# The Homes of the New World/Letter XL.

LETTER XL.
Philadelphia, July 14th.
Since I last wrote, I have made some small excursions and had some small adventures.
I parted from my heartily kind entertainers at Richmond last Monday, and sailed down the St. James River to Baltimore in Maryland. The day was without a breath of air, and oppressively hot; and it became still more oppressive to me from a certain dogmatic rector, who took upon himself to be my spiritual cicerone, and as he instructed me in this, that, and the other, he stretched forth and made vehement demonstrations with his arms, as if he were preparing for a boxing match or for some important operation, which threw me into such a fever of anxiety as destroyed the effect, and the recollection of his teachings. A young, polite, and warm-hearted student of Charlotte's Ville was my refreshment. He had the prejudices of the Slave States in his head, but his heart was good and unspoiled, and I doubt not but that I shall find myself very well off at his father's ​plantation on the beautiful river. How amiable and refreshing is youth when it will be so.
The banks of the river were romantically beautiful and exuberantly green; no wonder that the first white discoverers were so enchanted that they described the country as an earthly paradise.
The ruins of the first church in Jamestown were still standing, at least one wall, and shone out red brick from a bright green wood by the river.
At night on the sea it was also stiflingly hot. A good, kind negro-woman was my attendant, and we talked of various things. She had been a slave in Baltimore, and her master's family had assisted her to obtain her freedom. I asked her if she was as well off now she was free, as when she was a slave in a good family.
“Better, ma'am, better,” was her energetic reply; and added, “I do not believe that God intended any human being to be slave of another.”
The woman was remarkably happy and contented with her present life.
There were very few passengers in the saloon. A couple of handsome, elderly ladies sat and conversed together, in an undertone, about life and its incidents. They spoke of the fate of friends and acquaintances; they spoke of the death-bed of a godless man, who had departed this life without one backward glance of regret for the past, without one glance of hope for the future; they made reflections on all this: their countenances were mild and serious.
Two young girls, from twelve to fifteen years of age, meantime rushed in and out of the room, like wild young colts or calves for the first time turned out into the pastures. I took care to keep out of their way. The elderly ladies looked at them.
“Wild young girls!” said one of them, mildly disapproving.
​“Let them enjoy their freedom,” said the other, yet more mildly, and with half a sigh; “it is now their time—life will tame them soon enough!”
But would it not, after all, be better if young girls were educated to meet the hand of the tamer with another spirit than the colt meets the bridle? The combat would then be less severe and more noble than after this freedom of the young colt.
The following morning I found myself at Baltimore, and set off thence immediately by railway to Harper's Ferry. I had heard so much of the beautiful scenery of this part of Virginia, that I determined to go there to enjoy the effect of “the most sublime scenery of Virginia,” as it was called.
The railway-train flew onward, making innumerable windings and turnings along the wooded and romantic banks of a little river, with such abruptness and irregularity, as to remind me of a terrified cow, and to make me fear every moment lest it should be swung into the river. But we arrived, without let or hindrance, at the little hamlet at Harper's Ferry.
Here I remained for three days alone and unknown, enjoying greatly my solitary rambles over the hills, and in that romantic region. It reminded me of certain hilly districts of Dalecarlia, and still more of Münden Valley in Germany, where the rivers Fulda and Verra meet, because the rock formation and the vegetation are similar in these two cases. Here it is that the lively, sportive Schenandoah and the grave Potomac meet and unite to form the great Potomac river. Schenandoah is a gay and good young maiden, dancing carelessly along between verdant banks—laughing, leaping in the innocent enjoyment of life. Potomac is a gentleman of much older years, who advances onward solemnly and silently from the forests of the west, with slow movement and shallow water. He meets the gay Schenandoah, and draws ​silently to himself. She falls thoughtlessly into his bosom, and is swallowed up there. The rushing, dancing Schenandoah, is no longer heard of, no longer seen; it is all over with her gay temper; it is all over with herself; she has become Mrs. Potomac. Mr. Potomac, however, extends himself with increasing, swelling waters, and equally calmly, but more majestically, continues his course to Washington, and thence to the sea. Poor little Schenandoah! I am fond of her, and feel sympathy for her; and though I gladly saw from the heights the Potomac advancing onward in calm, profound sweeps, through the western highlands, I yet preferred going down into the valley south of the mountain, where the Schenandoah, still a maiden, dances onward among the rocks which crowned her bacchante head with the most beautiful garlands and crowns of foliage, or beneath lofty trees, in which flocks of little yellow birds, like canary birds, flew and twittered gaily. The country was here infinitely pretty and romantic, and the waters of the Schenandoah although shallow, are as clear as crystal.
