Chapter IV · STUDY IN EUROPE 1849-1851

On April 30 we landed at Liverpool, and I began to make acquaintance with the wonderful and unknown Old World, which I had left when a child of eleven. Everything seemed new and striking. The substantial character of Liverpool, the ‘finished look’ of the surrounding country, the extraordinary character of the mining district—all awakened keen interest. My poor cousin being ill with rheumatism, however, we journeyed on at once to his home at Portway Hall, near Dudley. A fortnight was spent in this pleasant home, which, though in the centre of the ‘Black Country,’ was surrounded by gardens where the flowers were fresh and sweet, the trees in beautiful leaf, whilst the cuckoo saluted us in the morning and the nightingales at night. I gained a glimpse of the lovely English country, and spent a memorable time in examining the novel surroundings of the great mining district of England. The following letters are descriptive of a young student’s impressions on revisiting her native land more than a generation ago.

Portway: May 2, 1849.

Thanks be to Heaven, I am on land once more, and never do I wish again to experience that hideous nightmare—a voyage across the ocean. We had the warmest welcome at my cousin’s pleasant home.... I went one afternoon to see the casting—that is, when the melted iron, like a river of fire, flows into the moulds which shape it. The Russel Hall Works are close by the town of Dudley. There is a wide extent of smoky country, with many little groups of machinery and brick buildings, each constituting or rather surrounding a pit; many mounds of glowing coal turning into coke; piles of ironstone being burned previous to the smelting; the houses of the managers in various directions, the office at the entrance; and immediately in front the two great blast-furnaces, which burn incessantly day and night, making many thousands of tons a year. Very few workmen were to be seen, but underground a whole army of them were hard at work. The casting was very curious. Twice a day the melted iron is drawn off from the bottom of the great brick towers they call furnaces. Strong men with faces as black and scorched as a coal were busy, armed with iron poles, guiding the sea of fire that rushed out into the moulds that covered a great extent of ground, drawing out the white-hot masses of cinders and dirt, and splashing cold water over the front of the furnace to enable them to stand there. We remained at the farther end, but the heat was so great that we had to cover our faces. Suddenly, with a loud noise, the flames burst out from the furnaces, ascending to the very top, immense volumes of black smoke rolled over our heads, and the rushing noise grew louder and louder. I thought some accident had occurred, and looked out for the safest retreat, when I found it was only the clearing of the furnaces by sending a powerful blast through them, which was always practised after a casting. Within a square of twelve miles one-sixth of the iron used in the world is said to be made.... I paid a visit to Dudley Castle, having a great curiosity to see a veritable old castle, a ruined castle; and I explored every corner, looked up the broad chimneys, and peeped out of the stone window frames and loopholes with a feeling of true antiquarian enthusiasm. We sat down on a stone bench at the foot of the keep, which is very old, and on a little hill on the western side of the courtyard; there we tried to revive the scene as it may have looked hundreds of years ago, when armed men were bustling about the court, and visions of fair ladies gleaming from the upper windows and now ruined terraces. The castle crowns a wooded hill, commanding the town and level country for many miles; the remains of a double wall with a moat between still surround the castle. As I stood by those strong walls and looked down on the wide fields below, I began to imagine how grandly an army would approach, and how noble a defence the castle would make, till I longed to revive the ancient conflicts, and almost frightened my companions by my martial demonstrations and visions of grim warriors peeping through the iron-barred windows. But the illusion could not last long; the country is covered with smoke and coal-pits, the wallflower is smiling on the ruins of the old castle, and instead of subterranean dungeons and dark passages the hill is excavated for limestone; and these artificial caverns of enormous extent, with a canal winding through them and echoing to the voices of the workmen, form one of the most curious features of the place, and show how the same energy and power are still at work, though in a very different direction. We drove home through the little town of Dudley, which presented a most curious spectacle, for it was market day, and the workmen from all the country round, having received their wages, were come in with their wives and children to make their weekly purchases. The streets were crammed with people, and our carriage made its way through a living mass that hardly opened to let it through. I examined the people, as I have constantly done since I entered the country, with great curiosity. I could not see one handsome face in the whole multitude—indeed, the English appear to me a very common-looking people—but neither was I struck by the misery I expected to see. In Liverpool I had peered into all the back alleys and odd corners I could find; I have done the same in Dudley. There is great cleanliness observed everywhere, that compares most favourably with American cities, and the inhabitants of those districts, though miserable, of course, according to a true standard of human life, were neither more numerous nor more wretched than I have been accustomed to see in America. I have very rarely seen a beggar, and in no instance one that has particularly excited my compassion. This district is one of the most thickly peopled in England, and certainly presents an average view of the mining districts, and the poor labourers seem far more comfortable and intelligent than I had supposed. The manufacturing districts, I have no doubt, would present a different spectacle. I have had no opportunity of judging them. I have just learned to my great satisfaction that Mr. Charles Plevins, an old friend of my cousin, is going to London for a few days, and will escort me there and remain during my stay. I can hardly tell you what a relief this is, for the idea of going to that great city an entire stranger, and wandering about it utterly alone, was a most desolate, oppressive thought, and entirely destroyed all the pleasure of the anticipation, though I assumed a very independent tone in speaking of my journey when I found it was utterly impossible for cousin to accompany me. He is an old friend of cousin’s, though young—only twenty-five—and there is an air of youth and immaturity about all his opinions and actions; but his spirit is so beautiful that you have only to see in order to love it, so pure and gentle, so true and genial. In my opinion he belongs to a class of young Englishmen that I find is large and constantly increasing. Cousin S. is one of them. They are reformers in spirit, but not destroyers; they have no clear immediate plan of reform, and so earnestly maintain the present system until they find a better one; but they are all the time seeking for truth, and longing most earnestly to realise that grand future in which they all believe. Fichte is one of their favourite teachers; Carlyle, Emerson, Channing, all we have known and learned from in the past, they worship now; but they have yet to study Fourier and Swedenborg before they can reach that strong hope and clear insight which will make their working strong, happy, and practically efficient. Now, there is too much of metaphysical abstraction in their thoughts, their religious faith is not a glorious reality, and in the case of our friend Charles, he despises the material world too much, and seeks to subdue the body and purify the spirit by privations which proceed from the noblest motive but a mistaken faith.

I have a curious interest in seeing and hearing him; it revives so completely my earlier life, when I thought as he does now, and strove for the same ends by the same means. My medical effort won his admiration before I arrived, and since I came here he has done me every little service in his power. His family is an old and highly respected one in Birmingham, and when he found I wished to see something of medicine in the city he used his influence to arrange a useful day for me. Accordingly, the day before yesterday I went in with him to Birmingham, having received invitations from several physicians. We spent the day in visiting the various institutions together, and as it was my first introduction to the English medical world, and as I consider it a good omen, I must describe our doings particularly.

Mr. Parker, surgeon to the Queen’s Hospital, had some difficulty in believing that it was not an ideal being that was spoken of; but when he found I was really and truly a living woman he sent me an invitation to witness the amputation he was going to perform, and promised to show me all the arrangements of the institution, sending also a note of admission to the college and museum. Dr. Evans, a distinguished physician, invited me to the General Hospital, the largest and oldest one, and expressed much sympathy in my undertaking. Dr. McKay, of the Lying-in Hospital, thought that God and Nature had indicated the unfitness of women for such a pursuit as I had chosen, but still said he would be very happy to show the lady all he could. All the students were on the qui vive to see the lady surgeon, and as we approached the building I saw them peeping through doors and windows. Mr. Parker, a fat, rosy-faced John Bull, received me very politely, introduced me to some M.D.’s who had come to see the sight, showed me the arrangements of the hospital, which is young and not particularly interesting, and then took me to the operating-room. It was crammed with students, and as fresh ones arrived they would peep about, whisper to their neighbours, and then work their way to a place where they could see me. It was just a repetition of old scenes; a few minutes’ curiosity, and then all went on as usual. The students presented the same mixture of faces as our American ones, wore rather better coats, and seemed to be quicker in their movements. I noted nothing peculiar in the operation, which was skilfully performed, without chloroform, which Mr. Parker disliked. Before leaving, he offered me a letter to the famous Roux of Paris.

At the General Hospital, established sixty years, Dr. Heslop received me with the utmost deference, showed me every ward, male and female, pointed out every case of note, let me examine it, and detailed the treatment, particularly one operation for subclavian aneurism, which was so remarkable that they were going to publish the case. Dr. Percy, of Birmingham, a particular friend of S., has promised to meet me in London, and to furnish me with all the necessary introduction to give me an insight into the medical world of the great metropolis. So I look forward now with great hope to a short but delightful visit, and leave for London next Saturday, the 12th, to await my passports, which I shall probably receive with letters on the 16th, and then off again for the land of dancing and wooden shoes. I heard the cuckoo this morning; what a soft human sound it is! Last night the nightingales were singing sweetly in the twilight. Our garden is full of lovely English flowers; the primrose and cowslip, laurustinea, and many others make our garden beautiful, though the weather is a most cold, gloomy nurse to the little darlings.

