BARBARA FRITCHIE
1766-1862
In December, 1766, a daughter was born in the house of a German
immigrant, Nicolaus Hauer, in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, and she was
named Barbara. She had four sisters and brothers. Their early years
were spent in Pennsylvania and then the family moved to Frederick,
Maryland.
Barbara went to school for a while in Baltimore. Her education was
the best that could be obtained at that day, for she was “thoroughly
well-read and could write.” When she was ninety-two years old she
scorned making her mark on business papers and proudly signed her name.
Barbara remembered the discussions that went on, when she was a very
little girl, about the Boston tea party and the English taxes. She was
nearly ten years old when the Declaration of Independence was signed.
All her life long she talked with great pride of the success of the
colonists. She remembered many scenes of the Revolution. Step by step
she watched Washington’s career and shared in the popular rejoicing
when peace was announced. In 1791 Washington was entertained in
Frederick and Barbara begged that her china be used in pouring the tea
at the ball. And when Washington died and a memorial funeral was held
in the town, she was chosen as one of the pall-bearers.
Frederick was a lovely little gem, set in a circle of historic hills,
like Nazareth--an old town with narrow streets and lanes, and houses
with queer roofs where the shingles had a double lap that made them
look like old Dutch tiles. There was a market square in the center of
the town, and on the outskirts the stone barracks built during the
reign of Queen Anne, where Braddock met Washington and Franklin in
council, and where prisoners were kept during the Revolution.
Here lived Barbara Fritchie, an active capable woman, known for her
sturdy good sense, her incessant industry and her intense loyalty to
her country. Literally she grew with its growth, watching its progress
through the War of 1812, the admission of new states, westward and ever
westward expanding, till gold was discovered in California; and always
the slavery question sinister and threatening in the background.
When Barbara was nearly forty she married John Caspar Fritchie, a glove
maker. They lived in a little high-gabled story-and-a-half house on
West Patrick Street, built of red brick penciled in white, with white
shutters and two dormer windows in the long sloping roof. They owned
two slaves, Nellie and Harry, who were so kindly treated that when
freed they returned often, as children seek the home of their parents.
Her husband died in 1849 and Dame Fritchie, who never had any children,
lived alone in the little house, busy with her many nieces and nephews,
her knitting and her garden; a slight figure, under medium height, with
small penetrating eyes, usually dressed in black alpaca or satin, with
a starched muslin kerchief crossed on her breast, and a close white
cap. She was always firm and decisive, and had indeed the reputation of
a sharp tongue.
Then began the Civil War and Barbara, ninety-four years old, was noted
for her fearless behavior and her intense outspoken loyalty, when
loyalty was not the easiest matter in that border state. For Frederick
had much to endure that winter. Soldiers of both armies were constantly
in the way, skirmishes and duels were frequent in the narrow streets.
The flag was always flying from the Fritchie window and Dame Barbara
kept busy, helping sick soldiers and cheering the despairing Unionists.
“Never mind,” she would say when news of reverses came, “we must
conquer sometime.” For stimulated by the glorious memory of what
she had lived through, she had a supreme faith that the Union must
survive. “It will never happen that one short life like mine shall see
the beginning and the end of a nation like this.” She would ask the
shopkeeper, “How do matters look now?” If the reports were cheering her
joy was evident; if sad, she would say, “Do not be cast down. We have
seen darker times. Stand firm, it will all come right, I know it will.
The Union must be preserved.”
Often the southern troops marched through Frederick, tired out, and
stopped to rest on the porches of private houses. Once they halted in
front of Barbara Fritchie’s home, sat on her steps, and went to the
spring near by for water. To all this she made no objection, but when
they began to talk in a derogatory way of her beloved country, she was
at the door in a moment and bade them move on, laying about her with
her cane in the most vigorous manner, crying, “Off, off, you Rebels!”
and clearing the porch in a few moments.
With victory alternating between North and South, matters dragged on
until September of 1862, when Lee’s advance troops under Stonewall
Jackson spent a week in Frederick, to encourage recruiting for the
Confederate army. Every Union flag was ordered hauled down, and
according to one version of the story Barbara Fritchie, with the other
loyalists, took down her flag and hid it in the Bible, saying that no
Rebel would think of looking for it there.
Another story tells how on the morning of the sixth Dame Barbara’s
niece went to see her and told her of a rumor that the soldiers would
pass through the town that day. Presently the child ran in and called
out in great excitement, “Aunt Fritchie, the troops are coming!”
