Transcriber’s Note:

Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have been preserved. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

“Fort Sumpter”is probably a typo or printer’s error

The following may be typos or printer's errors:

• practise/practice
• Cammann/Camman

PIONEER WORK
IN OPENING THE
MEDICAL PROFESSION TO WOMEN

AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES
BY
DR. ELIZABETH BLACKWELL
AUTHOR OF
‘THE MORAL EDUCATION OF THE YOUNG’ ETC.

LONDON
LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.
AND NEW YORK
1895

All rights reserved

PREFACE

It has often been urged that a record should be preserved of some of the first efforts by means of which the medical profession of our day has been opened to women.

In the belief that a large providential guidance may often be recognised in the comparatively trivial incidents of an individual life, this request of many friends is here complied with.

The possession of old journals and of family correspondence gives accuracy to these details of past years.

Hastings, 1895.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I
EARLY LIFE IN ENGLAND
1821

It is a great advantage to have been born one of a large family group of healthy, active children, surrounded by wholesome influences.

The natural and healthy discipline which children exercise upon one another, the variety of tastes and talents, the cheerful companionship, even the rivalries, misunderstandings, and reconciliations where free play is given to natural disposition, under wise but not too rigid oversight, form an excellent discipline for after-life.

Being the third daughter in a family of nine brothers and sisters, who grew up to adult life with strong ties of natural affection, I enjoyed this advantage.

My earliest recollections are connected with the house in Bristol, No. 1 Wilson Street, near Portman Square, to which the family removed from Counterslip, where I was born, when I was about three years old. My childish remembrances are chiefly associated with my elder sisters, for being born between two baby brothers, who both died in infancy, I naturally followed my sisters’ lead, and was allowed to be their playmate.

Our Wilson Street home had the advantage of possessing a garden behind it, containing fine trees; and also a large walled garden opposite to it, with fruit trees and many flowers and shrubs, which afforded us endless delight and helped to create an early love of Nature.

I cannot recall the sequel of incidents in this period of my life, for being so young when we moved to Wilson Street, the recollections of those early years are confused; but some things stand out, distinctly impressed on the memory.

My eldest sister had become possessed of a small telescope, and gazing through one of the garret windows, we thought we could spy the Duchess of Beaufort’s woods over the tops of the houses. There was a parapet running along the front of the house, and we were seized with a desire for a more extensive view through the precious telescope than the garret window afforded, so a petition for liberty to go on to the roof was sent to papa in our names by my lively eldest sister. The disappointing answer soon came:

Anna, Bessie, and Polly, Your request is mere folly,

The leads are too high For those who can’t fly.

If I let you go there, I suppose your next prayer

Will be for a hop To the chimney top!

So I charge you three misses, Not to show your phizes

On parapet wall, Or chimney so tall,

But to keep on the earth, The place of your birth.

‘Even so,’ says papa. ‘Amen,’ says mama. ‘Be it so,’ says Aunt Bar.

The Aunt Barbara here referred to was a maiden sister of my father’s, a somewhat stern though upright ruler of our youngest days; but the dear father, with his warm affection, his sense of fun, and his talent for rhyming, represented a beneficent Providence to me from my earliest recollection.

Another very vivid remembrance of that first period of childhood remains. My father was an active member of the ‘Independent’ body, belonging to the Rev. Mr. Leifchild’s Bridge Street congregation, and the May missionary meetings were a great event to us children, for, taking lunch with us, we sometimes picnicked in the gallery of the selected chapel, and divided our time between listening to thrilling stories of the missionaries and more physical pleasures. A number of these rather jolly divines often dined at our house, and the dinner party of the ministers was one of the incidents of the May meetings. There was a certain Mr. Burnet of Cork, who used to keep the table in a roar. To be allowed to dine and listen at a side-table was indeed a treat. But on one occasion, my name, alas! was in the Black Book, for some childish misdemeanour—I forget what; but the punishment I well remember. I was sent up to the attics, instead of being allowed to join the dinner party. Upstairs in the dark I leaned over the banisters, watched the light stream out from the dining-room as the servants carried the dishes in and out, and listened to the cheerful buzz of voices and frequent peals of laughter as the door opened. I felt very miserable, with also a sense of guilt that I should have been so wicked as to let my name get into the Black Book, for I always accepted, without thought of resistance, the decrees of my superiors. The fact that those in authority were capable of injustice or stupidity was a perception of later growth.

The impression made by this little incident on a childish mind was curiously shown on my revisiting Bristol, after an absence of nearly forty years. Wishing to see the scene of my early childhood, I called at the Wilson Street house, and its occupants kindly allowed me to enter my old home, the home which I remembered as so large, but which then looked so small. All was changed. The pleasant walled-in garden across the street, with its fine fruit trees, where we played for hours together with a neighbour’s children, was turned into a carpenter’s yard. The long garden behind the house, with its fine trees, and stable opening into a back street, was built over; but as I stood in the hall and looked up, I suddenly seemed to see a little childish face peeping wistfully over the banisters, and the whole scene of that dining-room paradise, from which the child was banished, rose vividly before me.

But a stranger incident still occurred as I stood there. The sound of a latch-key was heard in the hall-door, and a figure, that I at once recognised as my father’s, in a white flannel suit, seemed to enter and look smilingly at me. It was only a momentary mental vision, but it was wonderfully vivid; and I then remembered what I had utterly forgotten—forgotten certainly for forty years—that our father would sometimes remain late at his sugar-house, and come home in the white flannel suit worn in the heated rooms of the refinery, letting himself into the house with a rather peculiar latch-key.

Far clearer and more varied recollections are, however, connected with the house in Nelson Street, to which we moved in 1824, and whence the family emigrated to New York in 1832.

This comfortable family home, made by throwing two houses together, with its walled-in courtyard leading to the sugar refinery and my father’s offices, was our town residence for eight very happy years. Here the group of brothers and sisters grew up together, taking daily walks with our governess into the lovely environs of the then small town. We became familiar with St. Vincent’s Rocks and the Hot Wells, with Clifton Down and Leigh Woods, which were not built on then. The Suspension Bridge across the Avon was a thing of the future, and Cook’s Folly stood far away on the wild Durdham Down. In another direction, Mother Pugsley’s field, with its healing spring, leading out of Kingsdown Parade, was a favourite walk—for passing down the fine avenue of elms we stood at the great iron gates of Sir Richard Vaughan’s place, to admire the peacocks, and then passed up the lane towards Redland, where violets grew on the grassy banks and natural curiosities could be collected. All these neighbourhoods were delightfully free and open. Our governess encouraged our natural tastes, and the children’s pennies were often expended in purchasing the landscape stones and Bristol diamonds offered for sale on Clifton Down. In still another direction, the ‘Brook,’ leading through pleasant fields to the distant Beaufort woods, had a never-ending charm. Daily, and often twice a day, the group of children with their governess wandered to these pleasant spots. In the summer time Weston-super-Mare and Clevedon gave endless seaside delights, and furnished a charming picture-gallery through all the subsequent wanderings of later life.

During the last years of our Bristol life, a house at Olveston, about nine miles from town, was rented as a summer residence. This afforded fresh delight. Not only was the neighbourhood beautiful, and interesting with views of the Welsh mountains seen across the Severn from a high common near by, and the remains of an old abbey where wolves’ heads were formerly taken as tribute still remained; but the large, well-stocked garden was separated from the orchard by a rapid stream, over which two tiny bridges were thrown.

To active, imaginative children this little domain was a source of never-ending enjoyment, whether cherishing pet animals, cultivating gardens, or playing Robinson Crusoe. When not staying in town we lived in this pleasant place, my father driving out from business daily.

Only on rare occasions did any of the children go to school. Governesses and masters at home supplied the necessary book knowledge; and a passion for reading grew up, which made the present of a new book the greatest delight, and our own pocket-money was chiefly spent in buying books.

Whilst the home life was thus rich and satisfying to children, echoes from the outside world came vaguely to us. The Bristol Riots took place during this period, and I remember watching the glare of incendiary fires from the heights round our country home. Also I vividly recall the ‘chairing’ of Bright and Protheroe, with their red and yellow colours, and the illumination of the house and premises in Nelson Street, in honour of this Liberal victory.

Our interest was early enlisted in the anti-slavery struggle then vigorously proceeding in England, and Wilberforce was an heroic name. The children voluntarily gave up the use of sugar, as a ‘slave product,’ although it was only in later years, when living in America, that they threw themselves ardently into the tremendous fight.

My father was an active member of the Independent body, and strongly opposed to the Established Church. ‘Rags of Popery’ was a phrase early learned in a parrot-like way. But a very strong sense of religion was early implanted. The Bible was held in affectionate reverence. Mrs. Sherwood’s stories were favourite books; and although we soon learned to skip the endless disquisitions on metaphysical dogmas which they contained, yet goodness, gentleness, and reverence were inseparably blended with breezy commons, lovely woods, clear streams, and waterfalls, from reading those charming story-books. Religion thus became associated with all that was beautiful in Nature and lovely in social life.

Müller and Craik, the founders of the Plymouth Brethren, were then beginning their work in Bristol, and I was much impressed by the earnest eloquence of the young Scotch evangelist.

EMIGRATION TO THE UNITED STATES

The first eleven years of life had been passed under these happy influences of a healthy English home, when a great change of social surroundings took place, by my father’s emigration to the United States with his large and increasing family.

Early life in America.—In the month of August 1832, the family party of eight children and seven adults sailed from Bristol in the merchant ship ‘Cosmo,’ reaching New York in about seven weeks.

The cholera was raging in England when we left; we found New York comparatively deserted, from the same cause, when we arrived, and several steerage passengers died during the voyage; but the family party remained in good health, and the ocean life furnished delightful experiences to the younger travellers.

The following six years were spent in New York and its suburb, Jersey City, across the bay.

As daily pupil in an excellent school in New York, entering ardently into the anti-slavery struggle, attending meetings and societies, the years passed rapidly away. Our brothers being younger than the three elder sisters, habits of unconscious independence amongst the sisters were formed, which became a matter of course.

Often in returning home from some evening meeting in New York the hourly ferry-boat would be missed, and we have crossed by the eleven or twelve o’clock boat, with no sense of risk or experience of annoyance.

We became acquainted with William Lloyd Garrison and other noble leaders in the long and arduous anti-slavery struggle. Garrison was a welcome guest in our home. He was very fond of children, and would delight them with long repetitions of Russian poetry.

But fierce antagonisms were already aroused by this bitter struggle; and on one occasion the Rev. Samuel H. Cox, a well-known Presbyterian clergyman, and his family, sought refuge at our country house. This gentleman had stated in the pulpit that the Lord Jesus belonged to a race with darker skins than ours. At once the rumour went abroad that ‘Dr. Cox had called Jesus Christ a nigger,’ and it was resolved forthwith to lynch him! So he came out to our country house on Long Island until the storm had blown over.

Removal to Ohio, 1838.—When I was seventeen years old my father removed from New York with his family to Cincinnati, then a small but flourishing town, on the Ohio River, where a promising opening for the extension of his business presented itself.

We left New York full of hope and eager anticipation. We were delighted with the magnificent scenery of the mountains and rivers as we crossed Pennsylvania by canal and stage (for it was before the time of railways), and sailed down the noble Ohio River, then lined with forests. With eager enjoyment of new scenes, the prosperous little Western town was reached. It was picturesquely situated on a plateau, overlooking the river, and surrounded by pleasant hills.

For a few months we enjoyed the strange incidents of early Western civilisation, so different from the older society of the East.

Amongst other curious experiences, we attended a public Fourth of July picnic, held in the neighbouring woods. At this festival, the well-known ‘Come-outers’[1]—the Wattles brothers—were the chief speakers. Augustus, the elder, had established in the unsettled districts of the West what he called ‘Humanity’s Barn,’ where any human being might find a night’s shelter. His younger brother, John, was a chief speaker on this special occasion, and he concluded his speech with the following (to us) astounding sentiment, which was loudly applauded by the large assembly present—viz.: ‘Priests, Lawyers, and Doctors, the Trinity of the Devil!’

But all these curious experiences were suddenly checked by a catastrophe which compelled us to face the stern realities of life, in the strange land to which we had just removed, without friends or pecuniary resources. This was the sudden death of our earthly Providence.

The hot, oppressive summer of that Western climate proved too much for the English constitution of our father. Within a few months of our arrival in Cincinnati he died, after a short illness, from bilious fever, leaving his widow and nine children entirely unprovided for.

This irreparable loss completely altered our lives. Recovering from the first effects of the stunning blow, we began to realise our position, and the heavy responsibilities henceforth devolving on us. The three elder sisters set zealously to work, and in time established a day and boarding school for young ladies; whilst our eldest brother obtained a situation in the Court House of Cincinnati, under Major Gano.

For the next few years, until the younger children grew up and were able gradually to share in the work, we managed to support the family and maintain a home.

During this long struggle our minds rapidly opened to new views of social and religious duty in the untrammelled social atmosphere of the West.

The wider education of women was a subject then coming to the front; and we three sisters threw ourselves with ardour into the public conferences held in Cincinnati on this subject, actively supporting our staunch champion Lawyer Johnston, who ably opposed the reactionary efforts of the Roman Catholic Archbishop Purcell in his endeavour to check the liberal tendencies of the age in relation to women’s education.

About this time we had joined the Episcopal Church, being confirmed by the venerable Bishop McIlvaine of Ohio. We became members of St. Paul’s Church, of which the Rev. H. V. Johns was rector, entering heartily into its social life and teaching in its Sunday-school. We shared also in the stirring political contest which took place when General Harrison defeated Van Buren, the ‘Locofoco’[2] candidate for the presidency. We attended political conventions and public meetings, and joined in singing political songs. It was a most exciting time.

Some years later, the New England Transcendental movement spread to the West. It was the era of the Brook Farm experiment. We became acquainted with the very intelligent circle of New England society settled in Cincinnati, of which the Rev. W. H. Channing was the attractive centre. This gentleman, nephew of Dr. Ellery Channing of Boston, and father of our present parliamentary representative of the Kettering Division of Northamptonshire, was afterwards well known in Liverpool and in London. He was a man of rare moral endowments and eloquence as a speaker. His social influence on a limited circle was remarkable. Men of thought and active intelligence gathered round him. Men from New England who were then intellectual leaders of Cincinnati thought—such as James Perkins, C. P. Cranch, William Greene, and Judge Walker—formed a society of which he was the inspiring centre, a society which strongly attracted us. The ‘Dial,’ and afterwards the ‘Harbinger,’ with its anticipation of social reorganisation, were then appearing. The writings of Cousin, Carlyle, and Fourier were keenly studied, and Emerson was revolutionising American thought. I well remember the glowing face with which I found Mr. Channing reading a book just received. ‘Sit down,’ he cried, ‘and listen to this!’ and forthwith he poured forth extracts from Emerson’s essays.

Notwithstanding our close and arduous teaching occupations, we eagerly shared in the active awakening of thought that marked the time, and joined the Church of which Mr. Channing was minister.

