if I was resolved in any case to go back to America, and I had told her 'No,' but described at the same time the excellent beginning we had made there. I feel convinced that I shall have some proposition in relation to my (or rather our) establishment in London. What, then, ought we to say should such an offer arise? I will accept nothing that is not offered to us both, on that I am quite determined; we cannot separate in practice.
Paris: November, 1858.
Preparing my lectures is a troublesome business. My first one would not do; it was so much more adapted to an American than an English audience. I wanted also quantities of facts that I did not know how to get. But I have now re-written twenty-one pages. I have written it with pleasure, though very slowly, and I am really surprised to find how very slowly I write. I can only write when I feel fresh in the morning; sometimes only a page, sometimes none. I will not force it when I don't feel fresh, but I shall take whatever time is necessary to do the work well, for it is really important.
It was during this visit that I had the privilege
of becoming personally acquainted with Dr. Trélat,
the head of La Salpêtrière, and his admirable wife,
who remained steadfast friends through life. I visited
them at La Salpêtrière—that large asylum for infirm
women, over which Dr. Trélat presided with truly
paternal care. La Salpêtrière was not then a great
school of experimentation, but a benevolent refuge,
where the well-being and kindly protection of its
inmates formed the primary object of the director.
The following letters are descriptive of this time.
