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THE CHRONICLE OF AN
AMERICAN FIRST FAMILY
THE STILLS HAVE BEEN WITH US FOR 350
YEARS, AND THEIR COMBINATION OF SUFFERING
AND ACCOMPLISHMENT IS ALMOST UNPARALLELED IN OUR HISTORY
By LINN WASHINGTON Jr.
a staff writer for the Philadelphia Daily News
SOMETIME IN THE early 1630s - a
full half-century before William Penn founded the city of
Philadelphia - a ship sailed up the Delaware River with an
African man on board.
Tradition says this man was a "Guinea prince."
Little is known about him. His name may have been Still or
something similar. It's said that he had a commanding
presence, that he enjoyed the respect of whites, blacks and
Indians alike, and that he came ashore near where Gloucester
City now stands in the shadow of the Walt Whitman Bridge.
Records from later in the century show the presence of many
slaves named Still in this part of South Jersey, so it is
possible that the Guinea prince was a slave - sold into
captivity, perhaps, as a result of some royal intrigue in his
African homeland.
 Whatever
the case, a settlement of black people grew up in this part of
Gloucester County, which was called Guineatown, after the
Guinea prince. It endured for three centuries. "The last
resident of Guineatown," according to local historian
James F. McCloy, "was a Mrs. Still, who lived there until
the 1930s."
We don't know what became of
the Guinea prince.
We do know that hundreds of his descendants live among us now
- especially in the Lawnside, Moorestown, Mount Laurel and
Vineland areas of South Jersey. We also know that an
astonishing number of Stills have distinguished themselves
over the last century and a half - some by excelling in such
fields as politics, social reform, business, athletics, and
medicine, and others simply by enduring and overcoming
conditions of incredible human hardship.
There was William Still, the 19th-century Philadelphia
businessman who was called the "Father of the Underground
Railroad" and who, after the Civil War, worked
successfully for the desegregation of Philadelphia's
streetcars and for the appointment of its first black police
officers.
There was Peter Still, who made national news in 1850 when,
after 40 years in slavery, he completed a Roots-like quest,
traveling from Alabama to Philadelphia to be reunited with his
mother. Then, after more years of hard effort, he succeeded in
purchasing his wife and children from their Alabama masters.
His was one of the personal stories that helped awaken a
nation to the evils of the Southern slave system.
There was Dr. James Thomas Still Jr., who, in 1871, was the
second black person to graduate from Harvard Medical School.
There was his father, a renowned herbalist and one of Medford
Township's biggest landowners in the late 19th century. Known
as the Black Doctor of the Pines, he gained a wide reputation
for prescribing successful remedies for patients whom the best
physicians of the day had failed to cure.
There was Lewis Still, who claimed to have invented saltwater
taffy. ("When he was dying," says Gloria Still, a
family historian, "Lewis said he only had two regrets in
life, and one was selling the recipe for saltwater taffy.
Lewis never said what his second regret was.")
There were a whole host of Stills whose names appear on the
original incorporation papers of many of the oldest black
churches and social organizations in South Jersey.
There was Ephraim J. Still, an original founder and a mayor of
the town of Lawnside, N.J.
There is Art Still, a Camden High School graduate and now an
all-pro defensive end for the Kansas City Chiefs.
There is Valerie Still, a female basketball star now playing
in Europe, who holds the all-time career scoring record at the
University of Kentucky.
The list goes on and on.
 "ALL
STILLS ARE NOT wealthy and all Stills are not
overachievers," says Gloria Still, "but all of them
I have met have this sense of self-esteem . . . this sense of
'you are a Still, after all,' and (that) being a Still is
something important." Author George Prowell noticed this
trait more than a century ago. In his 1880 book on Camden
County, he described the Stills of that day as superior in
both stature and mental endowments, noting also that the
family "claimed royal descent with their ancestor being a
prince in the direct line, when he was captured in
Guinea."
