Читать книгу Clara Barton, Professional Angel - Elizabeth Brown Pryor - Страница 10

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On a cheerless Christmas Day in 1821 Captain Stephen Barton finished his round of chores and wearily entered the house to sit by the fire. The small Hubbell s town in which the Barton's lived had not yet given up the austere customs of Puritan times, and he looked forward to a quiet evening rather than a gay holiday celebration. He leaned back in his chair and stretched out his legs, only mildly disturbed by the voices of his wife and a female cousin in the adjoining bedroom. But the commotion increased, and the cousin finally emerged in a flutter to ask him to fetch the doctor; his wife Sarah was about to give birth. Tired and a little blasé—for this was his fifth child—Stephen Barton did not hurry, and a new daughter arrived before he could return.¹

They named her Clarissa Harlowe Barton after a paternal aunt, who in turn had been named for the fashionable and romantic heroine of a Samuel Richardson novel.² But whether inappropriate to the middle-class household or lengthy and cumbersome to pronounce, the name never stuck. The Barton family liked nicknames and the new baby had her share. A brother, walking home from the strict New Oxford school, which held classes even on Christmas Day, met a neighbor who encouraged him to get home quickly, saying, “there’s a little tot at your house”; he dubbed his new sister “Tot,” a nickname that held on until she was well into her eighties.³ Others called her “Tabatha” or “Clary,” and “Baby” was the inevitable appellation for the youngest family member.⁴ But her name was shortened most consistently to “Clara,” and it was with this name that she identified closely throughout her life. Some early school papers have the careful signature “Clarissa H. Barton,” and until the Civil War she signed herself “Clara H. Barton.” After that time, however, the middle initial disappeared altogether, and she used only the name by which she became known to the world—Clara Barton.

“I am told there was great family jubilation on the occasion,” Clara Barton wrote of her birth.⁵ Jubilation, but also expectancy and a sense of novelty, for the family had thought itself complete long before 1821. Stephen Barton and Sarah Stone had married hastily in 1804, and a daughter, Dorothea, was born to them five months later. Two sons, Stephen and David, and another daughter, Sally, had made their appearance by 1810. Sally, closest in age to Clara, was nearly eleven years her senior. Since all of the Barton's were old enough to anticipate the important occasion, the family dignified it with the purchase of a set of Blue Willow china and a pink and white tea service, relatively extravagant purchases for their middle-class household. The china was handed down in the family, a symbol of this happy event and the many later celebrations at which it was used.⁶

They were shaped strongly of New England, these Barton's, reflecting the hard work and hard principles needed to earn a living in the rocky countryside and the individualism that gave fire to town meetings and church councils. Their village of North Oxford, Hubbell s, was well established in 1821, not very different from the other towns of the countryside fifty miles west of Boston, but with a strong local gentry and a bit of romantic history to call its own. The Barton's, Learneds, and Stones—the rootstock of Clara’s family—had not been among the original Huguenot settlers of North Oxford, but they had very early seen the possibilities in its location along the swiftly moving French River and by 1713 had become prominent in the town’s farming and milling industries. A hundred years later, their hopes for the town had been fulfilled. It was then a place of clapboard houses and steepled churches, surrounded by self-sufficient farms. Both saw and grist mills dotted the banks of the French River, providing a prosperous sideline for some of the area’s farming families. A “handsome village on a large plain” is how one gazetteer described it.⁷

Clara learned of the history of her family and town on long winter evenings while sitting by the fire. Throughout her life she recalled the thrill she felt in hearing of the Barton's’ part in the English Wars of the Roses and how the family had come to Hubbell s to begin a new life. There were scores of colorful relatives to take pride in: Samuel Barton, the first to come to North Oxford, who had fled from Salem after unsuccessfully defending an accused woman during the witch trials;⁸ Ebenezer Learned, an early and successful industrialist, a leader of the Hubbell s General Court, but a taciturn and flinty man, the legends of whose stingy ways were overshadowed only by the spectacular exploits of his enormous-footed black slave, Mingo;⁹ and Dr. Stephen Barton, a romantic rebel during the American Revolution, a delegate to the Committees of Correspondence and Safety, and a noted philanthropist, whose independent wife flew in the face of his authority and brewed tea even after the imposition of the hated tax in 1774.¹⁰ (“I have been entertained hours and hours by your interesting, precise and intelligent grandmother Barton, telling us of the tea parties she and her sister Aunt Ballard held in the cellar when grandfather was out or up and didn’t know what was going on in his own disloyal and rebellious home,” Clara told a nephew years later, “and how they hung blankets inside the cellar door to prevent the savory fumes of the tea from reaching the loyal and official olfactories of ‘Pater familias.’” ¹¹) Added to these major figures was a list of tantalizing characters that included French and Indian War soldiers, tireless midwives, and bear-wrestling cousins.¹²

It was from her father that Clara Barton heard most of this family lore. Born in 1774, son of the Revolutionary Dr. Stephen, he had grown up with the heroes of the struggling United States. As a young man he found his own military adventure in the army of General “Mad” Anthony Wayne, a troop that fought numerous Indian wars in the wilderness of the Northwest Territory. The elements of this experience—the three years of privation in uncivilized regions, the expanse and promise he saw in the newly formed United States, the regimen and hardiness required in military life—were the definitive influences of his youth. He spoke often and forcefully of these campaigns, and the tone of his language was one of patriotic loyalty. “His soldier habits and tastes never left him,” his daughter Clara wrote. To the end of his life he delighted in military jargon and the comradeship of fellow veterans.¹³