In the year 1842, our elder brothers entering into business, the boarding-school was given up, and I occupied myself with private pupils. Whilst still engaged in this way I was invited to take charge of a girls’ district school, to be established in the town of Henderson, situated in the western part of Kentucky. The invitation seemed to promise useful remunerative work, so it was accepted.

The region of Kentucky, where I then went, was a tobacco-growing district. I there gained my first practical experience of negro slavery and the crude civilisation of a Western slave State.

This being my first separation from the family, a constant correspondence was kept up with home. Some extracts from these letters will give a curious glimpse of Kentucky rural life fifty years ago.

Henderson: March 5, 1844.

No doubt you’ve reproached me for my silence, after promising to write the second day from my arrival, but we had a very long trip, and it was not till the morning of the fourth day that I set my foot in the mud of Henderson. The ‘Chieftain’ left Cincinnati at two o’clock Wednesday morning, and in seven hours we made twenty miles. All seemed lazy on board the boat. The first night we laid up, on account of the fog; the second we spent at Louisville, the third at Evansville; we had on board a quantity of green wood, and stopped continually to take in fresh supplies. The captain, a fat, red-faced, good-natured fellow, went to sleep, or took matters very easily. As we entered the canal at Louisville he was standing on the hurricane-deck, at the head of the boat, apparently fast asleep; the helmsman steered immediately for the rough stone wall of the canal, and with a tremendous shock smashed in a great deal of the woodwork in the fore part of the boat. The captain gave one jump, wrung his hands, spun round, and went to sleep again. In the morning I went with Mr. S. into Louisville; there I got my watch-key mended (a providential piece of foresight, for ’twould have been impossible here), bought various little things, and saw also the famed Kentucky giant, and bade good-bye to Louisville, having been five hours passing through the canal. One afternoon Mr. S. was playing on his guitar on the side deck, when a great rough-looking boy made his appearance, and addressed me: ‘The ladies sent me to tell you to bring your man into the cabin, that he may sing for them.’ I translated for the man’s benefit, and a good hearty laugh we had. One of Mr. S.’s favourite amusements was to stand on the hurricane-deck with me and joke about my village; every two or three dirty-looking shanties that we passed he would tell me to look out, for he had a presentiment that we were reaching Henderson. I grew almost nervous as we were approaching the situation, for really all the little towns we had passed looked so straggling, dingy, and uninteresting that it appeared to me almost impossible for a decent individual to inhabit them; you may imagine how I felt standing, for the last time, on a bright Saturday morning, with my last friend and remaining piece of civilisation, awaiting my destiny. The clerk approached. ‘Madam, we have reached Henderson;’ the boat turns, I give one glance, three dirty old frame buildings, a steep bank covered with mud, some negroes and dirty white people at the foot, and behold all that I could see of my future home. I looked resolutely down, exclaiming (to my French friend), ‘Laide, vilain, horrible!’ but the boat touched and I was hurried off. Upon my inquiring for Dr. Wilson, a rough-looking man presented his arm, three negroes seized my trunks, to ‘tote them up,’ the steamboat shoved off, and I followed my companion—holding his hand to prevent myself slipping down the bank. In the middle of the mud I stopped to see the last of our friend and civilisation; we waved our handkerchiefs till the boat was out of sight, and then, gulping down my tears and giving a few convulsive laughs, we proceeded on our way through a dirty, little, straggling, country village; we stopped before a small frame house, entered a low, shabbily-furnished room, where a poorly-dressed, sleepy-looking woman was introduced as Mrs. Wilson. I longed to be shown to my bedroom, for my head was in a perfect whirl, but I had to sit down and talk about I know not what. At last I ventured to request permission to go upstairs; the daughter showed me up old, crooked, creaking steps, and opened the bedroom door. How shall I describe it? A little window looking upon the side of a house not two yards from it, the rough board walls daubed with old whitewash, the bed, the furniture, dirty, covered with litter and dust, all gloomy and wretched. My disposition to cry vanished at once, tears froze far below zero; I smiled on my companion, who stood examining me, and asked to have my trunks carried up. This request brought my hostess, who with some confusion told me, ‘This was not to be my home, but that her niece was gone to make some preparations for my reception and would take me there in the evening, she being perfectly aware that I could not live in such a hole.’ The word ‘hole’ revived me; the inhabitants of Henderson were, then, not perfectly blind; they had some little consciousness that there were degrees of decency; there was a small ray of comfort in that little word ‘hole.’ I descended, and soon found that everything proceeded with real Kentucky slowness. Begin to teach on Monday! This was utterly impossible! The idea seemed to them preposterous, the schoolhouse was hardly selected, the windows were broken, the floor and walls filthy, the plaster fallen off, the responsible trustees not appointed, the scholars unnotified of my arrival; no, ’twas impossible, I must wait a week; but the idea of spending an unnecessary week in Henderson was insupportable, so I urged and argued, and persuaded and ran about, till a man was sent to mend the windows, and another to clean the floor, and the Responsibles came to visit me, and promised to collect the scholars, and on Monday I was to begin. Then, to avoid the necessity of having to sit and repeat wearisome inanities, I set out, accompanied by the daughter, to view the so-called city. All looked dreary on a dull winter day—in fact, Henderson is a very small, very uninteresting country place, though, it must be confessed, the view of it from the river is the worst of all. Towards evening I took a look at my schoolhouse; nothing was done but mischief. The old negro had flooded the muddy floor with water and gone away, leaving the floor like the bed of the Nile; ’twas now too late to get the place into order. The people are very pious, nothing could be done Sunday; so, cursing the laziness of a slave society, I resigned myself to fate, and followed my young hostess—a tall, graceful, sleepy-eyed girl—to my new quarters.

A substantial, rough brick house opened its enormous gates to receive me. I entered a small, high-ceilinged bedroom, where I was to make one of four, and then my conductress glided away to bring her mother and two other sisters. The sight of the sisters somewhat consoled me, because I immediately hoped to be able to teach for my board. The mother received me with good-nature, and ever since I’ve been here the whole family have treated me with kindness to the extent of their knowledge, one portion of which is never to leave me alone, and I, who so love a hermit life for a good part of the day, find myself living in public, and almost losing my identity. Well, Sunday, and a refreshing Presbyterian sermon, of an eternity’s duration, I must leave to your imagination. Monday I ran about, and at last seated myself in Dr. Wilson’s parlour, where I received a visit from one of the Responsibles, a fussy, pompous little doctor, who talked grandly, whereupon I talked grandlier, upon which he told me this was an epoch in the history of Henderson. Then in came the other Responsibles, when I spoke and they rejoined, and the little doctor called to order, and after a wonderful quantity of fuss the schoolhouse was pitched upon, put into something like order, and on Tuesday morning I took my seat at the head of fourteen girls, and organised my school.

March 20, 1844.—So far as I can learn I give general satisfaction, but I believe the people are a little afraid of me, particularly when they see me read German (for I often forget myself with Hoffman). I am amused to learn accidentally how I have been talked over in every direction, and my teeth particularly admired in peculiarly Kentucky style. ‘Well, I do declare she’s got a clean mouth, hasn’t she!’—white teeth seeming remarkable where all use tobacco! All the chief people of the place have called on me, which plagues me dreadfully, as I have to return the calls, and find them in the lowest degree uninteresting, with nothing to do but knit, nothing to hear but their own petty affairs. Then they are most unmerciful in the length of visit. If they live in what is called out of town, nothing will satisfy but giving up the afternoon, taking tea, and sleeping. The sleeping I have victoriously fought against, but the rest I have sometimes been betrayed into, and have sat hour after hour striving dreadfully to take an interest in the gossip, swallowing yawns until my eyes watered, and then suddenly awaking out of a long reverie on all of you to the consciousness that everybody is sitting in an awkward silence, and that it is absolutely necessary to say something. The first evening I so spent I was rejoicing at the prospect of escape, for the watches had been pulled out, and it was declared late (half-past eight), when I was taken quite by surprise by seeing the Episcopal clergyman who was present seat himself by the table with a large Bible before him, wipe his spectacles, and give a preparatory hem! I gave an inward groan, sat down again and looked with a long face steadily at the fire, whilst a north-wester was blowing all the time through a crack of the door into my ear. As we knelt down, and I looked round at the funny kneeling figures and up at the walls of a real log cabin, and on one side at the immense wood fire, it all seemed so very odd that I almost began to doubt my own identity.

We have had miserable weather for more than a week. The house, though substantially built of brick, with a deep verandah all round, is dreadfully cold; the two immense brick-paved halls, which cross in the centre, have great doors almost always open. The four rooms occupying the four corners, in one of which we sleep, have chimneys, all of which smoke. Then none of the windows seem to fit, and there are holes in the wall where the plaster has been knocked off, and will be replaced, I suppose, next doomsday. ’Tis pretty much the same in the schoolhouse. There, one very cold day, I drew my feet on the bar of my chair, then I put on my worsted gloves, then drew on my blanket shawl; and, finally, finding a great blowing about my head from everywhere in general, I put on my hood!...

April 4.—The young ladies and gentlemen of Henderson are most contemptible walkers, opening wide their eyes at the idea of two or three miles, and telling doleful tales of blistered feet, wild bulls, and furious dogs, of which latter there is certainly a larger supply than at any place I have ever seen. Every negro has his pet dog, the more savage the better, and all the masters follow their example.

I had a good fright from some of them yesterday, as I was returning from school. I’d no sooner crossed the steps that lead into the lawn than an enormous brindled fellow, with black, devilish face, sprang furiously towards me, followed by two others, barking and showing their horrid jaws. Now, thought I, my time has come! I hesitated whether I should endeavour to tear their mouths open, or jump upon them and crush them, should the worst arrive. I involuntarily thought of A., who has a horror of dogs, and then called out in my blandest tones, ‘Poor fellows; po-or fellows!’ The voice had the desired effect, and instead of having to fight Samson-wise, the gentlemen contented themselves with jumping upon me and knocking my dinner-tray out of my hand. I am in general quite a favourite with the canine race, and have not the slightest fear of them, which the ladies here can hardly believe, as their life is almost a torment to them for fear of dogs and cows; indeed, I would always sooner meet a dozen dogs than one negro, and the only uneasiness I have in taking my long, solitary walks proceeds from this; for of all brutes the human brute is the worst, and I never meet one in a lonely place without feeling a sudden perspiration.

I dislike slavery more and more every day; I suppose I see it here in its mildest form, and since my residence here I have heard of no use being made of the whipping-post, nor any instance of downright cruelty. (It was really meant as an act of hospitality when they placed a little negro girl as a screen between me and the fire the other day!) But to live in the midst of beings degraded to the utmost in body and mind, drudging on from earliest morning to latest night, cuffed about by everyone, scolded at all day long, blamed unjustly, and without spirit enough to reply, with no consideration in any way for their feelings, with no hope for the future, smelling horribly, and as ugly as Satan—to live in their midst, utterly unable to help them, is to me dreadful, and what I would not do long for any consideration. Meanwhile I treat them civilly, and dispense with their services as much as possible, for which I believe the poor creatures despise me. The mistresses pique themselves on the advantageous situation of their blacks; they positively think them very well off, and triumphantly compare their position with that of the poor in England and other countries. I endeavour, in reply, to slide in a little truth through the small apertures of their minds, for were I to come out broadly with my simple, honest opinion I should shut them up tight, arm all their prejudices, and do ten times more harm than good. I do long to get hold of someone to whom I can talk frankly; this constant smiling and bowing and wearing a mask provokes me intolerably; it sends me internally to the other extreme, and I shall soon, I think, rush into the woods, vilify Henderson, curse the Whigs, and rail at the Orthodox, whose bells have been going in a fruitless effort at revivals ever since I have been here. Not, mind, mother, that I really have such diabolical feelings against the poor Orthodox in general and particular, but I have an intense longing to scream, and everyone here speaks in a whisper.

My school, I think I have told you, is limited to twenty-one; it has been full for some time, and many have been refused. The girls are a good, pleasant set, much more gentle than in Cincinnati, and all with faces that seem familiar to me; in fact, I have hardly seen a face in Henderson that does not torment me with a likeness to some former acquaintance. My school hours for the present are from nine to three. At half-past twelve I ring my bell, when there is a general rush and devouring. I uncover the tin knife-box devoted to me, and find regularly inside a saucer with three or four little slices of ham, a roll, a piece of corn bread, a cup of cream, and a raw egg; the latter I throw into the hot ashes, and when it has split with a loud report I take it out, and, peeling off the coating of burnt egg and ashes, am generally happy enough to find a little clean piece in the middle, which I swallow, and burn my throat. Then I put on my hood and gloves, and walk up and down under a tree in front of the schoolhouse, eating the remainder, and endeavouring not to think of you all, as I find it does not assist the digestion.

I used to look sentimentally to one corner of the heavens and fancy I saw you all, when one evening, to my amazement, I beheld the sun set in that corner, so I had to turn right round and look in the opposite direction, anathematising the river for being so stupid as to wind, and convert the sublime imaginings of a forlorn damsel into a ridiculous blunder.

I have at present four music scholars, and one out-of-school French, but two go for boarding. I teach ten hours, three days of the week, and wish the other three were similarly filled; but it is small remuneration for such an outlay of breath, and as soon as I have the opportunity I shall fly off to some other point of the compass, where at any rate I may learn myself while teaching others. Carlyle’s name has never even been distantly echoed here, Emerson is a perfect stranger, and Channing, I presume, would produce a universal fainting-fit.

Henderson.

I was delighted to receive my box last Sunday, the 12th; the things do admirably, the dresses I like exceedingly, they are both very pretty.

The people here begin to interest me more than they did at first; all continue very kind, and I think well satisfied. When I came here, I did not care one straw what was thought of my personal appearance, I dressed entirely from a principle of self-respect; now I sometimes dress for others, and feel a slight satisfaction if the glass tells me I shall not scare people. Is not this a good sign?... Do not imagine I am going to make myself a whole just at present; the fact is I cannot find my other half here, but only about a sixth, which would not do. There are two rather eligible young males here, whose mothers have for some time been electioneering for wives; one tall, the other short, with very pretty names, of good family, and with tolerable fortune, but unfortunately one seems to me a dolt, the other, well, not wise, so I keep them at a respectful distance, which you know I am quite capable of doing.

There is a spot called Lovers’ Grove, about three-quarters of a mile from the town, a sweet place on the river bank, encircled by trees, with a hill behind, and a delightful walk by the river-side connecting it with the ‘city.’ This used to be my Sunday afternoon stroll, but unfortunately it is the favourite resort of the beaux and belles of Henderson, who, during the summer, after afternoon church, regularly promenade thither, in groups of four or five, and meet accidentally on purpose. Here they stroll about, recline on the grass, watch the steamboats, flirt a very little (it being Sunday), and carve one another’s names, and sentimental verses, on the unfortunate locust trees. I had many offers of an escort thither and as many beaux as I might desire. I went once or twice, but at last got dreadfully tired of it, so while my party was busily engaged round a tree, I started off on a good brisk walk home, where, some time after, the others arrived, in some consternation to know how or why I had so suddenly vanished. I laughed at them and their sentimental doings, and they have not invited me since.

