon me that I cannot resist the desire to
pick up my pen, far away in this quiet nook of the country, and tell
you how glad I am, and have been, to know you are back again at your
old post, which you ought never to have left, and how thankful I am
to our _good President_ for having recalled you. My first impulse
was to thank him directly, but unfortunately he does not know of my
existence, and could never have found an excuse for my boldness, but
you, my good and honored friend, will excuse it and will not call it
even bold that a hard-worked woman has remembered the strong, kind
hands that helped her on, and after long years has ventured to speak
of it.
Physically these intervening years have not been easy years for me,
four of them with broken health and a wanderer in foreign lands, two
of them in the Franco-Prussian War and its devastations, four more
a helpless invalid in my own country, and this year for the first,
once more on my feet walking about like other persons, but up to the
present never leaving my home even for a short journey. I think of you
all in that busy capital and wonder if it is true that I too was once
a part of it, and stood erect amid its jostling and excitement. Thank
God He has given you strength to endure to the end!
Lest I give a wrong impression, let me add that it was _physically
only_ that I referred to my life as hard. Socially and pecuniarily it
is and has been easy and beautiful. I have all the world for friends
and no unsatisfied wants, no necessities, no regrets except that I
am not strong enough to do the work around me which the world needs
to have done. Until now it has not in five long years dared ask of
me the smallest service. Lately the European people have laid upon
my hands an international matter pertaining to humanity for which
it seems proper that I see the President. If I should be able to go
to Washington for this purpose after his return, would you think it
probable I could see and speak with him?
I hope, Mr. De Freize, my long letter has not been too great a burden
to you. If so, let it console you that it is not without its uses,
for it is a great relief to me to have said a little of that which I
wanted to say so much, and I beg to remain with the highest esteem,
Always gratefully your friend
CLARA BARTON
DANSVILLE, LIVINGSTON CO., N.Y.
May 19, 1877
MY DEAR GRAND DUCHESS:
How shall I commence to write you after all these years of silence?
Can it ever appear to you inexcusable? Will the generosity of your
noble nature make you equal to the overlooking of an act which all
the world, less noble and generous than yourself, would condemn
as neglectful or forgetful? But, my preciously beloved friend, if
these thoughts have ever taken hold upon your mind, and left their
unpleasant shadow over the memory of your old-time friendship for me,
and led you to feel that not only Republics, but their people as well,
are _ungrateful_, and that you are only too happy in being relieved
of such as you have known,--if all these dark thoughts and shadows
lay there in your memory of me to-day, and I knew it, and knew also
that they could only be removed by a full portrayal on my part of all
the days and years of weakness, illness, suffering, and affliction
which have caused the silence, I should hesitate long before I brought
the picture to you; your active life and needed energies are not to
be clogged and burdened by woes which do not belong to you, and the
tax upon your sympathies is great enough from those who feel that
they look rightfully to you for sympathy and help. Then let me say
as little as possible of all this, and pass on to other things, and
that little is, that during almost two years of the time since I last
saw you in London, I have been not only too ill to write you, but
too weak to have heard read a letter from you if it had been sent to
me. You will understand from _theory_, and I pray the great and good
God that you may _never_ know by _experience_, what helplessness and
suffering may follow in the train of utter “prostration of the nervous
system.” This was the misfortune that fell upon me directly upon my
arrival in this country at the close of the year 1873, hastened and
deepened by the death of my only sister whose life had been always
dearer to me than my own. It was only last year, 1876, that I was able
to leave my bed and learn to walk feebly about my room, sometimes see
a friend, write a letter, and read my letters; then I was removed
from my home in Massachusetts to this place, the largest and most
noted water and rest cure in the country, where I have resided since,
gradually regaining my strength, and coming back to life a little, but
whether to _usefulness remains to be seen_. I have done everything to
surround myself with healthful and strength-giving influences. The
climate is delicious and I nearly live in the open air. Sleep, which
in all years has been only a _visitor_, has come back to abide with
me more constantly, and there is no night now in which it _quite_
forsakes me. This was the great necessity, and I feel my strength
returning under its blessed influence. My flesh is also returning
and I am regaining some power of endurance. So far as any usefulness
to others is concerned, I can see in all these years of helplessness
only entire loss, but to myself I hope they may not have been without
their uses and benefits. Through them I have walked narrower and
darker paths than ever before, and stood very close to the dark still
river. Aye, I have pitched my tents and rested there, waited calmly
and sometimes, I fear, looked longingly over on to its other restful
and brighter shore; but its shadows have not alarmed, its waters have
not terrified. God has stood very near, my trust in Him has never
faltered, and my faith has never wavered nor changed. I have known
no fear, and if weakness, suffering, and inaction have made me more
tender and thoughtful, it is well; if the silvery hair they have
spread over temple and brow are a daily reminder that I have no longer
the vigor of young strength, that, too, is well, and I will hope for
added wisdom and gentler kindness.