May 17.—We left Portway yesterday afternoon. I parted from our friends with great regret; we were getting used to one another; a home feeling was growing up there to me, and so it was time to be off. We arrived late in London, so I could only remark the many handsome houses in gardens that marked its environs, the fine and spacious orderly railway station, the wide streets and gay shops. This morning, after seeing Dr. Percy, Cousin S.’s friend, who has promised to give me the necessary introductions to the hospitals to-morrow, we walked about five miles through the city before reaching Mrs. X.’s house in Devonshire Street. During our walk we passed through many handsome squares with monuments and public buildings, not an isolated one, as with us, but row after row of grand pillared edifices, whole streets of palaces, substantial, built of freestone, but all rendered dingy by smoke, which permeates the atmosphere and penetrates everywhere. The most venerable pile of Westminster Abbey is crumbling with age; the cathedral service was being chanted when we entered; the central space was filled with people. The aisles are in the form of a cross, bordered by tall pillars rising lofty and plain to support the long vistas of arches. The spaces are filled up by a wilderness of monuments, a subdued light pouring in, a cool, stony atmosphere filling the cathedral. It is a noble old building, and has impressed me more than anything I’ve seen. From Westminster Bridge I saw the new Houses of Parliament—an immense pile, the ornaments too delicate for its size. The poor little river was covered with boats, and the bridge with people enjoying the Sunday; but London was much quieter than I supposed it would be. I noticed but one ‘confectionery store’ partly open; the day seemed to be very strictly observed. We walked through Regent Street, and through endless rows of handsome houses constituting the ‘West End,’ to Mrs. X.’s. We were shown in by a footman in crimson plush breeches, white stockings, and claret-coloured coat with gold buttons, to the drawing-rooms—the walls lined with figured crimson velvet, and all manner of lounges and tables covered with knick-knackery scattered about. The lady made her appearance in a blue and black satin dress with jet ornaments and a lace headdress—a handsome brunette, with red cheeks and very black eyes and hair, and altogether too much mannerism to please me. She was evidently criticising me, and holding herself in a non-committal attitude. I sat still and talked very quietly, thinking to myself that if I were condemned to live there one week I should overturn the lady and smash everything to atoms. Presently a few fashionable morning visitors dropped in to condole with the lady, who had scratched her throat by swallowing a mouthful too hastily, and so was an invalid; some messages of inquiry and condolence were delivered by an old, grave footman, so very silly, and answered in so absurd a manner, that I wondered how the man could keep a grave countenance; and yet the lady had wit and spirit which occasionally flashed out. Sir J. H. came in with Dr. H. to see me. I had a little very pleasant talk, and am to meet him on Tuesday. We descended to lunch, ladies sitting down in their bonnets. The dining-room and library had ceilings beautifully painted to imitate the sky with clouds; the whole house was hung with paintings. The lady’s manner grew gradually pleasanter; she seemed to like me, admired my hand, and insisted on my drinking a glass of wine—the first I ever took. I told her so, and she was much pleased at her influence. She took us in her barouche through Regent’s Park, and then extended her drive to Hyde Park. These parks are very beautiful—miles of grassy lawn, scattered over with groves, gardens, and clumps of trees, with occasional water, and varied with little valleys. They are surrounded by rows of palace houses, sometimes approaching the carriage road, sometimes lost in gardens and shrubbery. I did enjoy to see the people walking about, sitting under the trees, inhaling a little fresh air on the quiet Sunday, for the most perfect order prevailed. Our hostess became quite agreeable, laughed, and chatted merrily about all manner of nothings. It was impossible to converse with her; she must do the talking with a little support, and she gave forth a good deal of shrewd worldly wisdom. She set us down at the Zoological Gardens in Regent’s Park, with many regrets that an engagement to a dinner-party in the country prevented her asking me home, and the expression of a strong desire to have a long, full conversation.

Monday, May 1849.—This morning I called on Dr. Carpenter, who has written those admirable works on physiology. He lives near Regent’s Park; it was sparkling with dew as I walked through—refreshingly sweet. I found him and his wife exceedingly agreeable. I liked them at once. They questioned me with great interest about my past course. I am to meet some distinguished people at their house to-night, and among them a Miss Gillies, an artist who has watched my steps with the highest pleasure, and who thinks the only true livers are the workers. I received several notes of introduction from Dr. C. He says I must hear Mr. Paget lecture; that he is the most promising surgeon in England. I found an invitation to a pharmaceutical soirée awaiting me on my return, with the information that I might see all the distinguished M.D.’s there assembled.

Evening.—I have just returned from Dr. C.’s delightful little party. The ladies were in regular ball costume; some dresses very elegant; dancing to the piano; music, vocal and instrumental. Dr. C. gave us a very beautiful piece of Mendelssohn’s on the organ; he and his wife sang together with great feeling. His microscopes, said to be the most beautiful in England, were there. His preparations were exquisite: the lung of a frog most minutely injected, a piece of shark skin which seems covered with innumerable teeth, and piles of other specimens. Miss Gillies is a distinguished artist. I am to visit her and see her relation, Dr. Southwood Smith. Chapman, the well-known publisher, was present, and talked a good deal to me, but seemed a little undecided what tone to take. He has a very handsome, intellectual face. I was introduced to many pleasant people; one had the rare, beautiful face of Cowper’s mother. Great interest seemed to be felt in my course.

Before going to Dr. C.’s I went to examine the specimens collected for the pharmaceutical soirée. I was surprised to find that the papier-mâché models have been hitherto unknown in England, and that the people were regarding with the utmost rapture specimens which are in common use in all American colleges. Sir J. H. drove us to the Consumption Hospital and the Chelsea Botanical Gardens—a most kind-hearted, simple-mannered old gentleman....

Dr. Percy secured me a great treat. I visited the Hunterian Museum in company with Mr. Owen, who lectures at the institution. It is said to be the finest collection of comparative and morbid anatomy in the world. Mr. Owen is a man of genius, and the hour passed away like a minute while listening to his eloquent descriptions of the fossil remains and the laws which related them to living animals, to man, and to the globe. He invited me to come any morning between ten and twelve, but unfortunately my time is too crowded. The obstetric collection is very fine; if I return through London I shall certainly try to spend a week or two in examining it.

We next took the railroad and went to Greenwich, choosing the third-class open cars that I might see the country, which is laid out in market gardens richly cultivated, all round London, though the city, stretching out through Deptford to Greenwich, makes one uninterrupted town in that direction. Greenwich Hospital for Sailors has impressed me more than any other institution with the power and wealth of the nation. It is a series of great palaces, connected by colonnades with double rows of pillars ranged round a large green open to the river, with the park and observatory in the background. The old sailors were hobbling about in comfortable dresses, with enormous rations of bread and meat; for we reached it just at dinner-time, and they were allowed to take their meals and eat in their cabins. There are long walks where they smoke, and they rove about in the freest style. Their chapel is a very beautiful hall, though I fear the rich painting and mosaic is lost on the rough tars. The Painted Hall is immediately opposite; the vaulted ceiling is covered with figures which are larger than life, even from below; the walls are entirely covered with large paintings, richly framed, of naval engagements and naval heroes, and many relics of the great commanders are preserved in cases. The park is always open to the public; groups of women and children were sitting under the fine old trees, and the deer were so tame that they took no notice of passers-by. We sailed up the river to Waterloo Bridge, passing the Tower and St. Paul’s, and several handsome stone bridges. Then we went over the British Museum, which is thrown open to the public. We had only time to pass rapidly through hall after hall devoted to branches of natural science, Egyptian monuments, Grecian remains, &c., all admirably classified, with a label to every specimen. How I longed that our students, and particularly a certain E. B., could enjoy the great advantage of walking to such an institution, and seeing each object of study actually there in its natural relations! I hastened home to wash and dress, and reached Mrs. X.’s just in time for the seven o’clock dinner. It was a tremendous operation. We sat at table for three hours. I really grew stiff, notwithstanding the champagne I drank. By-the-by, that is the only wine I like; iced champagne is really good. I sat by Sir J. H. at table, and never discovered till I had left that it was actually mother’s old friend. He told Charles that he knew my mother, and remembered my face perfectly, having often seen me at church. I regretted exceedingly that I did not know the connection till too late, for I had always liked the kind old gentleman, and he would have seemed to me quite like an old friend. He has been rather unfortunate in money matters lately, and was robbed of all his family jewels by a foreign count and countess whom he was hospitably entertaining. He possesses an old château in France, which he often visits, and gave me his card to use at Boulogne, in case I went that way. The general conversation, however, was stupid, and I really needed our three-mile walk home to wear off its constraining effects.