I had a very pleasant drive yesterday to make a bridal call on the Presbyterian minister, who has been quite polite. The country reminded me in some parts of our charming Staten Island drives, though the scenery here will not, of course, compare with that little gem.

The people of Henderson were all very friendly to me personally, and my relations always pleasant with them; but the injustice of the state of society made a gradually deepening impression on my mind. The inhabitants lived in constant fear of an outbreak among the slaves. Women did not dare to walk in the pleasant woods and country around the village, for terror of runaway slaves. Painful social contrasts constantly forced themselves on my notice. I well remember sitting with my hostess, who was reclining in her rocking-chair, on the broad, shaded verandah, one pleasant Sunday morning, listening to the distant church bells and the rustling of the locust trees, when the eldest daughter, a tall, graceful girl, dressed for Sunday, in fresh and floating summer drapery, came into the verandah on her way to church. Just at that moment a shabby, forlorn-looking negro in dirty rags approached the verandah; he was one of the slaves working in the tobacco plantation. His errand was to beg the mistress to let him have a clean shirt on that Sunday morning. The contrast of the two figures, the young lady and the slave, and the sharp reprimand with which his mistress from her rocking-chair drove the slave away, left a profound impression on my mind. Kind as the people were to me personally, the sense of justice was continually outraged; and at the end of the first term of engagement I resigned the situation.

CHAPTER II
EARNING MONEY FOR MEDICAL STUDY
1845-1847

The idea taking shape.—When I returned from the Kentucky engagement the family had removed to the pleasant suburb of Walnut Hills, where the well-known Lane Theological Seminary, under the direction of the Beechers and Professor Stowe, was situated. This healthy place, with its intellectual resources, became the home for many years. I found the family sharing a delightful house with the Rev. Mr. and Mrs. Vail, to whom it belonged, who, with their charming daughter and the professor and elder students of the seminary, formed a very intelligent society.

It was during the residence of the family on Walnut Hills that the noble-hearted woman, Lucy Stone, became the wife of an elder brother of mine.

My brothers were engaged in business, my sisters variously occupied, the family life was full and active, and for a while I keenly enjoyed the return home. But I soon felt the want of a more engrossing pursuit than the study of music, German, and metaphysics, and the ordinary interests that social life presented.

It was at this time that the suggestion of studying medicine was first presented to me, by a lady friend. This friend finally died of a painful disease, the delicate nature of which made the methods of treatment a constant suffering to her. She once said to me: ‘You are fond of study, have health and leisure; why not study medicine? If I could have been treated by a lady doctor, my worst sufferings would have been spared me.’ But I at once repudiated the suggestion as an impossible one, saying that I hated everything connected with the body, and could not bear the sight of a medical book.

This was so true, that I had been always foolishly ashamed of any form of illness. When attacked many years before by intermittent fever, I desperately tried to walk off the deadly chill; and when unable to do so, shut myself up alone in a dark room till the stage of fever was over, with a feeling that such subjection to disease was contemptible. As a school-girl I had tried to harden the body by sleeping on the floor at night, and even passing a couple of days without food, with the foolish notion of thus subduing one’s physical nature. I had been horrified also during my schooldays by seeing a bullock’s eye resting on its cushion of rather bloody fat, by means of which one of the professors wished to interest his class in the wonderful structure of the eye. Physiology, thus taught, became extremely distasteful to me. My favourite studies were history and metaphysics, and the very thought of dwelling on the physical structure of the body and its various ailments filled me with disgust.

So I resolutely tried for weeks to put the idea suggested by my friend away; but it constantly recurred to me.

Other circumstances forced upon me the necessity of devoting myself to some absorbing occupation. I became impatient of the disturbing influence exercised by the other sex. I had always been extremely susceptible to this influence. I never remember the time from my first adoration, at seven years old, of a little boy with rosy cheeks and flaxen curls when I had not suffered more or less from the common malady—falling in love. But whenever I became sufficiently intimate with any individual to be able to realise what a life association might mean, I shrank from the prospect, disappointed or repelled.

I find in my journal of that time the following sentence, written during an acute attack:—

I felt more determined than ever to become a physician, and thus place a strong barrier between me and all ordinary marriage. I must have something to engross my thoughts, some object in life which will fill this vacuum and prevent this sad wearing away of the heart.

But the struggle with natural repugnance to the medical line of life was so strong that I hesitated to pass the Rubicon, and fought many a severe battle with myself on the subject.

At this time I had not the slightest idea of how to become a physician, or of the course of study necessary for this purpose. As the idea seemed to gain force, however, I wrote to and consulted with several physicians, known to my family, in various parts of the country, as to the possibility of a lady becoming a doctor.

The answers I received were curiously unanimous. They all replied to the effect that the idea was a good one, but that it was impossible to accomplish it; that there was no way of obtaining such an education for a woman; that the education required was long and expensive; that there were innumerable obstacles in the way of such a course; and that, in short, the idea, though a valuable one, was impossible of execution.

This verdict, however, no matter from how great an authority, was rather an encouragement than otherwise to a young and active person who needed an absorbing occupation.

If an idea, I reasoned, were really a valuable one, there must be some way of realising it. The idea of winning a doctor’s degree gradually assumed the aspect of a great moral struggle, and the moral fight possessed immense attraction for me.

This moral aspect of the subject was increased by a circumstance which made a very strong impression on me. There was at that time a certain Madame Restell flourishing in New York. This person was a noted abortionist, and known all over the country. She was a woman of great ability, and defended her course in the public papers. She made a large fortune, drove a fine carriage, had a pew in a fashionable church, and though often arrested, was always bailed out by her patrons. She was known distinctively as a ‘female physician,’ a term exclusively applied at that time to those women who carried on her vile occupation.

Now, I had always felt a great reverence for maternity—the mighty creative power which more than any other human faculty seemed to bring womanhood nearer the Divine.

The first serious essay I ever attempted was on ‘The Motherhood of the Race, or Spiritual Maternity’—that great fact of universal love and service which is the formative principle striving to express itself in the lower physical manifestations.

The gross perversion and destruction of motherhood by the abortionist filled me with indignation, and awakened active antagonism. That the honourable term ‘female physician’ should be exclusively applied to those women who carried on this shocking trade seemed to me a horror. It was an utter degradation of what might and should become a noble position for women.

Being at that time a reader of Swedenborg, and strongly impressed by his vivid representations of the unseen world, I finally determined to do what I could to ‘redeem the hells,’ and especially the one form of hell thus forced upon my notice.

My journals of those days, 1845, are full of the various difficulties encountered as this determination took root.

I find it written:—

Doctor Muzzey (a well-known Cincinnati doctor) was horrified at the idea of a woman’s going to the Parisian schools, which he visited some years ago; and he declares that the method of instruction was such that no American or English lady could stay there six weeks.

Mrs. Beecher Stowe thought, after conversation with Professor Stowe, that my idea was impracticable, though she confessed, after some talk, that if carried out it might be highly useful. She also spoke of the strong prejudice which would exist, which I must either crush or be crushed by. I felt a little disappointed at her judgment and the hopelessness of all help from Dr. M. I resolved to write to Dr. Cox (our family physician when we lived in the East), as a last hope for the present.

Sunday, May 4.—I read my letter to Dr. Cox to Mrs. Vail, who sympathises strongly with my desire. She stated Dr. Peck’s opinion of the impossibility of a lady studying in Paris, but asserts that the most thorough education can be obtained in private. I will not, however, make up my mind too hastily on so important a subject.

Wednesday, 14th.—I mentioned my plan to Mr. Perkins. He talked it over a little, and then said with a bright face: ‘I do wish you would take the matter up, if you have the courage—and you have courage, I know.’ So invigorating was his judgment, that I felt at the moment as if I could conquer the world. He offered with real interest to obtain the opinion of the Boston physicians, to talk with Dr. Avery, and lent me a book of Jackson’s Memoirs which gives much information relative to the French schools.

But a little later it is written:—

I felt cold and gloomy all day; read in Jackson’s Memoirs, and felt almost disheartened at the immensity of the field before me. I hesitate as if I were about to take the veil, but I am gradually coming up to the resolution.

Again it is written:—

I heard an admirable sermon from Mr. Giles, an English minister, on Christian worship; very logical, full of poetry, some of the sentences so perfect that I held my breath till they were finished. I thought much on my future course, and turned for aid to that Friend with whom I am beginning to hold true communion. It cannot be my fancy, Jesus Christ must be a living Spirit, and have the power of communicating with us, for one thought towards Him dispels all evil, and earnest, continued thought produces peace unspeakable.

May 20.—Harry brought me home last evening a letter from Dr. Cox; my hand trembled as I took it. It was kind, giving the necessary information, but perfectly non-committal as to advice. I carried the letter over this morning to the lady friend who had promised to help me pecuniarily. I made up my mind fully to undertake the study if she fulfilled her promise, and already I felt separated from the rest of womankind; I trembled and hoped together. But alas for promises and plans; she offered to lend me 100 dollars—when I am told that I shall want 3,000 dollars! I did not express my disappointment, but asked who would be likely to assist further? She did not know, but thought the plan I had suggested of teaching, and laying up money for a few years, decidedly the best.

Thrown thus entirely on my own resources, I finally resolved to accept a teacher’s position in a school in North Carolina, where, whilst accumulating money for future use, I could also commence a trial of medical study, for the Rev. John Dickson, who was principal of the school, had previously been a doctor.

My old diary of those years, still existent, vividly portrays the anxiety and painful effort with which I left the family circle and ordinary social life, and took the first step in my future medical career. I felt that I was severing the usual ties of life, and preparing to act against my strongest natural inclinations. But a force stronger than myself then and afterwards seemed to lead me on; a purpose was before me which I must inevitably seek to accomplish.

My own family showed the warmest sympathy with my plans. It was before the time of railways; the roads through Kentucky were little travelled; several rivers had to be forded, and three lines of mountains to be crossed. Two of my brothers determined to drive me to my unknown destination amongst the mountains of North Carolina. So the carriage was packed with books and comforts for the eleven days’ journey, and on June 16, 1845, with loving good-byes and some tears, in spite of strong efforts to restrain them, I left home for Asheville, North Carolina, to begin preparation for my unknown career.

I find interesting details of that long drive, when every day took me farther and farther away from all that I loved. We forded more than one rapid river, and climbed several chains of the Alleghanies in crossing through Kentucky and Tennessee into North Carolina. The wonderful view from the Gap of Clinch Mountain, looking down upon an ocean of mountain ridges spread out endlessly below us, and seen in the fresh light of an early morning, remains to this day as a wonderful panorama in memory.

We at last reached our destination—viz. the school and parsonage of the Rev. John Dickson (formerly a physician), where I was to teach music. The situation of Asheville, entirely surrounded by the Alleghanies, was a beautiful plateau, through which the rapid French Broad River ran.

I must here note down an experience occurring at that time, unique in my life, but which is still as real and vivid to me as when it occurred.

I had been kindly welcomed to my strange new home, but the shadow of parting with the last links to the old life was upon me. The time of parting came. My two brothers were to leave on their return journey early on the following morning. Very sadly at night we had said farewell. I retired to my bedroom and gazed from the open window long and mournfully at the dim mountain outlines visible in the starlight—mountains which seemed to shut me away hopelessly from all I cared for. Doubt and dread of what might be before me gathered in my mind. I was overwhelmed with sudden terror of what I was undertaking. In an agony of mental despair I cried out, ‘Oh God, help me, support me! Lord Jesus, guide, enlighten me!’ My very being went out in this yearning cry for Divine help. Suddenly, overwhelmingly, an answer came. A glorious presence, as of brilliant light, flooded my soul. There was nothing visible to the physical sense; but a spiritual influence so joyful, gentle, but powerful, surrounded me that the despair which had overwhelmed me vanished. All doubt as to the future, all hesitation as to the rightfulness of my purpose, left me, and never in after-life returned. I knew that, however insignificant my individual effort might be, it was in a right direction, and in accordance with the great providential ordering of our race’s progress.

This is the most direct personal communication from the Unseen that I have ever consciously had; but to me it is a revealed experience of Truth, a direct vision of the great reality of spiritual existence, as irresistible as it is incommunicable.

During my few months’ stay in this friendly household I borrowed medical books from the Doctor’s library, for my purpose of becoming a physician was known and approved of.

On one occasion a fellow-teacher laughingly came to me with a dead cockchafer, which had been smothered between her pocket-handkerchiefs, and offered it to me as a first subject for dissection. I accepted the offer, placed the insect in a shell, held it with a hair-pin, and then tried with my mother-of-pearl-handled penknife to cut it open. But the effort to do this was so repugnant that it was some time before I could compel myself to make the necessary incision, which revealed only a little yellowish dust inside. The battle then fought, however, was a useful one. In my later anatomical studies I never had so serious a repugnance to contend with.

The winter passed pleasantly away in beautiful Asheville. I was in friendly relations with all around me. In my leisure time I studied in the pleasant grove which connected the school with the church, rejoicing in the ever-changing mountain outline visible through the trees. The ‘Harbinger,’ with its bright visions of associated life, came regularly to me, and nurtured that faith in co-operation as the necessary future of society which has become one of my articles of faith, my chief regret at this time being the stoppage of my attempt to teach coloured children to read, as this was forbidden by the laws of North Carolina!

The following letters describe the life in North Carolina:—

Asheville: June 29, 1845.

Dear M.,—My first impressions of Asheville are decidedly pleasant. I find the Rev. Mr. D. a well-educated, intelligent man, beloved by all, and regarded quite as a father by all his pupils. He reminds me continually of Mr. L. in the shortness of his legs and the activity of mind and body, in superficiality of thought, and obliging social disposition. Mrs. D. is decidedly lovable, quite a little lady, ever cheerful, kind, and intelligent, performing her numerous duties like a small, true Christian....

Asheville: 1845.

Dear H.,—I am very glad to find that you have the feelings of a gentleman, that though you would not promise to write to me, you perform, which is decidedly the better of the two. Now I have to call you and S. to account for your breach of promise. What is the reason you did not come to my window, as you agreed to do, the morning you left Asheville? I got up before four o’clock and waited and watched, at last grew angry, and wished in revenge that you might have fine weather and plenty of ripe blackberries the whole way! It was a very shabby trick, and if you do not render a satisfactory explanation I shall—scold you well when next we meet.

Your domestic items all interest me. How do you like the change of teachers in the school, and who will superintend your room? Will Dr. Ray still teach? You must tell me also what day school begins, that I may think of you and Billy sitting with grave faces behind the little wooden desks, rivalling one another in intense application.

Did you take home any stones for our cabinets? Does the collecting fit continue, or has it vanished with the departure of Mr. Hildreth? I have not obtained many specimens as yet; little Sarah Dickson takes great interest in bringing me what she considers pretty rocks, and putting them on a newspaper on my window seat. I was really surprised the other day to see how pretty they looked, though, of course, not of much value—little bits of quartz, white, grey, brown, pink; a stone full of mica, which looks like a piece of lead ore; a conglomerate of gneiss quartz tinged with some metallic substances, and with garnets embedded in some of the stones; and flints of various colours; nothing to a professed mineralogist, but pleasing to me.