Now, my dear, this is all of me, but how is it with you and yours? For
I have heard of you ill and suffering, and dared not ask more. I trust
that is all past, and I should see only the bright, happy face that
left its lovely picture on my memory. The noble husband, is he well?
The beautiful “children”--I can scarcely picture them, for some of
them are _men_ and _women_ now, and I never forget to pray God to keep
and bless them all for the wife’s and mother’s sake. You will remember
that the first great love in my heart for you carried me at one bound
beyond all lines of courtly etiquette, blinded me to the positions and
conditions of rank and royalty, and made me stupidly, awkwardly dumb
to every titled phrase and courtly sentence; it closed and sealed my
senses to all these, but opened them to the loving, tender wife and
mother, the noble woman and the priceless friend. I could not have
spoken a word of flattery to you sooner than I could have put it in my
prayer; it could never have entered my thought to courtesy or bend the
knee in your presence, but I should have lain in the dust at your feet
without knowing it, if I had felt that it could serve you. A strange,
uncourtly friend you have in me, this far-away American woman, my
child, but a friend, nevertheless.
And now comes up that dread theme that first brought me to know
you--war, dreadful war. My heart has stood still for weeks in anxiety,
fear, and dread. Is Germany, dear Germany, to be drawn into that
terrible vortex? Are her mothers to give out their sons, and her wives
their husbands again so soon? Are the graves to be opened again almost
before they are green, and the wounds before they are healed? Are the
fair fingers of her maidens again to ply the busy hours with bandages
and lint and the trembling grandmothers to labor again with shirts
and socks? And you and yours, who hold and guard the weal of all, are
you to stand in jeopardy, and watch in agony again so soon? Are these
dreadful days I so well remember all to be lived over again? I cannot
yet believe it; neither can I yet rid me of the fear which haunts me
day and night. Constantly the question rises, What _can I do_? And my
weakness answers back, “Nothing, nothing.” If I had the strength of
ten years ago, and the war opened upon you, I should prepare myself
and go, not single-handed and alone, as I was overtaken in 1870, but
I would make my arrangements with my people here for all material to
work with, select my assistants from the German and German-speaking
populations here, take my surgeons and nurses, and go at once and ask
you for a field of labor. Surely you and your good husband and father
and mother would assign me one somewhere! But it is all too late for
this; at the best I can only use my influence and the little strength
I have at home. As a means to this, I have written our good friend,
Dr. Appia, of Geneva, to ask if any help from me would be desirable,
and to say that if it would be acceptable, I would, upon his writing
me to that effect, make the effort to establish an international
organization in my own country for the collection and receipt of
supplies, which should work under the insignia of the Red Cross, and
forward through a headquarters which I would attempt to establish
somewhere near or at New York. Thus would I try to bring the early
and organized efforts of America into direct communication with the
activities of Europe, and try for once to make our charities of some
timely and real benefit, which the great distance and want of proper
organization has hitherto greatly hindered, or nearly prevented. Our
people are generous, tender of heart, and quick in their sympathies,
but they are busy and spread over a quarter of the globe. They do
not become aware of the necessities for assistance in other lands
till great suffering exists and the general Press brings it to their
knowledge. Then they spring with a bound of sympathy and generosity
and give without stint, but their stream has no channel prepared for
it to flow in and runs over and wastes, so that little, very little,
ever reaches the real scene of suffering and want for which it is so
generously given. If I can learn that it would be acceptable and that
there can be established a direct coöperation between the charitable
activities of America and Europe, and that Europe _desires it_, I
shall do all in my power to organize the work early, at _once_ in
America. It is for this I have written Dr. Appia to have him send
me his _request_ that I would do it, that I may use it as a lever
with our Government to gain its sanction, protection, prestige, and
coöperation so far as I can. I shall watch with all interest every
movement and I would be so grateful for any information that I might
gain from European sources regarding the true condition of things. How
glad I should be of any published work or matter, if any exists, which
explains the working of _your_ remarkable system of, or what we term,
“Relief Societies.” I do not know where to send for this but to _you_
who were the originator and head. If the condition of Europe renders
it desirable, and I am strong enough to organize aid in America,
every word of information on these points would be held priceless.
I am gleaning all I can from such foreign papers as I can get; both
the German and French languages are familiarly used in my house. My
amanuensis is Swiss and speaks both natively, of course. The more I
read, the more I fear what the next months may bring to you, to dear
Germany and to all Europe. And the more I fear, the more anxious I am
to help. Let us pray God the storm may pass, but if it must come, give
us strength and wisdom to meet it well.
I have long been the debtor of good Madame de Mentzinger, and my next
European letter will be to her, who I hope will forgive my delay. I
was not able to answer her in time. To our dear Hannah I have not
written in years, nor heard. I know the parent family is nearly gone,
and that she has one of her own. I shall hope to hear of her some
day,--the precious child!
And dear Princess Wilhelm, who seems to me always to be a part of
yourself, may I dare send my love through you to her? I remember once
she graciously told me I might write her. I wonder if the privilege
still exists, or has time annulled it? I know she has had her griefs
and that her precious mother has gone home.