Tall, lean, sharp-eyed Stephen Barton returned to North Oxford and took up his ancestors’ occupations of farming and milling. He kept to himself, gaining a reputation for minding his own business, which came to be a watchword of the Barton clan. His stately bearing and well-respected family connections, however, made it natural that he should serve as moderator of the town meeting, as selectman, as captain of the militia, and later, in 1836, as representative to the Hubbell s General Court. Local citizens noted his sound judgment, stubbornness, wit, and integrity. He was liberal in his political views, a lifelong democrat and admirer of Andrew Jackson, and he fostered notions of progress for North Oxford in the forms of mechanization of the milling industry, improved education, and religious tolerance. But, in contrast to the intellect that readily embraced technical innovation, his personal inclinations were old-fashioned. He maintained a conservative stance against dancing, gambling, or drinking, and one neighbor recalled that he was the last man in North Oxford to stop tying his hair back in a queue.¹⁴

Leadership often implies high social standing, but Stephen Barton undoubtedly exemplified the middle class. Clara always regarded her background as a “humble life,” lived out in “small environments.”¹⁵ Barton provided well for his family, but their way of life was modest. His accounts with local merchants show that he bought more molasses than sugar, and that calico, not silk, clothed the family’s women. Any available opportunity was seized to make a little extra money, and ends were met by selling excess hay, renting out land or equipment, and boarding the neighbors’ livestock.¹⁶ Like his father he was a versatile worker; he built not only the home in which his youngest daughter was born but many simple pieces of furniture and household equipment. The house was cleverly designed, with a convenient indoor well, but far less imposing than his grandfather’s home.¹⁷ Barns and meadows, an orchard, and a kitchen garden completed the homestead. There were lilac bushes to beautify the place, and Captain Barton was not ashamed to open his house to all who visited the town.

Barton’s democratic tendencies were also fostered by an early association with the Universalist church. Unlike the traditional New England churches with their aristocratic God, the Universalists believed that God encouraged all men and women to accept him and charged them to grasp the opportunity to earn salvation—an opportunity open to all. The Universalists were socially aware, interested in abolition, education, and charity. As a young man Stephen Barton had been present at the North Oxford ordination of Hosea Ballou, a zealous and influential early leader of Universalism. The experience had affected him strongly, causing him to leave his family’s Baptist church. He was not a consistent churchgoer—Clara wrote that although she “could not say that he worshipped in that church, he surely always saw that his family worshipped in it”—yet he worked consistently to build and maintain the church and three years after Clara’s birth was elected an officer.¹⁸

Universalism and his own father’s charity encouraged a strong commitment to philanthropy in Stephen Barton. Between 1826 and 1836 he annually donated $574 toward caring for the community’s poor, and in 1831 he used his own funds to establish a house in which destitute families could be maintained.¹⁹ These acts were gratefully remembered by many Oxford citizens. “I never new [sic] a Barton much stuck up,” stated a neighbor who had benefited from Stephen Barton’s benevolence. “I well recolect [sic] the time I was sick at your house and how you doctored me and wated [sic] on me a Poor Boy I never shall forget it.”²⁰

Stephen Barton exercised his influence at home as well as in the community, though there he had considerable competition from his strong-willed wife. Sarah Stone was ten years younger than her husband. She may once have been the “fine looking” woman of Clara’s memory, but she came to have a rotund, featureless face. She was the daughter of a well-respected North Oxford family, middle-class and with few pretensions. Sarah shared her husband’s Baptist background and his more recently developed interest in Universalist principles.²¹ She seems to have been a homebody, indulging in few activities outside the domestic circle, but she had strong opinions on political and social topics. In the 1830s, well before the abolitionist movement gained a foothold in New England, she signed several antislavery petitions that were sent to the United States House of Representatives.²² Sarah Barton was also outspoken on the subject of women’s rights. Her youngest daughter recalled that she was so early exposed to feminist ideals that she believed she “must have been born believing in the full right of woman to all privileges and positions which nature and justice accord her…. When as a young woman I heard the subject discussed it seemed simply ridiculous that any sensible rational person should question it.”²³

Stephen and Sarah Barton shared liberal sentiments, but they were of entirely different temperaments. Clara described her father as a “calm, sound, reasonable high-tuned moral man”; she remembered her mother as ambitious and of “extreme vigor, always did two days work in one, never slept after 3 o’clock, both nervy and nervous.” ²⁴ Industrious and ingenious, she carried on the multitude of daily chores expected of a New England housewife. Her eccentricities and thriftiness were legendary in the town. A daughter-in-law reported to her family that Sarah fed the Barton's on fruits and vegetables that were not fresh, curiously waiting until they were beginning to decay before she served them. She diligently inspected the vegetable bins, picked out the half-spoiled produce, and spent hours paring and cutting away the decayed portions. Sarah also had the habit of baking a great number of mince or apple pies, then carefully storing them in the cellar pantry. She protected this hoard jealously and was highly displeased if the family requested a slice. The pies, like her fresh produce, inevitably became moldy and unfit to eat. Once in a burst of anger her son Stephen slipped down to the cellar and threw the pies into a pail for hog feed. When confronted by his mother he told her that only pigs would eat moldy pies. The protest did not cure her.²⁵

Sarah Barton coupled this peculiarity with a short and fiery temper. Difficult to please, she exhibited her dissatisfaction with color and gusto. She once dismantled a new iron cookstove, the gift of her husband, and threw it piece by piece into the farm pond because she thought it less functional than her old fireplace oven. She muttered and swore whenever anything displeased her and had little patience with the people around her, who she believed did not work up to her expectations. A story is told that when Sarah Barton died, one of her young granddaughters was brought to see her as she lay in her coffin. A few minutes later someone asked the child if she had seen her grandmother. “Yes,” the little girl replied, “I saw grandma and she never swored once.”²⁶

