Death by diarrhoea

With Mr.Marlow spending the next two weeks touring Scotland, I have permission, and opportunity to spend more time accompanying Dr.Snow and pursuing my studies. And while the merchant families provide the greater part of his income, his compassion extends to treating many of the Irish immigrants who can barely afford a guinea for a consultation, unlike one of his colleagues who I met in the course of business, and who declined to attend a sick child because the family could not afford his fee, but neither were they poor enough to qualify for support from the parish rate.
I was aware of the outbreak of cholera in the city, and have been very careful about boiling water for use in the house, and taking a small flask of boiled water with me when I accompany the doctor since I can't afford to risk being infected myself¹. When I arrived at Dr.Snow's consulting room this afternoon it had already been made abundantly clear to me just why so many people choose to leave London during the summer. There are some districts where the smell is just unimaginable! I was reminded of the smell of newly-turned stale horse-manure, and it seemed to linger in small pockets all along my route. Even breathing through my mouth I found myself gagging and holding a handkerchief and a small spray of lavender (threepence-halfpenny) over my face.
When I arrived, Dr.Snow first asked me to read a 39-page pamphlet² which he had written: it seems astonishing that I should have held one of the first printed copies of a small book with the power to change the course of scientific thought. But in typical manner, before I had time to read the book thoroughly, Dr.Snow invited me to join him in his laboratory, a small room adjacent to his surgery where he directed me to examine for myself two slides which he had mounted; one prepared with water from a brook on Hampstead Heath, the other with water from the Thames.
While the Hampstead Heath sample has its share of flotsam, the sample from the Thames seems positively crowded by comparison!
I was still making my own drawings from the slides under the microscope when Dr.Snow had a visitor; a Police constable had arrived to request his assistance in caring for an injured navigator, a "Tunnel Tiger", having first tried to obtain the services of Dr.Barrett, being nearer to Rotherhithe. But since Dr.Barrett was already attending a patient, he recommended his colleague Dr.Snow, even though it would mean travelling further.
When we arrived at the Police station where Brendan Daugherty had been made as comfortable as possible my first impression was that a drunken Irishman had injured himself. It wasn't until Dr.Snow began taking the man's verbal history while he gently unbandaged the poor fellow's ruined hand that I understood; his intoxication was the result of cheap brandy, administered as an analgesic. And it is as a tribute to this unfortunate, and so many like him, that I include the following song:

References

1. Recommended precautions for preventing, and coping with cholera
2. On the Mode of Communication of Cholera, reprinted 1855

                   

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Primum non nocere (Firstly, do no harm)

When Samuel Johnson said that

You find no man, at all intellectual, who is willing to leave London. No, Sir, when a man is tired of London, he is tired of life; for there is in London all that life can afford.

he was fortunate enough to be living in a less industrialized age; the city has grown since Johnson's day, with factories powered by steam-engines, and soot in the air obliging everyone to wear clothes of black or dark brown, and to launder another wash every other day.
In the height of summer, some of the better residential streets can afford the cost of a water-bowser to come and sprinkle water to keep the dust down (they leave scarcely enough water to make mud) but for the most part, the paving-stonesare littered with horse droppings and other, less savoury leavings. Every street is the business office of those women whose companionship is available commercially, and the highway of those who either choose their "pitch" and settle on an upturned basket to sell flowers, ribbons, matches, or other small commodities, or those who hawk their wares from door to door.
The businessmen of the streets begin their day early, and by half-past six or seven o'clock I can venture out to buy fresh milk from one of the city dairies (a development largely made possible by the railways), fresh flowers to sweeten the rooms, or to seek out the services of one of the itinerant chimney-sweeps if the chimneys have been giving trouble.
It's a bright warm August morning with the sounds of street vendors filtering through the kitchen window and I am up to my elbows in flour in the kitchen when the doorbell rings, so I clean my hands quickly, straighten my dress and scurry upstairs to answer the front door to Dr.Snow again. Mr.Marlowe has been out of bed since eight o'clock and when I last saw him, was looking quite relaxed in his smoking-cap and jacket in his study, so I invite the doctor to wait in the withdrawing room while I enquire whether Mr.Marlowe is at home to the doctor. As I expected, I am instructed to ask the doctor if he would remain in the drawing room to await the arrival of his host, and then prepare morning tea. When I return with the tea service, the two gentlemen are examining a sheaf of handwritten notes and Mr.Marlowe seems quite excited. In the course of pouring the tea I learn that the subject under discussion is the use of anaesthetic preparations as an adjunct to obstetric procedures. My interest must have shown on my face because Dr.Snow asked me if I had any understanding of the subject under discussion, to which I replied that I knew only as much as was proper to my sex.