Thursday morning I visited my first hospital, St. Thomas’s, but under rather unpleasant circumstances; indeed, I hesitated whether to go at all. The surgeon to whom I sent my letter of introduction knew nothing about me, thought it was a very indelicate undertaking, and simply sent me a line to one of the nurses, with the request that I would not enter any of the men’s wards. I swallowed the indignity, however, and went, feeling very uncomfortable. But to my surprise, after I had been there a little while I was met by Mr. South, the senior surgeon, who had come on purpose to meet me and show me everything—a very kind, rather eccentric man, who paid me the utmost attention, and pointed out everything, even to the everlasting brewhouse of the establishment. In the museum he drew my attention to many noteworthy specimens, such as the aorta tied by Sir Astley Cooper. St. Thomas’s is a series of enormous buildings, which is the character of most public institutions here; its income is 30,000l. per annum, and some hospitals have even more. Then he invited me to attend his clinical lecture; so at the head of a large body of students, who had been peeping at me in every direction, I passed with him through ward after ward, men’s and women’s, the students preserving the most perfect order, though I could see that they were filled with the intensest curiosity. He gave me the fullest description of interesting cases, and made me examine several. He left his students to the house-surgeon, and accompanied me to the Barclay Brewery—an enormous affair, quite a national curiosity. It was here that the brutal Haynau, whilst visiting the place a short time ago, was mobbed by the men when they heard who had come amongst them, and barely escaped some very rough usage. My courteous escort left me in the kindliest manner, promising me an introduction to the Bethlehem. While at St. Thomas’s I received three invitations to post-mortems, to a lecture, and to the Ophthalmic Dispensary, all of which I was compelled to decline for want of time.

At the brewery visitors enter their names. I set mine down without the M.D.; Mr. South insisted on my adding it. I have been asked by physicians again and again if they shall call me doctor—they fully recognise my right. I always answer this question in the affirmative, as a matter of principle. I can hardly describe to you the difference of feeling with which I entered and left the hospital. We walked a couple of miles to dine with Mr. and Mrs. Charles T., an elegant household, though without the fetters of fashion; they welcomed me most kindly. My two remaining days will be very busy: I have two or three hospitals to visit and several people to see; indeed, engagement treads upon engagement, so that I’ve hardly a moment to think. I thought such excitement would have bothered me intensely. It did at first bewilder, but now I’ve roused myself to meet it and I really enjoy it. I’ve never had such an experience; I must have walked ten miles a day. I come home sometimes hardly able to move a foot; I wash and dress, and in an hour I’m up again and fresh for as much more—the more I have to do, the more I can. I believe I’ve never yet begun to call out my power of working.

The girl has just come in with my letters, passport, and papers by the ‘Europa’—what a good sight! Bless you all ten thousand times! My next letter will probably be from Paris....

... I have had a delightful visit to Hampstead, where Dr. Wilkinson lives. He received me at once with the greatest kindness and interest, introduced me to his wife, a very sweet woman, graceful and gentle, and to some very pretty black-eyed children. He was disappointed that my stay was so short; told me I ought certainly to spend a year in London, that the longer he lived in it the more wonderful it seemed to him, that every idea was represented there not by a single individual but by a whole class, and that the societies I might study there would be of great service to me as a means of development. He is a tall, strong man, not handsome, wears spectacles, and has a strong expression of goodness in his face. He took me to see two people who were desirous of making my acquaintance, and showed me all the fine points of view from Hampstead, which truly is a most lovely spot, though only two miles from London. It is a hilly range, looking down on wide undulating country on both sides, with blue hills in the distance—Windsor Castle being distinctly visible twenty miles off. I cannot describe the place; it seems to have built itself in one of Nature’s choicest nooks. There is a common covered with golden gorse, broken by little dells in which pretty cottages are nestled, and there are old mansions hidden in noble parks, old walls covered with luxuriant ivy, shady lanes with long avenues of trees and smooth hedges of hawthorn and laurel, fields covered with a rich carpet golden with buttercups and daisies, the cows quietly feeding in a veritable paradise to them. Then there are all manner of odd corners and irregular clusters of houses, but everywhere the most intense vegetation. The little cottage occupied by Byron, who used often to resort to this lovely spot, was pointed out to me, and Harrow, where he went to school. We had much interesting conversation. In the omnibus I parted from the doctor with real regret, but quite refreshed by the cordial intercourse.

Journey to Paris.—All my teachers and medical friends in America had strongly advised my going to Paris, as the one place where I should be able to find unlimited opportunities for study in any branch of the medical art. Being then desirous of pursuing surgery as well as medicine, I followed their advice. On May 21, 1849, with a very slender purse and few introductions of any value, I found myself in the unknown world of Paris, bent upon the one object of pursuing my studies, with no idea of the fierce political passions then smouldering amongst the people, nor with any fear of the cholera which was then threatening an epidemic.

Curious glimpses of this outer world are given in letters sent home at that time.

Paris, 11 Rue de Seine: May 1849.

You see, dear friends, that I have reached my destination at last, and fairly established myself in this strange city. I parted from my kind companion, who in London had spent the whole week in one continued effort to aid me in every possible way, with real gratitude. I could not thank him, words seemed too meaningless.... I left London with the profoundest respect for the vast power of many kinds displayed there, and a grateful remembrance of a personal reception that had been so encouraging. It rained the whole way over. An English lady returning to Paris with her husband was very friendly. She promised to show me the best place to stay at in Calais, and said if I would travel with them in the cars she could give me much information about Paris, for the French made a point of cheating the English unmercifully, thinking they were immensely wealthy. We were notified of our approach to Calais by a strong smell of fish. It was quite dark and raining in torrents; I was very glad to have companions. We picked our way as well as we could over the stone pier, enclosed by walls on which stood a lighthouse glaring into the dark night. We stepped into the rooms where the passports are examined, and there the whiskered faces showed me I was amongst strangers, and the Où allez-vous, madame? confirmed the fact. Next morning I stood for some time on the pier waiting for the Custom-house officer and watching the strange people. Market-women in their white caps (the common people wear no bonnet), groups of workmen in blue blouses, fishwomen of enormous muscular development, though short, returning from fishing laden with their nets, clad in a single petticoat scarcely reaching to the knee, little children with their school-books making sundry excursions on to the fishing-smacks by the way, and chattering French with all their might. At the Custom-house the search was very slight; they did not even see the cases which I had put at the back of a larger trunk, and I was only charged a couple of francs. We left Calais at nine o’clock, and the difference between France and England was apparent the whole way. The country was no flatter than between Liverpool and Birmingham, but badly drained and badly cultivated, with many peat bogs and dwarf willows bordering the watercourses. There were many villages built of light-coloured stone, but apparently not one brisk, thriving town. The whole way wooden fences instead of beautiful live hedges, women digging trenches and working in the peat bogs, and the railroad left in the rough, unfinished style of America, without the excuse of an immense young country. At the Custom-house in Paris, where they search the trunks for butter and cheese, I parted from my travelling companions and launched boldly into the sea of Paris. It looked very odd as I drove along; the streets so narrow, with such odd, old-fashioned houses, all built of this light-coloured stone, which has no sort of expression. They charged extravagantly at the hotel where I passed the night, so I determined at once to procure lodgings, and set off early next morning to hunt up Mr. Doherty, who I knew through Dr. Wilkinson would tell me the right quarter for medical doings.

I started off with a map in my hand and hope in my heart, and reached Mr. Doherty’s house very early, I suppose, for Parisian hours, for the gentleman was in bed when my letters were handed in; and soon after a short sleepy-looking man made his appearance, with a horrid coarse beard, a blue and red woollen dressing-gown, and green baize trousers hanging about his ankles. I had some difficulty in making him comprehend that I was not Anna. At last, however, with the help of letters and my explanations, all became clear. I found him very pleasant; he breakfasted, dressed, &c., while I talked to his brother Thomas, who is a beautiful artist. Mr. D. went with me to some places he knew of. At last we found a little room with bedroom attached in a central situation and at a moderate rent. The hostess was a very pleasant-looking woman, with her own room close by, the whole suite being separated from the rest of the house. I felt, however, quite disappointed in the city; it did not seem to me handsome, gay, or elegant after London; but then, in truth, I was so busy settling my own little matters that I hardly had time to examine closely. To-day I have spent in walking about the city with my hostess, chiefly for the sake of chattering with her and accustoming my ear to the strange sounds, for I find I have much to learn. I have great trouble in expressing myself with any elegance, and I cannot see the physicians until I have acquired a tolerable command of words; I shall very soon, however, be able to do so. I went out to buy a bonnet to-day, but found that my unfortunate organs were totally unable to squeeze themselves into a Parisian head-dress; so I was obliged to order a bonnet, choosing plain grey silk, although I was assured again and again that nobody wore that colour....