Gloria calls herself a "chosen Still," a Still by
marriage rather than birth. Researching the family's origins
has been her consuming interest for the last 30 years. Every
piece of information she uncovers is like a mosaic tile in
what has become, especially in recent years, a panoramic
reconstruction of one of America's most remarkable family
histories.
Gloria Still likes to compare her family's legacy with those
of the Kennedys and Rockefellers. It's an especially important
tradition, she feels, in an age of such concern about black
self-esteem and the viability of black families. Temple
University historian Charles Blockson, a staunch Still family
booster who attends their annual reunions each summer,
concurs. "The Still family," he says, "is
something special because it represents strength and
stability."
MORE THAN 230 RELAtives, some from as far as Wisconsin and
Nebraska, were gathered at the Mount Laurel Hilton one evening
in June for the 118th Still Family Reunion banquet dinner. The
chitchat at one of the tables centered on whether soul singer
Teddy Pendergrass was a Still. It seems Pendergrass had just
married a woman named Karin Still. And if she was a member of
the family, then so was the heart-stopping T.P. It was an
exciting possibility, all agreed. But no one present could
confirm it, so the talk soon turned to other things.
This gathering was the first in
a series of three reunion events held this summer. After the
June banquet came a larger get-together in August, which
included a Sunday morning service at the Mount Zion A.M.E.
Church and a big picnic in Clarence "Clem" Still's
back yard in Lawnside. More than 500 relatives attended.
In September, the string of reunions concluded with a church
service and a dinner in Vineland.
The reunions get more elaborate every year. Games are played,
some great meals are consumed, and Still Family Reunion
T-shirts are purchased. There are guided tours of some of the
family's historic sites, such as the grave of James Still, the
Black Doctor of the Pines, at the Jacob's Chapel A.M.E. Church
in Mount Laurel, and the site where the doctor's stately house
once stood near Medford.
In recent years, as the family has grown more conscious of its
history, there have been plays and skits dramatizing the old
family stories. One of this year's highlights was a skit
re-enacting the family's first reunion at Doctor Still's home
in 1870. It was written by Bonita Still Austin, a great-
great-granddaughter of the Black Doctor, and was acted out, in
period costumes on a stage set with period furniture, by
direct descendants of the people who were present at that
first reunion.
 A
main purpose of the reunions is to pass on the family history
to succeeding generations. "The reunions give the young
Stills a sense of belonging and pride of where they came
from," said William H. Still of New York City, chairman
of the reunion committee, "and that's important in
growing up."
"I teach fourth grade," said Sandy Chambers, a
descendant of Doctor James Still who not only teaches school
but also is a longtime member of the Orlons rock-and-roll
singing group, "and when I teach New Jersey studies, I
really emphasize the accomplishments of Doctor James Still and
William Still, and the kids like it."
The reunions also attract mainstream historians. At this
year's affair, researcher George Dutton of Philadelphia's
Afro-American Historical and Cultural Museum was conducting
interviews with family members as part of the museum's
oral-history project. "The Still family is unique,"
Dutton said. ''This family has traced its history back to the
17th century. They have put their family roots together, and
most families haven't done that."
THE STORY OF
WILLIAM STILL, ACTIVIST AND ENTREPRENEUR
AS A CHILD, WILLIAM Still once impressed an employer by
chopping and stacking a full cord of wood in six hours, no
small feat for an average-size youngster known more for his
quick mind than his physical strength.
Uncommon accomplishments were to become synonymous with the
name William Still. He would become an abolitionist and social
activist in the City of Brotherly Love, which had a reputation
as the most racist city in 19th-century America. He would also
amass a fortune of nearly $1 million as a coal merchant.
Born Oct. 7, 1821, Still grew up in poverty on his family's
farm in the Pine Barrens. He was the youngest of 18 children
born to Levin and Charity Still, who were former slaves. Levin
had purchased his freedom from a Maryland farmer and moved to
Burlington County - where some of his relatives lived - around
1807. Charity had twice escaped from the same farmer to join
her husband on the homestead near Indian Mills, changing her
name (from Sidney) the second time to hide her identity from
the slave-catchers.
