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 30,000_l._ 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.