An interview with Lamartine.—At this period much sympathy was felt in America for the Republican movement in France, of which Lamartine was the head. Before leaving Philadelphia a friend had asked me to be the bearer of one of those expressions of sympathy from public meetings which were then sent to the poet from all parts of the United States. I willingly undertook the commission, and now wrote to the President for permission to present the document entrusted to me.

May 31, 1849.

I have just returned from my visit by appointment to Lamartine, where I went to deliver the Philadelphia resolution entrusted to me. I must hasten to give you a sketch before this post—the last—closes.

Of course I dressed with great care, and arrived just at the appointed hour. I was asked if I was a lady from America, for Lamartine is to most people in the country. I was shown through several ante-chambers into a drawing-room, where stood the poet entertaining some visitors; he bowed, requested me to wait a few moments, and withdrew with his visitors into another room. I examined the apartment: a lofty room, carved and richly gilded, three long windows opening on to a balcony commanding a garden full of trees. The room contained a rich carpet and purple velvet couches and chairs, some portraits, an exquisite female profile in bas-relief, a golden chandelier from the ceiling, some antique vases, &c., and a soft green light from the trees of the large garden diffused through the room. The door opened and Lamartine entered; very tall and slender, but the most graceful man I have ever seen, every movement was music; grey eyes and hair. The little bust is a pretty good likeness. He has the gentlemanly voice (Uncle Charles’s), clear, melodious, perfectly well-bred. In fact, his exterior harmonised perfectly with his poetry. He understood English. Slowly and distinctly I explained the commission which had been entrusted to me. He asked me if the resolution referred to the fraternity of the race, and seemed to understand at once the whole matter when I replied in the affirmative. I referred him to the letters accompanying the resolution for full explanation respecting the document and the manner of presenting it. He said he was very happy to receive these expressions of sympathy. He would read the letters carefully and send me an answer, which I promised to transmit to America. He accompanied me very politely to the stairs, bowed, and we parted. I was in no way disappointed; there was perfect harmony in the man and his surroundings. Doubtless he is a true man, though unable to work into practice the great thoughts he cherishes.

I went last night with my good little hostess to a neighbouring church, where there is service every evening. It was well lighted round the central altar, but in every direction the lofty aisles stretched away into the darkness, with an occasional lamp illuminating some saint, and small groups of dark figures kneeling on the pavement. The people were assembled in the centre—mostly the lower classes, women in their white caps, and little children dressed like miniature women; they knelt or stood, or sat on chairs and benches as the service required, generally with the utmost devotion. The little children used the holy water, crossed themselves, and knelt with their mothers, and regarded the bright lights, the flowers round the golden Virgin, and the impressive music with eager, wondering faces. The service was sung or chanted entirely in Latin; occasionally a pause in the music would be broken by the sudden, deep tones of a man’s voice away in the darkness, or a choir of boys’ voices would burst forth apparently from the clouds. The walls were covered with enormous pictures partially illuminated. I felt fully the impressiveness of this scene to the uneducated people; no thought awakened, but the emotional religious sentiment powerfully addressed; and this every night, when the solemn ceremonial contrasts so strongly and soothingly with the traffic of the day. The children are nursed in this atmosphere until it becomes a part of their nature that no reasoning can ever change.

My first introduction to Paris institutions was through the visit of a public official, who brought a registration paper to be filled up. I put myself down as Etudiante. The man stared, and then standing in front of me began to make the most extraordinary grimaces, opening his eyes until the whites showed all round them. My first astonished thought was—‘You ugly little brute, what on earth are you doing that for?’ when, his manner suddenly changing on my look of astonishment, he tapped me benevolently on the shoulder, saying, ‘Mon enfant, you must not put yourself down as student—rentière is the word you must use!’

In later life, with larger experience, I came to the conclusion that I had been interviewed by the Police des Mœurs! Fortunately at that time I knew nothing of the corrupt system of accepting and regulating female vice.

My next important interview was of a very different character. A Boston friend had procured for me, from a physician, an introduction to the famous Louis, then at the height of his reputation. It was a sealed introduction, which I forwarded with my card. The next day a tall, imposing-looking gentleman called upon me, who proved to be Louis himself. I soon felt instinctively that his visit was one of inspection. I told him frankly of my earnest desire for hospital and practical instruction. After a long conversation he most strongly advised me to enter La Maternité, where in one most important branch I could in a short time obtain more valuable practical knowledge than could be obtained anywhere else, and he informed me of the steps to be taken in order to obtain admission. Before leaving, however, M. Louis handed to me the letter of introduction which I had sent to him, saying that he thought I ought to see it. It was an astounding production, written in such wretched French that I could only suppose that its author was unaware of its insulting character, or of the effect that such a letter delivered to a French gentleman by a young unknown woman was likely to produce. I never again presented a sealed letter of introduction. Some years later, when the distinguished physician who had sent it called upon me in New York, I returned the letter to him, with a few words of very serious remonstrance.

On June 1 one of my sisters and a friend came to Paris, and we moved into pleasant lodgings in the Rue de Fleurus overlooking the Luxembourg Garden. Whilst there I attended lectures at the Collège de France and the Jardin des Plantes, and earnestly sought for admission to some of the hospitals for practical instruction. It seemed, however, that an entrance into La Maternité would be the most direct first step in obtaining the practical instruction needed, and although regretting the delay in my surgical studies which would be involved in such a course, I finally resolved to pursue the courses of that great institution.

The following letters refer to this period of effort.

My dear Cousin.—I find that I cannot enter the Maternité at present for want of an acte de naissance. I am trying to get over the difficulty, but French regulations are so strict that it is still uncertain whether I can succeed. Would it be possible to secure in Bristol a copy of my register of baptism, with a statement of my birthday and my parents, certified by the mayor or some proper authority? I was baptised at Bridge Street by Mr. Leifchild; I was born on February 3, 1821. I do not know, however, whether such a register is kept in England. If it could be procured, it would remove the difficulty which lies in my way.

We find Paris a very lively residence; every day something new is occurring, or we discover some wonderful old place which we must certainly visit. One day it is the funeral celebrations of Marshal Bugeaud, at which all the great men assist, with an army of soldiers and an enormous crowd; or a thousand little girls take their first communion at St. Sulpice, dressed in white with long veils; or some grand collection of flowers or manufactured articles calls out the spectacle-loving people. There is a constant effervescence of life in this great city, which concentrates all its energy in itself, and makes the Parisians at the same time the most brilliant and the most conceited people in the world. The greatest pleasure which we have yet enjoyed was our trip last Sunday to Versailles; it is really a place to be proud of, and I could not wonder at the worship which is paid to that beautiful temple by the people who, day after day, range freely through its grand galleries and spacious gardens.

I received to-day a very pleasant letter from Dr. Webster, one of our professors at Geneva; I was much gratified to find that their course to me has been approved by the profession in America. It would have grieved me inexpressibly if they had been condemned for the aid they had given me, and there seemed to be some possibility of it when I left. But he tells me my thesis was commented on in the Report on Medicine at the National Medical Convention held in Boston, and their course in relation to me justified and approved. The thesis was received with applause. This information is quite a relief to me, for the thought would be too painful that you could injure your friends.

June 15.

Dear Cousin,—By the first of July, as soon as I have conquered some miserable little difficulties, such as the acte de naissance, certificate of vaccination, &c., which I cannot produce, I shall enter La Maternité, a world-famous institution, and remain until I have succeeded in my first object—viz. to become an accomplished obstetrician. There are personal objections connected with this course that I was not prepared for—viz. a strict imprisonment, very poor lodging and food, some rather menial services, and the loss of three or four nights’ sleep every week. Still, these are things that can be borne (if the health will stand them) when the end to be gained is an important one; and I am sure you will agree with me that it is wise to sacrifice physical comfort for a while in order to attain it. I propose to remain there three months, and then I shall try and accomplish my second object—viz. surgery.

I hope in a day or two to receive permission from the Directeur-General, M. Davenne, to examine all the hospitals of Paris. I am working on gradually; but I find more clearly every day that the genius of the French nation does not suit me, and my love for the Anglo-Saxon race, and my admiration for our wonderful Fatherland, increase by the comparison....

We have had a strange glimpse of a revolution, a sort of theatrical representation of what that terrible thing might be. I confess that the whole exhibition seemed to me peculiarly French; and yet there are noble and terrible passions, lying below this mercurial excitability, that command hearty sympathy or serious consideration, and the unjust, tyrannical acts of the Government excite one’s strongest indignation. Now all is quiet again, however, and the whole affair is said to have been planned by the authorities to get rid of certain troublesome men.

A. and E. have stood the shock well, though they turned quite pale on finding as they were quietly parading the streets that they were in the midst of an émeute, and later I was sent out to see if they had not better instantly return to England, before civil war broke out and their throats were cut....