Last week I went to a party at Mrs. P.’s. She has a separate establishment from the hotel, with which she does not choose to have anything to do. I was invited to meet some Charleston ladies who had called on me, and made themselves very agreeable. I suppose you would have been most pleased with the eatables (the ice-cream, whips, jelly, and cakes were delicious), but what delighted me was a little Channing glorification (M. will understand what I mean) that Mrs. Carr (the lady who so resembles Ellen Channing) and I held in the garden. She has never seen our Mr. Channing, but the Doctor used to visit at their house, and she described with enthusiasm a splendid sermon that she heard him deliver in Philadelphia. I replied by describing the eloquence of our Mr. C. Then she expatiated on the kindness and loveliness of the Doctor’s character, to which I added a description of the goodness, purity, and the angelicalness of his nephew; whereupon she expressed a great desire to see him, and I said that I should consider it one of the greatest of blessings to have enjoyed the social intercourse of the good Doctor. The conversation was quite a treat to me—a sort of safety-valve to heterodox steam that I lacked so deplorably at Henderson.

My playing seemed to give satisfaction; the piano is a beautiful one, like ours on a more brilliant scale, and as there was no one to rival me in the instrumental way I raised the top, played the ‘Pot Pourri,’ and made a tremendous noise. (I do wish that minister would stop singing his nasal hymn-tunes just underneath me; he has been at it all day, and it quite puts me out.)

I also showed some tricks which puzzled the company—particularly a very tall man, with long, projecting nose and retreating forehead, who looked like a stupid fox. Miss Jane P. was seated in a corner, behind a little table, on which were draughts arranged as the nuns of the Lady Abbess, she challenging everybody to introduce the four cavaliers unknown to the blind mistress. Everybody said it was not possible, and Miss Jane turned triumphantly to me to know if I could do it. I said I could not only introduce the four knights, but their four squires also, and then suffer knights, squires, and four nuns to elope, without the blind Abbess having the slightest suspicion of the defection. Everybody thought it impossible, but when I actually performed the feat they looked upon me as half a conjuror—particularly the stranger fox—and Mrs. Dickson thought it was hardly safe that I should occupy the front bedroom in a young ladies’ boarding-school. I also amused them with the three jealous couples crossing the stream; we were all very merry, and I did more talking than I have accomplished in the same space of time for many a day. On our return home, the young gentleman who accompanied me said that if he had only known I was coming he would have gone from New York to Cincinnati, to escort me to Asheville (I did not tell him how very glad I was he did not know it); and on my expressing a wish to visit Mount Pisgah, he assured me that to the very next party that was made up he would be sure to see that I received an invitation. (I did not say he need not trouble himself, that I should get the invitation without his interference; I only thought all that, for I am growing very polite in my manners.)

... About a week ago I rode to the Sulphur Springs, which are about four miles from Asheville; they are not much resorted to, the country round being tangled and rather uninteresting. The springs, however, are situated in a delightful valley, through which the wind blew most refreshingly; a roofed platform is erected in the midst of the grass plat, the perfectly clear water welling up into a marble basin on one side, and then flowing away in a little rivulet. I found a country woman resting herself on the platform, with a bright, pleasant face and very communicative. I sat and talked to her and thought of the woman of Samaria; presently a bilious-looking Southerner came down and drank a dipper full of water, which dispelled all the illusion, for my imagination conjured up rice-swamps and clanking chains.

I have not taken many walks about here, for the weather, though delightful for July, is too hot for walking, and riding seems out of the question, it being harder to get a horse here even than it was at Henderson. Dr. Dickson has one old fellow, but he is used in the fields a good deal, and one person cannot ride alone. Borrowing or hiring seems equally impossible, so I shall be the poorest rider in the family apparently, for I suppose Henry’s ‘nice little pony,’ and our three (?) other horses, will be kept in constant use.

I find it equally impossible to get a partner in chess; Dr. Dickson understands no such games, and disapproves of them, so I cannot train any of the girls, and Miss C. does not care to play. I set up the men one afternoon and tried to beat myself; but it would not do, I could get up no enthusiasm, so I put the pieces away in despair, and used the board as a writing-desk.

Tell me all the home news: what M. does and Ellen and Kate, what nonsense H. talks and S.’s puns, the visits they receive and the excursions they make.

If you hear of any new books let me know, for I imagine they do not find their way up here very quickly. I have Littel’s ‘Living Age’ regularly, and I am reading Alison’s ‘History of Europe;’ but such a thing as a novel Dr. Dickson reprobates, and all he calls light reading.

Now, Howy, do you not think I am very good to send you such a long letter for your little scrap? Write me a full sheet soon.

Asheville: July 27, 1845.

Dear Mother,—I received your welcome letter last night while engaged in your favourite Saturday evening’s employment—singing hymns. A stranger minister who was to preach next day had just arrived, and I, seated at the piano, surrounded by the girls, was supplying him with sacred entertainment, when Howard Dickson laid your letter beside me. I smiled, and gave an involuntary quaver in the ‘Come, Holy Spi—,’ which made the girls giggle; but seeing the four eyes of the two ministers bent astonishedly upon us, I pulled a long face, the girls straightened theirs, and we continued—‘rit, heavenly Dove.’

I soon ran off with a candle and my letter, and read with eagerness all the profane parts, and most of the religious, as it is a first letter. I am very glad that you derive so much peaceful satisfaction from Upham. I know it has a soothing influence, for whenever I had to go into your room of an afternoon I found you asleep on the bed with the book in your hand; but I find no lack of such books here—Jonathan Edwards on the Affections, which I have lately read, has the same peaceful tendency.

I have just performed my first professional cure, and am already dubbed Dr. Blackwell by the household. I mesmerised away a severe headache that afflicted Miss O’Heara, a kind-hearted, child-like, black-haired little old maid, the favourite of the family and especial pet of the children. She had just recovered from a very severe attack of illness, and great suffering in the mouth from calomel, which made her declare that no physician ought to receive his diploma till he has been salivated, that he may know the torture he is inflicting on his patients. I went into her room last night, and found her suffering from an intense throbbing headache. I offered to relieve her, half doubting my own powers, never having attempted anything of the kind; but in a quarter or half an hour she was entirely relieved, and declared some good angel had sent me to her aid.

I have just returned from the Sunday-school which we have organised to-day for the slaves. When I first came here I determined to teach all the slaves I could to read and write, and elevate them in every way in my power, as the only way I could reconcile it to my conscience to live amongst them; but to my consternation I found that the laws forbade it, and that Dr. Dickson was not willing to evade them. Not the slightest effort was made to instruct them in any way, except that now and then a sermon was preached to them; but they had to labour on without a ray of light or hope. It was intolerable to me, and I proposed at last we should have Sunday-school, and give them real instruction; and as such a scheme had been talked of about a year ago, I found a few who were willing to engage in the undertaking. Accordingly, this afternoon at three o’clock we made a beginning—four ladies and one gentleman, with about twenty-five scholars; we have a class of men, women, boys, and two of girls. I take one of the latter, four girls, from eight to twelve years old. I assure you I felt a little odd, sitting down before those degraded little beings, to teach them a religion which the owners professed to follow whilst violating its very first principles, and audaciously presuming to stand between them and the Almighty. As I looked round the little room and saw those ladies holding forth to their slaves, fancying that now they were fulfilling every duty and were quite model mistresses, I longed to jump up, and, taking the chains from those injured, unmanned men, fasten them on their tyrants till they learned in dismal wretchedness the bitterness of that bondage they inflict on their brethren. But one person can do nothing. I sat quietly teaching, and reserved my indignation to vent on this inoffensive white paper. I am afraid much cannot be done for the slaves in this way; their minds are so obscured, and oral instruction is so tedious, that the patience of both teachers and scholars may be worn out. I, however, shall do my utmost to illuminate both head and heart, and the poor children thanked me with humble sincerity this afternoon for my efforts.

You need not be afraid I shall make myself conspicuous, or gain the hated name of Abolitionist. I sometimes reproach myself for my prudence and the calmness with which I answer some outrageous injustice, while I am really raging with indignation; but it is the only way in which I can hope to do any good, for the slightest display of feeling arms all their prejudices, and I am no orator to convert by a burst of passionate eloquence; so I must even go on in my own quiet manner, knowing that it does not proceed from cowardice.

I wish I could give you a cheering account of numerous music scholars and French and German classes, but the place is too small for anything of the sort. I hear constantly a great deal about Charleston; everybody seems connected with that city, and a great many of the inhabitants are spending the summer here and at the Springs. I mean to make some inquiries about the schools and teachers of that city; it would be a pleasant residence in some respects. I mention this, not from any serious idea of going there, but that you may know the schemes that are passing through my mind. I am fixed here till December.

My brain is as busy as can be, and consequently I am happy; for one is only miserable when stupid and lazy, wasting the time and doing no good to self or anybody else.

So you, too, mother, confirm Henry’s account of the ‘fine doings’ on our quiet Walnut Hills. I shall really begin to think that I have been the evil genius of the place, withholding the rain from the garden, the visitors from the house; for no sooner am I gone than floods of both flow down and up, and everywhere are greenness and gaiety. Very well; I certainly won’t come back to bring a blight into Paradise.... But, seriously, if Miss A. G. comes up, I hope M. will consider it a call and return it with dignity, for it seems to me H. is growing wild and turning our house into a sort of banqueting-hall for Comus and his crew, which I beg M. to set her face against by taking every visit to herself....

My white bonnet is much admired here. Miss Charlotte Carr sent to borrow it the other day, and has made one its exact image, flowers and all. I felt quite proud in setting the fashion in Asheville!

In 1846 the Asheville school was broken up, and I resolved to try my fortunes in the South, journeying with Mrs. John Dickson to Charleston, S.C., exchanging the fine mountain country for the level rice-fields of South Carolina. It was a striking journey—a transformation scene! It is thus described in a journal of that date:—

On January 14 we left by stage early in the morning. We jolted off in the bright moonlight; the ground was frozen hard and very rough. I walked with Flinn over the Blue Ridge and the Saluda, another branch of the Alleghanies. The weather was beautiful, the air invigorating, and the mountain seemed to deserve its name. On the top of the Saluda a stone marks the boundary of the two Carolinas. I hesitated at crossing it, for my affections are all with the ‘old North State.’ At the foot we drank to its health from the Poinsett Spring, as we had promised John to do. A little afterwards we passed the wildest scenery I ever remember to have seen. The road wound down the south side of the mountain in very abrupt curves, so as to form a succession of terraces one above the other; whilst, on the opposite side, the wooded mountain ridge, though so near, was softened by mist, and seemed to tower to tremendous heights, though I was surprised to see how this height seemed to lessen as we descended. We reached Greenville late, after eighty miles of horribly rough staging; there we spent the next day, and I took a pleasant walk with Flinn by the reedy river, which rushes in cascades through rocks and wooded hills. The next two days we travelled through pretty, undulating country, gradually becoming more level. I saw the first characteristic swamp, also the palmetto and the strange grey moss, a yard long, hanging from the trees. We spent a night in Columbia. It seemed a strange revival of old associations to enter a city once more. The hotel was full of horse-racers engaged in betting. The next day a rapid railway journey brought us to Charleston by two o’clock. The country between Columbia and Charleston was much prettier than I expected. The lovely day made everything beautiful; the numerous pines, the holly, wild orange, live oak, and other evergreens seemed to give the lie to January. The moss, hanging one or two yards long from the trees, looked like gigantic webs or the ghosts of weeping willows; the rice-fields, under water, were as blue as the sky; the level cotton-fields, extending for hundreds of acres, with their belts of evergreens, were strange and beautiful.

When we reached Charleston we were met at the station by Dr. Sam. Dickson’s carriage, with its very gentlemanly negro coachman, who had been sent for Flinn and ‘the lady.’ So I said good-bye to kind Mrs. John Dickson, and, driving softly along to a large old-fashioned house, surrounded by a garden full of tall evergreens, I entered a spacious hall and was welcomed by Dr. Sam. and Mrs. Dickson and their eldest daughter, and ushered into a handsome drawing-room, cloak, hood, smoke, and all.

Dr. Samuel H. Dickson, who thus hospitably welcomed me, was a distinguished physician of Charleston and professor in the Medical College of that town. He gave me kind encouragement in relation to my medical studies. Through his influence I soon obtained a position as teacher of music in the fashionable boarding-school of Mrs. Du Pré (a connection of the Doctor), where I taught for some hours every day, spending all my spare time in pursuing the medical studies which Dr. Dickson directed. Every morning a couple of hours were devoted before breakfast to learning the necessary rudiments of Greek (for I had only so far been acquainted with Latin).

The boarding-school occupied a fine old-fashioned mansion. The noble drawing-room, with its numerous windows overlooking the bay, was the scene of my teaching duties.

When they were over, many quiet hours were passed in that pleasant room, studying the medical books which the Doctor supplied from his library.

The severe duties of teaching and study were occasionally varied by larger interests, such as hearing a very able (though erroneous) oration on States’ Rights, by Calhoun; or the more carnal pleasure of a visit to a banana plantation.

John C. Calhoun’s address, given to the enthusiastic meeting which crowded the theatre, was noteworthy. The contrast between the calm, able orator, who appeared entirely unmoved by the rapturous demonstrations of his audience, who responded to every point in his clever but measured oratory, resembled the effect produced in our later day by the able statesman Parnell, who dominated his ardent Irish followers by a similarly contrasted mental constitution. The influence of this able statesman, John C. Calhoun, was largely instrumental in causing the Civil War in America.

The following familiar home letters indicate some of the varieties in the Charleston life:—

Charleston: January 30, 1847.

Now, dear M., for a comfortable Sunday afternoon chat with you, after a long—it seems to me a very long—silence. I’ve just replenished my body with a comfortable portion of our regular Sunday dinner—viz. ham, fowl, sweet potatoes, and macaroni—of which last I’ve grown particularly fond, and now, wrapped in my blanket-shawl, I sit with my feet on the fender, over the embers of the parlour fire, and, as the girls are at church and only good Miss B. in the room, I hope for a nice long quiet time. But I must tell you of a great musical treat I’ve had, really the highest pleasure in that way that I ever remember; no less than two concerts by Herz and Sivori. I never have been so affected by music before; yet the first concert made me sad, homesick, and discontented. I felt as I do after reading a powerful novel of Bulwer’s. It was Sivori’s violin that produced so strange an effect. Herz was a smooth, brilliant pianoforte player, with considerable superficial talent, nothing more; but Sivori has genius. His playing bewildered me; I did not understand it. It seemed to me like a chaos that might become a world of beauty could I only find the word that should reduce it to order. I went home unhappy and indignant at being obliged to pass life in such a stupid place, amongst such stupid people, where is neither beauty, nor intelligence, nor goodness. The next concert it went better with me. I sat near the platform immediately in front of Sivori, and examined his countenance, which certainly renders his performance clearer. He is very small, his head large for his body, a fine forehead, grand eyes, a stiff, sober manner, and occasional half-suppressed smile that reminded me continually of Ellery Channing. The first piece, ‘Il Campanello’ of Paganini, was a gem; the solemn, subduing adagio, with a wild, striving conclusion, and the little clear silver bell coming in continually, like an angel’s voice in the conflict of good and bad spirits. Then his prayer from ‘Moïse,’ performed on one string, was the most devout music I ever listened to. I felt as if I were worshipping in an old cathedral at twilight, and I shut my eyes not to destroy the illusion by the expressionless concert-room and faces all round. The duet between Herz and Sivori was grand, both parts were so perfect. I went to the concert with a prejudice against Herz, from knowing his very bad moral character; but his playing is very brilliant, though he is far from being a De Meyer. He has the most self-satisfied expression in his mouth, which, as a gentleman remarked, ‘seems to be going to eat his ears,’ it is so large. He was recalled after one of his pieces, and said, smiling, ‘I will play you a piece which I composed, since I am in Charleston. It is called “Souvenir de Charleston.”’ ’Twas quite a dashing affair; and then he extemporised beautifully on ‘Lucy Long.’ I hope you may have the pleasure in Cincinnati of hearing these real artists. Oh for the time when such music may be a daily feast for all, and when the performers shall be as noble in character as they are gifted in talent!