Then madam, would you not agree that the delivery of a child without suffering would be a great blessing to womankind?

I would indeed doctor. Do you suppose that the science of medicine might offer such a boon someday?

Mr.Marlowe looked at me with the kind of look I have learned to recognize, and beware of:

I think, Mrs.Crawleigh, you are being disingenuous! and that you have more understanding of our conversation than you would willingly admit!

(Am I really that obvious? I really need to be more careful!)

Ordinarily I would find your curiosity impertinent, and perhaps even consider that you might be better employed as a governess, but you have given me no cause for complaint so far, and I hope to have none. Might I ask of you, only that you be a little more open with us in this house?

If you would excuse me for being so bold, Mr.Marlowe, I must admit I have a great deal of interest in the science of medicine, though I know little of it.

Good Heavens Marlowe! Perhaps you should encourage your housekeeper to enrol in the new Bedford College? Did you see it mentioned in the London Times a few weeks ago? a college for women! In all seriousness though Mrs. Crawleigh, if Mr.Marlowe has no objection perhaps we might see if you are an apt student? You must not mention this arrangement to anyone else however, or any agreement shall terminate immediately upon discovery.

It was as a result of this newly-established relationship that I collected the following song a few days ago. We had attended a particularly difficult confinement, a footling breech presentation, and Doctor Snow had entrusted me with the task of administering the anaesthetic to his patient, a terrifying responsibility for me since too much might cause cardiac arrhythmia, and too little would allow the patient to regain consciousness under horrifying circumstances. By the time we returned to Dr.Snow's office it was nearly dawn and I was still alert with the nervous energy of the night's work. So, it seemed, was Dr.Snow. For he asked me whether I could play the pianoforte, and produced a book of dances which he had acquired recently from an American publisher, turning to this page, which made me smile:

References

For the musical score, reproduced above, I am obliged to the Library of Congress
                    

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Gold or potatoes?

Well, as much as I enjoyed our ha'penn'orth of liveliness, my hosts are hard up and I've mooched on them more than is fair. During the past week Mr.Bradleigh has been good enough to employ me in a variety of make-work jobs in his shop, mostly the kind of work that a junior apprentice would do; sweeping, tidying shelves, fetching water with two  five-gallon buckets on a yoke. Fetching water is quite an adventure all by itself; I take up the yoke with the two empty buckets, not too great a load, and make my way down to the common pump where, depending on the hour, I may have time to exchange gossip with other women fetching water, or the occasional Peeler¹, pausing in his rounds for a drink. Lifting and carrying the yoke once the buckets are full is a task demanding more concentration. The load is not only heavy, but unwieldy and it is perilously easy to spill enough water that I will have to make another trip when I would rather be doing something less arduous.
It is largely thanks to Mr.Bradleigh that I have managed to secure a position as temporary cook/housekeeper (with the help of some carefully researched references) to Joseph Marlowe. For all my snooping when tidying his rooms I cannot get a clear picture of his means of living; he has income from several rents but, so he tells me, he also enjoys wagering on horse races. A fact which is confirmed by the Bradshaw's Railway Companion which he keeps on his desk.
In a small room at the back of the house on the second floor, Mr.Marlowe has a wunderkammer where I have been busied to my heart's content polishing and dusting an extraordinary collection that includes:

• the skeleton of a duckbilled platypus, with its bill preserved in situ
• a Leyden jar
• a microscope and set of dissecting instruments
• a framed collection of rare and unusual beetles
• a piece of amber with a trapped fly

