Oh, dear! it is so hot I can hardly write. I was called this morning to Flushing to see a sick child, and then attended my dispensary, the thermometer varying from 86 to 90 in the house, and it stood at 102 in some rooms down town. Walk as deliberately as I would, it made my brain seem too large for my head. Flushing reminded me of the Sahara; it lay breathless under a cloudless sky, leaden with haze.
In relation to mischievous gossip it is written:—
These malicious stories are painful to me, for I am woman as well as physician, and both natures are wounded by these falsehoods. Ah, I am glad I, and not another, have to bear this pioneer work. I understand now why this life has never been lived before. It is hard, with no support but a high purpose, to live against every species of social opposition.... I should like a little fun now and then. Life is altogether too sober.
The utter loneliness of life became intolerable, and in October of 1854 I took a little orphan girl from the great emigrant depôt of Randall’s Island to live with me. This congenial child I finally adopted. The wisdom of such adoption is abundantly shown by an entry in my journal, two years later, written on my birthday:—
On this bright Sunday morning I feel full of hope and strength for the future. Kitty plays beside me with her doll. She has just given me a candy basket, purchased with a penny she had earned, full of delight in ‘Doctor’s birthday’! Who will ever guess the restorative support which that poor little orphan has been to me? When I took her to live with me she was about seven and a half years old. I desperately needed the change of thought she compelled me to give her. It was a dark time, and she did me good—her genial, loyal, Irish temperament suited me. Now I look forward with much hope to the coming events of this year.
An amusing circumstance relating to this child is worth recording. She had always been accustomed to call me ‘Doctor.’ On one occasion she was present during the visit of a friendly physician. After he was gone, she came to me with a very puzzled face, exclaiming, ‘Doctor, how very odd it is to hear a man called Doctor!’
In December of 1855 I gave a first drawing-room ‘Address on the Medical Education of Women.’
In this address (which was afterwards printed) it was shown that the movement was only a revival of work in which women had always been engaged; but that it was a revival in an advanced form, suited to the age and to the enlarging capabilities of women.
The clear perception of the providential call to women to take their full share in human progress has always led us to insist upon a full and identical medical education for our students. From the beginning in America, and later on in England, we have always refused to be tempted by the specious offers urged upon us to be satisfied with partial or specialised instruction. On the occasion of this address an appeal was made for assistance in collecting funds for the growth of the dispensary and the gradual formation of a hospital, as indispensable for the accomplishment of the work. A committee of three ladies was appointed at this drawing-room meeting, for the purpose of beginning the difficult work of collecting a permanent fund.
In 1854, my sister, Dr. Emily Blackwell, who had graduated with honour at the Medical College of Cleveland, Ohio, was pursuing her studies in Europe.