LEAVES FROM HER UNPUBLISHED AUTOBIOGRAPHY
When Clara Barton began to teach school, she was only a little girl.
To her family, she seemed even younger and more tiny than she was. But
she had taken the words of Dr. Fowler to heart, and she determined to
teach and to teach successfully. Mrs. Stafford, formerly Mamie Barton,
remembers hearing her mother tell how seriously Clara took the edict of
the phrenologist. To her it was nothing less than predestination and
prophecy. In her own mind she was already a teacher, but she realized
that in the mind of her household she was still a child. She stood
beside the large stone fireplace, looking very slender and very small,
and with dignity asked, “But what am I to do with only two little old
waifish dresses?”
[Illustration: CLARA BARTON AT EIGHTEEN]
Julia, David Barton’s young bride, was first to discern the pertinence
of the question. If Clara was to teach school, she must have apparel
suitable for her vocation. The “two little old waifish dresses,” which
had been deemed adequate for her home and school life, were replaced by
new frocks that fell below her shoe-tops, and Clara Barton began her
work.
She was a quick-tempered little teacher, dignified and self-possessed.
Little and young though she was, she was not to be trifled with. She
flogged, and on occasion expelled, but she won respect at the outset
and very soon affection. Then floggings ceased almost altogether.
At first she was teacher only of the spring and autumn school nearest
her home; then she taught in districts in Oxford farther away; then
came the incontrovertible certificate of success in her invitation to
teach the winter school, which according to precedent must be managed
by a man capable of whipping the entire group of big boys. And in all
this experience of teaching she succeeded.
In 1908 she wrote the second installment of her autobiography, and in
that she related how she finished her teaching in Oxford and went for
further education to Clinton Institute:
Hard, tiresome years were these, with no advancement for me. Some, I
hoped, for others. Little children grew to be large, and mainly “well
behaved.” Boys grew to manhood, and continued faithfully in their
work, or went out and entered into business, seeking other vocations.
A few girls became teachers, but more continued at their looms or set
up housekeeping for themselves, but whatever sphere opened to them,
they were all mine, second only to the claims and interests of the
real mother. And so they have remained. Scattered over the world,
some near, some far, I have been their confidant, standing at their
nuptials if possible, lent my name to their babies, followed their
fortunes to war’s gory fields, staunched their blood, dressed their
wounds, and closed their Northern eyes on the hard-fought fields of
the Southland; and yet, all this I count as little in comparison with
the faithful, grateful love I hold to-day of the few survivors of my
Oxford schools.
I shall have neglected a great, I could almost say a holy, duty,
if I fail to mention the name, and connect the presence, of the
Reverend Horatio Bardwell with this school. Reverend Dr. Bardwell,
an early India missionary, and for over twenty years pastor of the
Congregational Church of Oxford, where his memory lovingly lingers
to-day, as if he had passed from them but yesterday, or indeed had not
passed at all.
Dr. Bardwell was continuously on the School Board of the town, and his
custom was to drop in upon a school, familiarly, at a most unexpected
moment. I recall the amusing scenes, when, by some unusual sound
behind me, my attention would be called from the class I had before
me, to see my entire school, which had risen unbidden, standing with
hands resting on the desk before them, heads reverently bent, and Dr.
Bardwell midway of the open door, with hands upraised in mute wonder
and admiration. At length he would find voice, with, “What a sight,
what a multitude!” The school reseated itself when bidden and prepared
for the visit of a half-hour of pleasant conversation, anecdotes, and
advice that even the smallest would not willingly have missed. It
was the self-reliant, self-possessed, and unbidden courtesy of these
promiscuous children that won the Doctor’s admiration. He saw in these
something for a future to build upon.
It is to be remembered that I am not writing romance, nor yet ancient
history, where I can create or vary my models to suit myself. It is,
in fact, semi-present history, with most notable characters still
existing, who can, at any moment, rise up and call me to order. To
avoid such a contingency, I may sometimes be more explicit than I
otherwise would be at the risk of prolixity. This possibility leads me
to state that a few times in the years I was borrowed, for a part of
a winter term, by some neighboring town, where it would be said there
was trouble, and some school was “not getting on well.” I usually
found that report to have been largely illusive, for they got on very
well with me. Probably it was the old adage of a “new broom,” for
I did nothing but teach them. I recall one of these experiences as
transpiring in Millbury, the grand old town where the lamented and
honored mother of our President-elect Judge Taft has just passed to
a better land. That early and undeserved reputation for “discipline”
always clung to me.
