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- Herausgeber: Musaicum Books
- Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
- Sprache: Englisch
Alice Stone Blackwell's "The Life of Lucy Stone" is a meticulously researched biography that provides readers with a comprehensive look into the life and legacy of one of the leading figures in the American women's rights movement. Blackwell's writing style is both engaging and informative, offering a detailed account of Stone's early life, her advocacy for women's suffrage, and her pioneering efforts in the abolitionist movement. The book captures the essence of the 19th-century literary style, providing readers with a glimpse into the social and political context of the time. Blackwell's meticulous attention to detail and her deep understanding of the subject matter make this biography a valuable resource for anyone interested in women's history. Alice Stone Blackwell, herself a prominent feminist and daughter of suffragist Lucy Stone, brings a unique perspective to the life story of her mother. Her personal connection to the subject matter shines through in the book, adding depth and authenticity to the narrative. I highly recommend "The Life of Lucy Stone" to readers who are passionate about women's history, social justice, and the ongoing fight for equality.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018
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The Life of Lucy Stone
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Table of Contents
Preface
Lucy Stone was noteworthy for many things. She was the first Massachusetts woman to take a college degree. She was "the morning star of the woman's rights movement", lecturing for it, in the ten years from 1847 to 1857, to immense audiences all up and down the country. She headed the call for the First National Woman's Rights Convention. She converted Susan B. Anthony and Julia Ward Howe. She was the first married woman to keep her own name. She organized a nation-wide association in which those suffragists could work who did not wish to have equal suffrage mixed up with free love and other extraneous questions. She founded and edited the Woman's Journal of Boston, which was the principal woman suffrage newspaper of the United States for almost half a century. She was a striking example of single-hearted and lifelong devotion to a great idea.
Her husband, Henry Browne Blackwell, had great ability, and was the one man in America who devoted his life to securing equal rights for women.
One of her sisters-in-law, Doctor Elizabeth Blackwell, was the first woman in modern times to take a medical degree. Another, the Reverend Doctor Antoinette Brown Blackwell, was the first woman in the world to be ordained as a minister. Lucy Stone was thus in close touch with the movement to open the learned professions to women. Her letters give a graphic picture of early American life, as different from the life of to-day as that of some remote foreign country.
Great obligations are due to a large number of friends who subscribed a sum of money to provide me with help while writing this biography. This enabled me to have the assistance of Mrs. Ida Porter-Boyer, who has given invaluable aid in collecting and arranging the material.
Alice Stone Blackwell
Boston, Massachusetts
Chapter I
Lucy Stone was born on August 13, 1818. She was the eighth of nine children. Her mother, a farmer's wife, had milked eight cows the night before Lucy was born, a sudden shower having called all the men of the family into the hayfield to save the hay. When told of the sex of the new baby, she said sadly, "Oh, dear! I am sorry it is a girl. A woman's life is so hard!" No one then could foresee that the little girl just born was destined to make life less hard for all the generations of little girls that were to follow.
The world upon which little Lucy first opened her bright eyes was very different from that which greets the young women of to-day. No college or university admitted women. There was not a single free public high school for girls. It was the general belief that all the education a woman needed was enough to enable her to read her Bible and keep her household accounts, and that any attempt to give her more would spoil her for a wife and mother.
In most States of the Union — all those where the law was founded upon the common law of England — a husband had the legal right to beat his wife, "with a reasonable instrument." There is a story that Judge Buller, when charging the jury in a case of wife-beating, said, "Without undertaking to define exactly what a reasonable instrument is, I hold, gentlemen of the jury, that a stick no thicker than my thumb comes clearly within that description." A committee of women waited upon him the next day to learn the exact size of the judge's thumb.