Lower down the river on this same side is a gun manufactory, which just at this moment is in a state of great activity. The houses of the work-people lie on the hillside, small houses, well-built, all alike, and from which the views were very beautiful.
“We are all equal here,” said a young woman to me, in one of these dwellings, into which I had gone to rest; “our circumstances are all alike.”
They were very good; and yet she did not look happy. We sate in a parlour where everything was comfortable, and even elegant. The young woman had a little boy in her arms, and yet she was not happy; that was evident. Something in her mild, sorrowful expression, told me that she was not happily married.
In another house I made the acquaintance of an older woman, whose countenance bore the impress of the ​deepest sorrow. She had lost her husband, and he had been the joy of her life. She spoke of him with words which made me mingle my tears with hers.
In the beautiful evenings the doors of the houses for the most part stood open, and women stood before them with their children, or sate outside and sewed. I made acquaintance first with the children, and then with the mothers.
All were similar in the lot of outward fortune, and yet with that eternal dissimilarity of the inner fortune of life! Thus will it always be. But yet this dissimilarity is borne more easily than that which is caused by the prejudices of caste. It causes less murmuring and less bitterness.
There was one evening a wedding down in the hamlet, and the wedding-guests were seen in their gay wedding attire wandering down the footpaths on the hill side from the dwellings on the hill to the shore. They were dressed simply but tastefully, very much in the same style as the people dress themselves for company in the cities, but in less costly materials.
One evening when somewhat late I was returning home over the hills, I saw, sitting on a stile which I had to pass, a man in a blue artisan blouse, with his brow resting on his hand, in which he held a pocket-handkerchief. As I came nearer he removed his hand and looked at me, and I saw an Irish nose in a good lively countenance, which seemed to be that of a man about thirty years of age.
“It's very warm!” said he, speaking English.
“Yes,” said I, passing, “and you have worked hard, have you not?”
“Yes, my hands are quite spoiled!” and with that he exhibited a pair of coarse black hands.
I asked a little about his circumstances. He was an Irishman, named Jim, and had come hither to seek for ​work, which he had found at the manufactory, and by which he could earn twenty dollars a month. But still he said he loved the old country best, and he meant to return to it as soon as he could get together a thousand dollars.
I inquired if he were married.
No! he had thought it best to remain unmarried.
And then he inquired if I were married.
I replied, no; and added that, like him, I thought it best to remain unmarried, after which I bade him a friendly good-bye.
But he rose up and following me, said,—
“And you are wandering about here so alone, Miss! Don't you think it is wearisome to go wandering about by yourself?”
“No, Jim,” said I, “I like to go by myself.”
“Oh, but you would feel yourself so much better off,” said he; “you would find yourself so much happier if you had a young man to go about with you, and take care of you!”
“But I find myself very well off as I am, Jim,” said I.
“Oh, but you'd find yourself much, much better off, if you had a young man. I assure you, a young man who was fond of you, and would go with you everywhere. It makes the greatest difference in the world to a lady, I do assure you!”
“But Jim, I am an old lady now, and a young man would not trouble himself about me.”
“You are not too old to be married, Miss,” said he; “and then you are good-looking, Miss; you are very good-looking, Ma'am! and a nice young man would be very glad to have you, to go about everywhere with you.”
“But, Jim, perhaps he would not like to go where I should like to go, and then how should we get on together?”
