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.