Wife-beating, unless done with uncommon brutality, was sanctioned not only by law but by public opinion. Mrs. Emily P. Collins (who organized at South Bristol, New York, in 1848, the first local woman's rights society in the world) says in her reminiscences:
"In those early days a husband's supremacy was often enforced in the rural districts by corporal chastisement, and it was considered by most people as quite right and proper — as much so as the correction of refractory children in like manner. I remember in my own neighborhood a Methodist class-leader and exhorter, esteemed a worthy citizen, who, every few weeks, gave his wife a beating with a horsewhip. He said it was necessary, in order to keep her in subjection, and because she scolded so much."
Mrs. Collins added that it was no wonder the poor woman sometimes scolded, as she had to care day and night for six or seven small children, besides cooking, cleaning, milking cows, making butter and cheese, and spinning, weaving and sewing all the clothes for the family. The United States in those days was mainly agricultural, and most farmers' wives led similar lives of excessive toil.
In the matter of legalized wife-beating, Massachusetts was a shining exception. Away back in the seventeenth century, Judge Sewall, of witchcraft fame, secured the passage of the following, among the "Liberties" adopted by the General Court:
"Every married woman shall be free from bodily correction or stripes by her husband, unless it be in his own defense, upon her assault. If there be any just cause of correction, complaint shall be made to authority assembled in some court, from which only she shall receive it."
But all a married woman's property and earnings belonged to her husband. He had the sole control of the children while he lived, and, if he died before her, he could will them away from their mother to strangers. A wife had hardly more legal rights than a minor child. She could not make a contract, could not sue or be sued, and could not make a valid will without her husband's consent, unless she left everything to him, in which case his consent was taken for granted.
When a wife died, her husband had the life use of all her real estate, if they had ever had a child born alive. When a husband died, the widow was entitled to stay only forty days in the house without paying rent, and she had the life use of only one third of his real estate.
The injustice of the laws was not due to any especial depravity on the part of men, but merely to the self-partiality of human nature. If the laws had been made by women alone, they would probably have been just as one-sided, only it would have been the other way around. Even the best men thought that the existing conditions were right. As Henry B. Blackwell said, "No governed class was ever yet without a grievance. Yet no governing class has ever been able to see that the grievance existed."
Public opinion was even harder upon women than the law. All the learned professions were closed to them. Women who had their living to earn were limited to a very few poorly-paid occupations. When a merchant first employed a saleswoman, the men boycotted his store, and the women remonstrated earnestly with him on the sin of placing a young woman in a position of such "publicity" as behind a counter.
There were no organizations of women except the church sewing circles. Public speaking by women was unknown. Even to write for publication was thought unwomanly. The gentle Charles Lamb himself said, "The woman who lets herself be known as an author invites disrespect." Law, religion and custom affirmed the inferiority of women and their duty to remain in silence and subjection; and this belief enwrapped every baby girl in her cradle, like an invisible strait-jacket.
This state of things had lasted for centuries. It did not come to an end through the general advance of civilization. It was changed by many years of hard work on the part of brave women and just men; and they had to suffer all the persecution that usually besets the pioneers of progress.
Lucy was born on a picturesque, rocky farm on the eastern side of Coy's Hill, three miles and a half from West Brookfield, Massachusetts. It was a fortunate environment for a child always keenly alive to the beauties of nature, for the top of Coy's Hill is one of the finest viewpoints in the State. There young Lucy Stone and her sisters used to go to watch the sunset; and there Lucy used to take her little daughter to watch it in after years.
She came of Revolutionary stock. Her father, Francis Stone, was descended from Gregory Stone, who came to America in 1635 in quest of religious liberty. He settled in Cambridge, Massachusetts, where he held various offices. He and his wife once testified in defence of a woman accused of witchcraft. In 1664 he was one of a committee of four who presented to the General Court a memorial from many citizens of Cambridge, protesting against the proposal to have New England governed by a Royal Commission, on the ground that it would be an arbitrary government by a Council or Parliament in which they were not represented. This was the first open stirring of the spirit that culminated in the Declaration of Independence.