His parents' experiences inspired in William a desire to
dedicate his life to helping his people. He also had a thirst
for learning - a thirst he could not satisfy because of the
demands of his farm chores and the odd jobs he got chopping
wood or working in the nearby cranberry bogs. He got only a
few hours a year of formal schooling, so he educated himself.
He was an avid reader who consumed every book he could get his
hands on.
In 1844, the lure of better opportunities led William to
Philadelphia, where two of his older sisters, Mary and
Kitturah, already lived. He worked for a wealthy widow named
Mrs. E. Langdon Elwyn, waited on tables and labored in a
brickyard before making a fateful job change in 1847, the same
year he met and married Letitia George. William answered an ad
for a clerk's position at the Pennsylvania Anti-Slavery
Society office on North Fifth Street in Center City, not far
from where the Liberty Bell Pavilion now stands.
During the next 14 years, while he served as the society's
clerk and corresponding secretary, William Still was one of
America's most active agents for the Underground Railroad, the
clandestine network that ferried slaves from bondage in the
South to freedom above the Mason-Dixon Line. Still aided as
many as 60 runaways a month and kept meticulous, secret
records of his activities.
It was perilous work. Fugitive slaves were constantly being
hunted down in the streets of Philadelphia. Still often hid
runaways in his own home at 832 South Street. He often
traveled to Germantown to confer with fellow Underground
Railroad operatives, such as the famous Harriet Tubman, at
Quaker Samuel Johnson's home, a colonial-era stone house that
still stands on the northwest corner of Germantown Avenue and
Washington Lane.
Still was involved in some of the most daring exploits of the
anti-slavery movement. He helped open the crate containing
Henry "Box" Brown, who had escaped slavery by
shipping himself inside a sealed wooden box on overland
express from Richmond to Philadelphia. And after John Brown's
unsuccessful raid on the U.S. Army arsenal at Harpers Ferry in
1859, Still gave aid to several of Brown's accomplices who
were seeking arms to supply a nationwide slave revolt. Brown's
wife also stayed with William Still for a time. (Brown's
daughter, Annie Brown, sent Still a lock of hair from the head
of the militant abolitionist. Today, the hair and the gold
locket in which it came are part of the Philadelphia
Historical Society's William Still Papers collection. The hair
was clipped from Brown's head on Dec. 3, 1859, one day after
he was hanged for leading the Harpers Ferry insurrection.
Along with the hair and locket came a note from Annie:
"Mother sends a lock of father's hair which she promised
you. She also sends her love to you and your family.")
Still's struggles against racism didn't end with emancipation.
The desegregation of Philadelphia's streetcars and the
appointments of the city's first black police officers were
direct results of his campaigns. Ironically, his struggles
against white racism sparked a bitter reaction among some
blacks, who were suspicious of his influence and power and
jealous of his wealth and prestige. Still's coal yard on
Washington Avenue near 12th Street was subjected to boycotts
and threats of burning. Still responded to his critics with
impassioned speeches and eloquently written pamphlets.
When Still was castigated in 1874 for suggesting that blacks
end their blind loyalty to the hostile Republican city
administration in favor of a progressive Democratic mayoral
candidate, his stirring speeches and letters won converts
nationwide. (Still's 1874 argument - that blacks should
support candidates, not parties - became the founding
principle last year for a group of black Philadelphia-area
professionals, led by then-Temple Law Dean Dr. Carl Singley,
who organized themselves as The Still Group.)
As a philanthropist, Still served on many boards for local
charities aiding black children and the elderly. He was the
first president of Philadelphia's oldest black-owned banking
institution, the Berean Savings Association, founded in
February 1888 by Still's son-in-law, the Rev. Matthew Anderson
of the Berean Presbyterian Church. And in 1889, the founding
meeting of the Christian Street YMCA, one of the oldest black
Y's in America, was held in the living room of Still's home at
244 S. 12th St.
At the 1876 Philadelphia Centennial Exposition, the
self-taught farm boy from the Pine Barrens proudly exhibited,
in a heavy glass display case, a book he had written, The
Underground Railroad. The book became, in its day, the most
widely circulated work on the anti-slavery network.