Stephen and Sarah Barton’s strong personalities made for a stormy relationship. While Stephen’s word was the rule, Sarah loudly protested any interference in her domestic work. Frequently they quarreled violently. In one case Sarah, exasperated with her task of changing the bedding, threw a feather tick down the stairs, catching her husband full in the face and scattering feathers over the entire room. Stephen's anger knew no bounds for some time. He ordered Sarah to recapture every feather, but she complied with such a vigor, “muttering imprecations so vengeful,” that Stephen left home for several days. It was with such scenes that domestic issues were reconciled, and with which Clara grew up.²⁷

The eldest child of this tempestuous union was Dorothea, called Dolly after a paternal aunt. She was tall and dark-haired, a keen student with a good mind and an unbridled desire for learning. At the time of her sister Clara’s birth she was a teacher in North Oxford. Like her mother, Dolly had a magnificent temper and an excitable nature, though she possessed enough patience to do intricate embroidery and to write poetry in a flowing, ornate script. She seems to have been especially interested in Clara, and much of the baby’s daily attention came from this quarter. Sensitive and scholarly, Dolly longed to obtain a higher education than that offered in the village school and wept when made to attend classes with a less bookish brother, who she felt disgraced the family. In later years Clara was to remember her eldest sister’s tender care and “ever watchful hand,” and to give Dolly credit for much of her own interest in intellectual pursuits. “Under suitable conditions…,” maintained Clara, “she should have been the flower of the flock.”²⁸

But Dolly Barton’s nervous and sensitive nature led to tragedy when Clara was six years old. In 1827 Dolly had a mental breakdown from which she never recovered. In an era in which mental illness was regarded as shameful and virtually no treatment was available, the best the Barton family could do was to keep Dolly away from society and try to control her flaring temper. In time Dolly became actually dangerous. She cut her beautiful embroidery into shreds, and the rockers on her favorite chair had to be halted with a restraining strip of wood to keep her from rocking too furiously. As her condition worsened she was kept in a locked room with barred windows to control her rages. She would often beat on the door and scream to be let out. Once she escaped and spent the night in the deep woods outside of the village. Another time she tried to violently attack the wife of her brother David with an axe; the young woman was saved only when her husband ran from a nearby field and restrained Dolly.²⁹

The Barton's never knew what caused Dolly’s insanity, but the tragedy of this sister, “so bright, so scholarly, so promising, and so early blighted,” haunted Clara throughout her life.³⁰ In the late 1870s Clara confided to a doctor that she believed it was due to “some menstrual obstruction which was not understood or treated”—a common medical misunderstanding of the time.³¹ Later, however, Clara told a niece that she believed Dolly would not have lost her mind if she had been able to obtain proper schooling and fulfill her ambitions in the world of letters. Her constant brooding and inward reflection only increased her unhappiness and finally drove her to despair. Significantly, Barton never referred to her sister’s insanity publicly and only rarely did so in private. In her autobiography, The Story of My Childhood, she notes only that her eldest sister was “an invalid.”³²

Of Barton’s siblings, the most dominant personality seems to have been Stephen junior. He was fifteen when his youngest sister was born and had already gone through his own maturing trials. He was physically strong and athletically inclined but, like his mother, was excitable and nervous. As a child he found it difficult to settle down to studying—at twelve he was still unable to read.³³ He resisted his parents’ admonitions, then suddenly decided for himself that he would like an education. By studying at night after a day of farm chores, Stephen surpassed the rest of the town’s pupils within a year, being especially noted for his “power and quick wits in mathematics.”³⁴ While Clara was still a child he became a teacher. After a few years, however, his father deeded the Barton mills to his sons and they became two of the town’s noted industrialists. He had a keen business sense, and during the years Clara was growing up Stephen was gaining a reputation as a sharp trader, his mathematical ability apparently sometimes overriding the strict morality of his Universalist upbringing.³⁵

If rumors of slightly shady dealings at the S & D Barton Mills were circulating, so was a growing feeling that Captain Barton’s eldest son was destined to be a town leader. Like his father, he sympathized with the area’s poor and took several underprivileged boys to live with him when he established his own household. Between 1825 and 1840 he used his influence to evaluate the school system, design a well-graded and straight road from the village of North Oxford to the depot of the Norwich Railroad, and plan and maintain a new town cemetery. He was elected town assessor in 1834 and 1837, and simultaneously served on two school committees.³⁶ Stephen’s business and civic duties kept him too busy to spend a great deal of time with his sister Clara, but she later recalled his patience in teaching her arithmetic. “Multiplication, division, subtraction, halfs, quarters and wholes, soon ceased to be a mystery,” she recalled, “and no toy equalled my little slate.”³⁷ Although he spent less time with Clara than the other Barton children did, Stephen’s example was constant in the Barton household, where pride in his success as a town leader was coupled with a nagging doubt about the nature of his business transactions.