Lucy's grandfather, Francis Stone, when a boy of seventeen, accompanied his father to the French and Indian War. His father was killed at the battle of Quebec, and he was sent home by General Wolfe, because he was left as the sole support of his mother. The boy shed tears at having to quit the army. He was afterwards a captain in the Revolutionary War, and later the leader of four hundred men in Shays' Rebellion.' Lucy's mother, Hannah Matthews, was connected with the Forbush (Forbes) and Bowman families, and came of educated and public-spirited lineage. Lucy's father was a tanner by trade, brought up in his father's tanyard at North Brookfield. In his youth he taught school for some years. He was bright and witty, and so good a teacher that he always had the offer of more schools than he could take. But he went back to tanning and established himself in New Braintree. He was a man of strong character and of great physical and mental energy. Like all the men of his time, he believed in the divine right of a husband to rule over his wife and family. "There was only one will in our home, and that was my father's," said Lucy, long after.
Lucy's mother was an excellent Christian woman, beautiful, gentle, conscientious and kind. She too believed devoutly in a husband's right to rule. But, finding in her early married life that her children were surrounded by bad influences at the tannery, she insisted upon the removal of the family to the farm where Lucy was born, and her husband yielded to her wish. Though constantly overworked, she commanded the respect and the devoted affection of her children.
From her father Lucy inherited her courage, her sturdy physique and resolute will; from her mother, her sympathy and kindness, her clear moral perceptions and strong sense of duty.
Little Lucy grew up a healthy and vigorous child, noted for fearlessness and truthfulness, a good student at school, and a hard worker in the home and on the farm. Often she drove the cows to pasture by starlight, before the sun was up, when the dew on the grass was so cold that she would stop on a flat stone and curl one small bare foot up against the other leg to warm it. The children watched out eagerly for the first dandelion blossom, because when it appeared they were allowed to take off their stockings and shoes.
Father Stone was an early riser. The sound of his clear, sonorous voice calling the cows in the morning carried a long way and was regarded by the neighboring farmers as their rising bell. Every one on the farm worked. Even the small children were taught to creep after their father in the cornfield and plant two or three pumpkin seeds in every hill of corn.
Mother Stone wove all the cloth for the family's wearing, and little Lucy used to sit for hours together under the loom, handing up the threads to her mother, who praised her for being very accurate, and always handing them up in the right order.
Lucy and Luther, the brother next older, learned hymns as they filled the woodbox. The mother read a verse aloud, and the children repeated as much of it as they could remember, while they went in and out, bringing the armfuls of wood. Lucy always knew the verse first. She could learn more quickly than Luther, and could run faster, and he was afraid of the dark, while she was not; yet he was always given the preference over her because he was a boy, and she felt the injustice keenly.
In addition to all the usual work of an old-time farming family, Lucy and her sisters sewed coarse shoes, intended for farmers and for the slaves. Lucy was required to sew nine pairs a day, because she could work faster than the others. They received four cents a pair from the store and took their pay mainly in goods. Once, when their half-yearly account for shoe-sewing was settled, their credit showed a balance of just six cents; and they all agreed that that ought to go to Eliza, the eldest sister, because she had helped the mother so much with the housework.
Lucy's childhood in the main was happy, in spite of the hard work. After their chores were done, the children were left to their own pleasures. They had a cosset sheep named Top, and when little Lucy jumped rope, so lightly that it often seemed to her as if she had no flesh, Top would jump too, putting down its head and kicking up its heels. They also had a dog, old Bogue, who helped them herd the cows.
The children early learned to know all the wild f l owers, the trees, the birds, their songs, their nests, and the color of their eggs. They knew the remarkable rock formations in the valley, called "The Rock House," all the brooks and ponds, the Hemlock Hill, and every boulder that was a good place for play.
Lucy reveled in all the beauty of the world. When she had done well in her lessons, she found it a sufficient reward to be allowed to sit on the school-room floor, where she could look up through the window and watch the flickering green leaves of the white birch trees.