Most of this transpired during years in which I should have been in
school myself, using time and opportunities for my own advancement
which could not be replaced. This thought grew irresistibly upon me,
until I decided that I must withdraw and find a school, the object
of which should be to teach _me_ something. The number of
educational institutions for women was one to a thousand as compared
with to-day. I knew I must place myself so far away that a “run of bad
luck” in the home school could not persuade me to return--it would be
sure to have one.
Religiously, I had been educated in the liberal thought of my family,
and preferring to remain in that atmosphere, I decided upon the
“Liberal Institute,” of Clinton, New York.
I recall with pain even now the regret with which my family,
especially my brothers, heard my announcement. I had become literally
a part, if not a partner, of them in school and office. My brother
Stephen was school superintendent, thus there was no necessity for
making my intentions public, and I would spare both my school and
myself the pain of parting. I closed my autumn term, as usual, on
Friday night. On Monday night the jingling cutter of my brothers (for
it was early sleighing), took me to the station for New York. This was
in reality going away from home. I had left the smothered sighs, the
blessings, and the memories of a little life behind me. My journey
was made in silence and safety, and the third day found me installed
as a guest in the “Clinton House” of Clinton, Oneida County, New
York--a typical old-time tavern. My hosts were Mr. and Mrs. Samuel
Bertram--and again the hand rests, and memory pauses, to pay its
tribute of grateful, loving respect to such as I shall never know
again this side the Gates Eternal.
It was holiday season. The Institute was undergoing a transfer from
old to new buildings. These changes caused a delay of some weeks,
while I became a part and parcel of the family I had so incidentally
and fortunately fallen among.
Clinton was also the seat of Hamilton College. The sisters and
relatives of the students of Hamilton contributed largely to the
personnel of the Institute. Reverend Dr. Sawyer presided over
Hamilton, and Miss Louise Barker with a competent corps of assistants
presided over the Institute.
It was a cold, blustering winter day that assembled us in the almost
as cold schoolrooms of the newly finished and sparsely furnished
building. Even its clean new brick walls on its stately eminence
looked cold, and the two-plank walk with a two-foot space between,
leading up from town, was not suggestive of the warmest degree
of sociability, to say the least of it. My introduction to our
Preceptress, or President, Miss Barker, was both a pleasure and a
surprise to me. I found an unlooked-for activity, a cordiality, and an
irresistible charm of manner that none could have foreseen--a winning,
indescribable grace which I have met in only a few persons in a whole
lifetime. Those who remember the eminent Dr. Lucy Hall Brown, of
Brooklyn, who only a year ago passed out through California’s “Golden
Gate,” will be able to catch something of what I mean, but cannot
describe. Neither could they. To no one had I mentioned anything of
myself, or my past. No “certificate of character” had been mentioned,
and no recommendation from my “last place” been required of me. There
was no reason why I should volunteer my history, or step in among that
crowd of eager pupils as a “school-marm,” expected to know everything.
The easiest way for me was to keep silent, as I did, and so well kept
that I left that Institute at the close without a mistrust on the part
of any one that I had ever taught school a day.
The difficulty to be met lay mainly in the assignment of studies. The
prescribed number was a cruel limit. I was there for study. I required
no rudiments, and wanted no allowance for waste time; I would use
it all; and diffidently I made this fact known at the head, asking
one more and one more study until the limit was stretched out of all
reasonable proportions. I recall, with amusement, the last evening
when I entered with my request. The teachers were assembled in the
parlor and, divining my errand, as I had never any other, Miss Barker
broke into a merry laugh--with “Miss Barton, we have a few studies
left; you had better take what there are, and we will say nothing
about it.” This broke the ice, and the line. I could only join in the
laugh, and after this studied what I would, and “nothing was said.”
I would by no means be understood as crediting myself with superior
scholarship. There were doubtless far more advanced scholars there
than I, but I had a drilled rudimentary knowledge which they had never
had, and I had the habit of study, with a burning anxiety to make the
most of lost time. So true it is that we value our privileges only
when we have lost them.
Miss Barton spent her vacations at the Institute. A few teachers were
there, and a small group of students; and she pursued her studies and
gave her reading wider range. She wanted to go home, but the distance
seemed great, and she was there to learn.
