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Clara Barton—a biography of absorbing interest.

Duluth (Minn.)Tribune.

Clara Barton wrote several golden pages in the history of the brotherhood of man. Houghton (Mich.)Gazette.

“Amici! diem perdidimus” (Friends! we have lost a day), said Titus when at the end of a day he had nothing memorable for his diary.The Author.

Nothing is of greater value than a single day.Goethe.

A great library contains the diary of the human race.

George Dawson.

The diary is greatly relied on by the writers of history, but—

Charles Dudley Warner.

Tolstoi keeps a diary in which he notes down what he has been thinking. Translator for Tolstoi.

Diaries tell their little tales with a directness, a candor conscious or unconscious, a closeness of outlook which gratifies our sense of security. Reading them is like gazing through a small pane of clear glass.Varia—ByAgnes Repplier.

A man’s diary is a record in youth of his sentiments, in middle age of his actions, in old age of his reflections.

John Quincy Adams.

A well kept diary is one of the most interesting productions of human industry—not the least benefit of a diary is that it produces a taste for writing.Reverend William Sutton, S. J.

We converse with the absent by letters, and with ourselves bydiaries—many of our greatest characters in public life have left such monuments of their diurnal labors.Isaac Disraeli.

Her unpublished diaries and letters are my chief original sources of information that the book should come forth with the force of an autobiography.The Life of Clara Barton, by Epler.

Only two classes of people can keep diaries of unimportant things—those who never have time to do anything else and those who have stopped doing things. I have done neither.Clara Barton.

Clara Barton’s war diaries, and diaries of her travels, if published, would be eagerly read by the people and be of great historic interest.The Author.

Clara Barton could say with Seneca: “I keep an account of my expenses; I cannot affirm that I lose nothing, but I can tell you what I lose, and why, and in what manner.”The Author.

The diary is an important factor in literary culture, and likewise in history. Diaries in some form are probably co-existent with the history of man. Keeping diaries, however, was revived in the seventeenth century. The best known diaries are those by Samuel Pepys and John Evelyn, of England. In this country, among the many well known diarists are John Quincy Adams and Henry David Thoreau. From youth continuous through her long and eventful life, Clara Barton kept a diary. The subject matter therein consists of routine daily work, travels, public functions, personal opinions of people she met, and philosophizing, which would fill volumes with interesting reading.

In her diary also she discussed questions of the day, public men, the problem of life, spiritualism, religion, politics,—everything that passes through the human mind, besides keeping account of every cent expended and for what purpose. By reading her diaries, almost any friend could find Miss Barton’s opinion of himself. Before retiring for the night her custom, amounting almost to a religious one, was to write in her diary the day’s events.

Pleasing, when youth is long expired, to traceThe forms our pencil or our pen designed;Such was our youthful air, and shape, and face,Such the soft image of our youthful mind.

Pleasing, when youth is long expired, to trace

The forms our pencil or our pen designed;

Such was our youthful air, and shape, and face,

Such the soft image of our youthful mind.

Illustrating this remarkable characteristic in her life are appended two excerpts of a domestic nature from her diary in 1907, she then being eighty-seven years of age.

Friday, October 18, 1907.

This is my first day (since my illness) of doing my work and having a guest, but it has gone superbly. The breakfast table was neatly elegant—all silver and glass except the plates and cups and saucers. We had soft boiled eggs, cooked on the table, corn flakes, and a delightful platter of cream toast, with grapes, apple sauce, Dutch cheese and thick cream, and two kinds of coffee. Mr. Brown went to town returning at 5 P. M., when we had supper (or dinner)—a nicely cooked steak and sausage, fine potatoes, rice pudding, bananas, cake and tea—fruit.

I arranged the milk and cream, put the house inorder, took care of lamps and room, and drafted a long letter to the Grand Duchess (from the medium), and Empress.

Doctor got Uncle Silas to come at evening and I engaged one hundred bundles of fodder at .04 cents a bundle, to be bought and put in the stable next week.

Have talked with Mr. Brown concerning Lucy.

Saturday, Oct. 26, 1907, Glen Echo.

Another fine day. But an experience this morning was anything but that. As Mrs. Barker did not come I was “doing up” the breakfast dishes at the sink and had put a kettle of beans on the stove to parboil for baking, as Doctor had expressed a desire for them. A rather heavy coal fire was going for this purpose. Suddenly I was startled by a great rush at the stove. Supposing that my kettle of beans had boiled over, I turned to see a flame three feet high from a vehicle larger than my kettle, pouring a liquid out over the hot stove that blazed the moment it touched. The Doctor had wanted to use some tar about the roof, and brought in a two-gallon tin bucket partly full and set it on the stove to warm up, and left it without speaking or in any way calling my attention to it. It had gotten boiling hot, and my first notice of its presence was the burst of blaze. The bucket of boiling black tar running over all on fire, the flame streaming up some two feet high. I called the Doctor at the cellar steps, at the windows—no response. The blaze went higher and wider. The carpenters must be on the roof and to the top I rushed, to find no one there—down again. I saw I was the onlyperson on the premises. The room was dark with smoke. I could see little but the blaze. Four feet to the left stood a five-gallon can of kerosene oil for the lamps. I could not remove it and, if I could, I must carry it directly past the flame—if a spark reached, we would be blown to atoms, house and all. The floor was bare, with one or two smallcottonmats. I dared not use even them. There was but one way; I must grapple the boiling, blazing mass, take it across the room and throw it from the window. I had no inflammable material on me, being dressed in entire black silk, waist and skirt. There was no time to lose. I tore away the curtain, raised the window to its fullest height, seized the bucket firmly with both hands and landed it on the ground. I knew the smoke must raise outside help as I did it. The Doctor had been to the post office. He rushed in to find me in the midst of darkness. I had closed the doors at first, still the smoke poured out of the chamber windows we kept closed. My right hand, which had taken the tip of the bucket, was nearly covered in a coat of tar, put on boiling hot, and to stay. I did not try to remove it but put it in hot water and went to work with it. I need not say that the rest of the day was needed, and given to the house, but we were only too thankful that wehada house to clean up. The tar coating and hot water saved the hand, so that a few heavy blisters tell the story of their hardship. It is all over now. I write this thenextday; last night I could not have done it.

Doctor went to Mrs. Warneke’s; I remained home. Mrs. Hinton came but I made no mention of the morning adventure. She has commenced her new home. I gave her butter, fruit, jellies, to help her table. Aratherhard day.

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