To the loyal old lady troops meant only one army. She heard the sound
of marching feet. Picking up a silk flag she stepped out on the porch
and waved it at the men passing. Instantly a murmur arose. A captain,
riding up to the porch, said kindly, “Granny, you had better take your
flag in the house.”
“I won’t do it, I won’t,” was her reply, as she saw for the first time
that the passing soldiers were dressed in gray. Defiantly she shook the
flag. The excitement in the ranks increased. Threatening murmurs arose.
Another officer left the line and said, “Old woman, put that flag away,
or you may get in trouble.”
“I won’t,” she responded and waved it again.
Angry shouts came from the men. A third officer approaching warned her:
“If you don’t stop that, you’ll have that flag shot out of your hand.”
The captain, who was still standing near, turned to him and said
angrily, “If you harm a hair of her head, I’ll shoot you like a dog!
March on,” he commanded sternly, for some of the soldiers had lifted
their guns.
On the twelfth of September the southerners left Frederick and the
Union forces marched in, to leave the following day for South Mountain
and Antietam. It was common talk among the northern soldiers that
some old lady had kept a Union flag flying from her window during the
Rebels’ possession of the town, and that it had been fired on.
As the Federal troops were leaving the city General Reno noticed a
crowd of people in front of Barbara Fritchie’s home, reined in his
horse and heard the story. On being told that she was more than ninety
years old, he exclaimed, “The spirit of 1776!” and his men gave a
mighty shout that echoed along the street. Some of the boys in blue ran
to the window and grasped her hand, saying, “God bless you, old lady!”
and “May you live long, you dear old soul!”
The general dismounted to shake hands with the aged heroine, who gave
him some home-made currant wine, served in the blue delft from which
Washington had drunk. He asked if she would sell him the flag. This she
refused to do, but gave him a bunting flag.
“Frank,” he said to his brother as they rode away, “whom does she
remind you of?”
“Mother.”
The general nodded his head. The next day Reno fell at South Mountain,
mortally wounded, and Barbara’s flag was placed on his casket when it
was sent north to his Massachusetts home.
Three months later Dame Fritchie died, at fourscore and sixteen, and
was buried in the little graveyard of the Reformed Church in Frederick.
Her story was published in the newspapers and gained credence in
Maryland and in Washington. It was accepted as a fitting symbol of a
real and great emotion of the people. Mrs. Southworth, the novelist,
hearing it from friends and from a neighbor who was a connection of the
Fritchie family, sent it to Whittier, adding, “This story of a woman’s
heroism seemed as much to belong to you as a book picked up with your
autograph on the fly-leaf.”
Within a fortnight after its receipt the Quaker poet, in his most
heroic mood, wrote his Barbara Fritchie ballad, remarkable for its
lofty patriotism. Though he had no military training his lines are full
of the spirit of army life, the tread of marching soldiers, the orders
short and sharp, a stirring setting for the courageous act of an old
lady of ninety-six.
“It ought to have fallen into better hands,” Whittier wrote to Mrs.
Southworth. “If it is good for anything thee deserves the credit of it.”
The poem was sent to the _Atlantic Monthly_, whose editor replied,
“Enclosed is a check for fifty dollars, but Barbara’s weight should be
in gold!”
The ballad was, and is, most popular through the North, for it belongs
in the class which the world will never willingly let die. But it
aroused great enmity in the South where people bitterly resented the
statement that a favorite general had ordered his men to fire on an old
lady. There were many denials of all the details of the story, some
from members of the Fritchie family--that Jackson did not pass the
Fritchie house, proved by statements from his staff; that Barbara had
waved her flag only to welcome the Union army, and the incident had
been blended with the story of Mrs. Quantrell, a loyal school-teacher
who did wave the flag in sight of the Confederates; that no such person
as Barbara Fritchie had ever lived in Frederick!
Said Whittier years later, “There has been a good deal of dispute about
my little poem. That there was a Dame Fritchie in Frederick who loved
the old flag is not disputed by any one. If I made any mistake in the
details there was none in my estimate of her noble character and her
loyalty and patriotism. If there was no such occurrence, so much the
worse for Frederick City.”
Across the town from the little churchyard where John and Barbara
Fritchie lie buried is the monument marking the grave of the author of
_The Star-Spangled Banner_. And in both cemeteries the flag floats out,
signaling the one to the other, fulfilling the lines of the Quaker poet:
“Over Barbara Fritchie’s grave
Flag of freedom and union, wave!
And ever the stars above look down
On thy stars below in Frederick town.”