All that happens to you there in that beloved Court circle is
reflected and felt here in my distant home as if it were a part of
it. I joy in your prosperity and sorrow for your griefs as if in some
way they belonged to me or mine. I could not if I attempted to divest
myself of this interest. I even could not help feeling a solicitous
interest in all that pertained to Prince Alexis in his recent visit
to my country, and rejoiced with a kind of motherly pride in all the
good impressions he made, and felt that I ought to see him, because
he was of your house, and the home cousin of dear Princess Wilhelm.
He, the gallant, princely man, would have laughed at the idea of a
plain, unpretending American woman cherishing a family pride in him
and keeping a motherly watchfulness for his welfare, but your love and
kindness to me when a stranger in your country won my gratitude and
love forever for all that pertains to you. I have followed the late
journeying and visits of your noble father with wonder and joy for
his continued vigor. I so well remember the tender care and love that
dwelt in my heart for my honored father when fourscore winters had
whitened his locks and bared his brow, yet his firm marching step told
not more than fifty summers, and his eye was still clear and his voice
strong; but he left me, the brave old soldier.
I always regret that I never saw your honored mother, and it was my
purpose not to have left Europe without this distinguished pleasure.
But her precious gift, the beautiful cross, is the chiefest among my
treasures, lying always beside yours. You cannot conceive, I am sure,
_how_ precious those gifts are to me, and do you recollect the sweet
picture of yourself you once sent me for a Christmas gift? It has
comforted me every day through all these suffering years, always near
my bed. It was the first to greet me in the morning, and now, in these
days of better strength and activity, it is no less the admiration of
my friends than it has been the companion of my weakness.
But I must somewhere make an end to this seemingly endless letter, and
with one thought more I will.
May I entreat you that, if disturbances and war come upon you, and
there arises any contingency, any want, any point upon which it may
seem that I could, being here, be of the smallest or largest use to
you, or your people, you will not hesitate a moment in making any use
of me that you possibly can; consult with me upon any plan (that it
shall be strictly confidential I need not add) and it will be always
possible for me to confer directly with the head or heads of our
Government, and so far as I can I will influence our people to any
charitable activities or movements which might be desired and which
you kindly suggest to me. How glad I should be to feel myself once
more working with you, that I was perhaps helping you a little, and
the American people would be glad, for you are no stranger to them,
and I want them to know you better still. I pray you let
Your grateful and loving friend
CLARA BARTON
What she found at Dansville that restored her health is shown in some
of her home letters. She found congenial society, wholesome and simple
food, and an atmosphere that believed health to be possible. The world
is moderately full of sick and half-sick people who could be well if
they knew how, and would believe that they were well.
She grew strong enough for short tours to neighboring cities. She
became a star performer in the evening entertainments in the
sanitarium, reciting poetry, sometimes writing a poem for a special
occasion, and after a time giving a short lecture about her experiences
abroad. A few of her letters will show her state of health and of mind.
There was nothing miraculous or sudden about her recovery. She had
periods of depression and times of weakness, but she gained strength
and gained it permanently, and was able to take up the greatest work of
her life and carry it through triumphantly.
“OUR HOME ON THE HILLSIDE”
DANSVILLE, LIVINGSTON CO., N.Y.
July 15, 1876
DEAR COZ:
If Miss Kupfer had not written me that _she_ had written to you since
our departure, I should have written earlier, but I knew she had told
you of our safe arrival, and I thought I had then nothing of interest
to say until I could tell you how I liked my surroundings. I have now
been here seven weeks and find no occasion to regret coming. The place
is simply beautiful in its location and surroundings, made up of hills
and valleys under a high state of cultivation and taste.
The institution is larger and more flourishing than I had expected,
with about three hundred patients, or persons _as_ patients, and
I think I never saw together any group of people that combines
the degrees of intellect, general intelligence, and culture as
is collected here. The speech of every person one meets is kind,
charitable, and refined.
The faculty connected with the institution is, I should judge,
skillful and competent, but the general means for promoting health
through proper food, water, bathing, dress, rest, sunshine, open
air, and pleasant surroundings are mainly relied upon; little or no
medicines are ever used. I have neither seen nor heard of any being
used by any person since I have been here; indeed, the great struggle
and effort seems to be to get _out_ of the patients the remnants of
the medicines already taken in the past.
We have several excellent lectures in the hall during the week and
services on the Sabbath. The Hall is so situated that all can attend.
No change or addition of dress required, more than to go from one room
to another. If one is not able to walk, he is carried if he chooses to
be, and if one does not wish to sit up, he lies down and listens, so
there is no getting weary, no exhaustion, no getting over-tired. One
gets all the good without the bad.
