of the children of wet-nurses not above one in twenty survives the age when weaning would be natural.
Thus the time had arrived for the appearance and action of such a woman as Dr. Elizabeth Blackwell—the first woman who ever practised under a medical diploma. She is the representative of a class now fairly established in the New World, and sure to extend over the most civilised portion of the Old.
She is our countrywoman, though our associations with her are American. Her father, Mr. Samuel Blackwell, was a sugar-refiner at Bristol, where one of the intimates of the family was Foster the essayist, whose essay on “Decision of Character” made a strong and deep impression on Elizabeth’s mind. The nine children were brought up healthily by a healthy and sensible mother, while their father was a man of great energy and benevolence. The girls had a home education, under a governess and masters; and while their intellects were duly attended to, they had a physical training of rare vigour. Long walks were not enough: there was also romping and play with their brothers, which made Elizabeth, for one, so strong that, being provoked to the trial, she, when almost a child, lifted and carried repeatedly round the room, in the presence of his wife, a saucy family friend who had insisted that nothing could give muscular strength to women. At this time she was small and fair, with delicate hands and a soft voice, and so quiet and reserved that her father nicknamed her “Little Shy.” Thus was she early qualified to give an opinion on the physical education of girls.
When she, the third of the nine children, was twelve years old, the family migrated to the United States; and when she was seventeen, her father and two aunts were dead of the climate of Ohio, and the family were left without other resource than their ability and industry. She and her elder sisters opened a school, and educated the younger ones. They experimentally felt the hardship that it was for educated women to have no other occupation at command than teaching. They talked it over, much and long; but there was nothing else to be done while others were dependent on them for bread and education.
At four-and-twenty Elizabeth found herself free to follow her own course—the younger members of the family being able to take care of themselves. In order to save money enough for a thorough professional education she continued to teach, her learning and accomplishments procuring her a high salary. She learned Latin privately, saved her money, and in three years made the bold attempt which the world will never forget. At Philadelphia her applications for admission to the medical schools were rejected with anger and insult; but she found instructors who privately prepared her to enter upon the fullest use of any opportunity which she might be able to seize of going through the regular professional course. In the midst of some shame and regret for the sort of treatment she met with, then and for several years after, from our sex, we find it a relief to know that there were men at that early time, when there were no precedents to act upon, who were willing to give instruction simply because it was desired, and would be paid for in the usual way. The first professional men who acted without “respect of persons” deserve very great credit. Professor Allen and Dr. Warrington, of Philadelphia, carried her through private courses of instruction in anatomy and midwifery, and Dr. Dickson, of New York, had before furthered her plans to the utmost of his power. At a later time she had conquered the profession; but the names of her earliest sympathisers should be gratefully remembered by others than herself.
In his last work, “Transformation,” Mr. Hawthorne gives us a glimpse of American life in the paragraph in which he speaks of “our New England villages, where we need the permission of each individual neighbour for every act that we do, every word that we utter, and every friend that we make or keep.” In a state of society like that, it requires no little moral independence in a professional man to countenance the enterprise of the first woman who seeks a diploma to enable her to practise medicine: and we may derive encouragement for older countries, where more social freedom exists, from the fact that three eminent physicians gave her their best assistance before they could have any idea whether she would conspicuously succeed or ridiculously fail.
Her next step was to make a list of all the medical colleges existing in the United States; and she applied to them in succession. Twelve of them rejected her application, supported as it was by certificates of her preparedness. Sermons, insults, rebukes, lectures on her views and proceedings accompanied the refusals to admit her. The college which did itself the honour of treating her properly was that of Geneva University, in the State of New York. The Faculty, having no objection on their own part, but thinking the matter concerned the students more than themselves (a view which of itself was an evidence of sense and liberality), consulted with the students. The students considered the question, and drew up an invitation to their proposed comrade, assuring her that she should never have cause to regret joining them in their studies. It was there that she acquired the unmoved manner and the command of countenance which are the attributes first commented on by strangers who meet her in society. It was an object of extreme importance to avoid blushing at lessons which she was sharing with five hundred young men: and she starved herself down to the requisite bloodlessness. She meant that there should be schools of medicine by-and-bye in which women could study more comfortably and properly; but this point could be gained only by somebody undergoing what she was now suffering under: and she went through with it with a calm and cold exterior. She passed to and from her seat in the lecture rooms as if she were alone in the place, and never recognised the existence of any person but the lecturer. Her eyes went straight from him to her note-book, and from her note-book to him, and saw nothing besides. Her sister, from whose Memoir of Elizabeth[1] these anecdotes are derived, tells us- ↑ Englishwoman’s Journal, April, 1858.