Charleston: February 28, 1847.

My dear Mother,—Two letters from you within a twelvemonth seems as extraordinary as it is welcome. I was much gratified by the kind home voices which greeted my birthday. I always think of old family times on that day—the penny for each year which father used laughingly to bestow, and the silver that came after, and then the little children’s party, and all the merry old times; but I am quite satisfied that my childhood has gone; I never wish to recall it, happy as it was; I want to be up and doing, not simply enjoying myself; and if I never succeed in accomplishing all my intentions, I mean to have the comfortable assurance that I have tried hard and done my best. Your letter, besides its highly respected religious advice, which I always lay up carefully in a little scented corner of my mind, contains many little interesting domestic items. How I should like to tap at the window some night, while the brilliant solar lamp is illuminating the planets and glorifying the cheerful faces inside, and make you all start as if you saw a ghost, till a most substantial shaking of the hand should convince you to the contrary! We have had a very mild winter on the whole, to my no small delight, for I dreaded the cold exceedingly in this great house, where the wind rushes grievously through every door and window and finds only the ghost of a fire to warm it, and where heavy mists from the ocean chill the very marrow of your bones. I’ve fortunately had no broken chilblains on my hands this winter, and as I teach in the warmest room in the house, and throw open the shutters to let in all the sunshine, I don’t often have to wear my blanket, but get along pretty comfortably. I am teaching at present more than eight hours a day, and you may imagine I get pretty tired by tea-time. Such a press of teaching, however, will not last very long, and I am quite willing that Mrs. Du Pré should gain as much as possible by me while I am with her.

About a week ago I received an answer from the old Quaker physician, Dr. Warrington of Philadelphia, to whom I was introduced by Mrs. Willard of Troy some time ago. The letter is quite an original; I must transcribe a little for your benefit:—

‘My dear E. Blackwell,—Thy letter of November 18 came duly to hand; it has indeed remained unanswered, but not unheeded. I have reflected much on the propositions contained in it; so strong a hold has the communication had on my feelings and sympathies that I feared I might speak imprudently if I should reply impromptu to such noble sentiments. I have myself been so circumstanced in life as to be rendered measurably competent to understand the force of promptings to move in somewhat new and little-tried paths. My immediate response would therefore perhaps have been, “Go onwards;” and though if in reasonings with flesh and blood in this matter I may appear less ardent in my encouragement, let it be borne in mind that He who puts forth can without fail lead His devoted servants; He can make a way where there appeared to be no way; He can accomplish His purposes by instruments of His own selection in the bringing about His own ends—“God shall work, and who shall let (hinder or prevent) Him?”

‘Now, this principle is recognisable by the pious of all denominations. It is one which has been found operative in very many important enterprises, and it is one which thy own mind seems so firmly to have settled that I scarcely need advert to it now, but to show that my own faith may sometimes be so feeble that I enter into human calculation as to the expediency of certain plans of operation which have suggested themselves to me in the course of my movements about this great city, or when I am reflecting upon the condition of humanity at large. Now, I frankly confess that it is in such a balance that I have from time to time weighed thy interesting concern. I have personally appealed to some of the most intelligent and liberal-minded ladies of my acquaintance how far the services of a well-educated female physician would be appreciated by them. The response uniformly is, “Mrs. Gove and Mrs. Wright were unfit to teach, nor could any female become acceptable to us, either as a teacher or practitioner of medicine.” This language is stronger than I should be willing to use myself. It is an interesting matter of history, and one which may afford some encouragement to reformers to persevere, when they are assured that their cause has its foundation in truth, justice, and mercy; that Saul, who had been most bitter in his persecution of Christians, joining in the popular outcry against the great Innovator, not only himself became a convert to the new faith, but under the name of Paul, for the balance of his active life, employed his powerful talents in the extension of the very doctrines which in his misguided zeal he had laboured to subvert. I confess, my dear lady, that I with thee see many difficulties in the way to the attainment—firstly, to the acquisition of the kind and amount of education thou art aware is necessary as a capital stock with which to begin the enterprise which has been opened to thy mind; secondly, that after years spent in the attempt the popular mind will be found barred against thy mission of love and humanity; but I beg thee to believe with me that if the project be of divine origin and appointment it will sooner or later surely be accomplished. Thus, in the language of Gamaliel on another occasion, “If this work be of men it will come to nought, but if it be of God ye cannot overthrow it, lest haply ye be found even to fight against God.” In now addressing thee personally I cordially reiterate the invitation. I should be happy to compare notes with thee at any leisure moment which may be afforded me, though I am in the whirl of occupation; and if after our conferences together thou shouldest become as persuaded as I am that woman was designed to be the helpmeet for man, and that in the responsible duties of relieving ills which flesh is heir to it is appropriate that man be the physician and woman the nurse, it may possibly occur to thee that thy real mission in this world of probation will be to contribute with all the talents which thy Father in Heaven has so bountifully bestowed the exaltation of a portion of thy sex to the holy duties of nursing the sick, and thus succouring the distressed. With sentiments of most respectful consideration....’

This is a portion of the good Doctor’s letter, and though our opinions differ considerably I cannot complain of his treating the matter too lightly. He seems to be an honest, simple-minded, enthusiastic old man, and I feel as if I might regard him as a friend in Philadelphia. The letter is copied by his wife in a clear, pretty hand, so I consider her as interested also.

Well, my dear mother, I wish I could tell you something amusing; but though we do a good deal of small laughing, it would hardly be worth while to put our jokes down on paper. Miss Buell and I talk of hiring a beau if we can get one cheap, for really these beautiful moonlight nights a walk on the Battery would be very pleasant, and a visit to the opera that is now in town would be by no means disagreeable; but now we have to sit at our window and admire the moonlight on the waters, and sigh in vain after the vanities of the world, all for want of a beau—alas! poor nuns that we are. Then sometimes the girls get up a little screaming for our benefit. The other night, for instance, the ten o’clock bell had rung. Miss Buell had seen that the lights were out and the girls in bed. We were comfortably sinking into forgetfulness on our pillows, when I fancied I heard some poor dog yelling in some yard. I listened sympathisingly, and found it was a human voice in the distance uttering at short intervals a succession of agonised shrieks. I was horrified and indignant. ‘Do listen,’ I cried; ‘they must be whipping a poor negro; isn’t it abominable?’ We listened; the shrieks seemed to draw nearer. ‘Why, Miss Buell, ’tis certainly the girls in the opposite room!’ ‘Oh, no, they are all asleep; ’tis sonny’s voice downstairs: they must be washing him.’ ‘At this time of night! What an idea! I’m convinced it is the girls.’ The shrieks increased, and at intervals we distinguished the words: ‘Oh, Penny, Penny Grimke! Oh, Miss Buell, Miss Blackwell, Mrs. Peters! Oh, Mrs. Peters!’ I jumped out of bed, got a light, and hurried into the opposite room; as I opened the door the noise almost stunned me. There were six girls, all screaming at the top of their voices, as pale as their nightgowns, and some of them almost in fits; all the other doors were thrown open, and I was immediately surrounded by a perfect mob of girls in white nightgowns and caps, talking, crying, laughing, in a regular uproar. I threatened to blow out the lamp, to call Mr. Bonnetheau, to beat them all if they wouldn’t hush, and at last I got at the origin of the affray. A couple of brushes had fallen on the floor, and one of the girls, affirming that somebody had touched her arm, began to scream; all the others joined in, and I really believe that if I had not gone to them when I did they would have fallen into convulsions, so completely had they given themselves up to terror. These are some of the pleasant diversions of our life, and as I welcome anything that makes me laugh, they are quite acceptable.

When the hot weather arrived I superintended the summer school, which for the health of the pupils was removed to Aiken, South Carolina, amongst the pine barrens; a spot renowned for its healthiness, and which has since become a famous health resort.

Aiken: July 1846.

Many happy returns, dear M., of your birthday. I send you the old greeting; old, and full of meaning; for life is a blessing, though our low, unworthy view may make us sometimes doubt it. Even if life were full of suffering, and annihilation its end, I should still hail it as a noble gift. But with a firm faith in infinite goodness and immortality, the most wearisome life becomes a source of triumphant thanksgiving. So I wish you again many happy returns of glorious life! And now I must thank you right heartily for a letter that was a real home gift; or, as the ‘Dial’ saith, ‘a letter that was no letter, but a leaf out of the book of Nature.’ How do your commentatical studies go on? I am afraid it will be an unsatisfactory sort of business to search for the sun with a parcel of rushlights; if it do not glow forth with unmistakable brilliancy I fear there’s very little true solar light to be found. Last Sunday, not caring to pay the Episcopal church a second visit, I told Mrs. Du Pré I would go to a church in the woods, so she need not send the carriage back for me. I had seen a dark wooden building with little steeple, half hidden amongst the trees, that took my fancy. So I dressed and strolled through the sandy wood paths at the rate of a mile an hour, as I hate overheating myself. I reached my church at length, when, lo! it proved to be a deserted schoolhouse, containing two large cool rooms, built of weather-beaten pine, with projecting roof and pleasant elevated porch. Here I took my seat, whilst the village bells were ringing merrily. The schoolhouse was situated in the midst of pretty woods, encircled by a path of white sand which winds through the woods to the village. The sky was brilliantly blue; the rich odour of the pines and the hum of insects had a very soothing effect, and I spent my time so pleasantly that I think I shall be tempted to pay my church in the woods many visits this summer. By-the-by, I find that the schoolhouse, cool and pleasant as it is, has been for some time deserted, because the three denominations of Aiken cannot agree on the choice of a teacher. I have found the summer here very pleasant hitherto. Indeed, I invite you all to come South and get cool; I think I have never suffered so little from heat anywhere.

November.—Let me set your mind at ease with regard to my fastidiousness, love of beauty, professional horrors, and so forth. My mind is fully made up. I have not the slightest hesitation on the subject; the thorough study of medicine I am quite resolved to go through with. The horrors and disgusts I have no doubt of vanquishing. I have overcome stronger distastes than any that now remain, and feel fully equal to the contest. As to the opinion of people, I don’t care one straw personally; though I take so much pains, as a matter of policy, to propitiate it, and shall always strive to do so; for I see continually how the highest good is eclipsed by the violent or disagreeable forms which contain it. I think you attribute a foolish sentimental fastidiousness to me that I do not possess. You also speak of my want of bodily sympathy being an objection. If I understand what you mean, I think it would prove of the most valuable assistance possible. I suspect you were thinking of that unlucky dose of lobelia I once gave you when I grew angry because you groaned and groaned, and obstinately refused to drink the warm stuff that would relieve you. I think I have sufficient hardness to be entirely unaffected by great agony in such a way as to impair the clearness of thought necessary for bringing relief, but I am sure the warmest sympathy would prompt me to relieve suffering to the extent of my power; though I do not think any case would keep me awake at night, or that the responsibility would seem too great when I had conscientiously done my best.... I want very much to have a little story printed which I have translated from the German. It is very pretty, and pleases the children greatly. I might get a hundred dollars for it.... Aiken is almost deserted, but I shall not go down till the 15th, when the Episcopal minister arrives to take charge of the school. To-morrow I shall be left entirely alone, not a soul in the house besides; and only a negro man somewhat given to drink and a negro woman greatly given to scolding in the yard.... The autumn winds are howling round the house, blowing the leaves in whirlwinds. Our ‘Fall’ has been very pleasant, though we’ve had fires for several weeks. The changing trees had a curious effect for a few days. I have four windows in my room, and the hickory trees outside turned a brilliant yellow, filling the room with a beautiful glow. During a very rainy day I several times looked up with joy thinking the sun was breaking forth; but the rain soon changed their beauty, and now our pines and some oaks are the only cheerful things left.

Returning to Charleston, the winter and spring were fully occupied with teaching; the Christmas being cheered by the receipt from home of our ‘Family Christmas Annual,’ a collection of articles in prose and verse, specially prepared anonymously by the various members of the family, and decorated by domestic artists. This diversion was continued for many years; and several volumes are still preserved as mementoes of those pleasant times.

CHAPTER III
STUDY IN AMERICA
1847-1849

In the summer of 1847, with my carefully hoarded earnings, I resolved to seek an entrance into a medical school. Philadelphia was then considered the chief seat of medical learning in America, so to Philadelphia I went; taking passage in a sailing vessel from Charleston for the sake of economy.

In Philadelphia I boarded in the family of Dr. William Elder. He and his admirable wife soon became warm and steadfast friends. Dr. Elder (author of the life of Dr. Kane, the Arctic voyager) was a remarkable man, of brilliant talent and genial nature. He took a generous interest in my plans, helping by his advice and encouragement through the months of effort and refusals which were now encountered.

Applications were cautiously but persistently made to the four medical colleges of Philadelphia for admission as a regular student. The interviews with their various professors were by turns hopeful and disappointing. Whilst pursuing these inquiries I commenced my anatomical studies in the private school of Dr. Allen. This gentleman by his thoughtful arrangements enabled me to overcome the natural repulsion to these studies generally felt at the outset. With a tact and delicacy for which I have always felt grateful, he gave me as my first lesson in practical anatomy a demonstration of the human wrist. The beauty of the tendons and exquisite arrangements of this part of the body struck my artistic sense, and appealed to the sentiment of reverence with which this anatomical branch of study was ever afterwards invested in my mind.

During the following months, whilst making applications to the different medical colleges of Philadelphia for admission as a regular student, I enlisted the services of my friends in the search for an Alma Mater. The interviews with the various professors, though disappointing, were often amusing.