If ready money was scarce, good food was plentiful. She said, in recalling her childhood:
"We had barrels of meat, and of apples; plenty of fresh milk, cream, butter, cheese and eggs; peaches, quinces, innumerable varieties of plums, and every kind of berries, and all of them fresh. We had delicious honey, more than we could eat. The bread was rye and Indian, light and dry. On gray and showery days, not good for work, the boys would go to the woods to hunt, and bring home game — squirrels, woodchucks and abundance of wild pigeons. We all worked hard, but we all worked together; and we had the feeling that everything was ours — the calves, the stock, the butter and cheese."
Chapter II
The family circle in the evenings was a large one. Father Stone built magnificent fires in the great open fireplace, which stretched a long way across one side of the room; in front of it, at a safe distance, stood a large, high-backed settle that kept off the draughts. Near one end of the circle stood a small square table with a light on it, and those who were studying or sewing sat near it. The row of the others extended clear around the fire. There were Father and Mother Stone, the seven children who lived to grow up, — Francis, William Bowman, Eliza, Rhoda, Luther, Lucy and Sarah; and in the corner nearest the brick oven, old Aunt Sally, knitting. Often the neighborhood blacksmith sat there, telling stories of bears, wolves and Indians; and there was generally one or more of three old drunkards, who had been Father Stone's schoolmates, and whom he would never turn away. They often came and quartered themselves upon him for long visits. They were an affliction to Mother Stone, who had to cook for them and wash their clothes. She thought them a bad influence for the children; but the children regarded them with disgust. Once Luther and Lucy conspired secretly to break the jug of rum that one of them had hidden by a stone wall, when he came to spend a week-end.
On winter nights the children often roasted apples on the hearth, and popped corn. Two or three times in the course of the evening, one of them would be sent down cellar to bring up a quart mug of cider. It was passed from hand to hand, and they all drank from it. Tea and coffee were not used in this household.
On Sunday two wagonloads of the family were driven to church, and the rest walked. Those who rode one Sunday walked the next. The children too small to attend were gathered around the mother at home, while she read them Bible stories.
Once, as she went through the fields in summer, Lucy saw a large snake asleep upon a rock in the sun. Most little barefooted girls would have run away. Lucy picked up a heavy stone, approached softly, poised the stone exactly above the reptile's head and dropped it, crushing the head to pieces. The act was symbolic. Her whole life was, metaphorically, a bruising of the serpent's head.
Most brave men and women are courageous because they overcome their fears. Lucy was one of the very few persons who seem to have been born incapable of fear. She could feel terror for those whom she loved; but, for herself, she did not know what fear was. In her later life, in alarms arising from fire or thieves, we never saw her fluttered. She said in her old age that, during all the mobs and tumults of the antislavery time, she was never conscious of a quickened heartbeat. She laid it to the fact that she had been brought up on a farm and so had "good calm nerves." But it was not due to her bodily health. In her last illness, when her physical strength was all gone, her serene courage remained.
The overmastering purpose of her life took possession of her in childhood. She very early became indignant at the way in which she saw her mother and other women treated by their husbands and by the laws, and she silently made up her mind that those laws must be changed. Only wait until she was older! Then, one day, as she was reading the Bible, with the big book resting upon her little short legs, she came upon the words, "Thy desire shall be to thy husband, and he shall rule over thee." She was filled with horror. She knew that the laws and the customs were against the women, but it had never occurred to her that God could be against them. She went to her mother and asked, "Is there anything that will put an end to me?" Annihilation was what she craved. Seeing the child's agitation, the mother questioned her, learned the trouble, and then, stroking Lucy's hair away from her hot forehead, told her gently that it was the curse of Eve, and that it was women's duty to submit. "My mother always tried to submit. I never could," Lucy said. For a short time she was in despair. Then she made up her mind to go to college, study Greek and Hebrew, read the Bible in the original, and satisfy herself as to whether such texts were correctly translated.
When her father heard of her wish to go to college, he said to his wife, in all seriousness, "Is the child crazy?" It had not surprised him when his two elder sons wanted to go to college, but such a thing was unheard of in the case of a girl. Lucy herself had her misgivings, and asked her brother privately whether it was possible for a girl to learn Greek.