The tables are _excellent_ and most abundantly supplied. Meats plainly
but well cooked, the freshest of vegetables from their own gardens,
and such abundance of fruit as I never saw, all in its turn. We have
passed through the era of strawberries and cherries and currants,
and are now in the raspberries, white, red, and black. I believe
the blackberries follow next, and so on to the peaches, pears, and
apples of autumn, but the astonishing thing after their freshness and
perfection is their abundance. They are not served to us in saucers,
or on individual plates, but placed in large fruit dishes once in
about three feet through all the scores of tables, each one to help
himself over and over, the dishes being refilled to the last, and we
_leaving_ the tables filled as we _find_ them. The fruit is mainly
picked from the gardens that day for dinner, or the evening before for
breakfast, from two hundred to four hundred quarts for a meal. Besides
this we have always the greatest abundance of “Shaker” dried fruits
cooked for those who cannot take the fresh. New milk from their own
dairy (they have forty or fifty cows), all one can use at every meal;
the freshest of oatmeals and grahams, sweet butter, tapioca, etc. The
vegetables are largely cooked in milk, and harmless. With all these
fruits and vegetables there is no summer complaint here. I have not
heard of a case, and among all these invalid people not a person in
bed, except a few rheumatics who were brought here in beds and are not
up yet. No fevers, no colics, but all out and about in the sunshine,
and on the Hillside’s stretchers and hammocks under the trees. One has
only to be lazy and jolly and get well if they can.
There are a good many very pretty cottages outside the Main Institute
where persons room, but all meet in the same dining-hall, and in
the same parlor for prayers and singing after breakfast and the
distribution of the mail after dinner. _I_ am in the Institute, or
main building. The views from the verandas are as fine as many I
have heard extolled in foreign countries. A single glance takes in a
stretch of the valley of over ten miles in length, as handsome as a
landscape garden. We are so high above the town that we seldom walk,
but there are always livery teams waiting orders at the door. One
drives or is driven as the choice may be. Dr. Jackson has a stable of
about twelve horses for his and family uses and the work. They are
handsome enough for a _fair_, and I occasionally find that they are
good roadsters. The village below us is pretty and thriving.
Miss Atwater lives in the village about a mile from me, but comes
to lectures. She is well and seems very happy. I have ridden down
to see her a few times. Her uncle is still with her. He had worked
hard in his hotels for a great many years, been broken of his rest a
great deal, and was considerably worn down, and seems to be glad of
an opportunity to rest a little outside of a hot city. It makes it
pleasant for Fanny till she gets more acquainted, but the people are
very kind and social here. There is no stiffness.
There are something like fifty people employed as _help_ to do the
work of this Home, but not _one servant_; the word, nor position is
not known here, all are treated equally, all ladylike and gentlemanly,
all treated alike. There is an amusement society, and one of its
features is a beautiful dance once a week from 5 till 8 P.M. Piano and
violin music,--no round dances,--but cotillions and all dances which
are _not injurious_, and the prettiest and most elegant dancers in the
hall are from among the help.
There is a regularly organized fire company on the grounds, and
the houses are watched and patrolled all night like a first-class
manufactory. No doors are ever locked; all stand open if not too cold.
I have never turned a key in the house. Now, I believe I have told you
all the most important features of the place I have come to, but I
have been very careful not to overdraw it, for I _hope_ some of your
journeys may sometime bring you to take a look at it for yourself, and
I would not like you to be disappointed.
I hope this severely hot weather has not been too much for you, and
that sometime you will find time to drop a line to your
Affectionate Coz
CLARA
I neglected to say that I find a good many old friends here. Our
chaplain was a member of the Sanitary Commission in Washington, and
the Reverend Dr. Abbott, who is here with his family, was President of
the Christian Commission. Love to any who may inquire.
CLINTON HOTEL, ROCHESTER
Sunday [1876]
DEAREST MAMIE:
Does the date take you by surprise? Don’t be alarmed, it’s all right.
I am only on a visit of a few days. Dr. Jackson, Miss Austin, and
several other lady friends made a party and came last Friday to stay
several days in Rochester, and enjoy the change and rest, and here
we are having a glorious time. All but I can go to operas, church,
lectures, galleries, etc., etc., and I can stay by and keep guard
and direct the servants how to order the rooms, to have all ready
and jolly for them when they get back. Mrs. Jones, principal of the
Dansville Seminary, and a Miss Reynolds, who is “Thirza Ann” in a
Betsey Bobbet Club we have here and a capital dramatist, are my room
companions in the hotel. There is no lack of fun with two such fertile
brains about. We go home next Tuesday.
Now that I am through with myself, let me turn to you and say how glad
I am that you have been to the Centennial and enjoyed it so well, made
so much of it, and got home so well. What a beautiful gift that was
from Mr. and Mrs. Shrubler, to you, that trip, a hundred-fold more
than the beautiful dress which was a thing to be most grateful for,
but it will wear out in time, while nothing short of eternity can take
from you the knowledge and benefits of that exhibition. It is a thing
for a lifetime, not only its pleasure but its profits. Please thank
them both for me for this thoughtful courtesy to you and for the good
dress also, and indeed for all their kindnesses to my little girl, who
I know is grateful for herself, but I am also grateful for her.