On the afternoon of the 13th E. and I went out to see the curious sight. The Quai to the National Assembly, more than a mile long, was lined with soldiers with their drawn bayonets. The Louvre and the Tuileries opposite were closed and filled with soldiers. An army of cavalry was mounted and ready to start at any moment. We passed through hurrying crowds full of excitement, hearing fearful reports of what had happened and what was to come. On the bridges, at the corners of the streets, were large groups of blouses, students, citizens, women, listening to some orator of the moment, gesticulating violently. More than once I observed a woman enthusiastically haranguing an audience. The most curious mixture of passions was visible on the faces—fear, anger, indignation, hope, hatred; there was many a figure that realised the horrors of an earlier revolution. It seems inconceivable now that those violent expressions should have died away, and that Paris is going on in its usual busy way.

June 1849.

My Friends, one and all,—I closed my last letter apparently on the eve of a great insurrection. I went out with E. G. quickly to put it in the post, not knowing how soon we might be prisoners in the house or stirring out at the risk of life. We passed through hurrying crowds full of excitement. Through the night heavy waggons of ammunition and provisions, escorted by soldiers, had rumbled through the streets. The public squares were shut and filled with soldiers. The Democratic press was destroyed; and the next morning the city was declared in a state of siege, and a proclamation was published by the President calling on all good citizens to maintain the authority of the law.

But nothing occurred, the commotion subsided, and the Conservative press congratulated the country on its preservation from the dangerous conspiracy of a few seditious demagogues.

It is difficult to get at the truth in a country where everybody lies upon principle; but it is now commonly believed that the whole affair was a trick of the Government to get rid of Ledru Rollin, Considérant, and other troublesome members of the Montagne, who were determined to call the President to account for his infamous conduct to the poor Romans.

I do not know whether American papers give these particulars—you must tell me if I repeat what you can get better elsewhere—but we have taken deep interest in these events passing round us. Our indignation is much roused against the Conservative tyranny; and the belief in the Government trick shows, curiously enough, of what it may be capable.

A manifestation meeting was called, to support by general feeling the attack which had been made by the advanced party in the Assembly on the unconstitutional measures of the President in suppressing popular gatherings. Two hundred thousand men were passing quietly to the place of meeting, some of the most respectable and distinguished citizens of Paris amongst them, not the slightest disturbance, not even one ‘Vive la Constitution!’ was heard; but a proclamation had been stuck about the streets, of the most inflammatory character, calling the citizens to arms, and signed by Considérant and Ledru Rollin. On the strength of that proclamation, which is fully believed to have been a forgery, the ‘meeting’ was dispersed and proceedings instituted against the members. The Government is proceeding with a high hand. I see that to-day even the Conservative press is putting in a feeble protest.

You would be amused to see how universally politics are discussed: the boy who arranged our rooms, the market-women at their stalls, everyone finds time to read a journal and give some opinion about it.

On June 30 I entered La Maternité; my residence there was an invaluable one at that stage of the medical campaign, when no hospitals, dispensaries, or practical cliniques were open to women. La Maternité was a great State institution, where young women to be trained as midwives were sent up from every department of France. The system of instruction, both theoretical and practical, was a remarkable illustration of that genius for organisation which belongs to the French. Every moment of time was appropriated; no distraction of books, newspapers, or other than medical works were allowed; lectures, wardwork, drills, and cliniques were arranged from morning to night with no confusion, but no pause; and the comprehension and progress of each pupil was constantly tested by examination.

The institution occupied the old convent of Port Royal, and the discipline was monastic in simplicity, regularity, and seclusion.

Stirring events were occurring in Paris during my residence in the Maternité, but only vague rumours reached us, as no newspapers were allowed within the old grey convent walls.

The following letters give curious pictures of life in this remarkable French institution.

July 1, 1849: à la Maternité.

Dear Mother,—I have now entered upon a strange phase of life, which I must try and describe, that you may imagine me running about in my great white apron, in which respectable article of apparel I expect to figure for the next three months. I had a good many obstacles to encounter from my ignorance of French customs; and the physicians of Paris, as far as I can judge, are determined not to grant the slightest favour to a feminine M.D. I could not obtain from any persons connected with the Maternité the smallest modification to suit the very different status with which I enter from the young French sages-femmes; but I was determined to enter on whatever conditions, and enter, too, by the first of July, to habituate myself a little to the ways of the place before the annual lectures commenced. I find now that nothing would have been easier than to have given me a little room to myself, permission to go out occasionally, and similar favours, which need have occasioned no jealousy or inconvenience; for the very fact of my being a foreigner impresses the French girls, and they would freely have accepted any claim made for me. But everything was obstinately refused to all the representations of myself or the Consul, Mr. Walsh, and I was only too glad to enter as a young, ignorant French girl. On June 30 I drove down with Anna to the hospital. A high stone wall, with the tops of old buildings peeping above, extends nearly the whole length of a little street. A very small door led into a dark little entrance, the portière on one side, and a long room, called by courtesy the parloir, on the other. You must notice the parloir, for it is there I shall receive my visitors, if I ever have any, at two o’clock, in common with the other élèves; and there in one corner, in a sort of little glass box, sits the good dame who attends to the letters and transacts all the outdoor business for the élèves. The ceiling is very low, the floor of brick, rows of wooden benches ranged one before the other—the most uninteresting room you can possibly conceive; the only pretty thing being the vine leaves which peep through the diamond-shaped windows. This room forms part of a row of old buildings standing against the wall, which contain the director’s bureau, the Interne’s rooms, &c. It was too late for me to see M. Boivin, the director, so an old woman took me into the central buildings, through a labyrinth of little passages and long galleries, and all manner of rooms and queer places, to Madame Charrier, the sage-femme in chief, who has her own rooms in a particular part of the building. Her parlour is the funniest little cabinet of curiosities, with a carpet on the floor, as it is of brick instead of waxed wood. Little chintz sofas, mosaic tables, boxes, china and figures, crucifixes, pictures and embroideries, and curtains everywhere. Madame Charrier is a little deformed woman, elderly, but with a fresh colour still, and kind blue eyes. I like what I have seen of her; she seems generally loved by the pupils, and though I do not imagine her of any particular amount of intellect, she seems to have good sense, and after twelve years in such an establishment as this she ought to have much valuable experience. Madame Charrier conducted me by unknown ways to Madame Blockel, the superintendent of the dortoirs, who took me into the infirmary, and said I must sleep there until I had arranged my affairs with the director. I did not much admire the idea of passing the night in the infirmary. There was a large wood fire on the hearth, and the air felt warm and somewhat close. I looked suspiciously at the long rows of beds extending on each side, their white curtains closely drawn; I did not know what undesirable emanations might be proceeding from them. However, I said nothing, but determined to investigate the contents of the beds as soon as the observers had withdrawn. My trunk was brought up, my bed pointed out, a little lamp placed on the table, and I was left alone. I proceeded then to make my observations, and found to my great relief that every bed was empty, except one, in which one of the élèves, who happened to have a headache, was lying, and from her I found that the place is healthy and no epidemic has prevailed there for a long time. I found her, like all the other French girls, full of those light kindnesses which are so pleasant. She asked me eagerly if I was from her province, and seemed to regard me with much interest when she found I was a stranger from New York, which was the only part of the United States she had heard of, and which she took to be an island near Havannah. I have since found that the pupils are much disappointed that I am not black, as they supposed all persons from America were! After talking a little with her I took out my writing materials, and sat down to the table determining to pay a little visit across the water before going to rest in my new home; but I had no sooner seated myself than Madame Charrier entered with a crowd of élèves, to know if I would pass the night in the salle d’accouchements, it being an optional matter the first night. Of course I expressed the utmost willingness. I put up my letter with a sigh, dressed myself for duty, and accompanied an ancienne élève (that is, one who has already studied a year, and who always has one or more of the nouvelles élèves under her care for initiation) to the room where the children are born. A large apron of coarse towelling was given me, with the injunction not to lose it, or I should have to pay three francs. It was a large upper room, rather dimly lighted, beds all round, a fire on the hearth, cupboards full of linen in the corners, heaps of shining copper and tin utensils, several rush-bottomed chairs and wooden tables, and in the centre a large wooden stand with sides, on which the little new-comers, tightly swathed and ticketed, are ranged side by side. In the course of the night we had the pleasure of arranging eight in this way, and the next morning when Madame Charrier made her appearance the cloth was removed and the sight shown with much triumph. It was really very droll. Each little shapeless red visage peeped from under a coarse peaked cap, on the front of which was a large label with the name and sex; a black serge jacket with a white handkerchief pinned across, and a small blanket tightly folded round the rest of the body, completed the appearance of the little mummy. Their behaviour certainly realised Fourier’s supposition, for there was very little crying all the time they lay there together. There were four young French girls sitting up with me, besides the girl who makes the beds and does the roughest work. They were all pretty and pleasant, of no education except their studies in the institution; but those had been evidently carefully attended to, and it sounded not a little droll to hear the scientific terms flowing so glibly from their laughing lips, which were busily employed in talking nonsense all the time that their duties did not call them to the bedside. The next morning at ten o’clock we were discharged from duty; it was Sunday, a comparatively leisure day, and I being a Protestant was excused from the religious services, but I was too sleepy to do much. I wrote, walked in the garden and read a little there, retired early, and had a most welcome sleep and very pleasant dreams.