Extracts from the Journal of 1847

May 27.—Called on Dr. Jackson (one of the oldest professors in Philadelphia), a small, bright-faced, grey-haired man, who looked up from his newspaper and saluted me with, ‘Well, what is it? What do you want?’ I told him I wanted to study medicine. He began to laugh, and asked me why. Then I detailed my plans. He became interested; said he would not give me an answer then; that there were great difficulties, but he did not know that they were insurmountable; he would let me know on Monday. I came home with a lighter heart, though I can hardly say I hope. On Monday Dr. Jackson said he had done his best for me, but the professors were all opposed to my entrance. Dr. Horner advised me to try the Filbert Street and Franklin schools. A professor of Jefferson College thought it would be impossible to study there, and advised the New England schools.

June 2.—Felt gloomy as thunder, trudging round to Dr. Darrach. He is the most non-committal man I ever saw. I harangued him, and he sat full five minutes without a word. I asked at last if he could give me any encouragement. ‘The subject is a novel one, madam, I have nothing to say either for or against it; you have awakened trains of thought upon which my mind is taking action, but I cannot express my opinion to you either one way or another.’ ‘Your opinion, I fear, is unfavourable.’ ‘I did not say so. I beg you, madam, distinctly to understand that I express no opinion one way or another; the way in which my mind acts in this matter I do not feel at liberty to unfold.’ ‘Shall I call on the other professors of your college?’ ‘I cannot take the responsibility of advising you to pursue such a course.’ ‘Can you not grant me admittance to your lectures, as you do not feel unfavourable to my scheme?’ ‘I have said no such thing; whether favourable or unfavourable, I have not expressed any opinion; and I beg leave to state clearly that the operation of my mind in regard to this matter I do not feel at liberty to unfold.’ I got up in despair, leaving his mind to take action on the subject at his leisure.

Dr. Warrington told me that he had seen his friend Dr. Ashmead, who had told him that Paris was such a horrible place that I must give up my wish for a medical education—indeed, his communication would be so unfavourable that he would rather not meet me in person. I told the Doctor that if the path of duty led me to hell I would go there; and I did not think that by being with devils I should become a devil myself—at which the good Doctor stared.

Nevertheless, I shrink extremely from the idea of giving up the attempt in America and going to France, although the suggestion is often urged on me.

The fear of successful rivalry which at that time often existed in the medical mind was expressed by the dean of one of the smaller schools, who frankly replied to the application, ‘You cannot expect us to furnish you with a stick to break our heads with;’ so revolutionary seemed the attempt of a woman to leave a subordinate position and seek to obtain a complete medical education. A similarly mistaken notion of the rapid practical success which would attend a lady doctor was shown later by one of the professors of my medical college, who was desirous of entering into partnership with me on condition of sharing profits over 5,000 dollars on my first year’s practice.

During these fruitless efforts my kindly Quaker adviser, whose private lectures I attended, said to me: ‘Elizabeth, it is of no use trying. Thee cannot gain admission to these schools. Thee must go to Paris and don masculine attire to gain the necessary knowledge.’ Curiously enough, this suggestion of disguise made by good Dr. Warrington was also given me by Doctor Pankhurst, the Professor of Surgery in the largest college in Philadelphia. He thoroughly approved of a woman’s gaining complete medical knowledge; told me that although my public entrance into the classes was out of the question, yet if I would assume masculine attire and enter the college he could entirely rely on two or three of his students to whom he should communicate my disguise, who would watch the class and give me timely notice to withdraw should my disguise be suspected.

But neither the advice to go to Paris nor the suggestion of disguise tempted me for a moment. It was to my mind a moral crusade on which I had entered, a course of justice and common sense, and it must be pursued in the light of day, and with public sanction, in order to accomplish its end.

The following letter to Mrs. Willard of Troy, the well-known educationalist, describes the difficulties through which the young student had to walk warily:—

Philadelphia: May 24.

I cannot refrain from expressing my obligations to you for directing me to the excellent Dr. Warrington. He has allowed me to visit his patients, attend his lectures, and make use of his library, and has spoken to more than one medical friend concerning my wishes; but with deep regret I am obliged to say that all the information hitherto obtained serves to show me the impossibility of accomplishing my purpose in America. I find myself rigidly excluded from the regular college routine, and there is no thorough course of lectures that can supply its place. The general sentiment of the physicians is strongly opposed to a woman’s intruding herself into the profession; consequently it would be perhaps impossible to obtain private instruction, but if that were possible, the enormous expense would render it impracticable, and where the feelings of the profession are strongly enlisted against such a scheme, the museums, libraries, hospitals, and all similar aids would be closed against me. In view of these and numerous other difficulties Dr. Warrington is discouraged, and joins with his medical brethren in advising me to give up the scheme. But a strong idea, long cherished till it has taken deep root in the soul and become an all-absorbing duty, cannot thus be laid aside. I must accomplish my end. I consider it the noblest and most useful path that I can tread, and if one country rejects me I will go to another.

Through Dr. Warrington and other sources I am informed that my plan can be carried out in Paris, though the free Government lectures, delivered by the faculty, are confined to men, and a diploma is strictly denied to a woman, even when (as in one instance, as it is said) she has gone through the course in male attire; yet every year thorough courses of lectures are delivered by able physicians on every branch of medical knowledge, to which I should be admitted without hesitation and treated with becoming respect. The true place for study, then, seems open to me; but here, again, some friendly physicians raise stronger objections than ever. ‘You, a young unmarried lady,’ they say, ‘go to Paris, that city of fearful immorality, where every feeling will be outraged and insult attend you at every step; where vice is the natural atmosphere, and no young man can breathe it without being contaminated! Impossible, you are lost if you go!’

Now, dear madam, I appeal to you, who have had the opportunity of studying the French in their native land, is not this a false view, a greatly exaggerated fear? Is it not perfectly true everywhere that a woman who respects herself will be respected by others; that where the life is directed by a strong, pure motive to a noble object, in a quiet, dignified, but determined manner, the better feelings of mankind are enlisted, and the woman excites esteem and respectful sympathy? To my mind this is perfectly clear, and I trust that your more experienced judgment will confirm my opinion. Probably, then, if all the information which I am still collecting agree with what I have already received, I may sail for France in the course of the summer, that I may familiarise myself with a rapid French delivery before the commencement of the winter lectures.

I have tried to look every difficulty steadily in the face. I find none which seem to me unconquerable, and with the blessing of Providence I trust to accomplish my design.

After a short, refreshing trip with my family to the seaside, the search was again renewed in Philadelphia. But applications made for admission to the medical schools both of Philadelphia and of New York were met with similarly unsuccessful results.

I therefore obtained a complete list of all the smaller schools of the Northern States, ‘country schools,’ as they were called. I examined their prospectuses, and quite at a venture sent in applications for admission to twelve of the most promising institutions, where full courses of instruction were given under able professors. The result was awaited with much anxiety, as the time for the commencement of the winter sessions was rapidly approaching. No answer came for some time. At last, to my immense relief (though not surprise, for failure never seemed possible), I received the following letter from the medical department of a small university town in the western part of the State of New York:—

Geneva: October 20, 1847.

To Elizabeth Blackwell, Philadelphia.

I am instructed by the faculty of the medical department of Geneva University to acknowledge receipt of yours of 3rd inst. A quorum of the faculty assembled last evening for the first time during the session, and it was thought important to submit your proposal to the class (of students), who have had a meeting this day, and acted entirely on their own behalf, without any interference on the part of the faculty. I send you the result of their deliberations, and need only add that there are no fears but that you can, by judicious management, not only ‘disarm criticism,’ but elevate yourself without detracting in the least from the dignity of the profession.

Wishing you success in your undertaking, which some may deem bold in the present state of society, I subscribe myself,

Yours respectfully,
Charles A. Lee,
Dean of the Faculty.

15 Geneva Hotel.

This letter enclosed the following unique and manly letter, which I had afterwards copied on parchment, and esteem one of my most valued possessions:—

At a meeting of the entire medical class of Geneva Medical College, held this day, October 20, 1847, the following resolutions were unanimously adopted:—

1. Resolved—That one of the radical principles of a Republican Government is the universal education of both sexes; that to every branch of scientific education the door should be open equally to all; that the application of Elizabeth Blackwell to become a member of our class meets our entire approbation; and in extending our unanimous invitation we pledge ourselves that no conduct of ours shall cause her to regret her attendance at this institution.

2. Resolved—That a copy of these proceedings be signed by the chairman and transmitted to Elizabeth Blackwell.

T. J. Stratton, Chairman.

With an immense sigh of relief and aspiration of profound gratitude to Providence I instantly accepted the invitation, and prepared for the journey to Western New York State.

Leaving Philadelphia on November 4, I hastened through New York, travelled all night, and reached the little town of Geneva at 11 p.m. on November 6.

The next day, after a refreshing sleep, I sallied forth for an interview with the dean of the college, enjoying the view of the beautiful lake on which Geneva is situated, notwithstanding the cold, drizzling, windy day. After an interview with the authorities of the college I was duly inscribed on the list as student No. 130, in the medical department of the Geneva University.

I at once established myself in a comfortable boarding-house, in the same street as my college, and three minutes’ walk from it—a beautiful walk along the high bank overlooking the lake. I hung my room with dear mementoes of absent friends, and soon with hope and zeal and thankful feelings of rest I settled down to study.

Naturally, some little time was required to adjust the relations of the new student to her unusual surroundings. My first experiences are thus given in a letter to a sister:—

Geneva: November 9, 1847.

I’ve just finished copying the notes of my last lecture. Business is over for to-day; I throw a fresh stick into my ‘air-tight,’ and now for refreshment by a talk with my own dear sister. Your letter containing E.’s was the first to welcome me in my new residence; right welcome, I assure you, it was, for I was gloomy—very. It was on Monday evening your letter came—my first work-day in Geneva. It had rained incessantly; I was in an upper room of a large boarding-house without a soul to speak to. I had attended five lectures, but nevertheless I did not know whether I could do what I ought to, for the Professor of Anatomy was absent, and had been spoken of as a queer man. The demonstrator hesitated as to my dissecting; I had no books, and didn’t know where to get any; and my head was bewildered with running about the great college building—never going out of the same door I went in at.

This evening, however, I have finished my second day’s lectures; the weather is still gloomy, but I feel sunshiny and happy, strongly encouraged, with a grand future before me, and all owing to a fat little fairy in the shape of the Professor of Anatomy! This morning, on repairing to the college, I was introduced to Dr. Webster, the Professor of Anatomy, a little plump man, blunt in manner and very voluble. He shook me warmly by the hand, said my plan was capital; he had some fun too about a lady pupil, for he never lost a joke; the class had acted manfully; their resolutions were as good as a political meeting, &c.

He asked me what branches I had studied. I told him all but surgery. ‘Well,’ said Dr. Lee, ‘do you mean to practise surgery?’ ‘Why, of course she does,’ broke in Dr. Webster. ‘Think of the cases of femoral hernia; only think what a well-educated woman would do in a city like New York. Why, my dear sir, she’d have her hands full in no time; her success would be immense. Yes, yes, you’ll go through the course, and get your diploma with great éclat too; we’ll give you the opportunities. You’ll make a stir, I can tell you.’

I handed him a note of introduction from Dr. Warrington, and then he told me to wait in the ante-room while he read it to the medical class, who were assembled in the amphitheatre for his lecture, which was to be preparatory to one of the most delicate operations in surgery, and I suppose he wanted to remind them of their promise of good behaviour. I could hear him reading it. When his age and experience were spoken of there was a shout of laughter, for he can’t be more than forty-five and not much of dignity about him; but at the conclusion there was a round of applause, after which I quietly entered, and certainly have no reason to complain of medical students, for though they eye me curiously, it is also in a very friendly manner. After the lecture was over, the demonstrator, who now shows the utmost friendliness, explained to me at the Doctor’s request a very important subject which I had lost. It was admirably done, illustrated on the subject, and if to-day’s lessons were a fair specimen, I certainly shall have no cause to complain of my anatomical instructors. The plan pursued here is admirable, and New York and Philadelphia may learn more than one lesson from Geneva. Dr. Webster came to me laughing after the first lecture, saying: ‘You attract too much attention, Miss Blackwell; there was a very large number of strangers present this afternoon—I shall guard against this in future.’ ‘Yes,’ said Dr. Lee; ‘we were saying to-day that this step might prove quite a good advertisement for the college; if there were no other advantage to be gained, it will attract so much notice. I shall bring the matter into the medical journals; why, I’ll venture to say in ten years’ time one-third the classes in our colleges will consist of women. After the precedent you will have established, people’s eyes will be opened.’

Now, all this kind feeling encourages me greatly, and I need it; for though my purpose has never wavered, a flat, heavy feeling was growing upon me from constant disappointment. I was fast losing that spring of hope that is so pleasant; consequently praise cannot make me vain, and the notice I attract is a matter of perfect indifference. I sit quietly in this large assemblage of young men, and they might be women or mummies for aught I care. I sometimes think I’m too much disciplined, but it is certainly necessary for the position I occupy. I believe the professors don’t exactly know in what species of the human family to place me, and the students are a little bewildered. The other people at first regarded me with suspicion, but I am so quiet and gentle that suspicion turns to astonishment, and even the little boys in the street stand still and stare as I pass. ’Tis droll; sometimes I laugh, sometimes I feel a little sad, but in Geneva the nine days’ wonder soon will cease, and I cannot but congratulate myself on having found at last the right place for my beginning.

I had not the slightest idea of the commotion created by my appearance as a medical student in the little town. Very slowly I perceived that a doctor’s wife at the table avoided any communication with me, and that as I walked backwards and forwards to college the ladies stopped to stare at me, as at a curious animal. I afterwards found that I had so shocked Geneva propriety that the theory was fully established either that I was a bad woman, whose designs would gradually become evident, or that, being insane, an outbreak of insanity would soon be apparent. Feeling the unfriendliness of the people, though quite unaware of all this gossip, I never walked abroad, but hastening daily to my college as to a sure refuge, I knew when I shut the great doors behind me that I shut out all unkindly criticism, and I soon felt perfectly at home amongst my fellow-students.

The following extracts from my journal of those days show how any early difficulties were successfully overcome:—

November 9.—My first happy day; I feel really encouraged. The little fat Professor of Anatomy is a capital fellow; certainly I shall love fat men more than lean ones henceforth. He gave just the go-ahead directing impulse needful; he will afford me every advantage, and says I shall graduate with éclat. Then, too, I am glad that they like the notoriety of the thing, and think it a good ‘spec.’

November 10.—Attended the demonstrator’s evening lecture—very clear—how superior to books! Oh, this is the way to learn! The class behaves very well; and people seem all to grow kind.

November 11.—Anatomy very interesting to-day; two admirable demonstrations. Dr. Webster, full of enthusiasm, told us of Godman, who was converted to phrenology by reading a work against it, in order to cut it up.

November 15.—To-day, a second operation at which I was not allowed to be present. This annoys me. I was quite saddened and discouraged by Dr. Webster requesting me to be absent from some of his demonstrations. I don’t believe it is his wish. I wrote to him hoping to change things.

November 17.—Dr. Webster seemed much pleased with my note, and quite cheered me by his wish to read it to the class to-morrow, saying if they were all actuated by such sentiments the medical class at Geneva would be a very noble one. He could hardly guess how much I needed a little praise. I have no fear of the kind students.