She had a keen appetite for reading matter. The stagecoach passed the schoolhouse door, and sometimes travelers would throw out a handful of tracts or other pamphlets for the children to pick up. Lucy was so eager to get them that once, nimble as a young chamois, she darted through the open window. When she came back with her prize, the teacher stood in the door and said, "You must come in as you went out," and made her climb in through the window, to her great mortification.
The only papers taken by the family were the Massachusetts Spy and the Advocate of Moral Reform; but they borrowed the Youth's Companion and read it eagerly. When the children grew older, they subscribed for the Liberator and the Anti-Slavery Standard. Later, they took the Oberlin Evangelist for years.
They had few books. Among these, Lucy's especial delight was Guthrie's "Geographical, Historical and Commercial Grammar of the World", printed in London in 1788. They had also Fox's "Book of Martyrs", Edwards on the Affections, and a big volume gotten out by the Baptists, who were at that time intensely unpopular. It showed a certain liberality of mind on Father Stone's part that he should have bought a book setting forth the views of a denomination which was the object of so much public odium.
The only storybook in the house was "Charlotte Temple." This Was said to be both true and instructive, so the children were allowed to read it. But, in general, novels were classed with cards, dancing and the theater, as utterly sinful.
The first novel Lucy ever saw was "The Children of the Abbey." Her elder sister Rhoda, teaching school in a neighboring village, read it and told Lucy about it, and, at her eager request, borrowed it for her. Lucy used to lock herself into her room to read it. While she was absorbed in the third volume, her younger sister Sarah came to the door and was refused admittance. She peeped through the keyhole and told her mother that Lucy was reading something with the door locked. The mother came up to investigate. She was shocked and distressed. Lucy begged hard for leave to finish the story. Rhoda added her assurances that it really was not a bad book, and the gentle mother, with many misgivings, consented. But it was years before Lucy read another novel.
As a child she had a high temper. Once when Sarah had angered her, and Lucy was chasing her through the house, she caught sight in a looking-glass of her own face, white with wrath. She said to herself, "That is the face of a murderer! " She went out and sat down on a stone behind the woodshed, and rocked herself to and fro, holding one bare foot in her hand and thinking how she could ever get the better of such a temper. She had an overwhelming sense that it was something which she must do alone; nobody could help her. She decided that when she was angry she must not speak; if she could refrain from breaking forth into such a flow of wrathful words, that would be the first step. She sat on the rock till it grew so dark that her mother called her in.
From that time on, she set herself seriously to conquer her temper. Luther did not make it easier. He was a tease. When he had taunted her till she grew angry, he would say, "See Luce's nose turn up! See it! See it!" Lucy's nose turned up by nature; but at this it would turn up more and more, and her face grow as red as a beet. He had no idea of the struggle going on within her. Then she would go away across the pastures to the Hemlock Hill and sit down where the sweet voice of the little brook and the soft sough of the wind in the trees helped to calm her. Those who saw her great gentleness in later life found it hard to realize that her temper had ever been so fiery.
When she was about twelve years old, she saw her mother's health giving way under the hard work, and quietly made up her mind that, if some one must be killed by overwork, she could be spared better than her mother. A strong and resolute child, she took upon herself as many as she could of her mother's burdens. The school was so far away that the children took their lunches with them and stayed till the afternoon. Now, rising very early on Monday mornings, Lucy would do the washing for the family of ten or twelve persons, hang out the clothes to dry, walk a mile to school, walk back at noon and bring the clothes in, and return for the afternoon session. She toiled early and late. Even her robust health suffered under the strain and she grew weak and pale. In those days paleness was admired. To be pale was to look "delicate." She hid her fatigue from her mother. When so tired that she could hardly stand, she would slip upstairs and lie down for a few minutes; but if she heard her mother's foot on the stair, she would at once spring up and pretend to be busy. At night, after the work was done, she sat up to study.