​“Oh, yes, he would like, Ma'am, I assure you he would like it! And perhaps you have a thousand dollars on which you would maintain him, Ma'am.”
“But, Jim, I should not like to have a husband who would merely have me for the sake of my dollars.”
“You're right there, Miss, very right. But you would be so very much happier with a nice young man who would take care of you, &c.”
“Look here, Jim,” said I, finally, “up there, above the clouds, is a great big Gentleman who takes care of me, and if I have him, there is no need of any one else.”
The thought struck my warm-hearted Irishman, who exclaimed:—
“There you are right, Miss! Yes, He is the husband after all! And if you have Him you need not be afraid of anything!”
“Nor am I afraid, Jim. But now,” said I, “go-a-head, for the path is too narrow for two.”
And we separated. What now do you think of your proposed brother-in-law?
The third day of my stay people began to have some knowledge of who was the solitary wanderer in the neighbourhood, and kind visitors came with invitations, which I regretted not being able to receive and accept, in consequence of an attack of toothache. The heat, too, was again oppressive, and affected both soul and body.
From Harper's Ferry I proceeded to Philadelphia. The day was beautiful, but the journey was fatiguing, from the many changes which were requisite from steamboat to railway and back again, and because I, being alone, without a gentleman friend, had to carry my own luggage, being unwilling to trouble any stranger. In my case, however, it mattered little, as I was strong and well; but I was really distressed for a lady, solitary like myself, but an invalid and suffering, who did not seem able to carry ​her carpet-bag herself. And when I saw tall, strong men, without anything in their hands, passing by this lady, evidently a gentlewoman, who was so in need of help, without troubling themselves about her, I confess to my being somewhat surprised. Where was now that vaunted American politeness! I would have been very glad to have helped her myself, but that I had enough to do with my own effects, and there was so little time, because these changes were made very rapidly.
I dislike that woman should demand from men politeness and service, and I believe that women who have esteem for themselves are the very last who would make claims of this kind; but yet it ought not to be forgotten that women within the house serve the men, and that they generally do so willingly and in the entire spirit of affection, and very few indeed are the men who do not, some time or other, experience the charm of this service, and still fewer are they who have not to thank the care and kindness of women for the care of their childhood and youth. It ought not then to be too much for them, on the highways of life, to extend to them in passing by a helping hand, especially when this can be done at the expense of very little time and no self-sacrifice. And in a general way there is no need to preach to American men about politeness. That which I saw on this and two other occasions in the United States, were so very much opposed to the general politeness, and even kindness, that it merely proves the truth of the old proverb, “there is no rule without an exception.”
And now that I am speaking about railway travelling, I may mention that there is still a great want in America, where, however, so much is done for the convenience of the traveller, in there not being, as there are in England and other European countries, officials at the railway stations whose sole duty is to render any assistance to travellers which they may need. And in America, where ​ladies travel so much alone, it is more requisite than elsewhere, and would be to them the greatest comfort. For what woman of delicacy would ask for aid which it would be considered trouble to give her?
I spent the latter part of that beautiful day very pleasantly, in quiet companionship with my new and only acquaintance on the journey, the already-mentioned and agreeable lady; watched the sun set and the moon ascend in splendour!
In the evening I was at Philadelphia, excellently lodged in the handsome and comfortable dwelling of the kind Quaker couple, Mr. and Mrs. E. T.
The angelic young girl, Mary T. (the sister of Mrs. T.), whom I had seen this time last year lying in white garments on her bed, had now lain for two days in the earth beneath green trees. Her death was bright, as was her state in life, and she lies in her grave with her face turned to the rising sun. She who wrote of the insect's metamorphosis, and loved to converse of the moment when they freed their wings from their confinement, she is now free and enfranchised as they.
I visited with her brother last evening, her final resting-place on earth, a beautiful, peaceful spot.
