Barbara Frietchie at Home

THE CONTRIBUTORS’ CLUB.

AT a recent dinner party composed of residents of Frederick, Md., the conversation turned upon Barbara Frietchie, and surprise was expressed that so much difficulty seemed to exist in establishing the facts about a personage many of whose relatives are still living, and concerning an incident to which eye-witnesses are still accessible. The explanation suggested was that the historical method was seldom pursued, that people were content to talk about the subject without investigating the sources from which their information should have been drawn, and the company present was taken in illustration. A poll showed that several had written on the subject, and all had been expected to discuss it fluently whenever introduced to strangers as coming from Frederick, and yet but two had conversed with eye-witnesses, and but one had seen Barbara Frietchie’s flag. This last gentleman was challenged to act as escort on the morrow when a visit should be made to the home of Mrs. John H. Abbott, the grand-niece of Dame Barbara, into whose hands the precious flag has descended, and who was at her aunt’s home during the passage of the Confederate troops “ on that pleasant morn of the early fall.” We had scarce need to tell our errand, though a party composed exclusively of residents of Frederick may have been remarked as a little peculiar, and were at once shown a small silk flag within a gilt frame hanging on the parlor wall. Nor were we allowed to l-emain long in doubt on which side of the controversy that has arisen Mrs. Abbott was to be found. A gentleman of the party remarking somewhat flippantly, “So this is the flag Barbara Frietchie did n’t wave ! ” she replied with quiet firmness, “ This is the flag she did wave, but not at just the time nor in just the way the poet said.” Here, then, is summed up in one sentence the gist of the whole matter. Barbara Frietchie’s place in the local annals of Frederick cannot be called into question. Her great age, having been born in Lancaster, Pa., December 3,1766, and being thus nearly ninety-six “ when Lee marched over the mountain-wall,” is a matter of record. To her intense loyalty, when loyalty was not the easiest matter even in Frederick, her relatives abundantly testify. Her unpretentious flag was usually flying from its mast at the window of her humble home on West Patrick Street. It was removed when the Confederate troops entered the city September 10,1862, and carefully folded away in her Bible, but it was again displayed by Dame Barbara as she stood by the window watching the passage of Burnside’s troops on the morning of the 12th. This is the occasion usually referred to as her historic waving of the flag, though it was not in the face of the enemy, and called forth not shots but shouts as the passing troops noted her extreme age and this expressive token of her loyalty. Major-General Reno himself was attracted by the scene, and stopped to speak a word to the old lady, inquire her age, and beg the flag of her. She, however, resolutely refused to part with this one, but finally consented to give the gallant general another owned by her. And this flag, thus presented, was a few days later laid on the bier of the brave Reno, who fell the day after at South Mountain.

It is the poet’s treatment of Stonewall Jackson that has given greatest offense, and has caused the friends of that gallant gentleman to denounce the whole story as a myth, and either to deny Barbara’s existence in toto, or to question her loyalty. There is no ground for either. Barbara Frietchie perhaps never saw Stonewall Jackson ; at least she did not see him ride past her house on that “ cool September morn.” Not because she was bedridden on that day as has been asserted. Mrs. Abbott, who went down to invite her aunt to come and spend the day with her, failing to induce her to leave the house, remained and watched with her the “ dust - brown ranks ” as they passed. Jackson, on reaching Market Street, rode with his staff two squares to the north to pay his respects to the Presbyterian minister, Dr. Ross, on Second Street, and then rejoined his troops by riding through Mill Alley, and reaching Patrick Street about half a square to the west of Barbara Frietchie’s house. Of this a member of that staff, himself a gallant son of Maryland, has again and again testified. The poet Whittier received his materials from Mrs. Southworth of Georgetown, D. C., and used but little license in working them up, as the letter written to him, and quoted in full in his Life, well shows. That Mr. Cornelius Ramsburg, also of Georgetown, but visiting in Frederick at the time, exercised his imagination somewhat in giving the matter to Mrs. Southworth and to the press is probable, though whether the little touches necessary to make the story tell well were given at first hand or were the work of an imaginative reporter is now in doubt. Whittier, though besieged repeatedly, was always conservative in giving out anything that might cast suspicion on the facts as set forth in the poem. And this is much the attitude of the average Fredericktonian today. As the late Dr. Daniel Zacharias, Barbara’s pastor during the last fourth of her life, remarked when questioned as to the accuracy of the poem, “Well, Mrs. Frietchie was just the kind of woman to do that kind of thing.” And so she was, and so to history record her.

One word more. It has been said that Whittier’s “ clustered spires of Frederick ” contains nothing distinctively local, and could as well have been applied to almost any other town of its size. Quite the contrary. Frederick is decidedly unique in having its churches with spires all located at that time on Church Street extending east and west, and from any point on the “ hills of Maryland ” on either side the observer will almost involuntarily exclaim, “ See the ‘ clustered spires ’! ” as he looks upon the little city lying in the valley below.

Whittier wrote the poem soon after the receipt of Mrs. Southworth’s letter in June, 1863, and forwarded it to the Atlantic Monthly. The enthusiastic editor sent him in acknowledgment a check for fifty dollars, saying, “ Barbara is worth its weight in gold.”

Barbara’s grave is much visited by strangers, and there is a well-worn path to it across the now almost abandoned burying-ground. But strange as it may seem, no decorations are ever placed upon it, nor does

In another direction in the beautiful Mt. Olivet Cemetery on the hill just at the city limits one will see, as he enters, the flag with its “ silver stars ” and its “ crimson bars ” floating near the statue of Francis Scott Key, under which his remains repose, and thus is the poet’s prayer still answered : —