Things kept happening that strengthened her zeal for equal rights. Mary Lyon, the pioneer of education for women in New England, was raising money for Mount Holyoke Seminary. She spoke before the sewing circle of the West Brookfield church and told of the great lack of educational opportunities for girls. Lucy listened, her heart growing hotter and hotter within her. The sewing circle was working to educate a theological student, and Lucy was making a shirt. She thought how absurd it was for her to be working to help educate a student who could earn more money toward his own education in a week, by teaching, than she could earn toward hers in a month; and she left the shirt unfinished and hoped that no one ever would complete it.
Her father did not like to buy schoolbooks for her. He told her she could use her brother's. Once he refused to get her a necessary textbook, which he thought quite superfluous for a girl. "I went to the woods, with my little bare toes, and gathered chestnuts, and sold them for money enough to buy the book. I felt a prouder sense of triumph than I have ever known since," she said, when telling the story. After that, when she wanted books, she picked berries and nuts and sold them. She joined with other ambitious pupils to secure a college student as teacher for the school, so that they might learn more than the ordinary branches.
The teacher boarded with the Stone family. Once, when he saw Lucy go out into the pasture, catch the horses, bring them in and harness them, he told her that she ought to be a missionary's wife and live at the foot of the Rocky Mountains. This young man awakened in Lucy the first stirrings of the tender passion; but she kept her feelings strictly in her own breast. Her mind was made up never to marry.
She was not beautiful. Her father said, "Luce's face is like a blacksmith's apron; it keeps off the sparks." She told him with indignation that she did not mean to marry, and that she wished her face was even plainer. Yet, in spite of her irregular features, she was very attractive. She had a pretty figure, a beautiful rosy complexion, which remained with her through life, bright gray eyes, good teeth, a profusion of dark brown hair, unusually fine and silky, which was very little gray at her death, much personal magnetism, and a singularly sweet voice. She had also a mind as bright and swift as quicksilver, and that indescribable something which radiates from a character strong, simple and sincere. Many hearts were drawn to her. Until her marriage, which took place late in life, she never lacked wooers.
She joined the Orthodox Congregational Church of West Brookfield while still in her teens. The subject of slavery was agitating the churches more and more. William Lloyd Garrison had started his paper, the Liberator, in Boston, and the Governors of Virginia and Georgia had written to the Mayor of Boston, recommending that it be suppressed. They were surprised to learn that there was no law under which this could be done. The Mayor, who had never heard of the Liberator, sought for Garrison, and told the Governors that he and his paper were not worth notice; that his office was an obscure hole and his only visible auxiliary a Negro boy.
But the subject would not down. Soon after Lucy joined the West Brookfield church, Deacon Henshaw was expelled from it for his antislavery activities. A series of church meetings was held in regard to his case. Lucy did not know that women who were church members could not vote in church meetings, and when the first vote was taken, she held up her hand with the rest. The minister, a tall, dark man, stood watching the vote. He pointed over to her, and said to the person who was counting the votes, "Don't you count her." The man asked, "Is n't she a member?" The minister answered, "Yes, but she is not a voting member." The accent of scorn in his voice touched her to the quick. Six votes were taken in the course of that meeting, and she held up her hand every time. She held it up again, with a flash in her eyes, when she recalled the incident upon her deathbed, and thought how great the change had been since the time when "that one uncounted hand" was the only visible protest against the subjection of women in church and State.
Father Stone did not approve of Lucy's wish to go on with her studies. He thought she had had quite schooling enough for a girl. She told him that if he would lend her a small sum of money, to enable her to keep on a little longer, she would then be qualified to teach; and he agreed to do so, taking her note for the amount. As she was a minor, the note was not legally valid; but she did not know that, and, if she had, she would of course have paid the debt just the same.
At sixteen she began to teach district schools at a dollar a week, "boarding around ", as was the custom. She soon became known as a successful teacher. She got larger and larger schools, until her salary reached sixteen dollars per month, which was considered very good pay for a woman.