Her mother died while she was at Clinton. Her death occurred in July,
but before the term had ended. Clara could not reach home in time for
the funeral and her family knew it and sent her word not to undertake
the journey.
She finished her school year and her course, made a visit to her home,
and then journeyed to Bordentown, New Jersey, to visit her friends,
the Norton family. There the opportunity came to her of teaching the
winter term of the Bordentown school.
“Public schools of that day,” she wrote, “ceased with the southern
boundary of New England and New York. Each pupil was assessed a certain
fee, the aggregate of which formed the teacher’s salary.”
[Illustration: THE SCHOOLHOUSE AT BORDENTOWN]
She undertook the school on the fee basis, but in a short time changed
it to a public school, open to all the children of school age in
Bordentown. It was that town’s first free school. The School Board
agreed to give her the opportunity to try the experiment. She tells
how it came about. She looked over the little group who attended her
subscription school, and then saw the much larger number outside, and
she was not happy:
But the boys! I found them on all sides of me. Every street corner
had little knots of them idle, listless, as if to say, what shall
one do, when one has nothing to do? I sought every inconspicuous
occasion to stop and talk with them. I saw nothing unusual in them.
Much like other boys I had known, unusually courteous, showing special
instruction in that line, and frequently of unusual intelligence.
They spoke of their banishment or absence from school with far less
of bravado or boasting than would have been expected, under the
circumstances, and often with regret. “Lady, there is no school for
us,” answered a bright-faced lad of fourteen, as he rested his foot on
the edge of a little park fountain where I had accosted him. “We would
be glad to go if there was one.” I had listened to such as this long
enough, and, without returning to my hotel, I sought Mr. Suydam, as
chairman of the School Committee, and asked for an interview.
By this time, in his capacity of postmaster, we had formed a tolerable
acquaintance. Now, for the first time, I made known my desire to open
a public school in Bordentown, teaching it myself.
Surprise, discouragement, resistance, and sympathy were all pictured
on his manly face. He was troubled for terms in which to express the
mental conflict, but in snatches something like this.
These boys were renegades, many of them more fit for the penitentiary
than school--a woman could do nothing with them. They wouldn’t go to
school if they had the chance, and the parents would never send them
to a “pauper school.” I would have the respectable sentiment of the
entire community against me; I could never endure the obloquy, not to
call it disgrace that I should meet; and to crown all, I should have
the bitter opposition of all the present teachers, many of whom were
ladies of influence in society and would contend vigorously for their
rights. A strong man would quail and give way under what he would
be compelled to meet, and what could a woman--a young woman, and a
stranger--do?
He spoke very kindly and appreciatingly of the intention,
acknowledging the necessity, and commending the nature of the
effort, but it was ill-timed, and had best be at once abandoned as
impracticable.
With this honest effort, and, wiping the perspiration from his
forehead, he rested. After a moment’s quiet and seeing that he did not
resume, I said with a respect, which I most sincerely felt, “Thank
you, Mr. Suydam, shall I speak?” “Certainly, Miss Barton,” and with a
little appreciative laugh, “I will try to be as good a listener as you
have been.”
I thanked him again for the evident sincerity of his objections,
assuring him that I believed them drawn entirely in my interest, and
his earnest desire to save me from what seemed to him an impossible
undertaking, with only failure and humiliation as sure and logical
results. A few of these I would like to answer, and throwing off
the mask I had worn since Clinton, told him plainly that I was, and
had been for years, a teacher of the public schools of New England.
That was my profession, and that, if entered in the long and honored
competitive list of such, I did not suppose that in either capacity,
experience, or success I should stand at the foot. I had studied the
character of these boys, and had intense pity for, but no fear of,
them. As for exclusion from society, I had not sought society, and
could easily dispense with it, if they so willed; I was not here for
that. As for reputation, I had brought with me all I needed, and that
of a character that a bit of village gossip could not affect. With all
respect for the prejudices of the people, I should try not to increase
them. My only desire was to open and teach a school in Bordentown,
to which its outcast children could go and be taught; and I would
emphasize that desire by adding that I wished no salary. I would open
and teach such a school without remuneration, but my effort must have
the majesty of the law, and the power vested in its offices behind it
or it could not stand. If I secured a building and proceeded to open
a school, it would be only one more private school like the score
they already had; that the School Board, as officers of the law, with
accepted rights and duties, must so far connect themselves with the
effort as to provide quarters, the necessary furnishings, and to give
due and respectable notice of the same among the people. In fact, it
must stand as by their order, leaving the work and results to me.