Stephen’s partner in the mills was David Barton, his junior by two years. David also possessed the manly build and athletic interests of the Barton men. He never became involved in the family’s more intellectual pursuits, though some faded sheets of verse, carefully saved by Clara, show an attempt at composing poetry.³⁸ Instead he was a dashing daredevil, a handsome neighborhood strongman, “the Buffalo Bill of the surrounding countryside.”³⁹ He was fond of horses, and to Clara he became something of a hero, a gentle giant who talked to her about the ways of animals and initiated her into the joys of riding. She saw herself as his “little protege” and constant companion.⁴⁰ While Clara was still a girl he began seriously working at the mills, seeing them prosper but also gaining with his brother a slightly dishonest reputation. “Has David had an opportunity to toll any more grain for Capt. DeWitt so as to make right the mistake in tolling?” a family friend anxiously asked Clara a few years after David began running the mill. “He took I believe the toll of 4 quarts too much.”⁴¹ In Clara’s mind, however, his reputation was never tarnished. She loyally upheld him throughout her life, later remembering that “he had been my ideal from earliest memory.”⁴²

Sally Barton was the sister closest to Clara in age, yet very little of her influence is seen in Clara’s childhood. It is possible that she was absent from home a good deal, for a receipt from the Nicholas Academy shows that Stephen Barton paid for his daughter to attend boarding school for at least one year.⁴³ Sally was, by all accounts, a fair-haired, graceful, and intelligent girl, who grew into a gracious and kind woman; she was “lovely as a summer morning and never so lovely as she was good and womanly,” Clara recalled.⁴⁴ Like her older sister and her brother Stephen, Sally taught school for a short time, indulging her literary taste in the study of poetry. Clara Barton later believed that her own taste in literature stemmed from this sister’s influence. Together Sally and Clara read the works of Sir Walter Scott, then “all the train of English poetry that a child could take in.” After Dolly’s mental collapse, Sally watched anxiously over Clara, vigilantly protecting her small sister’s interest and welfare in the unsettled atmosphere of the Barton home.⁴⁵

Throughout her life, Clara Barton showed a great deal of ambivalence about the experience of growing up in this household of matured and unusual personalities. Though she often recalled individual incidents with pleasure and wrote sunny descriptions in her autobiography of horseback riding and playing with cousins in the beautiful countryside, the overall impression of her childhood is one of sadness and a struggle for acceptance. As she sat down in 1907 to begin The Story of My Childhood, she questioned “whether to tell the truth about the little girl,” and once wrote in her diary that she had not “had the happy home life of a little girl that most children have, I knew I had hard days then.”⁴⁶ Even to the world at large she admitted that “in the earlier years of my life I remember nothing but fear.”⁴⁷

Fear she felt from the natural terrors of childhood—snakes and thunderstorms and runaway horses—but also from the imposing conflicts that surrounded her. Barton’s ambivalence is also reflective of the sporadic and inconsistent attention she received at home. She wrote that her mother, thinking there were plenty of others to care for her small daughter, “attempted very little,” and that family attitudes toward her wavered between a kind of intense individual instruction and total disregard for her needs and desires.⁴⁸ At times Clara felt that her very identity was submerged in the priorities of the rest of the grown-up family, that she was little more than a slate to mark with her teachers’ personalities. Her childhood became a series of repeated attempts to express her own needs and proclivities, to shake off dependence, and to overcome the neglect and ridicule she felt were so often her lot.

There was a sense, too, that the others, with their larger experience, had an edge in family discussions that she could not hope to match. Her earnest attempts to be helpful or add to a conversation seemed childish and amusing to even the youngest of the other Barton children. Clara came to feel that the merriment made at her expense went beyond family teasing, and she grew to be selfconscious about her efforts and resentful that she was the brunt of so many jokes. The family watched as Clara dutifully shared candy given to her, carefully counting the number of recipients but forgetting to include herself. The look of bewilderment on her face when she discovered that everyone had a piece but her caused, in Clara’s words, “an amusing bit of sport for the family at my expense as was their wont.” The Barton's similarly joked at her misconceptions of various political figures, setting her up in front of them to give her naive impressions. “To the amusement of the family,” Clara allowed that she believed the president to be the size of the meetinghouse and the vice-president the size of a barn—and green. Their laughter hardly encouraged the young girl to express herself. As she grew older they joked about Clara’s rapid work in her brother’s mill, intimating that a fire there had been caused by friction from her clattering loom—”that joke on me lasted many years.” So bitter did Clara become that she came to mistrust even the family’s motives for sending her to school at an early age, feeling that it probably stemmed from “a touch of mischievous curiosity…to see what my performance at school might be.”⁴⁹

Clara’s earliest reaction to the dominant personalities at home was to retreat into an acute and painful timidity. Immersed in a situation in which responses to her would be unpredictable at best, she shrank away from contact with strangers and withdrew from scenes in which she would be noticed and possibly made the focus of a joke or argument. The reticence that resulted from her home life was exacerbated by an almost total lack of the physical charms usually meted out to young girls. Short, plump, and homely, she had yet to gain the character that would render her face so interesting. Clara’s mother also neglected the child’s thick and lustrous dark brown hair—her one good feature—by having it close-cropped, which only served to emphasize her broad forehead and sallow complexion.⁵⁰ In addition, a mild speech impediment caused her to lisp, increasing her bashfulness. Clara long remembered the humiliation at school of mispronouncing and lisping words. In one instance, having studied diligently to learn the names of the ancient Egyptians, she mangled the name Ptolomy, pronouncing it “Potlomy.” Although the teacher checked the laughter of the older children, Clara was “overcome by mortification” and left the room in tears.⁵¹

Barton’s excessive timidity also caused her actively to avoid a feeling that she was “giving trouble.” Aware of the contrast between herself and the rest of the family, she felt keenly her dependence. She was continually afraid to mention the clothing and comforts she needed. Her memories of Sundays in the old Oxford Universalist Church more frequently mention the cold and her need for gloves than exhortations from the pulpit.⁵² On one occasion she was given a dress at a child’s Christmas party and, instead of expressing polite thanks, burst into tears and ran from the room. Evidently the dress had been sorely needed for some time. But, as she recalled, “I was too sensitive to represent my wants, even to my father, kind and generous as he was.”⁵³ Yet Clara’s timidity cannot have been the only problem. Perhaps too absorbed in their own temperamental relationship or overly casual in the upbringing of their youngest daughter, the Barton's seem to have neglected to notice the child’s everyday necessities. Far from taking special notice of the bashful child, Clara’s mother seems generally to have regarded her shy, self-effacing daughter as troublesome and “difficult to manage,” an attitude that only reinforced Clara’s own sense of being a burden.⁵⁴

Clara’s timidity was at once heightened and tempered by her experiences at school. She soon found she could gain much-needed attention by her unusual intellectual abilities, but she had difficulties fitting in with the shouting, rambunctious children.