July 15th.—Ah, my child, how delighted I am with the drawing-academy for young girls which I visited yesterday. It is an excellent institution, and will effect an infinite deal of good. Here genius and the impulse for cultivation in young women may receive nourishment and development, and patient industry and the power of labour have occupation and pecuniary profit in the most agreeable way. Young girls can receive instruction at this academy (the poor free of cost, the more wealthy on the payment of a small sum) in drawing, painting, composition; in the making of designs for woven fabrics, carpets, or paper-hangings; in wood engraving, lithography, &c.; and the establishment has already been so successful, and so great ​is the progress made by the pupils—so numerous are the orders for designs, wood engraving, &c.—and so well paid is all—that the young girls are able already to make considerable earnings, and there is every prospect that the establishment will, within very few years, be able fully to support itself.
It is the same school which I saw last year in its infancy, with the warm-hearted Mrs. P., the wife of the British consul here, when it entirely depended on her support. Since then it has rapidly developed itself, has become incorporated with the excellent Franklin Institute here, and receives an annual stipend from its funds, and now grows from its own strength. Several of the young pupils gain already from ten to fifteen dollars per week. The publisher of “Sartain's Magazine” told me, that the demand for such work in the United States, for newspapers, magazines, manufactures, &c., was so great, that all the women of the country, who had time to devote themselves to such occupation, might have full employment. And never have I seen, in any school whatever, so many cheerful, animated countenances. One of the most cheerful was that of a young girl who had hitherto maintained herself by dressmaking, but who was found to possess so fine a talent for drawing, that she might now calculate with certainty on making by this means a respectable maintenance for her whole life.
The cheerful, agreeable superintendent, Mrs. Hill, told me that the young girls were so amused and interested by their work, that they sometimes remained in the school the whole day, instead of five hours, which constituted the proper school-time. I am enchanted with this institution, which reveals a bright future for so many young girls, otherwise unprovided for, and develops the feeling of beauty in their minds, whilst it opens a path for them in manifold ways. I am very much pleased with this academy, also, because its design is applicable to Sweden, ​and may there open a prospect for many a one in the improvement of both soul and body. I have brought away with me many proofs and specimens, which have been kindly given to me, as well as all information which I could obtain.
Ah! let us, if possible, establish almshouses and asylums for the old, the infirm, and the sick; but for the young let us give work, free scope for emulation; let us unfold paths for their development, and noble objects for their lives. This is the only really good assistance which can be given to girls otherwise unprovided for; because it necessarily implies elevation, and secures happiness by self-acquired worth. More of this when we meet. I feel as if the time of our meeting were now so near, that it was hardly worth while to write long letters.
17th.—The same excellent and agreeable gentleman (Dr. E.) who took me to the drawing academy, accompanied me to-day to the medical college for ladies, which was established here a year ago, and which will enable ladies to receive a scientific education as physicians. This institution has not been established without great opposition, but it has nevertheless come into operation, to the honour of the spirit and justice of the New World! To this ought also to be added the steadfastness and talent of a young American woman, and the reputation which she obtained abroad. Elizabeth Blackwell, after having for several years, by hard work, helped to educate and maintain several younger sisters, devoted herself to the profession of medicine, firmly resolved to open in this way a career for herself and other women. She was met by a thousand difficulties; prejudice and ill-will threw impediments in every step. But she overcame all; and finally studied and graduated as physician at the city of Geneva, in Western New York. After this she went abroad, desirous of entering and passing the Medical College of Paris. The head of the college was shocked; “You must ​dress yourself as a man,” said he, “otherwise it will be quite impossible.”
“I shall not alter even a ribbon on my bonnet!” said she; “do as you will—but your conduct shall be made known. You have seen my certificate; you have no right to refuse me admission.”
Mr. L. was obliged to comply. Elizabeth's womanly dignity and bearing, added to her remarkable knowledge, impressed the professors as well as students of the college. The young woman pursued her studies in peace, protected by her earnestness and scientific knowledge. Having greatly distinguished herself, and won the highest commendation, she left Paris for London, where she gathered fresh laurels, both in medical and chirurgical science. She is at this moment expected back in America, where she intends to be a practising physician. Dr. E. wished me to become acquainted with this young woman—this vigorous soul in a slender and delicate frame—whom he cordially admires, and rejoices over as with paternal pride. He said, speaking of her to me:—
“She is not taller than you, but she would take you under one arm and my daughter under the other, and run up-stairs with you both.”