I was not there for necessity. Fortunately I needed nothing of
them--neither as an adventuress. I had no personal ambitions to
serve, but as an observer of unwelcome conditions, and, as I thought,
harmful as well, to try, so far as possible, the power of a good,
wise, beneficent, and established state law, as against the force of
ignorance, blind prejudice, and the tyranny of an obsolete, outlived
public opinion. I desired to see them both fairly placed upon their
merits before an intelligent community, leaving the results to the
winner. If the law, after trial, were not acceptable, or of use to the
people serving their best interest, abolish or change it--if it were,
enforce and sustain it.
My reply was much longer than the remarks that had called for it, but
the pledge of good listening was faithfully kept.
When he spoke again, it was to ask if I desired my proposition to
be laid before the School Board? I surely did. He would speak with
the gentlemen this evening, and call a meeting for to-morrow. Our
interview had consumed two hours, and we parted better friends than we
commenced.
The following afternoon, to my surprise, I was most courteously
invited to sit with the School Board in its deliberations, and I made
the acquaintance of two more, plain, honest-minded gentlemen. The
subject was fairly discussed, but with great misgivings, a kind of
tender sympathy running through it all. At length Mr. Suydam arose,
and, addressing his colleagues, said, “Gentlemen, we feel alike, I
am sure, regarding the hazardous nature of this experiment and its
probable results, but situated as we are, officers of a law which we
are sworn to obey and enforce, can we legally decline to accede to
this proposition, which is in every respect within the law. From your
expressed opinions of last evening I believe we agree on this point,
and I put the vote.”
It was a unanimous yea, with the decision that the old closed
schoolhouse be refitted, and a school commenced.
The school speedily outgrew its quarters, and Clara sent word to Oxford
that she must have an assistant. Her brother Stephen secured the
services of Miss Frances Childs, who subsequently became Mrs. Bernard
Barton Vassall. Frances had just finished her first term as teacher of
a school in Oxford, and she proved a very capable assistant. Letters
from, and personal interviews with, her have brought vividly before me
the conditions of Clara’s work in Bordentown.
[Illustration:
MISS FANNIE CHILDS
(MRS. BERNARD VASSALL)
At the time she taught school
with Miss Barton at Bordentown, N.J.
]
She thus writes me of her happy memories:
When Clara’s school in Bordentown had become so pronounced a success
that she could not manage it alone, she sent for me. I had a separate
schoolroom, the upstairs room over a tailor shop. I had about sixty
pupils. Clara and I boarded and roomed together. The editor of the
Bordentown “Gazette” roomed at the same place. He frequently commented
on the fact that when Clara and I were in our room together, we were
always talking and laughing. It was a constant wonder to him. He could
not understand how we found so much to laugh at.
Clara was so sensitive, she felt it keenly when any pupil had to be
punished, or any parent was disappointed, but she did not indulge very
long in mourning or self-reproach, she knew she had done her best and
she laughed and made the best of it. Clara had an unfailing sense of
humor. She said to me once that of all the qualities she possessed,
that for which she felt most thankful was her sense of humor. She said
it helped her over many hard places.
Clara had quick wit, and was very ready with repartee and apt reply.
I remember an evening when she brought to a close a rather lengthy
discussion by a quick reply that set us all to laughing. We spent
an evening at the home of the Episcopalian minister, who was one of
the School Committee. The discussion turned to phrenology. Clara
had great faith in it. The minister did not believe in it at all.
They had quite an argument about it. He told Clara of a man who had
suffered an injury to the brain which had resulted in the removal of
a considerable part of it. He argued that if there was anything in
phrenology, that man would have been deprived of a certain group of
mental capabilities, but that he got on very well with only a part of
a brain. Clara replied quickly, “Then there’s hope for me.” So the
discussion ended in a hearty laugh.
As a school-teacher, Clara Barton was a pronounced success. We are not
dependent wholly upon her own account of her years as a teacher. From
many and distant places her pupils rose up and called her blessed.