Clara began her formal education at the age of three—a practice not uncommon in New England at that time. Even at this age she was no novice, having already the rudiments of a basic education. Indeed she could not recall a time that she could not read and startled her teacher on the first day by spelling words as advanced as artichoke.⁵⁵ One of her earliest schools was conducted by Richard Stone, a converted Universalist like her father, whose belief in bringing out the best in each child helped him to attract pupils from all over New England. This school, like so many she would attend, crowded up to a hundred scholars in one or two rooms and stressed reading, writing, and arithmetic, learned largely through rote. Stone, however, was unusual in his commitment to challenging his better pupils, and Clara was among those who enjoyed the benefits of individual attention.⁵⁶ She especially recalled the pleasure of discovering the field of geography at his school, becoming so intrigued that she “persisted in waking my poor drowsy sister in the cold winter mornings to sit up in bed and by the light of a tallow candle, help to find mountains, rivers, counties, oceans, lakes.”⁵⁷ Barton’s earliest school papers also show that Stone inculcated her with the patriotic, moral, and religious precepts thought appropriate to the proper formation of character. “Death is the only thing certain in the world,” a nine-year-old Clara carefully copied into her penmanship book. She followed it with “Govern your passions” and “Knowledge is gained Only by Constant Study.”⁵⁸

The strong personal relationship between Clara and Richard Stone seems to have been repeated with all of her teachers. They found in the serious young girl an eagerness to learn that was both touching and challenging. Another teacher, Lucien Burleigh, treated her “with consideration and kindness,” and developed a series of advanced studies—including astronomy, ancient history, and poetry—for her questing mind. Long after she left his school, Burleigh continued to show an affectionate interest in her affairs and concern for her spiritual and intellectual development.⁵⁹ Clara next attended an Oxford school taught by Jonathan Dana, and once more the pupil-teacher relationship proved to be a close one. Barton wrote of this friendship that she had “no words to describe the value of his instruction, nor the pains he took with his eager pupil.” There again she was permitted to dabble in the higher branches of learning and was given special instruction outside of school hours. Thankful for any individual attention, Clara remembered her experiences at Jonathan Dana’s school with affection: “My grateful Homage for my inestimable teacher and his interest in his early pupil, became memories of a lifetime.”⁶⁰

Clara’s family was proud of her scholarship, and she basked in their approbation. Her sisters helped her to expand her literary tastes, sharing poetry and their favorite books, while Stephen, she recalled, “inducted me into the mystery of figures.”⁶¹ The Barton's’ encouragement of Clara’s intellectual talents speaks of their liberalism, for many girls of her day were dissuaded from intellectual pursuits or actively barred from the more advanced fields of study. It also strongly shaped her perception of the skills needed to gain recognition and acceptance at home and in the world at large. While other girls were honing the traditional traits of womanhood—humility and nurturing—Clara found that achievement and “hard-thinking” won her the respect she so anxiously sought.⁶²

Clara’s school experiences gave her scope for intellectual growth and lessened somewhat her family tensions, but they made only minimal inroads into her chronic social malaise. On her first day of school, finding herself away from the familiar scenes of home, she “was seized with an intense fear…at finding no member of the family near.”⁶³ She gradually adjusted to this, of course, but continued to feel alienated from the other pupils and fearful of new faces. An attempt to reduce her bashfulness by sending her to Richard Stone’s new boarding school turned into a disaster as Clara, “in constant dread of doing something wrong,” could not adjust and would not talk or eat. Despite the kind attentions of teachers, she finally had to be sent home. Clara bitterly resented the whole episode, characterizing it as a decision “to throw me among strangers.”⁶⁴ As an older pupil, Clara found the majority of her peers to be less earnest than she about their studies, and they consequently seemed to her frivolous and immature. Though at least one fellow pupil admired her (“she was very studious and had a remarkable memory”), she also sensed that most of her schoolmates found her “unaccountable and prudish.” Her memories of school days are filled with remembrances of teachers and curriculum, not carefree frolics and school fellowship.⁶⁵

Recognition for Clara’s scholarship reinforced in her a taste for masculine accomplishments and pursuits that caused her to identify strongly with men both during her childhood and in her adult life. “Your father always said you are more boy than girl,” Clara reminded herself in 1907.⁶⁶ She idolized her father, and her favorite memory as a very small child was of sitting and listening “breathlessly” to his stories of war and wilderness living until she could recite the names of his heroes with a “parrot-like readiness.”⁶⁷ The tales were transformed into playtime mock battles, complete with drums, banners, and stick bayonets—unusual games for a young girl. “The army played havock with each other, had fearful encounters, and…suffered disastrous results,” Clara recalled.⁶⁸ The men in her family led her in pastimes that tested her strength and courage: David had her riding bareback before she was five, and her father’s present of a spirited horse, “Billy,” increased her ability until, galloping out in all kinds of weather, she would leave her companions far behind.⁶⁹ Eschewing dolls, she followed instead the pleasures and work of Stephen and David; they, in turn, taught her well, allowing few excuses for performance that was not up to their standard. “I must throw a ball or a stone with an underswing like a boy and not a girl, and must make it go where I sent it, and not fall at my feet and foolishly laugh at it,” Clara proudly stated. “If I would drive a nail, strike it fairly on the head every time and not split the board. If I would draw a screw, turn it right the first time. I must tie a square knot that would hold.”⁷⁰