I should like to see that.
It was now the time of vacation at this institution, which contains already upwards of seventy female students; but the session will soon recommence, and the professor of anatomy, a handsome, agreeable man, was busied in the preparation of a human skeleton.
It seems to me very desirable that this establishment should direct the attention of the female students, or rather that they should themselves direct it, to that portion of medical science which pre-eminently belongs to them. For is there not here, as in all spheres of life, science, arts, and professions, one region which, beyond all others, belongs to woman, by reason of natural ​tendencies? In medicine, it is evidently partly the preventive—that is to say, by attention to health and diet, to effect the prevention of disease, especially in women and children — and partly, par excellence, healing, curing. Women have in all ages shown a remarkable talent for the healing art, have shown an ability, by herbs and the so-called domestic medicine, to cure or assuage human suffering. Their branch of medical art ought evidently to be that of the alleviation of pain; they should be the mitigators of suffering. In this they would make great progress. The instincts of the heart would be united in them with the knowledge of the head. Curative medicine would therefore be more adapted to them than surgery. And herbs, those beautiful healing herbs which stand on the hill-tops, and amid the fields, like beneficent angels beckoning in the summer winds, may be borne by the hands of the female physician into the dwellings of the sufferers, and, by means of miraculous powers called forth by love and art, may promulgate the Evangile of health more and more over the earth, and change, as much as is possible, even the so frequently terrible work of death into a peaceful transition state. Oh, to be young, to be able to devote a life to this glorious science!
Women, in all lands and in all ages, have practised the art of the physician with this aim. The work which demands more prolonged study, a more vigorous resolution, a stronger, bolder hand will in this profession, as in all others, always become the part of the man, because he is best fitted for it.
July 20th.—Here I am, still detained by events in the family whose guest I am. For only one week after the death of Mary T., she was followed to the grave by her most beloved sister; and Mr. E. T., who was to accompany me to New York, is obliged to remain here yet a few days.
​These two young sisters, who were both invalids, had vigorous, richly-endowed souls, and had always lived in a state of heartfelt friendship with each other, labouring together on literary subjects for the benefit of the young. Tenderly attached in life, it was well that they should accompany each other in death. But they have left great vacuum in the home where there is now only one daughter remaining. She who last died, lived during the last days of her earthly existence amid the most beautiful visions of her departed sister, and of their ascending together into a realm of glory.
The interment, at which I was present yesterday, took place according to Quaker custom, without any unnecessary pomp or parade, without any ceremony or show. It took place amid alternate short addresses both of men and women, and silence, all in accordance with the influence of the spirit. It was really very affecting when all the friends and relations were assembled in the house of the dead, and were sitting together in silence in one room, and the aged, deeply afflicted mother lifted up her trembling voice, and began in these words:—
“My heart has been severely tried, but God has seen me in his mercy!” All that she said came so purely from the depths of a Christian mother's heart, and was at the same time so tender in feeling, and so strong in faith and submission, that nothing could have been better. Most beautiful was the consolation which she derived from the knowledge of the purity of her departed daughters' views and objects in life, and the memory of her youngest daughter's last words shortly before her death.
When the mother ceased, amid the tears of all present, another elderly lady spoke and dried them again; for her speech was a cold and thin dilution of the words of the first. Then followed an elderly gentleman, who gave a third edition, but not improved. Nor indeed could it be.
​We drove to the burial-place amid thunder and heavy rain. But just as we alighted from the carriages, and the coffin was lowered to the earth beneath the shadowy trees, the silvery sun burst forth from the clouds and illumined most splendidly the silent scene, the yet descending drops, the beautiful trees, and continued to shine the whole time during an address from one of the elders of the company (which was as dry and prosaic as the sunshine was warm and poetic), and until the coffin was laid in the earth.