Into his old age, Still stayed active in the struggle for
black equality, serving as president of the Pennsylvania
Anti-Slavery Society until a year before his death in 1902. He
also remained a devoted father to his four children, all of
whom were active and successful. His daughter Caroline
Virginia was a medical doctor. His son William Wilberforce was
a public accountant. His daughter Frances Ellen was one of the
city's first kindergarten teachers. And his son Robert George
was a journalist who owned a print shop on Pine at 11th.
William Still died of a heart attack at his home at 726 S.
19th St. in South Philadelphia. An obituary in the following
day's New York Times described him as a man of wealth, one of
the best-educated members of his race, and the "Father of
the Underground Railroad."
GLORIA TUGGLE MARRIED into the Still family 30 years ago,
after a two-week whirlwind courtship with Kenneth W. Still, a
career paratrooper from Lawnside, N.J. Today they have seven
children and 10 grandchildren - large families are another
Still family tradition.
"The good Lord blessed me with not being born a
Still," says Gloria, "so I didn't take this long
family heritage for granted." Her fascination with Still
family history was sparked by the wonderful stories she heard
from her husband's brother, Clem.
"As a young wife coming into this family from the asphalt
jungle of Baltimore, I listened to Clem and heard what he said
about William Still and Doctor James Still," Gloria says.
"I'm the Mouth Of the Family - that's M-O- F - but the
keeper of the family history, the person who gathered it all,
is Clem Still."
Clem, then, is the family griot. (A griot is a West African
wiseman who preserves in his mind hundreds of years of oral
history for a particular clan or village. Author Alex Haley
reconstructed his family's African roots from the accounts of
a Gambian griot who knew the ancestral history of his
forefather Kunte Kinte.)
The arrival of the Guinea prince, and William Still's campaign
to desegregate the streetcars, were stories Clem Still had
heard all his life from his father and other relatives.
"My father told me most of the stories," says Clem,
a low-key, soft-spoken man. "You heard stories about a
lot of different things, which didn't mean much at the time,
but as you got older, they meant more."
Clem still resides in Lawnside, not far from the homestead of
his grandfather. "Guineatown, the place where the prince
once lived, is located about four miles from here," he
says.
When Clem was a child, his father would take him to visit
sites the family considers shrines. These included the grave
site of Doctor James Still at Jacob's Chapel A.M.E. Church and
the Christian Street YMCA in Philadelphia. There was also
William Still's parlor furniture and silver tea set at Cousin
Ella's house in North Philadelphia.
"When I was a teenager, I got curious, and I started
reading and collecting stuff on the family," Clem says.
Picking up bits and pieces of information was easy, he says,
because so much of the history was already written down in
books by family members.
"Reading the books about the family was impressive
because they gave you something to fall back on. You had a
reference and not just the oral history of 'Well, Uncle Joe
told me this.' You had something to back up what you were
saying."
THE STORY OF PETER STILL: GOT TO BE FREE
PETER STILL WAS STARtled by the kiss and tearful goodbye his
mother gave him late one night. The 6-year-old boy had no way
of knowing that it would be more than 40 years before he saw
his mother again.
As she prepared to embark on her second escape from slavery,
Peter's mother, Charity, had made a painful decision - a
"Sophie's choice." She had decided to leave her two
eldest children, Peter and his brother, Levin, 8, with their
grandmother. Charity hoped that by leaving her sons, she and
her two daughters, Mahalah and Kitturah, would have a better
chance of surviving the dangerous trek north from Maryland to
the Jersey Pine Barrens, where her husband, Levin, was already
living. Levin had purchased his freedom a year or more
earlier.