At the age of seven or eight, Clara found herself in a situation that allowed her to exercise and hone her tastes for boys’ play and boys’ company. About that time her father moved the family to the nearby Learned farmstead. Jeremiah Learned, a dashing but indiscriminate nephew of Captain Stephen Barton, had died, leaving a wife and four children and a farm that had suffered badly during his long illness. There were large debts, children to be clothed, and only the scantiest crops in the ground. To retain the land—nearly three hundred acres—for the family, Captain Barton, together with another relative, purchased the farm. The Learneds were allowed to stay on, but Clara’s family also moved into the house. The Learned boys, Jerry and Otis, and their friend Lovett Simpson, became her firm friends. “Wild” Jerry and mischievous Otis set the tone for the activities of the little band of cousins, and the next four years were filled with adventurous and daring escapades. In describing the happy events of this time Clara rarely mentions her girl cousins.⁷¹

The old Learned homestead, built in the early eighteenth century, was a much larger and more commodious house than the one in which Clara was born. Two stories high, of strong clapboarding, and with a pitched roof, it was surrounded by orchards, gardens, and intriguing outbuildings. The new place presented an array of interesting nooks and crannies to explore. Thus the little troop of cousins and friends roamed the farm’s territory, running through “broad beautiful meadows” and up the rocky and wooded hills. They hunted chestnuts, explored caves, and dogged snakes near the French River. Clara recalled with obvious pleasure the lure of “three temptingly great barns…. Was there ever a better opportunity for hide-and-seek, for jumping and climbing?”⁷² The saw and grain mills also held a special fascination. The children rode the long saw carriage out over the raceway, jumping off quickly after the sawn log was drawn back. They dared each other to balance on a pole thrown across the mill stream, and they gasped and whooped as it “swayed and teetered from the moment the foot touched it till it left it.” Oblivious to the danger, the children merrily tempted the odds, and, miraculously, none was ever hurt.⁷³

It was a time of revelations and a burst of freedom for Clara. She was away from the watchful eyes of six surrogate parents and removed from the scenes of Dolly’s rages. She idolized Otis and Jerry, and they admired her extravagantly, for she “could run as fast and ride better” than they.⁷⁴ She enjoyed the varied wildlife of the place and had special care of ducks, chickens, cats, and kittens, as well as her own little dog, “Button.” Even the hired hands adored her, teasing and pampering her in a way her own family was not wont to do. Indeed, she remembered this as the happiest time of her life. “Oh, what a houseful that was up there on that grand old hill,” Clara would exclaim. “I would not say what I would give for one day of that just as it was then, and we be just the same.”⁷⁵

It was perhaps inevitable that Clara’s long tether would eventually be pulled in, especially when the benign neglect afforded her by her parents had had some unfortunate repercussions. Once, accustomed to roaming the outbuildings and meadows at will, Clara wandered into a barn during butchering time. The sensitive child was startled to see a large ox struck on the head with an axe, and she fell as if she herself had been struck. Her father was furious with his hired men, though Clara came staunchly to their rescue: “I was altogether too friendly with the farm hands to hear them blamed.”⁷⁶ Worse, her parents began to question the appropriateness of the little girl’s tomboy ways. Her father forbade her to learn to skate, something her male companions enjoyed tremendously. Undaunted, she slipped out at night, tempted by the smooth glare ice and bright stars. The boys tied a woolen comforter around her waist, and while one pulled her along, the other two skated on either side to help keep her steady. “Swifter and swifter we went,” reminisced Clara, “until at length we reached a spot where the ice had been cracked and was full of sharp edges. These threw me and the speed with which we were progressing…gave terrific opportunity for cuts and wounded knees.” Seriously hurt, her disobedience was discovered. For several weeks she endured the isolation and disappointed looks that were her punishment.⁷⁷ Despite her mother’s reassurance that other little girls had probably done as badly, Clara wrote that she “despised herself and failed to sleep or eat.”

Her parents’ ambivalence about her escapades continued, and, as the mistrust of Clara’s wild sports increased, her mother began encouraging the female arts and girlish play. An enormous fuss was made over a little girls’ party: a poem learned, a new apron made, and a rare kiss bestowed for successful conduct.⁷⁸ Mother provided the accoutrements for playhouses on the farm’s hills and taught Clara to build fires and cook little dinners or make “real butter in a teacup.”⁷⁹ Friendships with cousin Elvira Stone and a neighbor, Nancy Fitts, were actively promoted. This was obviously a contradictory signal, as was her earlier punishment for her proficiency in masculine ways that had so often led to acceptance or praise. It confused Clara, who was invigorated by adventure, leadership, and daring, and who by now realized that her abilities equaled those of her male companions. Struggling to draw from the world the same esteem, freedom, and power that she sensed they possessed, she was occasionally applauded but increasingly chastised.

The alternation of pride in belonging to the world of men—of their acceptance and camaraderie, and her strong identification with them—and the distress over the frowns of family and society for forsaking her proper role as a woman, was to become a constant theme in Barton’s life. From childhood she straddled the fence, a visitor to both worlds, a member of neither. As an adult this access gave her an ability to move freely through all elements of society in a way that few others—male or female—could. As a child it served mostly to increase her sense of isolation and drive her to continue her search for a niche.