Nothing pleased her more than the letters which she received from time
to time, in after years, from men and women who had been pupils of hers
and who wrote to tell her with what satisfaction and gratitude they
remembered her instruction. Some of these letters were received by
her as early as 1851, when she was at Clinton Institute. Her answers
were long, appreciative, and painstaking. In those days Clara Barton
was something of an artist, and had taught drawing and painting. One
or two of her letters of this period have ornamented letterheads with
birds and other scroll work. Her letters always abounded in good cheer,
and often contained wholesome advice, though she did not preach to her
pupils. Some of these letters from former pupils continued to reach
her after she had become well known. Men in business and in political
life wrote reminding her that they had been bad boys in her school, and
telling of her patience, her tact, and the inspiration of her ideals.
Her home letters in the years before the war are the letters of a
dutiful daughter and affectionate sister. She wrote to her father, her
brothers, and especially to Julia, the wife of David Barton, who was
perhaps the best correspondent in the family. She bore on her heart
all the family anxieties. If any member of the family was sick, the
matter was constantly on her mind. She wanted to know every detail,
in what room were they keeping him? Was the parlor chimney drawing
well? And was every possible provision made for comfort? She made many
suggestions as to simple remedies, and more as to nursing, hygiene,
and general comfort. Always when there was sickness she wished that
she were there. She wanted to assist in the nursing. She sent frequent
messages to her brothers and sisters, nieces and nephews. The messages
were always considerate, affectionate, and unselfish. She was not often
homesick; in general she made the best of her absences from home, and
busied herself with the day’s task. But whenever there was anything
at home which suggested an occasion for anxiety or an opportunity for
service, then she wished herself home. She visualized the home at such
times, and carried a mental picture of the house, the room, the bedside
of the patient. One of these letters, written from Washington to Julia
Barton, when her father was dangerously ill, may here be inserted as an
illustration of her devotion to her parents and to all members of her
family:
WASHINGTON, D.C., 29th Dec., 1860
DEAR SISTER:
I don’t know what to say or how to write you, I am so uncertain of the
scenes you may be passing through. In thought and spirit I am in the
room with you every moment--that it is sad and _painful_, or sad
and _desolate_ I know. I can _almost_ see, and _almost_
hear, and _almost_ know, how it all is--between us seems to be
only the “veil so thin so strong,” there are moments when I think I
can brush it away with my hand and look upon that dear treasured
form and face, the earliest loved and latest mourned of all my life.
Sometimes I am certain I hear the patient’s feeble moan, and at others
above me the _clouds_ seem to divide, and, in the opening up
among the blue and golden, that loved face, smiling and pleasant,
looks calmly down upon me; then I think it is all past, and my poor
father is at rest. Aye! more that he has learned the password to the
Mystic Lodge of God and entered in: that the Providences and mysteries
he has loved so much to contemplate are being made plain to him; that
the inquiries of his intelligent soul are to be satisfied and that the
God he has always worshiped he may now adore.
And in spite of all the grief, the agony of parting, there is pleasure
in these reflections, and consolation in the thought that while we may
have one the less tie upon earth, we shall have one more treasure in
Heaven.
And yet again, when I look into my own heart, there is underlying the
whole a little of the old-time hope--hope that he may yet be spared to
us a little longer; that a few more months or years may be given us in
which to prove the love and devotion of our hearts; that we may again
listen to his wise counsels and kind admonitions, and hourly I pray
Heaven that, if it be consistent with Divine arrangement, the cup may
pass from him. But God’s will, not mine, be done.
If my father still lives and realizes, will you tell him how much I
love him and regret his sufferings, and how _much_ rather I would
endure them myself if _he_ could be saved from them?
With love and sympathy to all,
I am, your affectionate sister
CLARA
Her letters to members of her family are seldom of great importance.
They concern themselves with the trivial details of her and their daily
life; thoughtful answers to all their inquiries, and expressions of
affection and interest in all their concerns. In some respects the
letters are more interesting which she wrote when she was temporarily
in Oxford. One of these was addressed to her brother David, who had
gone South to visit Stephen, then a resident of North Carolina. It was
written at the time when she had been removed from her position in the
Patent Office, and for a while was at home. David had written Julia
in some concern lest he should not have provided in advance for her
every possible want before his leaving her to go South. Clara replied
to this letter, making merry over the “destitute” condition in which
David had left his wife, and giving details about business affairs and
home life. It is a thoroughly characteristic letter, full of fun and
detail and neighborhood gossip and sisterly good-will. If her brothers
were to stay in the South in hot weather, she wanted to be with them.