During Charity's previous escape attempt, she and her four
children had nearly starved. Their effort had been a partial
success; they'd made it across the Mason-Dixon Line and were
even reunited briefly with Levin in New Jersey, but then the
slave-catchers got them, and they were sent back to the
plantation on Maryland's Eastern Shore.
Now, Charity was trying it again, this time traveling lighter.
When the plantation master, a man named Saunders Griffin,
discovered that Charity was gone, he was furious. In
retaliation, he sold Peter and Levin to a man named John
Fisher, who took the youngsters to Lexington, Ky., to work in
his brickyard. After four years, Fisher sold the boys to Nat
Gist, another Lexington brickyard owner.
During Peter's teenage years, his resolve to resist the
dehumanizing rigors of slavery grew stronger. Determined to
make a better life for himself, Peter practiced
self-discipline. He abstained from liquor, tobacco and bad
language.
Eventually, Peter and Levin ended up on a cotton plantation in
Bainbridge, Ala. Levin, who worked as a field hand most of his
life, died in Bainbridge when he was unable to recover from a
lashing his wife's master gave him for visiting her too often
at a neighboring plantation. Levin was whipped 317 times with
a rawhide lash.
On the December day in 1831 when Peter buried his brother in
the Alabama soil, he made a vow not to die a slave.
Eighteen years later, Peter was sold to a man named Joseph
Friedman in Tuscumbia, Ala., who granted Peter's lifelong wish
to buy himself out of slavery. Friedman, a moneylender in
Tuscumbia, charged Peter $500 for his freedom, which Peter
paid in five installments between Jan. 26, 1849, and April 16,
1850.
Once free, Peter's first thought was to find the family he had
been torn from four decades earlier. But finding his family
meant leaving his wife, Lavinia, and their children, Peter,
Levin and Catherine. Peter promised Lavinia that he would
return for them soon.
Joseph Friedman's brother Isaac took Peter to Cincinnati in
July 1850, to officially set him free, because Alabama law
strictly forbade the freeing of slaves under any
circumstances. Once in Cincinnati, Peter, now white-haired and
in his late 40's, struck out on his life's quest with $80 in
his pocket and a worn carpetbag in his hand. Peter traveled by
steamer up the Ohio River to Pittsburgh and then by stagecoach
to Philadelphia. He was guided by the words of his
grandmother, who had told him decades before never to forget
that his mother, father and sisters lived up north by the
Delaware River.
On arriving in Philadelphia, Peter's plan was to make
inquiries at black churches about his family. At one church,
he met a Rev. Byas, who on Aug. 1, 1850, took him to the most
momentous meeting of his life. It was a scene that would be
played out more than a century later in skits at the Still
family reunions.
Although Mr. Byas himself could not provide the information
Peter sought, he took him to see his friend William Still, the
young clerk who ran the office of the Pennsylvania
Anti-Slavery Society.
When Peter began telling of his family remembrances, William
Still soon realized that this shabbily dressed ex-slave was
one of the long-lost brothers his own mother had constantly
talked and prayed about.
William Still was amazed. He began pouring out the story, of
how his own father - their father - had purchased his way out
of slavery. How his mother - their mother - and two sisters,
their sisters, Mahalah and Kitturah, had escaped from the
Maryland plantation. How they had come north, been reunited
with Charity's husband, Levin (who was now eight years dead),
and how the couple had subsequently had 11 other children,
including not only William but also James (who was already
becoming renowned as the Black Doctor of the Pines).
It was more than Peter could believe. His masters in the South
had indoctrinated their slaves to be wary of abolitionists,
and Peter now feared that the incredible story he was hearing
might be some kind of trick. He was not fully persuaded until
two days later, when his sister Kitturah, whom he hadn't seen
since he was 6, and a younger sister, Mary, and younger
brother, James, whom he had never met before, took him to his
mother's farm in the Pine Barrens.
At the farm, the plan was to break the news of Peter's return
slowly to the infirm Charity. But Peter couldn't wait.
"Momma!" he shouted when he saw her. "It be me
- Peter!"