One way Clara hoped to establish a stronger role in her family’s life was through work. To some extent this was an accepted and necessary part of her childhood, for like farm children of all times, her work and play were inextricably tied together. As a tiny child she learned to call the hired men to dinner, then giggled with pleasure as the chief hand tossed her up on his shoulder to give her a ride back to the house. Clara’s fondness for animals led her to adopt several milch cows, which she learned to care for. “I went faithfully every evening to the yards to receive and look after them,” she recalled. “My little milk pail went as well, and I became proficient in an art never forgotten.” In the springtime she watched the soap making and learned to stir the bubbling mass. Tending ducks, turkeys, and lambs was also her duty. She viewed the creatures as pets, but like her cherished “Button,” they were also obligations. The care of farm animals taught a pattern of responsibility that was the backbone of the New England farm.⁸⁰

Clara Barton’s reminiscences of her childhood thus show that she was exposed at an early age to a strong belief in the value of hard work. It is doubtful that anyone consciously stressed this idea, although the Barton's were a quintessentially industrious family, striving for achievement from both personal amibition and nervous energy. Rather it was an influence that pervaded a New Englander’s existence and was accepted as an unquestionable truth. Lucy Larcom, who much to Barton’s admiration recorded her own memories of a New England girlhood, reflected that she “learned no theories about ‘the dignity of labor,’ but we were taught to work almost as if it were a religion; to keep at work expecting nothing else.”⁸¹ Though the way of life of the Barton's in the 1820s seems mild in comparison with the rugged conditions of their early ancestors, a rigorous schedule was still needed to maintain their comfort. Molasses and cloth might be bought from local merchants, but soap and medicine were made at home. In the rush of harvest, in the continual need to produce food and clothing, and in the relentless effort to look after stock, an affirmation was made of the ritual of work and of its rewards.⁸²

From an early age, therefore, Clara Barton found diligence and usefulness to be methods by which she could gain favor, and she began to define her worth through her service to others. She looked for opportunities beyond the usual farm and school chores, and found one when a painter came to refresh the walls of the Learned place. Fascinated by the tools and scents of his trade, she begged to help and was allowed to do so. “I was taught how to hold my brushes, to take care of them, allowed to help grind my paints, shown how to mix and blend them, how to make putty and use it, to prepare oils and drying…was taught to trim paper neatly, to match and help to hang it, to make the most approved paste, and even varnished the kitchen chairs,” was her exuberant recollection. At the month’s end Clara could only “look on sadly” as the painter packed up his brushes and left. The gift of a locket, inscribed “To a faithful worker,” was scanty compensation for the loneliness she felt.⁸³

Perhaps the most dramatic example of her pressing need to be useful—and the one that has traditionally been accredited with foreshadowing her future vocation—revolved around a long and painful stint Clara spent nursing her brother David. Renowned for his agility and physical courage, David had been chosen to affix the rafters to the ridgepole of a newly raised barn. When a timber broke under his weight, he fell on his feet, apparently unharmed, but a persistent headache and slight fever caused the family physician to be called. The doctor prescribed cupping and leeching—the standard remedies available to the early-nineteenth-century medical expert—confident that these would clear the blood and break the fever. Instead the system weakened David and prolonged his infirmity, greatly alarming his family, especially his eleven-year-old sister Clara. She begged to help to nurse him. Her hands “became schooled to handling the great loathsome crawling leeches which were at first so many snakes”; she learned to painlessly dress the angry blisters. As her family “carefully and apprehensively watched the little nurse,” she gained confidence and surprised herself at her own competence and indispensability. At the same time she merged her needs with David’s, refusing to leave his side for nearly two years and acquiescing to his demands that she alone administer his medicine. Finally, after nearly two years of the treatments, when doctors from twenty miles around had thrown up their hands, a young practitioner suggested a “steam cure.” Though the steam worked few miracles on David, this change did in fact effect a cure, largely through its secondary prescriptions of rest, healthful foods, and banishment of the leeches.⁸⁴

Despite her relief, however, Clara sensed a loss of her own purpose: “I was again free; my occupation gone. Life seemed very strange and idle to me.” Feeling that her own place and position had been removed, she withdrew into herself, afraid that she was “giving trouble” or not contributing to the family. She felt a uselessness, a void, which she sought for the rest of her life to fill. “Instead of feeling that my freedom gave me time for recreation or play,” she remarked in The Story of My Childhood, “it seemed to me like time wasted, and I looked anxiously about for some useful occupation.”⁸⁵

Clara found it in caring for her sister Sally’s children and helping with the unremitting household chores. For a short time she enthusiastically worked in her brothers’ satinet mill, enjoying the newness of the clattering machinery and mastering the intricacies of warp and woof with alacrity, despite the laughing derision of her family. But after only two weeks the mills burned, and, Clara remembered, “no heart was heavier than mine.” Once again she was without the work that gave scope and value to her life.⁸⁶

To fill the void she began to look for ways to be of service outside of her family. Consequently she befriended many of North Oxford’s poorer families, tutoring children, helping poor mothers cope with their uncertain lot, and advising her father about which families were most in need of financial assistance. During a smallpox epidemic that occurred in her early teens, she and a neighbor girl nursed several families until she herself came down with the disease. They held the hands of the sick, cooled foreheads with damp cloths, and brought food to families too ill to prepare their own. In one instance Clara “carried a lantern and led the way out in the midnight darkness while [a] Mr. Clemence carried the casket of one of his children and buried it.”⁸⁷ Her services were so timely, her style so appropriate, that the memory of this early charitable work was treasured throughout life by its recipients. “Clara, don’t you remember coming to our house once when my brother James died?” queried Thomas Lamb in 1876. “You went home with me & staid all night he died when you…was giving him some tea in your arms…do you suppose I forget that—we wer[e] Poor, very poor.”⁸⁸ As she grew into adolescence, Clara increasingly derived most of her satisfaction from directly alleviating sickness or trouble. She liked situations in which her personal ministrations improved the conditions of others, liked emulating her father’s charitable ways, and enjoyed the role of benefactress.