Our dortoir is a large airy room, with a row of windows and beds on each side, divided into two by a large archway; it contains sixteen beds, occupied mostly by anciennes élèves. I have a window behind my bed; I have shoved the bed forward, fitted in a chair behind, hung up my dressing-gown, and put a few books on the floor by my side, and call it my room. I am now sitting there writing to you. I have just room enough to move my right arm freely, but I am out of the way, I am breathing fresh air, so I consider myself very well off. An old crucifix ornamented by gilded leaves hangs at one end of the dortoir, two little lamps are suspended from the ceiling, an iron bedstead and a chair are appropriated to each individual. The floor is formed of little hexagon bricks, which in some of the rooms are so terribly polished that I walk on them with difficulty. The dortoir is seldom quiet; the girls sit there a good deal, and some who have watched through the night are generally there in bed; and how French girls do chatter! How they do go into sudden fits of ecstasy or rage! Once at least in the day we have a grand storm, Madame Blockel coming in for some trouble or other, in which she and the accused out-scream each other, and appear to be mortal enemies for a few minutes, and the best of friends immediately after. At twelve o’clock we receive our supply of bread for the day, which we keep in our bedroom and take backwards and forwards to meals. I have frequently wished that you could see me walking gravely along the gallery with my loaf of bread wrapped in a napkin under my arm. The dining-room is a large hall full of round tables, only three of which are occupied at present, as the élèves only number thirty, instead of ninety, the usual number. At dinner I saw them all together for the first time; some very pretty and graceful, some very rough. I am learning to take wine; everyone advises me to do so, and I shall soon be able to drink my bottle a day.

There seems to be an admirable organisation of work here in every department. I have been much amused to-day by the lessons in theory that I have received from my ancienne élève or chef. The pupils all sat round, and the young instructress, furnished with some bones, gave out an explanatory sentence, which was repeated by each one in turn; I found it an excellent plan of learning French. Of course, the repetition would have been intolerable without the language, but to listen to a dozen different voices and to repeat myself I found to be admirable practice; indeed, being cut off from all English communication is a great advantage in learning French.

July 3.—This morning I finish my letter in another situation. I wrote last night till it was dark, and the little lamp in our dortoir gave so much darkness that I went to bed for want of light. To-day I am en service—that is to say, I shall spend the day from eight in the morning till eight in the evening in superintending the six rooms of the infirmary. I have been handling leeches for the first time (disgusting little things). I enter with an ancienne élève, who shows me all the ways of the house. At present the lectures have not commenced, but the visits of Madame Charrier and the physician take place every day; and nature is always here in great abundance to be studied. I feel I shall gain a great deal, and hitherto it has really not proved nearly so formidable an imprisonment as I supposed. The air is delightful this beautiful summer weather, the girls pleasant. There is much to interest in so large an establishment, and I suppose the three months will soon slip away, for I have entered, in my own mind, only for the three months, though I have been asked so often if I am going to stay two years that I have had to tell a great many—evasions. I shall have, doubtless, many weary moments, but I want you all to know that it will not be so utterly miserable as my former letters may have represented it. And great will be the reward! So send a welcome greeting to the Voluntary Prisoner.

July 1849.

Dear M.,—I last wrote to you when I was my own mistress; now in some measure I have given up my liberty, and I must give you a little sketch of my prison life, that you may be able to picture the surroundings of your sister M.D. Imagine a large square of old buildings, formerly a convent, set down in the centre of a great court with a wood and garden behind, and many little separate buildings all around, the whole enclosed by very high walls, over the tops of which, shining out beautifully against the clear sky, may be seen the dome of the Panthéon, the Hôtel des Invalides, and the whole building of the observatory which is close adjoining. The inner court is surrounded by les cloîtres, a most convenient arched passage which gives a covered communication to the whole building, and which I suppose was formerly traversed by shaven monks on their way to the church, whose great painted window looks out into the court, but which now echoes the laughter of many merry girls, and across which at half-past seven every morning you may see your humble servant with her coarse tablier de service and little white pot in hand hurrying to get some coffee. At half-past five every morning I start up in bed, roused by the bustle of the élèves, who are up before me. I make violent efforts to drive away sleep, which are only partially successful, and then follow the example of twenty girls who inhabit the same long dortoir, and who are busy each by her own iron bedstead dressing hastily to be ready for the visit. I hasten upstairs to the long corridor, the ‘Sainte-Elisabeth,’ where my patients lie. I inquire carefully their condition, wash them, and see that the beds have been properly arranged. By that time it is a quarter past six; Madame Charrier makes her appearance and goes the rounds, accompanied by the élèves, each one giving a short report of the patients under her care. It is a funny group: fifty women or more of all ages, wide awake from the hurry of their duties, but dressed mostly in haste with little white caps, coloured handkerchiefs, and the coarser ones in short bed-gowns, their faces browned by the sun, their hands red with hard work, but all good-tempered, with a kind word always ready, and their black eyes sparkling with life. We pass through the Salles Sainte-Marguerite, Sainte-Elisabeth, Sainte-Anne, visiting each patient in her alcove—it is seven when we finish. I hasten back to my dortoir, make my bed, &c., fetch my coffee, which I procure for two sous a morning from the superintendent of the infirmary, eat it hastily with my bread, which is always supplied for the day at noon, and then hurry off to the Salles Sainte-Marie and Sainte-Marthe, where the more sick patients are placed, whom the attending physicians visit every morning at eight. At this visit are present M. Girardin, the chief physician, a tall, dry, grey-haired man, full of pomposity; the interne, M. Blot, a very handsome, somewhat dignified young physician, with, I fancy, rather a cross temper; Madame Charrier, the aide-sage-femme, and as many of the élèves as choose to be present. This over, I make some independent visits to cases which interest me, to the nursery, &c., and try to pick up a little here and there; then I return to the dortoir and read or write a little. Afterwards I join the class instruction in the wood, a preparatory lesson which the elder élèves give to the younger ones, and which I attend for the sake of the French. It is a very pretty method of instruction: the young teacher seated on the grass, all the pupils grouped around under the thick shade of some fine tree, the atmosphere being of an elastic purity which is truly charming. The French girls have a natural talent for instruction; they are so in the habit of talking that they never find the slightest difficulty in expressing what they know, and their lively perceptions give them a peculiar power for superficial instruction. Our poor country girls find it very hard at first to catch scientific words that they do not understand, but in a surprisingly short time they roll them off smoothly and to a certain extent understand well what is taught them.

At twelve the bell sounds for the first meal, only milk being given at seven o’clock. We enter a large hall, full of round tables, each holding twelve; to each are furnished a couple of white plates, a tumbler and small bottle of wine, a loaf of bread, a spoon and fork. The meal consists of soup, boiled meat, and vegetables; it is eaten in haste to the music of Madame Blockel’s voice, which keeps up a storm the whole time. She is a somewhat important personage, superintending our meals and our dortoirs; she is a little red-faced, squint-eyed being, with tremendous projecting teeth, and dressed always in rusty black with a black cap. She is good-natured, liked by the girls, but has a tremendous vocal organ, which is always sounding forth at its highest pitch. Morning, noon, and night good Madame Blockel’s voice drowns all opposing sounds; and really now I am getting as used to it as to a noisy street, and would not care if only she would keep out of the dortoir at night when I am sleepy, for, like a barking dog, she sets all the girls going, and I don’t know when the storm subsides, for I sink to sleep in spite of it. When the meal is over we present a funny sight, each carrying off her loaf, napkin, knife, and various bottles and remnants of dinner. I return to the dortoir, do up little matters, read or attend the class again, visit my patients in the corridor, and from two to three go to the parloir to see my friends, if they are so good as to come at that hot hour to see me. This parloir is a funny affair—a plain room, filled with wooden benches, where all manner of rough people are assembled to visit the élèves. On certain days, also, in one corner a woman establishes a little shop, where she supplies all the small wants of the girls in the way of haberdashery, stationery, perfumery, &c.; and in another corner sits the old lady, la dame du bureau, observing everything, and giving the signal precisely at three for the departure of everybody. At six a second meal is served, consisting of roast meat and some little kind of cake, and another bottle of wine; afterwards we are free to do as we choose. I generally sit a little in the wood and write till it is dark; in a few days, however, the lectures commence, and four or five hours will be occupied in that way. I have described my idle, or rather my free days. When I am en service I spend the whole day in the ward where I am placed; or the night, if I happen to be on night service. About three or four days are thus spent, and after passing the night in watching I am not worth much the next day, for I am not yet accustomed to the duty. Then little extra touches come in to diversify the day. I pay a visit to Madame Charrier or to Mlle. Mallet, one of the aides-sage-femmes, whom I like very much, or some difficult operation calls us to the amphitheatre. Next week I shall be able to tell you how I like the lectures; we shall have several each day, and I hope they will supply the want which I now feel of an intelligent explanation of the phenomena which I observe.