Tears began to roll down the old woman's face. She stretched
out her arms to welcome her second-born son.
When Charity asked about her eldest son, Levin, Peter told
her, "He be - free," meaning that he was dead.
Charity understood. She was saddened by the news, but said,
"Thank God Almighty."
Peter stayed with his family for more than a week, marveling
at the success of his brothers William and James, whose
comfortable life contrasted so sharply with the slave life he
had endured.
But now Peter's thoughts turned to his own wife and children
back in Alabama. He told his relatives he'd "as soon go
out of this world" if he couldn't be reunited with them.
Eight days after arriving in Philadelphia, Peter returned to
Alabama, determined to find a way to free his wife and
children.
He was back in Philadelphia the following November. He had
failed to purchase their release.
Desperate now, he reluctantly agreed to a daring plan offered
by a white Quaker, Seth Concklin. The story of Peter's
miraculous reunion with his mother and siblings in New Jersey
had made national headlines, and one of those who had been
moved by the story was Concklin, who now volunteered to go to
Alabama and rescue Peter's family for him.
Concklin's mission ended in April 1851. He had spirited
Lavinia and the children away from Alabama all right, but they
were discovered while traveling through Indiana. Concklin was
away on an errand when the family was captured. When he found
out what had happened, he went to the jail where they were
being held and tried to have them released on a writ of habeas
corpus. Instead, he was arrested, too.
The family was returned to Alabama. Concklin was murdered by
the slave- catchers.
For Peter Still, things now looked more hopeless than ever.
Then, on Aug. 6, 1851, William Still got a letter from B.
McKiernon, the man who owned Peter's wife and children, saying
that he would take $5,000 for the "4 culerd people."
For the next four years, Peter worked hard to raise the money,
by doing odd jobs and giving anti-slavery speeches and from
private donations. He was helped by the fact that he was
something of a celebrity by now. A white journalist, Kate
Pickard, had interviewed the illiterate freedman extensively
and had published a book in 1850, The Kidnapped and the
Ransomed, about Peter's life as a slave.
By 1855 Peter Still had the $5,000, and his wife and children
had their freedom. He moved them from Alabama to Burlington,
N.J., where he bought a 10- acre farm and grew produce for
sale in the city of Burlington. His customers included many of
the best families - people who knew of his past and
sympathized.
Peter and Lavinia Still were among the 11 original organizers
of Burlington's Second Baptist Church in 1863, the oldest
black Baptist church in the county.
Peter died Jan. 10, 1868, at the approximate age of 68.
FAMILY GRIOT--CLEM STILL
AS FAMILY GRIOT, CLEM STILL HAS been primarily responsible for
the Roots- like renaissance now going on in his family. Old
and young alike have been drawn into this renaissance,
researching old records and writing and performing the
historical skits at the annual reunions.
This upsurge of enthusiasm dates from the summer of 1983, at
one of the family reunions. It was stimulated by a speech
given by Gloria Still, at Clem's urging. Clem wanted to inject
a little more substance into the annual gathering, so he asked
Gloria to prepare a speech on the family's history, based on
the material both had gathered over the decades.
"That particular Sunday morning, the whole family history
was presented from the 1600s right up until today, for the
first time I can remember," Gloria says. She not only
told about the Guinea prince and some of the more famous
family members of the 19th century, but she also spoke about
some of the lesser-known Stills - such as Levin, the father of
William, Peter and James, and how he purchased his freedom
from the Maryland slave holder and moved to New Jersey.
She told about Ephraim J. Still, who was an original City
Council and school board member of the town of Lawnside (one
of the few incorporated, predominately black towns in the
nation) when it was officially incorporated in 1926.
And about Lewis Still, the self-described inventor of
saltwater taffy.
Gloria's 1983 speech did something that had never been done
before. It combined the various threads of family history into
a comprehensive narrative - from the Guinea prince right down
to the present day. It established connections that few
historians had made. For instance, although many reference
books on black history list the accomplishments of William
Still and Doctor James Still, few have noted the important
fact that they were brothers.