Now, you see I have not your letter here and cannot answer it as I
ought, for I really do not recollect the questions it asks, neither
do I recollect when I wrote you last, or what I told you then, so
this letter is liable to be a repetition or an omission, but you will
forgive this in either of the circumstances. I had a good letter from
Ida just an hour before I started from Dansville and have answered it
from there. She is a very easy, natural correspondent and would make
a fine writer in some special directions if she could be cultivated.
She sends me advertisement of your Papa D.’s farm. I was a little
surprised at this, but it shows him in earnest in his assertion that
he would like to be rid of it, and I do not wonder that he feels it
a burden. It is more so than if it were larger and would afford more
and efficient help, and pay for outlays. I consider it one of the most
laborious sizes that a farm can have if one intends to use it as a
farm, and if not, then it is too large. Four acres of nice buildings
would really be worth more in the way of comfort, and these buildings
have got to an age which will call for constant repairs, and the house
is never convenient nor built for a farmhouse; in fact it was not
intended for a farm by Grandpa, and there was no farm till your father
made it so by his cultivation, for it was waste land.
Did I tell you that the Taylors had sailed for England? They must be
there now. How sweet and beautiful they were when here, and how in the
two or three little days they spent here they made themselves felt
and beloved. Mrs. Taylor is really one of the sweetest women I have
ever known. Fannie is at the Centennial and I have just one line from
her. She is almost frantic from the confusion. You know her head gets
troubled easily, and she had not got it rested from the journey and
the first days of the great show. She will remain long enough to find
herself and look clearly and see what she “went for to see,” I trust.
I am glad you have heard from Etta and glad they are getting on so
well. Please give a great deal of love to dear Anna and congratulate
her on her Centennial trip which, I trust, she enjoyed to its fullest,
and thank Mr. Shrubler for his good gift to my dear old brother. I
know it has made a warm spot in his heart for all the time he will
live to wear it, and with his poor health and tendency to melancholy
his joys are not too many. Mr. Shrubler has given him a great many
pleasures, and I thank him most earnestly for them all.
My kitty is charming. She knows almost as much as folks, and has just
taken to mousing. She often carries in two and three and sometimes
four and five bits of game a day, and all the family have to recognize
each one before she will be at all quiet. She is too comical, standing
at the door with her nice white face and her mouth full of mouse and
grass, calling all the household out to see her.
Yours lovingly
CLARA
Miss Barton’s views on health, on politics, on society, on idle women,
and incidentally, perhaps, her best description of herself, her tastes
and habits, is contained in a letter of this period to a learned German
professor, who, knowing of her life in Germany, wrote to her, and
proposed to visit her. It is interesting to note that in this letter
she speaks of her hair as having been dark brown and changed in a few
months of illness to a silvery gray. It did not remain gray, but with
her return of health resumed its color of brown, though not so dark as
before:
DANSVILLE, LIVINGSTON CO., N.Y.
April 17, 1877
ESTEEMED AND DEAR FRIEND:
I beg you not to be alarmed even if you were correct in your
conjecture that illness caused my silence. It is very true, but I am
so far recovered now that, although not released from my bed, I have
taken up my pen again, and yesterday, before receiving your card,
had laid out your last letter as one of the first to be answered. I
might, or I might not, have reached it to-day in regular order, but
now, I place it first, and commence my morning roll-call with “Prof.
Thed. Pfau,” and a long, narrow, blue-tinted envelope responds, half
wearily, half impatiently, “_Here_.” So “here” we have it.
First, having _admitted_ illness, which I never do if possible to
avoid, I must settle your apprehensiveness; it is no new play, or act
or scene, simply a calling before the curtain for repetition. I have
in these exhausted days only a given amount of strength, and if, by
any accident or oversight, I overdraw on my accounts, I am at once
bankrupt, and can carry on business no further. Having been in former
days accustomed to draw from an unlimited and ever-recruiting stock of
strength and health, I find it a difficult problem to solve, how to
bring myself down to the necessary economies of my present condition.
I cannot realize that a few hours, a few rods, a few steps even, a
little overwork at my desk, the quiet arranging of a simple room, a
little overrun of company, may use up all my little capital, and I
must wait and compromise with my creditors, start business anew on a
smaller scale, and work my way up again to the lost point, probably
only to lose it again. A month or six weeks ago I committed some
one of these extravagances, and immediately comes a notice from my
physical banker shutting off my supply of sleep. He had been allowing
me nearly seven hours in the four and twenty, but he cut it down
to three, two, one, a few minutes, none at all, and so left me for
several days and nights, then let it come back in a similar ratio up
to--Oh, well, no matter how much, but not _seven hours_, no, nor for
a long time to come; but I can get up and walk about my room and sit
part of the day; and I write, because it is better for me to write
chatty letters, with no thought in them, than to relapse into solid
thinking as I would in doing nothing. One sometimes needs to be saved
from himself.
