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:
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