November 20.—In the amphitheatre yesterday a little folded paper dropped on my arms as I was making notes; it looked very much as if there were writing in it, but I shook it off and went on quietly with my notes. Some after-demonstration of a similar kind produced a hiss from the opposite side of the room. I felt also a very light touch on my head, but I guess my quiet manner will soon stop any nonsense.

November 22.—A trying day, and I feel almost worn out, though it was encouraging too, and in some measure a triumph; but ’tis a terrible ordeal! That dissection was just as much as I could bear. Some of the students blushed, some were hysterical, not one could keep in a smile, and some who I am sure would not hurt my feelings for the world if it depended on them, held down their faces and shook. My delicacy was certainly shocked, and yet the exhibition was in some sense ludicrous. I had to pinch my hand till the blood nearly came, and call on Christ to help me from smiling, for that would have ruined everything; but I sat in grave indifference, though the effort made my heart palpitate most painfully. Dr. Webster, who had perhaps the most trying position, behaved admirably.

November 24.—To-day the Doctor read my note to the class. In this note I told him that I was there as a student with an earnest purpose, and as a student simply I should be regarded; that the study of anatomy was a most serious one, exciting profound reverence, and the suggestion to absent myself from any lectures seemed to me a grave mistake. I did not wish to do so, but would yield to any wish of the class without hesitation, if it was their desire. I stayed in the ante-room whilst the note was being read. I listened joyfully to the very hearty approbation with which it was received by the class, and then entered the amphitheatre and quietly resumed my place. The Doctor told me he felt quite relieved.

No further difficulty ever afterwards occurred.

December 4.—Dr. Webster sent for me to examine a case of a poor woman at his rooms. ’Twas a horrible exposure; indecent for any poor woman to be subjected to such a torture; she seemed to feel it, poor and ignorant as she was. I felt more than ever the necessity of my mission. But I went home out of spirits, I hardly know why. I felt alone. I must work by myself all life long.

Christmas Day.—Bright and gay with sleighs. The lake looks most beautiful, the mist rising from it in arches, the sky a brilliant blue, and the ground covered with snow. I received my Christmas Annual with great joy; and having purchased 25 cents’ worth of almonds and raisins, I had quite a cosy time reading it.

Sunday, January 16.—A most beautiful day; it did me good. The text impressed itself on me—‘Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on Thee.’ I felt happy and blessed. Ah! if the Almighty would always shine on me, how strong I should be! ‘The Lord God is a sun and shield; the Lord will give grace and glory; no good thing will He withhold from them that walk uprightly.’

The behaviour of the medical class during the two years that I was with them was admirable. It was that of true Christian gentlemen. I learned later that some of them had been inclined to think my application for admission a hoax, perpetrated at their expense by a rival college. But when the bona-fide student actually appeared they gave her a manly welcome, and fulfilled to the letter the promise contained in their invitation.

My place in the various lecture-rooms was always kept for me, and I was never in any way molested. Walking down the crowded amphitheatre after the class was seated, no notice was taken of me. Whilst the class waited in one of the large lecture-rooms for the Professor of Practice, groups of the wilder students gathered at the windows, which overlooked the grounds of a large normal school for young ladies. The pupils of this institution knew the hour of this lecture, and gathered at their windows for a little fun. Here, peeping from behind the blinds, they responded to the jests and hurrahs of the students. ‘See the one in pink!’ ‘No, look at the one with a blue tie; she has a note,’ &c.—fun suddenly hushed by the entrance of the Professor. Meanwhile I had quietly looked over my notes in the seat always reserved for me, entirely undisturbed by the frolic going on at the windows.

My studies in anatomy were most thoughtfully arranged by Dr. Le Ford, who selected four of the steadier students to work with me in the private room of the surgical professor, adjoining the amphitheatre. There we worked evening after evening in the most friendly way, and I gained curious glimpses into the escapades of student life. Being several years older than my companions, they treated me like an elder sister, and talked freely together, feeling my friendly sympathy.

Under the intelligent instruction of the demonstrator anatomy became a most fascinating study. The wonderful arrangements of the human body excited an interest and admiration which simply obliterated the more superficial feelings of repugnance; and I passed hour after hour at night alone in the college, tracing out the ramification of parts, until, suddenly struck by the intense stillness around, I found that it was nearly midnight, and the rest of the little town asleep.

I was equally amazed and shocked some years later, after dining with Mr. Walsh, the American Consul in Paris, to learn that he had remarked that he could not look at my long slender fingers without thinking of the anatomical work in which they had been engaged.

As the term drew to its end there was regret at parting from friends I had made, and also anxiety from the uncertainties that still attended my future course. These feelings are expressed in my journal:—

January 21.—I felt sad when the lectures actually closed. I received a curious friendly letter from one of the students, requesting the honour of an occasional correspondence. It cheered me, funny as it was. Another student told me he had a daguerreotype-room, and asked me to sit for my likeness to-morrow; but I told him it had annoyed me so much to see my name in the papers that I certainly could not give my face too.[3] He said he had thought of graduating in August, but now he was glad he had not, as I intended returning to Geneva—too funny!

January 24.—Went to Dr. Hadley for my certificate; and attended the examinations. I suppose they were as thorough as most; but they were certainly not much of a test. Most of the students answered very well, but some very badly.

Miss Waller gave me an oyster supper and we had a very pleasant time. Mrs. Wilson convulsed us by an account of how she was actually struck down by the sudden braying of a jackass, which she heard for the first time during a visit to the North, she never having heard the bray before.

January 25.—Attended Commencement (or ceremony of graduation), which after all was not so very formidable. When I went to wish Dr. Hadley good-bye I found the whole faculty assembled, and very merry at breaking up. They talked over my affairs, but gave me no important advice. To my great disappointment no letters of introduction were prepared for me, but only a promise given that they should be sent on at once. I was very sad at parting from the Wallers; but had a pleasant chat with the students whom I found in the railroad cars.

Passing through New York, where I dined with my kind preceptor, Dr. S. H. Dickson, and his wife, then living in the town, I returned to Philadelphia to try and arrange for summer study. Whilst seeking medical opportunities I again stayed in Dr. Elder’s family, and endeavoured to increase my slender finances by disposing of some stories I had written, and by obtaining music pupils.

Knowing very little of practical medicine, I finally decided to spend the summer, if possible, studying in the hospital wards of the great Blockley Almshouse of Philadelphia. This enormous institution promised a fine field of observation. I obtained a letter of introduction to Mr. Gilpin, one of the directors of the almshouse.

He received me most kindly, but informed me that the institution was so dominated by party feeling that if he, as a Whig, should bring forward my application for admission, it would be inevitably opposed by the other two parties—viz. the Democrats and the Native Americans. He said that my only chance of admission lay in securing the support of each of those parties, without referring in any way to the other rival parties. I accordingly undertook my sole act of ‘lobbying.’ I interviewed each political leader with favourable results, and then sent in my petition to the first Board meeting—when, lo! a unique scene took place; all were prepared to fight in my behalf, but there was no one to fight! I was unanimously admitted to reside in the hospital. This unanimity, I was afterwards assured, was quite without precedent in the records of the institution.

On entering the Blockley Almshouse, a large room on the third floor had been appropriated to my use. It was in the women’s syphilitic department, the most unruly part of the institution. It was thought that my residence there might act as a check on the very disorderly inmates. My presence was a mystery to these poor creatures. I used to hear stealthy steps approach and pause at my door, evidently curious to know what I was about. So I placed my table with the books and papers on which I was engaged directly in a line with the keyhole; and there I worked in view of any who chose to investigate the proceedings of the mysterious stranger. The following home letter gives a glimpse of the Blockley life:—

August.

Dear Mother,—Do not fear for me. I go on smoothly and healthily at Blockley; there is really nothing pestilential amongst the diseases, and I live simply, do my duty, trust in God, and mock at the devil! The matron is the only lady in the establishment (present company excepted), and I frequently step in to see her. She wears a nice white cap, has smooth grey hair, and soft dove’s eyes like yours, and I sometimes look at her and think of you till her loud voice breaks forth in fierce scolding, and then I think of Mrs. Beelzebub. She sits in an immense room, in the centre of the almshouse proper, and ensconced in her armchair, with feet propped on a velvet footstool, she dispenses orders from morning to night, gives out clothing, raves at the paupers, and dooms the refractory ones to a shower-bath. She is a Quaker—very pious, I believe—attends yearly meeting regularly, and has an Episcopal minister for her only son; she is one of the ‘strong-minded women,’ and manages matters to the entire satisfaction of the committee. I like to talk with her occasionally, for she is shrewd and has seen much of life through dark spectacles.

What a contrast she is to our head physician! When I first saw Dr. Benedict I thought him the very loveliest man the Almighty ever created, and I still preserve my opinion; the tears come into his eyes as he bends down to soothe some dying woman, and his voice is as gentle, his touch as kind to each patient as if she were his sister. Then he is as truthful, energetic, and spirited as he is kind, so, of course, we are very good friends, though we don’t see much of each other.

I often send a thought to Cincinnati as I roam through the wards and imagine our contrasted employments; all letters unite in calling you the best, the most cheerful, most indefatigable mother that ever did exist. ‘All her daughters praise her, and her sons call her blessed.’ How I wish you could pay me another visit this summer! Well, dear mother, Heaven bless you—write to me sometime.

Your loving physician, E.

At that time, and for many years after, the subject which those wards where I lived represented was an unknown problem to me. I was strangely ignorant of the extent and meaning of that phase of our human society which represents the selfish relations of men and women. This semi-blindness, however, proved a real safeguard to me through the many unusual experiences of my subsequent life. It was not until 1869, when attending the Social Science Congress in Bristol, that my mind at last fully comprehended the hideousness of modern fornication.

But my residence at Blockley prepared my mind to some extent for later revelations, as is shown by entries in my journal:—

June 22.—I had a long talk with Nurse Welch, on the patients in her departments, which impressed me deeply. Most of the women are unmarried, a large proportion having lived at service and been seduced by their masters, though, on the whole, about as many seducers are unmarried as married; I found no instance of a married woman living with her husband entering.

This morning one young woman tried to escape from Blockley by tying sheets together and fastening them outside the window bars, but they giving way, she fell down from the third storey, and was picked up suffering from concussion of the brain and other injuries. All this is horrible! Women must really open their eyes to it. I am convinced that they must regulate this matter. But how?

August 17.—Drank tea with the matron, and had a very pleasant time. She excites me, and I influence her. She actually apologised to me for her rough and tyrannical treatment of one of the women.

August 19.—A beautiful thought came to me this lovely morning. Emerson says, ‘Our faith comes to us in moments, our vice is habitual.’ I never till now could explain this to my satisfaction. It is that the atmosphere of our society, of our daily surroundings, is false; it attracts the demons, they encompass us continually, for we live in their home. The angels have to strive to come to us. But when by a holy inspiration, or an effort of man’s nobler nature, he rises to a purer sphere, then the angels throng lovingly round him: he breathes the Divine life. But the moment this effort is relaxed, he, not living in a heavenly atmosphere, naturally and inevitably sinks again into hell, because his present home is there—for he cannot separate himself from the race. Not till the race is redeemed will our habitual state be heavenly, and the true spontaneous Divine life be possible. This is the philosophy of effort. The solidarity of our race asserts the impossibility of present permanent Divine life. Bless God for our deep momentary experiences—our prophetic assurances! This sweet morning refreshes me inexpressibly. The wind that lifts my hair seems filled with angel hands that soothe the soul to peace; that little warbling bird fills me with holy joy; a glory seems to rest everywhere, a tide from the Divine Nature.

During my residence at Blockley, the medical head of the hospital, Dr. Benedict, was most kind, and gave me every facility in his power. I had free entry to all the women’s wards, and was soon on good terms with the nurses. But the young resident physicians, unlike their chief, were not friendly. When I walked into the wards they walked out. They ceased to write the diagnosis and treatment of patients on the card at the head of each bed, which had hitherto been the custom, thus throwing me entirely on my own resources for clinical study.

During the summer of 1848 the famine fever was raging in Ireland. Multitudes of emigrants were attacked with fever whilst crossing the ocean, and so many were brought to Blockley that it was difficult to provide accommodation for them, many being laid on beds on the floor. But this terrible epidemic furnished an impressive object-lesson, and I chose this form of typhus as the subject of my graduation thesis, studying in the midst of the poor dying sufferers who crowded the hospital wards. I read my thesis to Dr. Elder, and was greatly encouraged by his hearty approbation.

Trying as my painful residence at Blockley had been both to body and mind, I was conscious of the great gain in medical knowledge and worldly experience which it had afforded. The following journal entry expresses the mixed feelings with which that strange residence was left:—

September 22.—My last evening at Blockley. Here I sit writing by my first fire. How glad I am, to-morrow, to-morrow, I go home to my friends! And yet as I watched the beautiful sunset from my great windows, as little Mary Ann pays her willing attendance, and all seems so friendly; as I walked to Dr. Benedict’s with my thesis, and felt the entrancing day and the lovely country, I almost regretted that I was going to leave. Heaven guide me! May good spirits ever surround me!

At the end of the summer I gladly returned to the healthy and hopeful college life at Geneva. Passing through New York, where I saw Dr. Dickson and his family and heard Henry Ward Beecher preach, I reached my winter’s home on October 3, reported myself at college, met everywhere a kind welcome, and settled down for winter work. The clever demonstrator again afforded me his valuable aid in anatomy, and the friendliness of the class continued. Sometimes, whilst sitting by the Doctor during some delicate demonstration of the brain, the students who were crowding round, standing on chairs, leaning on one another’s shoulders, kept most respectfully from me, drawing back instantly when by accident they touched my head or shoulder.[4]

October 26.—The class held a meeting to-day to request a holiday on election day; and a political division was called for by the assembled students. I went over to the ‘Free Soil’ side, and was received with repeated cheering. I asked Dr. Le Ford, reproachfully, if he was going to vote for the slave-holder, Taylor; whereupon he gave me his reasons for political action, and grew quite eloquent in his self-defence.

November 12.—Howy made his appearance to-day, just as I settled down to perpetrate an essay for the family Christmas Annual. How good it is to see a brother! He looked very well, and we had a merry time together. I stayed away from afternoon lectures to be with him. He is a capital companion and greatly improved. I did more laughing than I’ve done for months. His visit did me real good, for I have been so lonely. Heaven bless the dear boy in his future!

Sunday, 19th.—Alone all day in my room, yet anything but lonely. Bright visions of usefulness have been floating round me. I consecrated myself anew to the accomplishment of a great idea. I tried to lecture for an hour to an imaginary audience; striving to prepare for work by seeking expression for my thoughts.

I would I were not so exclusively a doer; speech seems essential to the reformer, but mine is at present a very stammering, childish utterance.

26th.—Went to church. Mr. Hogarth said some true things. He drew our thoughts to the reformers of old, with their sublime trust in the Most High. With a strange feeling of pleasure I claimed kindred with Asa, King of Judah, who broke the idols of the people and overcame the hosts of the Ethiopians.