I do not know if I have ever told you of my illness, or what holds
me so weak. It is what is known as “prostration of the nervous
system,” and very complete at that, I suppose. I am not aware of
any decided organic disease, only as all the organs are affected by
this great letting down of nerve power and force. Of the class of
disease generally denominated “female weaknesses” I know nothing
experimentally. Of the lame backs and aching _lower_ spine, that the
majority of feeble women suffer torture from, I am ignorant, and
can sympathize with them only through observation, but of the _hot_
sore spot on the spine, high up between the shoulders, leading up to
the base of the brain, bursting into flame at every over-taxation
of mental energy, I know all. It is the same thing that over-worked
public men sink under, in sudden deaths, softening of the brain,
paralysis, or something analogous to these. This is the illness that
has become my master and will one day prove my conqueror. There is
no looking forward to “restored health,” soundness and _security_.
The price of not only my liberty, but my life is “eternal vigilance.”
Now a truce to illness, to which, thank God, you are a comparative
stranger, and I pray Him you always may be.
I have received “Puck” since his advent into this warring world, and
he is growing to be a fine little fellow, stout and healthy, a jolly
little elf, isn’t he? His _wit_ will get him some clips over the nose
by and by, when it begins to be felt, but this he does not care for,
for he _means_ to bite. I laughed heartily at his satire on Stanley
two weeks ago, and yet Stanley is a valued friend, and I have fought
terrible battles for him on both continents, but the imitation is
excellent and full of ingenuity. The cuts are, of course, inimitable.
Mr. Kepler’s pencil has a master touch, and I wish him long life,
abundant success, full pockets, and artistic fame.
The spring is opening well here. We have had a succession of charming
days, followed now by a rain which is bringing up the green grass
and swelling the buds almost to bursting, but we have no leaves yet.
Some wild trees which precede their leaf life by their flowers are
out in spring dress; a kind of woods willow, which bedecks itself in
deep yellow, is very gaudy just now; the peach trees are pushing out
their little soft gray pussy toes all over their red branches, and the
horse-chestnuts, with their blunt ends tipped with swollen round buds,
look as if they had doubled up their fists for fighting and said to
all their more tapering, slender neighbors, Come on, we are ready! We
are yet a month too early for the first roses.
Perhaps I told you that I removed to a snug brick city-built house
for the winter. I have changed it this spring for a much older and
country-like wood house, which has some trees, grass, and shade, a
garden, and _perhaps_ some flowers if the sunshine brings them up.
I am, of course, all too unpretending and simple in my life to have
a gardener, so shall lack the beauties which such assistance would
develop. I was once a very tolerable gardener myself among flowers,
but I have no longer strength to spend on the strong lap of Mother
Earth, much as I love her and her dear little nurslings of cowslip and
violets, but good sturdy old dame, she does a great deal without help,
and knows very well how to dress herself without the aid of a _fille
de chambre_.
But here I am on this fourth large page, and not even yet noted the
contents of your letter. The photograph! I am sorry that you withheld
it, I should have been very glad to receive it, if you would entrust
it to me, and I still hope you will decide to do so. I should prize
it, but I cannot say when I should be able to return the favor. I
have no photographs either good or bad. I am never able to go to a
gallery to sit for one. The last time was in Paris. All I ever had
have been picked away long ago. I am the debtor of all my friends for
pictures, some of them several times over, but they know how it is,
and I hope excuse me. If I should ever again be in condition to sit,
and can get a result that my friends will accept, I will take them
by the hundred and relieve myself from embarrassment, but you should
know that as a _picture_ my photograph is not at all to be coveted. If
natural, it must be uncomely. I was _never_ what the world calls even
“good-looking,” leaving out of the case all such terms as “handsome,”
and “pretty.” My features were strong and square, cheek-bones
high, mouth large, complexion dark; my best feature was perhaps a
luxuriant growth of glossy dark hair shading to blackness, but that
is comparatively thin now, and silver gray, all within the last three
years. It changed from its original blackness to its present shade in
the first six weeks of this present illness in 1874. I never cared
for dress, and have no accomplishments, so you will find me plain and
prosy both in representation and reality if ever you should chance to
meet either. I beg you to _believe_ this and to _remember_ it to avoid
any disappointment which might possibly occur. Not that I think it
could change the friendship of a sensible person, but I like people,
and especially my friends, to know me as I am, and not hold a false
estimate of me.
Of poor Miss R. (Lorraine Raymond) I never hear a word. It is
charitable to attribute her silence to want of scholarship, but I am
inclined to disbelieve the verity of this. I believe her to be a very
fair scholar, and an average (to say the least of it) correspondent;
but she seldom writes, I know. She wrote me a few letters from Europe
_years_ ago, none of late years. She has a kind heart, and I am so
_so_ sorry for her.
I hope the trial of your brother will not result disastrously to him.