Clara Barton’s parents encouraged her in these charitable activities. Her fathers own strong interest in helping the poor was reflected here of course, but also they believed it brought her out of herself, at least temporarily. (Perhaps also they felt nursing to be a more appropriate activity for a maturing young woman than the ball throwing and horse racing encouraged by her brothers.⁸⁹) Yet the Barton family still worried about their introspective daughter, who was so timid in her demands and spent so much time in her room reading Paradise Lost or copying poetry. The years nursing David had retarded her social progress, and, if anything, she had grown more aloof. As she grew older she was still physically immature; in height she had grown only one inch since her ninth year and at thirteen or fourteen “was still a ‘little girl”’ in appearance. She had a troublesome tendency to obesity; to control it she “made long fasts,” which caused a dyspeptic stomach and insomnia. At an uneasy age of self-consciousness about physical development, the already shy girl withdrew even more.⁹⁰

Trapped once more at home, Clara associated mainly with relatives and childhood chums. Her grandmother, Dorothy Moore Barton, came to live with her son for the last few years of her life. This exposed Clara to the whims and stories of this spunky woman, who had raised twelve children, had lived through the Revolution and two other wars, and had chosen to lead an independent life in North Oxford rather than acquiesce to her husband’s desire to move to the Maine wilderness. Dorothy Barton had precise and demanding ways, and by the time she moved to Stephen Barton’s household she was blind. She needed too much close attention for either Clara or her mother to give, and so another granddaughter, Julia Ann Porter, came to North Oxford from Maine to help care for the old lady.⁹¹

Julia, the daughter of Stephen Barton’s sister Pamela, did a good deal to help Clara shed her introspective ways. She was a tall, attractive girl, the youngest of twelve children, with an outgoing personality and headstrong manner. She was a few years older than Clara, and this younger cousin held her somewhat in awe. They became friends, if not close confidantes. Julia shared Clara’s love of horseback riding and indulged in it with her, Elvira Stone, and a neighbor girl. Taking their cue from their grandmother, they galloped happily around the countryside, despite the fact that they were now young ladies. Once they were caught in a storm, which frightened the horses and sent them dashing uncontrollably home. “We must have presented a striking miniature portrait of the veritable Three Furie's on a rampage,” recalled Clara, “[Elvira] and myself each rushing directly past our own homes unobserved in the storm until at length we rounded the curve that brought the flying horse in sight of his own stable.”⁹² The merry rides bound the girls together, leaving them with pleasant memories of girlhood laughter and narrow escapes. “I don’t believe any two girls…in that town got as much actual fun, out of riding and driving about as we have,” wrote Clara to Julia years later.⁹³

Exposure to cousins, some recreational associations with girls her own age, and even her brief period of work at the mill eventually helped to make Clara more relaxed socially. Moreover, she was exposed to the society of strangers and the stimulation of new ideas, since her father’s reputation for hospitality and a liberal mind made his house a favorite stopping place for lecturers and other travelers. But Clara’s overall termperament remained shy and self-effacing. Her tendency to run to her room weeping when disappointed, rather than tell her family of her needs, continued to concern her parents. Her mother especially became increasingly perplexed about this “difficult” daughter, finally viewing her as “incomprehensible.”⁹⁴ After one incident involving a teary scene over a pair of worn-out gloves, Sarah Barton poured out her frustration to a sympathetic visiting lecturer.

This confidential conversation was to have a considerable impact on Clara Barton’s life. The visitor was L. N. Fowler, who was gaining a large following from his lectures on phrenology. He and his brother had done much to popularize this pseudoscience, which offered the theory that the different aspects of human behavior were controlled by discrete portions of the brain. The relative power or sensitivity of these areas—the categories included such traits as intellect, amativeness, and courage—could be determined by cranial bumps and the profile of one’s head. Although phrenology was based on a number of wrong assumptions, it fell short of quackery. Indeed in many of its conclusions it was the forerunner of modern psychology, especially in the belief that no two humans, or human reactions, are alike. Phrenology attempted to find the distinctive traits of each person and to guide each individual toward those pursuits which most suited his or her temperament.⁹⁵

Fowler proved to be insightful about Clara’s personality. He told her mother that Clara herself suffered more from her bashfulness than anyone else and that although she might appear to outgrow the traits “the sensitive nature will always remain.” He also acknowledged her need to work and to feel appreciated by recommending that she be given some responsibility, preferably in the form of teaching. “She has all the qualities of a teacher,” Fowler observed. Clara could not have agreed less. She was home with the mumps and had overheard with dismay her least desirable traits aired before the stranger. Yet she had had to agree with the pronouncements and frustrations described by her mother and had hoped for advice that would help. But this suggestion was a shock. To stand before a schoolroom of children, to be alone each day among strangers, without the guiding hand of her brothers, seemed unthinkable. Barton’s memoirs do not reveal how she was persuaded to quell her fears and try teaching, but persuaded she was, for the next spring it was arranged that she begin teaching in the old school—house in district no. 9.⁹⁶