She had already proposed to Stephen that he let her go South and look
after him, and Stephen had sought to dissuade her, telling her that the
conditions of life were uncomfortable, and that she would be shocked by
seeing the almost nude condition of the negro laborers. None of these
things frightened her. The only things she was afraid of were things
about which she had told David, and we cannot help wishing we knew what
they were. It is good to know that by this time the objects of her
fear made rather a short list, for she was by nature timid and easily
terrified, but had become self-reliant and strong.
NORTH OXFORD, June 17th, 1858
DEAR BROTHER:
This is an excessively warm day, and Julia scarcely thinks she can get
her courage up to the sticking point to sit down to letter-writing,
but I will try it, for the weather is all alike to me, only just
comfortably warm, and I can as well scribble letters as anything.
We are rejoiced to hear such good reports from Stephen. It cannot
be, however, that he was ready to return with you? For his sake I
hope he could, but should be frightened if I knew he attempted it.
We are all well; received your short letter in due time. Julia has
discoursed considerably upon the propriety of that word “destitute”
which you made use of. She says you left her with a barrel and a half
of flour, a barrel and a half of crackers, a good new milch cow,
fish, ham, dried beef, a barrel of pork, four good hogs in the pen,
a field of early potatoes just coming on, a good garden, plenty of
fowls, a good grain crop in and a man to take care of them, a good
team, thirty cords of wood at the door and a horse and chaise to ride
where she pleased. This she thinks is one of the last specimens of
destitution. Can scarcely sleep at night through fear of immediate
want--and beside we have not mentioned the crab apples. I shouldn’t
wonder if we have fifty bushels of them; this only depends upon the
size they attain, there are certainly enough in number. The hoeing is
all done once, and the piece out by Mr. Baker’s gone over the second
time. Uncle Joe helped. The taxes are paid, yours, Colonel Davis’s,
and Brine’s. The two latter I have charged to them and pasted the
receipts in the books. I have put down Brine’s[1] time for last week
and made out a new time page for July. Brine has gone to Worcester
with old Eb to-day, and I have put that down and carried his account
to a new page. Whitlock has not paid yet, but the 2´-40´´ man on
the hill has paid .75. Old Mrs. Collier is going to pay before she
gets herself a new pair of shoes, and Sam avers that she is not
only in need of shoes, but stockings, to which fact he is a living
eye-witness. Johnson “hasn’t a cent--will pay next week--” This, I
believe, finishes up the schedule of money matters until we report
next time. Mr. Samuel Smith is dead. Was buried Thursday, I think. I
have just written to the Colonel at Boston and to Cousin Ira[2] the
intelligence from Stephen when we first learned that he was really
better, and had hardly sent the letters away before the Judge came in.
He was anxious to hear from us and also to attend the funeral, so took
the morning train and came out, took dinner, and then he and father
took Dick and the chaise and went to the funeral, came back, stayed
to supper, and I went and carried him to the depot. We had a most
delightful visit from him. Every time I see Cousin Ira, I think he is
a better and better cousin. It is hardly possible for us to esteem him
enough. I forgot to tell you about the garden. Julia has hoed it all
over, set out the cabbage plants, waters them almost every day; they
are looking finely. She has weeded all the beds, and Sam says he will
help her some about the garden. Brine doesn’t seem to take an interest
in the fine arts. Julia says she hopes you will not take a moment’s
trouble about us, for we are getting on finely and shall do so, but
you must take care of yourself. We--i.e. Julia and I--shall ride down
to the Colonel’s this evening after sundown. I should like to see him
and know he would like to hear from you again. I have not heard where
Stephen is or how since you wrote, but trust he is no worse, and I
also hope you may be able to favor and counsel him so as to keep him
up when he gets back. I feel as much solicitude on your account as
his, for I know how liable you are to get out of fix. I wish every
day that I was there to see that both of you had what you needed to
take and to be done for you. I was earnest in what I wished you to say
to Stephen, that I was ready to go to Carolina or anywhere else if I
could serve him; not that I want a job, as I should insist on putting
my labor against my board, but earnestly if you are both going to try
to summer there and Stephen so feeble as he is, I shall be glad to be
with you. Still, if not proper or acceptable, I, of course, shall not
urge myself or feel slighted, but I feel afraid to have you both there
by yourselves; while you go away on business, he will be obliged to do
something at home to get sick, and maybe I could do it for him if I
were there, or at least take care of him in time. I am not afraid of
naked negroes or rough houses, and you know the only things in all the
world I should fear, for I told you--nothing else aside from these. I
have no precaution or care for anything there could be there, but I
have said enough and too much. Stephen may think I am willing to make
myself more plenty than welcome, but I have obeyed the dictates of my
feelings and judgment and can do no more, and I could not have done
it and done less, so I leave it. If I can serve you, tell me. I have
seen neither of the Washington tourists yet, and I went to the depot
this morning to meet Irving[3] if he was there, but he did not come.