Gloria's speech planted seeds of interest that quickly
sprouted in other members of the family. One who was
especially inspired was Bonita Still Austin of Clementon, N.J.
Bonita already had a strong sense of the family's heritage.
She is a great-great-granddaughter of the Black Doctor and a
sister of Art Still, the pro football player, and of Valerie
Still, the basketball star. "I had always heard of Doctor
James Still," she says, "but it didn't mean that
much, because there were 12 of us (in her immediate family),
so it was like 'Stills . . . more Stills!' " But after
hearing Gloria's speech, "I became more interested in the
family history, and I felt compelled to do more
research."
Bonita wrote not only the skit about the first family reunion,
but also one about how Peter Still was reunited with his
family in 1850. She based it on an account written by William
Still.
"This has become a highly personalized experience,"
she says, "to literally experience what our ancestors
left behind. All we're doing is giving our forefathers back
what they've done for us. That's where the joy comes. Giving
back to them what they've given to us and giving them their
proper place in history."
And so, the renaissance spread - from Clem to Gloria, then to
Bonita, then from her to some of her sisters, including
Francine Still Hicks, an artist who has painted Doctor James
Still's portrait, and Franciana Still, who acts in the Peter
Still reunion skit. Also to another sister, Jackie Still Neal,
who has lived in Lexington, Ky., for the last six years and
whose first job there was on the same street as the site of
the plantation where the brothers Peter and Levin spent most
of their young lives.
Jackie is now doing research on Peter and Levin and also on
Seth Concklin, the Quaker who lost his life trying to rescue
Peter's family from slavery.
She says the work has given her life new meaning. "When I
feel life is rough, I think about these men and all they did,
and I get humble. These men did so much."
THE STORY OF JAMES STILL, THE BLACK DOCTOR OF THE
PINES
PLAYING DOCTOR WAS THE FAvorite childhood game of James Still.
He performed mock vaccinations on his brothers and sisters,
using a slender piece of pine bark to simulate the lancet used
by the doctor who visited his father's farm.
The dream of becoming a doctor - of riding around the
countryside healing people - captivated this son of an
ex-slave. "It took deep root in me," Doctor Still
wrote in his 1877 autobiography, "so deep that all the
drought of poverty or lack of education could not destroy the
desire."
James Still traveled a rocky road on the way to a medical
career. His early years were dominated by farm chores,
chopping wood and picking cranberries. He got only about three
months a year of formal education, with the Bible and Comly's
Speller as his main study materials.
Times were so lean that the young James once wrestled a piece
of meat from the mouth of the family cat.
When he was 21 he left the Pine Barrens and walked to
Philadelphia, where he lived with older sister Kitturah and
worked at a glue factory for $12 a month. The factory owner
was pleased with James' hard work, but the stench from the
boiling dead animals eventually became unbearable for the boy,
and he returned to the Pine Barrens after less than a year,
finding what work he could and saving his earnings.
The happiest period of James Still's life was when he married
Angelina Willow in 1835, after a courtship in which he learned
love songs to sing to her. The marriage was short. Angelina
died in 1838. Their only child, Beulah, died a year later.
James went through a period of intense mourning, seclusion and
prayer before he realized the folly of his self-pity. He
married a second time, to Henrietta Thomas, and again worked
at any odd job he could find.
By 1842 James had saved enough money to purchase a still,
which he used to distill extracts from roots and herbs that he
gathered near his house. He sold the extracts to pharmacists.
With the money he made from the herbal extracts, he bought
books on anatomy, physiology, botany and the preparation of
medicines.
Soon, his practice of herbal medicine crowded out the
distilling business. He built a wagon for making calls, and he
carried a cigar box as his medicine chest. He had a far-flung
caseload that included whites as well as blacks. ''Patients
came long distances to seek his advice, and hundreds attest
the benefits of his treatment," the New Jersey Mirror
wrote years later, on the occasion of his death. Skin cancer
was one of the illnesses he is said to have treated
successfully.