November 30.—Our evening lecture broke up in a political Hurrah! for a Whig orator and John Van Buren were both speaking in the town, and the students rushed to attend the political meetings. I again discussed the subject with Dr. Le Ford; he justifying himself enthusiastically for being a Whig. He talked well, but I grew tired of those old expediences.

By this time the genuine character of my medical studies was fully established.

Had I been at leisure to seek social acquaintance, I might have been cordially welcomed. But my time was anxiously and engrossingly occupied with studies and the approaching examinations. I lived in my room and my college, and the outside world made little impression on me.

Extracts from the Journal.

December 22.—The deepest snow I have seen for years. It was as much as I could do to walk to college; but all was pleasant, the class seem so very friendly. One set me a chair, another spoke so pleasantly, and I had several little friendly chats. How little they know my sensitiveness to these trifling tokens! The unusual weather, an alarm of fire, Dr. Webster’s arrival, were so many points for sociability.

December 31.—The New Year’s Eve. Alone, as usual, I spent the day; at night, as I watched the last moments of the year slowly depart, a deep solemnity came over me—a hopeless sorrow for poor humanity. I seemed to hear the heavy resounding bell of time, tolling mournfully the dying year, whilst angels with covered faces, and forms that bent with sorrow, waited to receive the finishing scroll of the world’s existence, that the fearful record guarded in darkness and silence might at last be unrolled in the terrible light of eternity!

January 1.—Stayed quietly in my room, whilst the merry sleigh-bells and gay voices rang without.

11th.—I called to see the pretty blind girl operated on this morning; she was all alone in the hotel, her friends far away. Poor child! she has no protector, within or without; she asked me who the student was that brought her home, when college would be out, &c.; her simple heart and idle fancy are soon caught. Such are the women I long to surround with my stronger arm. Alas! how almost hopeless does the task seem! But God is omnipotent.

January 19.—Dear M.,—I sit down to try and quiet myself by writing to you for this morning. I, as first on the list of candidates, passed through the usual examinations, presented my certificates, received the testimony of satisfaction from the faculty, whose recommendation will procure me the diploma next Tuesday. Now, though the examinations were not very formidable, still the anxiety and effort were as great as if everything were at stake, and when I came from the room and joined the other candidates who were anxiously awaiting their turn, my face burned, my whole being was excited, but a great load was lifted from my mind. The students received me with applause—they all seem to like me, and I believe I shall receive my degree with their united approval; a generous and chivalric feeling having conquered any little feelings of jealousy. I often feel when I am with them how beautiful the relations of man and woman might be under a truer development of character, in nobler circumstances. I do not know the moral character of any one of our students, for I have no genius for hunting up the darker parts of a person’s soul; but I know that Geneva is a very immoral place, the lower classes of women being often worthless, the higher ones fastidious and exclusive, so that there is no healthy blending of the sexes. But notwithstanding the bad associations in which they may have been brought up, I have never had any difficulty in giving the right tone to our intercourse. I am more convinced than ever that Fourier is right in placing this matter in the hands of women, and my hope rises when I find that the inner heart of the human being may still remain pure, notwithstanding some corruption of the outer coverings. I don’t know if I’ve ever told you how deep this matter of licentiousness has gradually sunk into my soul, and that the determination to wage a war of extermination with it strengthens continually, and the hope of gaining power and experience to do it worthily is one of my strongest supports in action. So help me God, I will not be blind, indifferent, or stupid in relation to this matter, as are most women. I feel specially called to act in this reform when I have gained wisdom for the task; the world can never be redeemed till this central relation of life is placed on a truer footing.

But I meant to talk to you about the cholera. Our physicians confessedly cannot cure it. The Professor who lectured upon it yesterday commenced: ‘Gentlemen, I wish I could tell you how to cure the cholera, but under all modes of treatment the mortality seems to be the same; however, I will tell you something of the disease, and what I would do if called to a case.’

The cordial relations with Professor and students continued. Throughout the examination time the most friendly interest was felt in my success by my fellow-students. One of my brothers came on to Geneva to attend my graduation. Being personally a stranger to the students, he was much amused by the free indications of friendly comradeship which he overheard. The ceremony of conferring the full and equal diploma of Doctor of Medicine upon a woman excited much interest in the neighbourhood. It was held in the large Presbyterian Church, which, with its ample galleries, was crowded in every part with spectators. The other students walked in procession from the college to the church, but I went up with my brother and took my seat in the side aisle.

Extracts from the Journal of 1849.

January 22.—Our examinations came off successfully. Hurrah,’tis almost over!

Tuesday, January 23, 1849.—The day, the grand day, is nearly finished; and now whilst visitors are dropping in I must record my first entrance into public life—’twas bright and beautiful and very gratifying. Great curiosity was felt. As I entered and sat in the church I gave one thought to friends, and then thought only of the Holy One. After the degree had been conferred on the others, I was called up alone to the platform. The President, in full academical costume, rose as I came on the stage, and, going through the usual formula of a short Latin address, presented me my diploma. I said: ‘Sir, I thank you; it shall be the effort of my life, with the help of the Most High, to shed honour on my diploma.’ The audience applauded, but their presence was little to me. I was filled with a sense of the grandeur of a holy life, with high resolves for the future. As I came down, George Field opened the door of the front row, and I was much touched by the graduates making room for me, and insisting that I should sit with them for the remainder of the exercises. Most gladly I obeyed the friendly invitation, feeling more thoroughly at home in the midst of these true-hearted young men than anywhere else in the town. I heard little of what was said; my whole soul was absorbed in heavenly communion. I felt the angels around me. Dr. Lee gave the valedictory address; he surprised me by the strong and beautiful way in which he alluded to the event. I felt encouraged, strengthened to be greatly good. As I stood at the door the faculty all most kindly wished me good-bye, and Dr. Hale and Bishop De Lancy shook hands and congratulated me. All the ladies collected in the entry, and let me pass between their ranks; and several spoke to me most kindly.

For the next few hours, before I left by train, my room was thronged by visitors. I was glad of the sudden conversion thus shown, but my past experience had given me a useful and permanent lesson at the outset of life as to the very shallow nature of popularity.

The following letter, written by a younger brother who came to be with me on this important occasion, gives some interesting as well as amusing details of the event:—

Geneva: January 23, 1849.

Beloved Relations.—The important crisis is past, the great occasion over, the object of so much and so justifiable anticipation has been attained, and proud as I always feel of the Blackwells, my familism never seemed to me so reasonable and so perfectly a matter of course as it did this morning, when, having escorted E. into the crowded church and taken my seat beside her, we learned from the music that the graduating class, headed by the dean, trustees, faculty, &c., were marching in solemn conclave into the aisle. I found E. well and in good spirits, as you may suppose. Monday morning E. and I went to the college, where she underwent a second examination, as did also the other members of the graduating class, from the curators of the university, no others but themselves, the class, and the faculty being admitted. From this, as from the former one, our Sis came off with flying colours and the reputation of being altogether the leader of the class. In the afternoon they were successively called upon to read from their theses, and to this I was admitted; but Elizabeth’s being in Buffalo to be printed, she could not be called upon. The Professor and students all seem to feel most kindly and warmly friendly. While I sat by the stove on Monday morning at the college whilst the graduating class were undergoing their examination below, the other students, scarcely any of them being acquainted with my personality, conversed freely about matters and things, and of course about Elizabeth. ‘Well, boys,’ one would say, ‘our Elib. feels first-rate this morning. Do you notice how pleased she looks?’ ‘Yes, indeed,’ replied another, ‘and I think she well may after the examination she passed yesterday.’ ‘So Lizzie will get her diploma after all,’ said a third. ‘If any member of the class gets one, she is sure of it,’ said a fourth. Then all agreed that ‘our Elib.’ was ‘a great girl,’ and in short I found that she was a universal favourite with both professors and students. Nothing could be more cordial than the former are, and several are very gentlemanly and intelligent men indeed, and I formed some pleasant acquaintances among them.

On the morning of the Commencement little Dr. Webster was in his glory; he is a warm supporter of Elizabeth and likes a fuss, and nothing could exceed his delight when he found that the whole country round was sending in large numbers of people, and that all the ladies of Geneva were turning out en masse to see a lady receive a medical diploma. At ten o’clock a.m. the students met at the college and marched in procession with music to the Literary College, where they were headed by the Bishop of New York, Dr. Hale, the dean, and the curators, the faculty, &c. Dr. Webster was very anxious that E. should march in procession, and sent down two messages to that effect; but E. very properly refused. About half-past ten o’clock Elizabeth and I walked up to the church—she was very nicely dressed in her black brocaded silk gown, invisibly green gloves, black silk stockings, &c. As we ascended the college steps, Dr. Webster met Eliz. and again urged the request, whereupon she told him peremptorily that ‘it wouldn’t be ladylike.’ ‘Wouldn’t it indeed? Why, no, I forgot—I suppose it wouldn’t,’ said the little Doctor, evidently struck for the first time with the idea. So it was arranged that Eliz. and I should sit down at the entrance of the left aisle and join the procession as it came up, and we then walked in and sat down. We found the church, galleries and all, crowded with ladies, they only having been as yet admitted; and of course when we came in there was a general stir and murmur, and everybody turned to look at us. By the time the procession came up, all the pews, except those reserved for students, were filled, and the gentlemen had to pour in afterwards and take the aisles, &c. When the procession entered, Mr. Field, a very pleasant, gentlemanly fellow-graduate, offered his arm, and all the class took their seats together in front of the stage. After a short discourse by Dr. Hale, the President, the diplomas were conferred—four being called up at a time—and, ascending the steps to the platform, the President, addressed them in a Latin formula, taking off his hat, but remaining seated, and so handed them their diplomas, which they received with a bow and retired. Elizabeth was left to the last and called up alone. The President taking off his hat, rose, and addressing her in the same formula, substituting Domina for Domine, presented her the diploma, whereupon our Sis, who had walked up and stood before him with much dignity, bowed and half turned to retire, but suddenly turning back replied: ‘Sir, I thank you; by the help of the Most High it shall be the effort of my life to shed honour upon your diploma;’ whereupon she bowed and the President bowed, the audience gave manifestations of applause, little Dr. Webster rubbed his hands, the learned curators and faculty nodded grave approbation at each other upon the platform, and our Sis, descending the steps, took her seat with her fellow-physicians in front. Now walks up into the pulpit Professor Lee, with a large manuscript and a solemn air, and commences his address to the graduates. It was on the whole good; he gave it pretty strong to Homœopathists, Hydropathists, Mesmerists, Thompsonians, &c., and gave the ladies of the audience quite a lecture for their encouragement and circulation of quack medicines, informing them that they had better study a little the principles of medicine before attempting to practise what they were so profoundly ignorant about. At the close he alluded to the novel proceeding which they had taken, and the censure or imitation which it would necessarily create. He justified the proceeding, and passed a most gratifying and enthusiastic encomium on the result of the experiment in the case of Eliz. He pronounced her the leader of her class; stated that she had passed through a thorough course in every department, slighting none; that she had profited to the very utmost by all the advantages of the institution, and by her ladylike and dignified deportment had proved that the strongest intellect and nerve and the most untiring perseverance were compatible with the softest attributes of feminine delicacy and grace, &c., to all which the students manifest by decided attempts at applause their entire concurrence. As the audience passed out the Bishop came up with Dr. Hale, requested an introduction, and spoke very pleasantly, congratulating her on her course, to the great astonishment of the conservatives. As we walked out of the church we found that almost all the ladies had stopped outside, and as we appeared, opened their ranks and let us pass, regarding E. with very friendly countenances. Most of E.’s time was taken up till our departure next day at half-past one o’clock in receiving calls from her few friends.

The admission of a woman for the first time to a complete medical education and full equality in the privileges and the responsibilities of the profession produced a widespread effect in America. The public press very generally recorded the event, and expressed a favourable opinion of it.

Even in Europe some notice of it was taken, and ‘Punch’ showed his cordial appreciation by his amusing but friendly verses.[5]

I knew, however, that a first step only had been taken. Although popular sanction had been gained for the innovation, and a full recognised status secured, yet much more medical experience than I possessed was needed before the serious responsibilities of practice could be justly met. Returning, therefore, to Philadelphia, I endeavoured still to continue my studies. I was politely received by the heads of the profession in Philadelphia as a professional sister, and made the following notes in a journal of that date:—

March 6.—A morning of great gratification; welcomed cordially to the university, and afterwards heard Doctors Jackson, Hodges, Gibson, Chapman, and Horner lecture. Drs. Lee and Ford were with me, the former quite in spirits at my reception.

March 10.—Heard Dr. Williamson lecture and received his ticket. Visited the Pennsylvania Hospital, Dr. Levich showing me over it; admired the gallery with its alcoves and the excellent ventilation. I heard Professor Agassiz last night. He has just commenced a course of lectures on the animal world; his manner was simple and earnest, and the principle he laid down will render his course of lectures very interesting if he develop them fully. I am also rubbing up my French, which may be very important to me.

The following letter is characteristic of that period of life:—

February 25.

My dear Mother.—You sent me a dear, good, welcome letter, and I kiss you heartily for all its affection and sympathy in my eccentric course. I did not miss out, either, any of the pious parts, but I do think, mother mine, that it is a little hard that you will not believe me when I tell you so seriously that my soul is doing first-rate. You urge upon me the importance of religion—why, bless the dear mother, what am I doing else but living religion all the time? Isn’t it my meat and my drink to do the good will of God; didn’t I use to sit in the lecture-room and send up a whole cannonade of little prayers; and didn’t a whole flood of answers come straight down from the throne of grace? And what am I doing now? Do you think I care about medicine? Nay, verily, it’s just to kill the devil, whom I hate so heartily—that’s the fact, mother; and if that isn’t forming Christ in one, the hope of Glory, why, I don’t know what is. So pray comfort yourself, and have faith that such a ‘child of many prayers’ will be fixed up all straight at last.... I live in a good society, the fellowship of hard-workers, for however little the result of my actions may be, I have the strengthening conviction that my aim is right, and that I, too, am working after my little fashion for the redemption of mankind. I agree with you fully in distrusting the ‘Harbinger,’ and should certainly banish it from my centre table if I had risen to the dignity of possessing one. I dislike their discussions, and their way of discussing some subjects. I think them calculated to do a great deal of mischief, and am only consoled by the reflection that few people read them. I go in whole-souledly for the Divine marriage institution, and shall always support it by precept, and as soon as I get the chance by example too, and all those who would upset it I consider fools and infidels. I think Associationists too often a very poor set of people, and if they would commence by reforming themselves, and let the Almighty take care of the world, I think they would be much better employed. As to the infidel French philosophy you talk of, it is just twaddle, which I should instantly reject if anybody were to stuff it into me. I am now longing to be at work abroad, where I might spend my time much more profitably—but I do want greatly to see you all again. How long it is since I was at home!—more than five years, I think. I cannot consent to become a stranger to the Geschwistern, and W. and E. & E. seem almost unknown. Good-bye, dear mother. I shall see you soon, and then you will be able to read me sermons to your heart’s content.—Your M. D.