Once she was engaged to teach the "winter term" of the school at Paxton, Massachusetts, which had been broken up by the big boys throwing the master out of the window head first into a deep snowdrift. Generally women were not thought competent to teach in the winter, because then the big boys were released from farm work and were able to attend. She soon had this difficult school in perfect order, and the big boys who had made the trouble became her most devoted lieutenants; yet she received only a fraction of the salary paid to her unsuccessful predecessor.
When Abby Kelley lectured in West Brookfield, she invited Lucy to sit in the pulpit with her. Lucy refused, partly because her hair had got all blown about on the three-mile ride from the farm to the village, and partly from a lingering traditional feeling, which she knew to be quite irrational, that the pulpit was too sacred a place for her to enter. Abby Kelley's comment was, "Oh, Lucy Stone, you are not half emancipated! "
She was teaching school in North Brookfield in 1837, when the General Association of the Congregational Ministers of Massachusetts held their Quadrennial Conference there, and issued a "Pastoral Letter" to the churches under their care, warning them against discussing slavery, and especially against letting women speak in public. This remarkable document called attention to "the dangers which at present seem to threaten the female character with wide-spread and permanent injury." It especially deplored "the mistaken conduct of those who encourage females to bear an obtrusive and ostentatious part in measures of reform, and countenance any of that sex who so far forget themselves as to itinerate in the character of public lecturers and teachers." Such proceedings, it predicted, would open the way to "degeneracy and ruin."
In those days, the Orthodox Congregational Church was supreme in Massachusetts, and the word of its clergy carried immense weight. The Pastoral Letter was read in all the churches. At the Conference in North Brookfield the floor of the church was black with ministers, and the gallery was filled with women and laymen. While the Letter was read, the Reverend Doctor Blagden walked up and down the aisle, turning his head from side to side and looking up at the women in the gallery with an air that seemed to say, "Now! Now we have silenced you! " Lucy sat in the gallery with her cousin. She said, in after years, "I was young enough then so that my indignation blazed. My cousin said that her side was black and blue with the indignant nudges of my elbow at each aggravating sentence; and I told her afterwards that, if I ever had anything to say in public, I should say it, and all the more because of that Pastoral Letter."
This Pastoral Letter, which was satirized by Whittier in a stirring poem, was called out by the lectures of Sarah and Angelina Grimke against slavery, and the deep impression they made.
The Grimke sisters were the first American women to lecture against slavery or for woman's rights — almost the first American women to open their mouths in public at all, outside a Quaker meeting. They and Abby Kelley Foster were the three women who did the most to break down the barrier debarring women from public speech. They opened the way for Lucy, and for all who came after her. Their names should always be held in grateful remembrance.
Daughters of one of the first families of South Carolina, brought up to wealth and luxury and the service of slaves, Sarah and Angelina had become convinced that slavery was wrong, and Angelina had entered into correspondence with Garrison. In 1836 she was invited by the American Anti-Slavery Society to come and give talks against slavery, to women only. She declined the offered salary, but came and brought her sister. They spoke in New York and New Jersey, and then came to New England. It had been the intention that they should speak to women in church sewing circles and at parlor meetings, but no parlor would hold all the women who wanted to hear. Anti-slavery ministers offered the use of their session rooms. It was thought a great scandal that women should speak in so sacred a place. The interest grew. One or two men began to slip into the rear seats. At first they were turned out. Later they refused to go. Although brought up as High Church Episcopalians, the sisters had become Quakers, and did not think it wrong for a woman to speak when men were present. Before long they were lecturing to mixed audiences, largely made up of men. Then the storm broke, — a storm of tremendous violence.
The texts that were always quoted against the women were the words of St. Paul, "Let your women keep silence in the churches, for it is not permitted unto them to speak", and "I suffer not a woman to teach, nor to usurp authority over the man, but to be in silence."
The opposition to the women who spoke against slavery was due in part to the belief that their action was contrary to Scripture, in part to the usual dislike for any innovation, in part to the anger of men against any encroachment upon their exclusive privileges, and in part to the belief that the textile industries of New England could not be carried on without the slave-grown cotton of the South. The economic objection was not the least powerful.