August.—The lectures have now commenced. From seven to eight Madame Charrier gives her lesson every morning; I occupy a chair beside her in consideration of my foreignness, she being anxious that I should understand thoroughly. I wish I could describe that lesson to you; it is the most curious spurring-up of pupils I ever saw, and really it makes some of them gallop admirably, though many tumble down in the effort. Three pupils are called down every morning, seated on a long bench in front of Madame Charrier’s table, and undergo an hour’s examination on what they have heard from the teachers. If they answer promptly and well, her satisfaction is extreme, her face grows beautiful, and her ‘Bien! très bien!’ really does me good, it is so hearty; but if an unlucky pupil hesitate, if she speak too low, if intelligence or attention be wanting, then breaks forth the most admirable scolding I ever listened to. Alternately satirical and furious, she becomes perfectly on fire, rises upon her chair, claps her hands, looks up to heaven, and the next moment, if a good answer has redeemed the fault, all is forgotten, her satisfaction is as great as her anger. There is not the slightest wickedness about her; she puts her whole soul into her lesson, and does not realise how very difficult it is for ignorant girls to study a science. At first I was a little shocked at this stormy instruction, but really it seems almost necessary now, and produces wonderful results. If the girls only keep their temper under it and do not cry, it comes right at last; but a tear is an unpardonable offence, and considered an insult and a total misunderstanding. Madame Charrier is a woman of great experience and always speaks to the point, and her lessons are often very useful. From nine till ten we listen to M. Paul Dubois. I like his lectures exceedingly. A little, bald, grey-haired man, with a clear, gentle voice and a very benevolent face, he thoroughly understands his subject, and expresses himself with precision and completeness.

At a little after twelve our dinner-bell rings, and right glad I always am to hear it. The large round tables are speedily encircled, all stand up, and a grace is said with such rapidity that to this day I can make out no words but saint usage, and the sign of the cross made with wonderful dexterity on the forehead and breast. At the conclusion of the meal another prayer rocket is sent up, amidst laughing and bustle, and all crowd out of the hall, with their loaves of bread under their arms and all manner of odd little pots full of eatables in their hands. From one till two another lesson in the amphitheatre—which, fortunately, is a pleasant room—from the second aide-sage-femme, a lesson useful on the whole, but sometimes a little wearisome. From two to three is the hour for receiving visitors, but if I am not expecting a visit, and if I have sat up the preceding night, I take a bath—for there are six baths prepared every day at that hour for the élèves. The same communism exists in the baths as in everything else. They are side by side, in a double row, down the middle of the room; and the withered genius of the bath-room stands, observing every movement, and talking an incomprehensible patois the whole time. I try to imagine it is only the bubbling of water that I hear; I shut my eyes, lie quietly for half an hour, and fancy that I am deliciously reposing on the heaving waters of some soft summer lake; then I spring up, take a cold dash, to the horror of my companions, and hurry off as fast as possible, really the better for the divine element....

Were I a good Catholic I should find my time filled with visits to the chapel—morning and evening prayers, vespers, and the daily baptisms are regular services, with numerous extras on saints’ days, &c.; but most happily I am Protestant, and again and again I have blessed Heaven for the fact. The great fat, red-faced priest occasionally leaves the retirement of his clerical dwelling and strolls in the wood, or makes a visit to the infirmary; he always gives me long stares of excessive curiosity when I pass him, but I have taken a great dislike to his sensual-looking worship, and will not give him the slightest opportunity to make my acquaintance....

After dinner, when fine, I generally go into our wood, and, seating myself under my favourite tree, I write till it grows dark; or I stroll up and down the broad alleys, sending my thoughts far off into the past or the future. It is very pleasant in our wood; outside the walls are large gardens and public walks, so that the air is very fresh, and the beauty of the Parisian summer climate is extreme. Sometimes my friendly aide joins me, for she cannot bear to see me alone; it seems to the French a sign of deplorable melancholy. She walks with me, chatting gaily, and bearing my clumsy French with great patience; for, as I said, she has taken a fancy to me, and I have to welcome with a good grace the pinches, shakes, and similar tokens of French affection. Fortunately, however, it shows itself in more satisfactory ways also, and I owe many an opportunity for interesting observation to her kindness. The girls look picturesque in the wood by the sunset light. Sometimes a group is seated on the grass round its chief, eagerly taking in the instruction that may aid it in the next day’s examination; others are singing or playing; but I think I have never seen one engaged by herself in meditation or work. Their character is eminently social, communicative. Mr. Doherty remarked wisely that vanity, in its widest sense, is their ruling spirit, which makes it impossible for them to understand the English, where pride rules. There is one young girl I like to talk with. I have never seen anything more graceful, lively, and finished than the little pictures of life which she throws off with perfect ease; every motion of her pretty little head, every gesture and intonation is perfect, and occasionally I am really startled by a profound view of life that she just glances at, and then is off again. I would give much to be able to note down some of her narrations, but when I try to turn them into another language their exquisite spirit seems to vanish....

You must not be surprised if my letter contains an immense number of perplexed parentheses, and has a tendency to return always to the same subject. If you could only hear ‘what hideous sounds salute mine ear,’ you would not wonder. The girls are singing hymns to the Virgin in an adjoining room, and really, if the Virgin be a lady of as much taste as beauty according to the representations of Raphael, she must be considerably annoyed by the zeal without knowledge displayed by her admirers. Our second aide-sage-femme is a very pious young Catholic, of really a sweet disposition. A week or two ago, on the commencement of the month of Mary, she assembled the girls together, reminded them of the season, and proposed to meet frequently in the evening and sing canticles in honour of the Lady, adding that undoubtedly the object of their attention would be gratified by this demonstration and would not be unmindful of those who offered the homage. The proposition was received with enthusiasm, and since that unlucky day Mlle. Boisonnet and her followers have exercised their lungs in season and out of season, to the horror of all my nerves and, I fear, to the serious displeasure of the Virgin. They have numerous little books of canticles. I looked over the index the other day—‘Who so pure as she,’ ‘The brightness of her presence,’ ‘Mary, pray for us,’ and all such titles filled the pages. The tunes have a striking resemblance to American camp-meeting hymns. There is one which was certainly the original of ‘Oh, let us be joyful.’ I often think, if H. were only here, how he would join in honouring the Virgin....

I must give you a few more sketches of my present life. Imagine, then, that you have retired early to bed, after a night spent in hard work, and the day in that nervous mystification that follows loss of rest. You have taken a refreshing bath and laid yourself down, encircled by dear memories that fan you to sleep with their gentle dreams; you have just entered that beautiful dreamland, when you are suddenly startled by a scream, a burst of laughter, and then the vision of one white-robed form darting past in the twilight, pursued by a similar form, mysterious to your veiled senses. The chase continues over beds and boxes, while shouts of laughter, followed by a shower of small articles, proceed from the other beds; then a loud smack is heard, whose nature is easily divined by those who are at all familiar with juvenile offenders, a spring from the bed and a rush by the injured party follow; but still you resolutely shut your eyes and will yourself asleep, in the fond hope that nature is really too tired to keep awake, when a sudden rolling sound, followed by a violent shock, at once convinces you of the vanity of your efforts, and you resign yourself to wakefulness, for a favourite amusement has commenced—they are ‘promenading the bedsteads’! You must know that our bedsteads are of iron, and placed on rollers so movable that a slight impulsion will speed them a considerable distance. Often in stepping into bed the slight movement has caused the mercurial article to describe a sudden semicircle. This property of these usually sober pieces of furniture is taken advantage of by the girls, who are now in a frolic and exercising in the most ingenious way, to the unspeakable annoyance of a quiet individual. An impulsion is given to one end of a long row of beds, which is quickly communicated to the whole row, or a simultaneous shock is given to the two extremities and their force brought to bear on the unfortunate centre. But the favourite freak is to place a bedstead at the end of the room and drive it with great violence down the centre. The rolling noise over the brick floor is tremendous, and accompanied by a regular Babel of laughter, shouting, and jokes of every description. Some get on top of their beds, which consist of three thick mattresses, and jump up and down like mad things; others get up a wild dance in one corner of the room, which grows continually faster and noisier, and the strife of tongues is truly astonishing. Their jokes are really amusing occasionally; the scientific terms that they hear daily play a conspicuous part. The frolic ends as suddenly as it began, when, fairly full of fun, they suddenly jump into bed, say good-night, and in five minutes all are sound asleep. The first night I was thus rudely awakened I was much inclined to be angry, but I philosophised a little and came to the conclusion that it was my voluntary action to be there, and that youthful spirits must have free play. I pitied the poor children in their undeveloped life and the restrictions they suffer here too much to be disturbed by their little outburst, and the next morning they begged me to excuse them because they were so young!