Perhaps one cannot easily control a dislike, but he has certainly
chosen a most powerful foe, and the odds _seem_ unequal. I agree with
you in more than word, when you declare the Imperial Family of Germany
to be a _respectable one_; it is all of that, nothing in Europe stands
before it, and those of it whom I have known personally are of the
highest excellence and purest worth. I am sure the more intimately
they are known, the better they must be beloved. The Grand Duchess
of Baden is to _me_ the loveliest woman on the earth; in this term I
mean to combine all qualities of both mind and body; both nature and
culture have made her a _Princess_. And I cannot see why she is not
as good a Republican as if she had been born a peasant, or a Suisse,
or American citizen; in no position would she knowingly do a wrong or
commit an act of tyranny to the lowest human being whether subject
or not. “Tired of Republics,” you say. Perhaps if you study your own
meaning closely you will find that you are rather tired of politics
than Republics. And, my esteemed and valued friend, let me in all
childlike simplicity suggest what does not perhaps clearly appear to
you, viz., that the standpoint one occupies, the surroundings one
has, the outlook one takes, have a great deal to do in forming the
opinion and swaying the judgment. I am sorry that you must perforce
see our country, its political, moral, and social sides, through the
slum, and mire, and haze of a lens like New York City. Out on our
millions of acres of hills, valleys, and plains is a better, purer,
nobler population, the force of whose earnestness and honesty will
save our Nation long ages after the pollution of its cities would
have turned it into a Sodom and Gomorrah. There is a true, steady,
honest pulse beating in the veins of the yeomanry of this land that
never throbbed a second in a city like New York, and never will; but
when the trial comes, _it is the pulse that will tell_. Tweed and his
“ring” didn’t go to the farmers sweating in their hay-fields with
their _bargains_. They went to the politicians, and burrowed in the
cities and made their nests like the bats and owls, under the eaves of
churches and in halls and steeples; they can plan, and connive, and
twiddle and fiddle with the lines a long time while the farmers work
in their fields, but when real danger appears, when the load topples
and is likely to upset, stouter hearts than theirs will come to the
front, stronger hands than theirs will take the reins, and bring out
the load in safety. We are not so near destruction as it would seem
from _your_ standpoint, and because a few poor, vain, foolish women,
with little money and less brains and shriveled hearts, have betaken
themselves to the boarding-houses of New York City, and are living
false, empty, silly, idle lives for _show_, it does not make it that
this is the character or life of _all_ the women of America, nor that
well-regulated _homelife_ is not the rule of the country, _for it is_;
and I, who am a part of it, and have lived it, and over and among it,
all my lifetime, know it _well_. Shall we judge France and its whole
people by the courtesans of Paris, or Germany by Berlin? Oh! my friend
and brother, do, I beseech of you, get another standpoint, and a wider
outlook and a clearer, purer atmosphere than New York City with its
floodtide of immigration before you judge, in final judgment, the
whole population, male and female, of this great country.
I thank you very much for the hope expressed that we may meet in
Paris in ’78, but there is small prospect of this. I shall scarcely
cross the ocean again. I have much to do to save my strength with no
unnecessary waste, but the hope expressed that we may meet before
that time is something nearer home, and more within the range of
_possibilities_. I should never dare by any means to invite you to
visit me, and I never go to your part of the country, so the prospect
of our meeting is small. Perhaps I ought to explain the above remark,
having very incautiously made it, and I will. I am a so much more
simple person in my mode of life than you have probably ever seen
(except those whom poverty compelled to simplicity) that you would
not feel happy or homelike in my house. I am simple in my tastes,
and plain, avoiding luxuries from choice and _principle_, both
about my house and in its dress, and my table and its furnishings.
My living is simple as a hermit’s, heavy meats, and wines, teas,
and coffees are unknown at my table, my rooms plain. I have only my
housekeeper--no retinue of servants at all, no show, no ornaments, no
excuses; but with all this there is great peace and quiet, no worry,
no fret, no fears of what the world will think or say, no pressure in
any direction, abundant supplies for all _necessities_, no scandal
either spoken or listened to, no backbiting, and no “skeleton in the
closet,” not even the _shadow_ of one. Now, all this simplicity and
plainness, and the absence of excitement and luxurious surroundings
and living, must be so different from all that you are accustomed to
that you could not be happy or even comfortable among it, so I should
never _dare_ invite you to visit me, even if you were journeying near
me, and so, when you see that I do not, you will understand the true
reason and assign the right motive on my part and not feel piqued or
slighted, or that I am cold, or eccentric, or reserved, or in any way
unaccountable, or any other thing, but just _what I am_, a plain
woman with enough of common sense to perceive that our modes of life
are so different that you could not enjoy visiting me, and fearless
candor enough to tell you so.
Your sincere friend
CLARA BARTON
How Clara Barton was regarded at Dansville is shown in many ways, as in
the following cutting from the Dansville “Advertiser” of June 7, 1877,
giving account of an exercise on the previous Memorial Day:
OVATION TO MISS CLARA BARTON
Toward noon on Memorial Day the bustle of preparation to go downtown
to the procession and oration seemed to arouse a new impulse of
gratitude to the soldiers’ friend, Miss Clara Barton, which spread
rapidly through Our Home, and soon organized itself in a programme of
proceedings for the evening, when she should have rested a little from
the fatigue of her participation in the public celebration.
