Mr. Kirkes was preparing a new edition of his excellent ‘Student’s Physiology,’ and Dr. Baly was pursuing his valuable investigations on dysentery. In relation to the latter, it is noted in my journal: ‘He is so gentle, so friendly, and so learned in his art, that he teaches me more than anyone else.’
I also attended Mr. Paget’s admirable lectures on pathological anatomy, given in the amphitheatre. My seat there was always courteously reserved for me. I experienced also the utmost consideration from the students, a large class of whom always followed Dr. Burrows’s visits. Indeed, so natural did this innovation of a lady student soon become, that when, the following year, I paid my farewell visit to the treasurer, he remarked, to my great gratification, ‘Why, we had quite forgotten you were here!’
Many home letters mark the various incidents of this extremely interesting period of study.
London, 28 Thavies Inn: November 1.
Dear Friends,—When I arrived in London on October 3, I was actually dismayed by the intolerable atmosphere, the dense envelope of foggy smoke that made me sick during the day and kept me awake at night; and as I continued to make observations on persons and things, and finally settled down in my present prosaic lodgings, I asked myself with astonishment, Is this the same London I saw a year and a half ago, or is it a different person examining the same objects? But now, happily, that state of forlornity has passed away. I have almost forgotten the smoke; my lodgings are clean and convenient. I am making friends, and I shall use all the opportunities I can get for studying social subjects and seeing society, provided they do not interfere with my work and are not too expensive.
My first introduction to St. Bartholomew’s was at a breakfast at Mr. Paget’s. He has a house within the hospital boundaries, and a special oversight of the students. At the commencement of each session he invites the students to breakfast in parties of about a dozen, and to one of those breakfasts I, on my arrival, was invited. The students seemed to be gentlemanly fellows, and looked with some curiosity at their new companion; the conversation was general and pleasant, the table well covered, Mrs. Paget very sensible and agreeable, so that it was quite a satisfactory time. Soon after I was invited to meet a distinguished German gentleman, Professor Kölliker, whom I found most agreeable and intelligent. My old acquaintance, Professor Owen, entertained us with traditions of London. Dr. Carpenter was also present, and some of the older students, looking very amiable, though awkward. The gentlemen I find more friendly than the ladies; I fear I shall find them in the shocked phase this winter. There are, however, a few decided exceptions....
But now I am going to tell mother of a visit which I made yesterday on purpose to amuse her—viz. to our old Bridge Street minister, Dr. Leifchild, whose christening of me I distinctly remember! Between three and four, on my return from hospital, I set out determined to hunt up the family, and after searching directories and trudging several miles, and being wrongly directed, when I finally inquired at No. 5 Camden Street, a quiet, respectable house, whether Dr. Leifchild was in, I listened with great relief to the announcement that he was probably taking his nap. I was ushered into a large plainly furnished parlour, where sat Mrs. Leifchild, sewing by a round table in the middle. My childish recollection had retained a general impression of the person, though I should not have recognised her. She is seventy-two, and wearing spectacles, but does not look more than fifty, so fresh, plump, and pretty, though unfortunately so deaf that she could only hear an occasional word. I announced myself. She replied, ‘I remember the family well. Mr. Blackwell was deacon in the chapel. You are one of his sisters.’ I could hardly make her believe that I was third daughter. She remembered A. and M. well; said they were clever girls; she knew they would turn out something remarkable, but she had no recollection of me. Their son John came in at that moment—a tall, thin man, reminding me of the Lane Seminary student, Jones. I don’t know whether I ever saw him before. Of course the doctor was sent for to see the stranger. I recognised him at once, and should have known him anywhere—fat, rosy, and laughing, notwithstanding his grey hair. I did not detect anything of the old man in him. ‘Ah,’ said he, ‘I know that face,’ and then he made me take my bonnet off and occupy a large chair by the fire, and tell him all about the family, and particularly my mother. ‘A sweet creature she was! How I should like to see her again! Doesn’t she talk about visiting England? I wish she would.’ He spoke of father with great affection, as a true friend. He had received most beautiful letters from him. ‘If my memoirs are published, one of his letters will appear in them.’ They had been told that the two eldest Miss Blackwells were very dashing girls, and wanted to know the truth. Then, why had I come to England? I told him I had been doing a rather singular thing; I had been studying medicine. He looked at me to see if I were in earnest, and then burst out into such a hearty, merry laugh that I joined in with all my might. ‘Yes, I had obtained a diploma as doctor in medicine.’ ‘You—doctor!’ and then another hearty laugh. Of course Mrs. Leifchild wanted to know what we were laughing at. ‘Why, my dear, that girl there is Doctor in Medicine!’ and then I must give them the whole history; and I certainly never had three more attentive listeners, interrupted by the doctor’s exclamations: ‘Bless me, what she has done; what she has suffered! Why, the girl’s a genius! Where did she get it all from? Why, no man could have done what she has done!’ And if ever I stopped, John would say, ‘Now, Miss Blackwell, pray go on; it’s the most interesting narrative I ever listened to; you left off at Paris.’ I was much amused. To that little family, who had been staying so quietly at home in the same routine, it did sound like a romance. When I had done, the doctor declared ‘it was a capital thing—it was the beginning of a new era.’ And John at once brought out pen and paper and begged me to give him my autograph. The doctor said the Rev. Mr. May, from America, was an old friend and class-mate who had visited England about two years ago, and he graphically described their interview. When Dr. L. opened the door, he started back. ‘No! Yes! It isn’t—it is! It can’t be possible! It is very certain; but won’t you let me in?’ From Mr. May he learned that the eldest of the Blackwells had become Socinians; and then I must give an account of my religious faith. Of course I spoke up for myself. I told him my religion was certainly a little peculiar; but nevertheless it was a very good and very strong one—and he didn’t seem much troubled about the state of my soul; indeed, I believe that, on the whole, he considered that it was a little safer than most of the ladies’ of his acquaintance! So, mother, I beg you to take the same view of the matter. Altogether, I met with the heartiest reception. The doctor placed all his influence at my service, and Mrs. Leifchild will write you all the news of your old Bristol friends. So I hope you approve of my calling....
Now I am writing in a queer place—viz. one of the wards of St. Bartholomew’s, whilst awaiting the visit of one of the physicians. This famous old hospital is only five minutes’ walk from my lodgings, and every morning, as the clock strikes nine, I walk down Holborn Hill, make a short cut through the once famous Cock Lane, and find myself at a gate of the hospital that enables me to enter with only a side glance at Smithfield Cattle Market. ‘Punch’ had really frightened me by his account of the dangerous tumult of animals; but, happily, I need only glance across the open space, forgetting the bulls, pigs, &c., that occupy it now, and also the fearful fires of persecution once lighted there, and try to bring back the time when it was lined with gay tents, and surrounded by galleries filled with beauty, eager to witness the brilliant encounters of arms that took place there in the age of tournaments. Now a little dark figure with doctorial sack and writing-case under arm makes its way through assembling students, who politely step aside to let it pass, and entering the museum, studies its numerous preparations till the hour of lecture, when an attendant shows it to a seat. I only attend regularly one course of lectures—viz. Mr. Paget’s very interesting course on pathology. Mr. Paget spoke to the students before I joined the class. When I entered and bowed, I received a round of applause. My seat is always reserved for me, and I have no trouble. There are, I think, about sixty students, the most gentlemanly class I have ever seen. I have been here about ten days. There are so many physicians and surgeons, so many wards, and all so exceedingly busy, that I have not yet got the run of the place; but the medical wards are thrown open unreservedly to me, either to follow the physician’s visits or for private study; later, I shall attend the surgical wards. At first no one knew how to regard me. Some thought I must be an extraordinary intellect overflowing with knowledge; others, a queer, eccentric woman; and none seemed to understand that I was a quiet, sensible person who had acquired a small amount of medical knowledge, and who wished by patient observation and study to acquire considerably more. One of the old physicians takes much interest in the strange little doctor, and has given me valuable hints from his own experience; but I confess that this system of practice is both difficult and repellent to me; I shall, however, study it diligently. Mr. Paget, who is very cordial, tells me that I shall have to encounter much more prejudice from ladies than from gentlemen in my course. I am prepared for this. Prejudice is more violent the blinder it is, and I think that Englishwomen seem wonderfully shut up in their habitual views. But a work of the ages cannot be hindered by individual feeling. A hundred years hence women will not be what they are now.
The growing perplexity of the conscientious student awakening to the uncertainty of the art of medicine is now apparent in letters written at this time.
November 20, 1850.