My time is very fully occupied; my former leisure moments are now employed in writing compositions and taking observations. These last I willingly consent to; they will be records to me of French practice. They consist of a little history of the patient and a daily account of her condition and treatment. But as they are in French, I am somewhat longer in noting them down than I should be if I could employ my own noble language. I have made two ‘observations’ of surgical cases that have been very much approved of. I was quite amused with one of them. I was directed to note the case down under the direction of my chief in that department. As usual, I did promptly and cheerfully what was required; I wrote all she dictated, and then I made a private memorandum for my own satisfaction. This latter was seen by the Superior, and immediately the ‘chief’ was directed to copy it; she did it willingly, for she is a good little being, and has a profound respect for the stranger. The other day two of our chiefs begged me to give them a private lesson on the circulation of the blood, which I willingly complied with. We seated ourselves in the wood, and I explained to them what they did not know; they were very grateful, and have come to me several times since to beg me to continue my lesson—indeed, the girls here have a sweet nature in many respects. There are little jealousies and excitements amongst themselves, but they take the right relationship to me; they think me singularly grave and self-sufficing, but they show me continually the utmost respect, and are always glad to do me any little service. I frequently enter the salle d’accouchements, when the other divisions are engaged there, to see what is going on, and I always meet a pleasant welcome. One evening I phrenologised them, to their unbounded delight; for some time after I could never enter the room without being surrounded by a small mob eagerly demanding an examination. Everything delights them; they are perfect children in their full, unthinking enjoyment of the present. A little English lesson is a never-failing source of merriment, and I am continually saluted with some oddly pronounced English word, followed by a burst of merriment. We have girls from all parts of France; some are remarkable for their stupidity, which is generally explained by the province from which they arrive. Madame Charrier’s morning lesson is an ordeal through which all have to pass, and seated by her, every morning, I have a fine opportunity for studying the various departments of France. When some singularly obtuse intellect has exhausted all the patience and all the impatience of the teacher, she folds her hands and asks in a subdued voice, ‘Mademoiselle, from what department do you come?’ and on receiving the answer, adds, ‘Ah, then it is all accounted for; the case is a hopeless one;’ which announcement greatly delights the rest of the class who belong to more enlightened departments.

We have one élève who goes by the name of ‘La Normande;’ she is one of my pictures. A fresh, healthy complexion, browned by the sun and the sea air of her beautiful home, regular features, a stout, vigorous frame that has never known a touch of sickness, she walks about with a step that feels the ground; in her white quilled cap, and handkerchief pinned over her bosom, she looks with her clear blue eyes right into your face, and has a frank, loyal manner that marks her honest, independent nature. On Sunday she dresses in the short full petticoat, the silk-laced jacket, and the lace cap, with its towering pyramidal crown and circular ray-like border, that I think I have already described to you. She sometimes visits our dortoir and forms the centre of a group, whom she entertains with her constantly overflowing life, sometimes singing, in a deep contralto voice, her peasant hymns to the Virgin—simple pathetic melodies chanted under the lindens when the day’s labours are finished—or dancing vigorously the figures, more gay than graceful, of her country, while she sings some lively air. I admire her vigorous life, I like to see her in the infirmary; she tends the sick with such an honest awkwardness, such a kind heart, and lifts them like babies in her strong arms, that I see the green fields and smell the sweet country air as I watch her. Then I have a little Parisian that I hang up beside her, as plump as a partridge, with merry black eyes, glossy hair always arranged à la mode, and full of little coquettish ways. Her temper is like a lucifer match, the slightest friction fires it; the smile and the tear are equally ready, though the sunshine generally prevails. She has spent several years in business in Paris, in cigar stores and similar employments, where she has had much to do with gentlemen, and she repeats to me the compliments they paid her, the offers they made, and her own witty, contemptuous replies, with the utmost naïveté. Poor child! she has been thrown on her own simple instincts for protection, for her mother was soon jealous of the attractions of her daughter, and removed her to a distance; but the real innocence of her heart, and a true attachment to a young ship’s surgeon, seem to have supplied the place of her natural protectors. But true to her Parisian blood, she has coquetted from first to last, and she never talks to me now but I find it playing in every dimple. Think of it! she was given me as my ‘Chief of Theory’! Now she asks me in the sweetest manner if I will come sometimes to her lessons, and explain to the girls what she does not understand. Poor child! I willingly oblige her.

But I must not weary you with my portrait gallery, my walls are covered with curious figures; let me sketch for you our ‘vaccinations,’ which take place every Tuesday at one o’clock. The numbers of the babies are distributed beforehand amongst the élèves who are to perform the operations; thus, 25 Ste. Marie to one, 32 Ste. Marthe to another, and so on. The élèves seek their babies and bring them into the Hall of the Nurses, a large upper room, full already of women and babies. A space is cleared by one of the windows, chairs placed; in the centre sits M. Blot, the director of the operation; I occupy a chair beside him. Mademoiselle, who superintends another division, stands beside, and then baby after baby is subjected to the awkward manœuvres of the élèves, to their utmost dissatisfaction. The babies are very ugly in their coarse hospital swaddling clothes; I never saw the little beings so enveloped before. They are just like mummies, but they perform a terrible concert altogether, with the voices of the élèves to help them. I sit a quiet spectator of the operation, occasionally addressing a question to M. Blot as he touches knife after knife on the arm of the infant before him; which question seems rather to embarrass the handsome interne, for he colours, or passes his hand through his hair and looks intently at the baby, in a very un-Frenchmanlike manner. I think he must be very young, or very much in awe of me, for he never ventures to give me a direct look, and seems so troubled when I address him that I very rarely disturb his life in that way.

I think I have given you enough of my external hospital life to enable you to picture me somewhat in my surroundings; do you want to know how the spirit feels in its curious home? Then know, dear friends, that it is strong and hopeful, that it has moments of weariness, of intense yearning for its true related life, but that it lives ever in the great presence of the Eternal, and feels the angels always near.

The difficult breaking-in to the practical work of the obstetrician is noted in the journal of those days; and also the pleasant comradeship which gradually sprang up with the very intelligent young physician who served as interne at that time; this companionship was a great relief to my imprisonment in La Maternité.

Notes from the Journal.

July 4.—Attended lessons by the aides-sages-femmes; very clever instruction. Spent the day in the salle d’accouchements, but was disgusted by the treatment of a primipara. With all the instruction they have received, the very first principles of humane treatment seem too often neglected. They are still ignorant midwives with their mischievous interference.... The version seemed to me horrible. I almost fainted.... Spent the night in the infirmary—weary work. I cannot bear this loss of sleep.... To-day, three operations; much interested in the morning, but grew weary and disgusted in the afternoon.

July 22.—Attended the interne’s visit and spoke to him about one of the patients; he replied so pleasantly that I said a little more, and he promised to lend me a medical journal to look over, and see how I liked it. The little friendliness encouraged me....

August 12.—The poor woman whom I have attended as my first complete patient gave me a little prie-dieu which she had made. Her humble heart longs to express its gratitude. I put it in my Bible where my friends are reading to-day.... M. Dubois again waited after the lecture to say a few pleasant words. He wished I would stay a year and gain the gold medal; said I should be the best obstetrician, male or female, in America! Had quite a pleasant visit to the infirmary, where M. Blot made me observe several interesting points, and answered my questions intelligently and frankly....

August 24.—Quite taken by surprise at the infirmary visit this afternoon. M. Blot met me so pleasantly, and asked me to give him some lessons in English. I think he must have been meditating this request for some time; it had hardly the air of a spontaneous thought. I like him. I hope we may come a little more closely together....

September 2.—I have been quite happy for three hours. I must note down what I’ve learned. M. Blot brought his microscope to the Infirmerie des Élèves. I was exceedingly interested in his microscopic lecture. He showed us in a work of M. Hébert’s the difference between the epithélium pavimenteux, such as covers the tongue, skin, &c., and the epithélium vibratile, as in other parts, and the fibro-plastic formations in the reparation of tissues, showing specimens of each kind. The first species was represented by a cellule full of little cellules, a noyau in the centre containing a nucleolus—thus.... The second was of elongated form, thus.... The third represented the growth of fibre from cells, which cells are distinguished from the first by the relatively smaller size of the noyau, thus.... By such examination different formations can be distinguished from each other; thus cancer possesses very distinctive elements. It is necessary to examine bodies of varying shapes under different foci of the microscope, otherwise illusions may be created. In illustration he placed some blood globules, and showed us that what appeared a central spot in each globule was owing to the convexity not being in focus, and it disappeared when the focus was a little lengthened. He spoke also of a paper read before a society yesterday by a young physician, which proved that the azote, which in the ox is voided by the excrement, in the cow is absorbed into the milk; and that the difference in the manure of the two is great.