By six o’clock a goodly number of men and women and children had
gathered in Brightside and on the surrounding lawn. Soon this company,
consisting of doctors and other officials, the stronger patients and
helpers from the Cure, a few near-by neighbors, and the inmates of
Brightside, were marshaled two by two on the walk before the gate.
Of the hundred nosegays which the girls had hastily tied up and
heaped on a server, none were left when each person had taken one;
and these, with numerous “flags a-floating,” made the procession gay
as it moved on, led by the clergy. The Conesus brass band, taking
tea at the seminary, had patriotically agreed to add to the dignity
of the enterprise by their numbers and their music. Meanwhile one of
the company had casually (apparently) in a neighborly way dropped
into Miss Barton’s parlor, and lured her on to the front piazza in
time to witness the approach as the allies joined their forces. Being
entirely taken by surprise, she could only exclaim to her attendant,
“What does it all mean? What shall I do?” when she saw the battalion
bearing down--rather up--on her castle. Evidently she was completely
subjugated without a gun being fired, and looked helplessly and
speechlessly around on the lines of exultant faces which, filing
right and left, had environed the piazza in a semicircle. It still
required some gentle force, however, to seat her on the chair in
readiness for her. At this juncture Miss Austin, stepping forward,
said:
MISS BARTON: After joining our sympathies with our fellow citizens at
large in paying a tribute of respect and gratitude to the brave men
who fought and suffered and died for their country’s salvation, the
inmates of Our Home come with gladness to greet a _living woman_--one
who worked and suffered and gave her strength and health in
alleviating the pains and sorrows, the homesickness and heart-sickness
of our soldiers. And we are thankful that your mission was not alone
to _our_ soldiers, but that you represented a vastly broader and
nobler sentiment than mere patriotism--that you were actuated by that
grand humanity which forbade you even in war-times to know any North
or any South; but that every man to whom you could in any way minister
was your brother. We rejoice in this, because you then represented the
selfsame spirit which must yet bridge over the chasm that has hitherto
divided the two sections and make us one united brotherhood--a happy
and prosperous country.
But, dear Miss Barton, your life and labors have carried you beyond
_our country_, and through you we hold fraternal bonds to the whole
world. In foreign countries and in a foreign war, you spent your
sympathies and your efforts, not on the Germans, nor on the French,
nor on any nationality; but everywhere, every man, every woman, every
little child who needed help or loving succor, received these from you
in the full measure of your capacity to bestow.
We come, then, to lay our honors at your feet as a citizen of the
world, as a friend to humanity, as a lover of your race; recognizing
the work which you have done as a foreshadowing of that time when
men shall beat their swords into ploughshares and their spears into
pruning hooks, when nations shall not lift up sword against nations,
neither shall they learn war any more.
Miss Austin then introduced Reverend Miss Anna Oliver, of Passaic, New
Jersey, who said:
The feeling of enthusiastic admiration with which I have long regarded
one whose course has reflected honor upon her country, upon womanhood
and humanity, prevent me from making a set speech on this occasion.
Several years ago I had the pleasure, Miss Barton,--I may say the sad
pleasure,--of visiting Andersonville Prison, and the cemetery laid
out under your supervision, placing a flower on each of those several
thousand graves. During that visit through the South, I frequently
heard the name of Miss Barton mentioned with gratitude and love, both
by those who had served in the Confederate and in the Union armies.
War is terrible, and we all know, of course, that no such thing as
a necessary war ever occurred. But as long as wars are actualities,
how blessed is the thought that the barbarities of past ages may be
superseded by the gentle Christian ministrations, a representative of
which we delight to honor to-day.
We mourn the fratricidal strife
That digs each soldier’s grave;
We strew the flowers on the sod
In honor of the brave;
But most of all we rev’rence those
Who seek man’s life to save.
They marched on the advancing foe
They nobly fought and fell;
But there were those attending near,
’Mid shower of shot and shell,
As brave in a diviner cause,
Who did their part as well.
To-day we pay our tribute of respect to the names of Florence
Nightingale and Clara Barton.
Dr. Jackson then, being called by Miss Barton to her aid, thanked her
friends in her behalf and happily expressed what he imagined might be
her feelings on the occasion. When he had finished, the “Star-Spangled
Banner” was sung by the choir.
Miss Barton now spoke briefly and feelingly of the honor done her and
the happy memory to be cherished. Sometime she might express herself
better. The most she could do now was simply to offer these friends a
hand-grasp.
Then each person laid down his offering of flowers till her lap was
piled high and her feet were buried deep in a pink-and-white mound,
each as he passed claiming the promised hand-shake. While this was
going on, the band played an inspiring air and the people of the
hillside retired with the pleasant consciousness of having enjoyed a
happy half-hour.
Afterward Miss Barton had a personal introduction to each member of the
band, who had so kindly assisted in paying honor to one enjoying the
reverence and affection of the American people, as of all classes, from
the lowest peasantry to the crowned heads in Europe.