Please tell me if Mr. Vassall talks of going to Carolina this summer,
or will he come North? I have offered Julia this space to fill up,
but she says I have told all the news and declines, and it is almost
time to get ready to ride; so good-bye, and write a word or two often.
Don’t trouble to send long letters, it is hot work to write. Sleep all
you can, don’t drink ice water, be careful about grease, don’t expose
yourself to damp evenings or mornings if too misty, or you will get
the chills. Love to Stephen. Will he ever write me, I wonder?
From your affectionate sister
CLARA
Great as was Clara Barton’s success in Bordentown, she did not move
forward without opposition. Although she had built up the public
school to a degree of efficiency which it had not before known, she
met the resolute opposition of those who objected to a woman’s
control of a school as important as this had now grown to be. It was
rather pathetic that her very success should have been used as an
occasion of opposition. The school was alleged to be too large for a
woman to manage. A woman had made it large and had managed it while
it was in process of becoming large, and was continuing to manage it
very well. However, the demand for a male principal grew very strong,
and, against the wishes of a large majority of the pupils, a male
principal was chosen. Clara Barton would not remain and occupy a
second place. Moreover, it was time for her to leave the schoolroom.
For almost twenty years she had been constantly teaching, and her work
at Bordentown, never easy, had ended in a record of success which
brought its own reaction and disappointment. Suddenly she realized
that her energy was exhausted. Her voice completely failed. A nervous
collapse, such as came to her a number of times later in life, laid her
prostrate. She left her great work at Bordentown and went to Washington
to recuperate. She did not know it, but she was leaving the schoolroom
behind her forever.
In those days Clara Barton was much given to writing verse. She
never entirely gave it up. The most of her poetical writing during
this period is of no especial interest, but consists of verses for
autograph albums, and other ephemeral writing. Once, while she was at
Bordentown, she tried a rhymed advertisement. At least twice while she
was teaching in that village, she made a round trip to Philadelphia on
the steamboat John Stevens. On the second occasion the steamboat had
been redecorated, and she scribbled a jingle concerning its attractions
in the back of her diary. She may have had some idea that her Pegasus
could be profitably harnessed to the chariot of commerce, and it is
possible that she offered this little jingle to the proprietors of the
boat or to the editor of the Bordentown “Gazette,” who roomed at the
house where she boarded. The files of that enterprising publication
have not been searched, but they probably would show that now and then
Clara Barton handed to the editor some poetical comment on passing
events. So far as is known, however, these lines about the beauty of
the rejuvenated John Stevens have not appeared in print before, and
it is now too late for them to be of value in increasing the business
of her owners. It is pleasant, however, to have this reminder of her
occasional outings while she was teaching school, and to know that she
enjoyed them as she did her river journey to Philadelphia and back:
ADVERTISEMENT
_Written on board the John Stevens between Bordentown and
Philadelphia March 12, 1853_
You’ve not seen the John Stevens since her new dress she donned?
Why, you’d think she’d been touched by a fairy’s wand!
Such carpets, such curtains, just sprang into light,
Such mirrors bewildering the overcharged sight.
Such velvets, such cushions, such sofas and all,
Then the polish that gleams on her glittering wall.
Now if it be true that you’ve not seen her yet,
We ask you, nay! _urge_ you, implore and beset,
That you will no longer your interests forget,
But at once _take a ticket_ as we have to-day,
And our word as a warrant--
You’ll find it will pay.
[1] Brine Murphy, a faithful hired man.
[2] Judge Ira M. Barton of Worcester.
[3] Irving S. Vassall, her nephew.