It is very singular, but precisely the same occurrence is said to have taken place at Mary's interment; the same funeral procession amid the rain, the same splendid sunshine by the grave. Are such merely accidental? The two young sisters partake of the same grave beneath the same sheltering tree, as they partook of the same life, joys, and sorrows, and their poetical sister-in-law may sing of them:—
* Lay them together side by side,
* To slumber most serenely, &c.
Mrs. E. T. has great poetical talent, especially for ballads and romances. Two of her small ballads are the prettiest I know. Her husband is an agreeable man, of very cultivated mind, with all that feeling for the public well-being which distinguishes the American. He himself is a celebrated dentist, and a member of an association of dentists into which he is now endeavouring to introduce so liberal a spirit, that all beginners and imperfect practitioners may be admitted free of cost to the lectures and experiments of the association, and to the use of their instruments, so that the inferior members of the profession may be elevated by the influence and ready co-operation of the higher. Mr. T. delivers lectures every week gratis to young practitioners. “Levelling upwards” is the impelling principle also with him, and he has written an ​excellent treatise upon the fundamental idea of this association. Association is the natural movement of life in the Free States.
July 21st.—I have happened during these last few days in Philadelphia to fall in love—yes, really to fall desperately in love—with a young girl, not so very handsome, but of a glorious young-womanly character, richly endowed, both soul and body, with that spark of inspired life which is so enchanting and so infinitely revivifying; a girl fresh as morning dew, and who sings as I never have heard any one sing since her, who has long since ceased to sing on earth, yet not in my soul. But true it is that she was Fanny Kemble's “pet,” and had in her an incomparable instructress in declamation. And the girl, the glorious girl, the girl of the new world, whom I have for the first time seen since I had an idea of her: she is called ——, but no, I will not write her name; I feel as if that would desecrate it, and she is to me holy. I could weep when I think that such a girl should not have a different fate to quiet, ordinary girls. Such a young woman ought to be the priestess of a holy temple, and deliver oracles to the world. I will tell you more about her by word of mouth. She has called to life in my imagination a figure which has lain bound there for more than fifteen years.
I shall set off to-day to New York. It has been so oppressively hot this time in Philadelphia that I have not been able to accomplish much. To-day it is beautiful and fresh after yesterday's rain. N. B. that was the first regular shower of rain which I had seen for five months, and through the whole of that time I had not seen one entire cloudy day.
I now cordially rejoice in the prospect of so soon seeing once more those good, excellent friends of mine at Rose Cottage.
Rose Cottage, July 24th.
And now I am with them, as happy as it is possible for me to be so far from my beloved; here I am with this beloved, rose-coloured family, always alike good, alike couleur de rose; and all my friends from New York come to kiss me, to shake hands with me, and to say, “how do you do?” Lively, cordial, fresh, impulsive people are these people of the New World; there is no denying that! And your letter, among dozens of others, to welcome me here! But ah! that it should be so cold and cheerless with you. It is very unworthy of Madame Svea to permit such weather in June! But now, now you must have sunshine enough, even in Sweden. I am preparing for my homeward journey, but am out of breath when I think of all I have yet to do before I can leave. I am now on my way to Boston, and thence to the White Mountains, to Maine, New Hampshire, Vermont, &c.
I commence my journey in the morning, going from one friend to another, the whole length of the way. But it will not be before the commencement of September that I can be ready to leave America. But then I will leave it. Ah! I hardly dare to think about it, so painful will the parting be to me. When autumn comes in Sweden then shall I be with my beloved! Mamma must propitiate St. Brigitta that she give me a prosperous voyage over the great sea!
Great changes have taken place around Rose Cottage and its peaceful environs since I was last there, that is to say, since last year. Above a hundred houses, certainly, have sprung up around it in all directions, and a regular street runs now in front of its little park. When I first came to Rose Cottage it stood in the country, now it lies in the very middle of the city. It is a good thing that there is yet a deal of space, and many trees around the house to preserve free breathing-room.