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.