As his reputation grew, so did the resentment of white
doctors. Here was a black herbalist, with no medical degree,
affecting cures that they could not. They ridiculed his
remedies and contended that his patients were never really
sick in the first place. They also threatened legal action -
for practicing without a license. Doctor Still consulted a
Mount Holly lawyer, who told him he could not legally collect
money for medical services without a license but that he could
sell medicine and charge for delivering it. And so, on that
basis, his practice continued.
A ringing testament to his skills is found in a letter written
by the Rev. John M. Buckley and published in the New Jersey
Mirror of March 14, 1882. Mr. Buckley had had a serious
infection of his upper jaw, which the best doctors of the time
had failed to cure. In desperation, Buckley was about to
depart for Paris to be treated by a French specialist when
someone suggested he visit the Black Doctor of the Pines.
"At first I spurned the notion but afterwards thought it
might do no harm to try," Mr. Buckley wrote. "Dr.
Still produced an entire Cure in (4) weeks time, charging less
for the cure than the others had charged for examining the
diseased part."
As his practice flourished, Doctor Still was able to expand on
his small plot of land outside Medford, on Church Road near
Route 541. Fine carriages replaced his rustic, homemade wagon.
A three-story home was built, with an office next door. He
later purchased a nearby tavern (from one of his bitterest
detractors), enlarged it, and turned it into a hospital for
patients who had traveled a long distance to see him.
By the time he died on March 9, 1882 - a month short of his
70th birthday - Doctor Still was the third-largest land owner
in the Medford area.
Although he never attained his dream of a formal medical
education, one of his four sons, James Jr., did, graduating
with honors from Harvard's School of Medicine in 1871 - the
second black to finish there. One of the Black Doctor's four
daughters, Lucretia Still, sold medicines made from her
father's formulas. And another son, Joseph, followed in his
father's footsteps as an herbalist, although his career soon
turned sour. The white political establishment, which was
solidly Republican in Mount Holly, shunned Joseph in 1892 for
backing Democratic presidential candidate Grover Cleveland.
Joseph eventually lost his practice, his wealth and his wife,
and reportedly was buried in a pauper's grave.
Late in his life, the Black Doctor wrote in his autobiography,
"I hope this book may be a stimulus to some poor,
dejected fellow man who almost hopelessly sits down and folds
his arms, saying, 'I know nothing. I can do nothing.' "
RESEARCHING THE STILL family history is a never-ending task.
New bits of information seem to surface every day.
Historian Charles Blockson recently received an 1887 clipping
from a Reading, Pa., newspaper containing an obituary for an
Aaron L. Still. The clipping described Aaron Still as a
fighter for equal rights and "one of the best-known
colored men in Pennsylvania."
And during the writing of this article, the grave site of
William Still was discovered. The family had been trying to
find it for two years, without success. Then, while doing
research at the Gloucester County Historical Society, the
author of this article ran across a reference to the
reinterment of William Still at a cemetery in Darby, Pa. With
the information from the Historical Society, cemetery
officials were able to provide the location of the grave.
Two days earlier, Bonita Still Austin was at the Mount Laurel
grave of Doctor James Still. She remarked to one of her
sisters that she could not rest until she found the grave of
William.
When she got word of the discovery, she was speechless.
The next morning, Bonita and her family went to the cemetery
in Darby. It was closed when they got there, but Bonita
climbed the fence, unable to wait for the 8 a.m. opening.
"I felt so overwhelmed the closer I got to the
grave," Bonita says. "My heart was just pounding. As
I walked up to the grave, I felt William breathe in and out
and say: 'Finally.' "
This article by LINN WASHINGTON was Originally
published on Sunday, October 11, 1987 in Features Section of
Philadelphia Inquirer Text retrieved from archives of (tm)
newspaper library system from MediaStream Inc., a
Knight-Ridder Inc. company.
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