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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.