And the only visitor to the house since I have been in his employ has been Dr.Snow. Not in a professional capacity, apparently, as I was called upon to serve tea in the withdrawing room. A good servant is supposed to hear everything and repeat nothing. Well, I suppose I'm not the worst servant in the world. While I was polishing the balustrade in the hallway I could overhear the two gentlemen discussing the discovery of gold on the east coast of America and the possibility of investing funds in a mining enterprise near Sacramento.
The news of the "Gold Rush" in America, as the newspapers are referring to it, and the continuing depredations resulting from the potato famine are the issues, other than the weather, that everyone is ready to offer an opinion on when I attend divine service on Sunday. As the employee of Mr.Marlowe, I am permitted to sit in his pew near the front of the church, but excusing myself on the grounds that I have seen friends whom I should like to speak with, I find a place at the back of the church before the service begins, where I can learn more from those who are obliged to stand through the service.
The Crawleigh family is in attendance in their entirety, the children's faces scrubbed and pink, and William is more friendly towards me, referring to this morning's preacher variously as "A regular Gospel-Grinder" and "a bit of a tub-thumper". Mrs.Crawleigh was just getting started on a tirade about the iniquities of the landowning classes towards the "Micks" when Mr.Crawleigh shut her up rather rudely as the priest left the vestry:

Still your clapper, hay-bag!

Before leaving the church, I make arrangements to meet the family at the Red Lion in the evening when I have a few hours of free time.
With Mr.Marlowe's permission, I am my own mistress from 8 o'clock in the evening, and at the Red Lion, I find William, Susan, the children, and even Grand-Mama Caroline tucking in to a repast of chonkeys over small beer and milk for the youngest in the company of a burly seaman.
I am a little taken aback when Mr.Crawleigh begins eulogizing my virtues to the seaman, who, it seems, is his cousin. In contrast to William's manner, Jeremiah conducts himself toward me like a gentleman and I find myself quite charmed. In due course, our discussion turns once again to the matter of the American "Gold Rush" and Jeremiah entertains us all with a song he learned during a shore leave in San Francisco:

1. Police constable. The nickname comes from Sir Robert Peel, who was for a long time suspected of founding the Metropolitan Police force as his private army.

                    

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The rabbit is out of the hat! (again)

So, here I am. Back in the saddle, so to speak, in what should have been a deserted London churchyard in the last twilight minutes before dawn, with my letter of introduction to William Crawley explaining my circumstances, and asking him, as the surviving relative of my late husband to help me find "a position" and lodgings. Since I have no dependent children and am still of an age to work it seemed like a fairly good ruse to get started. However, I think the poor derelict who was aroused from his drunken slumber by my arrival may recover given time, and good care. He might even dine out on his experience if he can find an audience gullible enough!
I guess the time to be nearly six o'clock as the sun comes up and I make my way towards Beaver Street. Not named for the American rodent, so much as for the hats made from its felt. Far from being the prosperous frontage I was expecting, Bradleigh hats is a cramped, smelly workshop squeezed into a small property opening off an equally small alley from the street: with its low ceiling and close walls there is barely room for two people to pass and the vinegar smell of sulphuric acid announces my proximity to Bradleigh's as soon as I enter the alley.
When he shows up, around six-thirty, William (who smells of cheap beer and is still finishing off a pie) seems less than pleased to meet his mourning sister-in-law and spends the first fifteen minutes of our encounter trying to persuade me to join the oldest profession, or at least, leave him in peace until midday. When I finally persuade him to open the letter he reads it with considerable difficulty and I have to help him with some of the words, which does nothing to improve his disposition.
Our discourse is still continuing when Mr.Bradleigh himself arrives, slightly shorter than William, he has a well-developed beer belly and a naturally gregarious disposition. As soon as my relationship to William is explained, I am invited to join him in his office for a cup of tea, and it is as he pours tea for me that I notice the involuntary tremor of his hands. It seems quite likely that Mr.Bradleigh is starting to show the symptoms of mercurial poisoning, always a hazard of his trade.
To cut a long story short, after Mr.Crawleigh's rather cool reception I thought perhaps I might have a better chance if I could make contact with his wife, and set about the business of locating her. After a couple of hours questioning market traders, a constable, a priest, and the proprietor of a gin-shop, and being accosted by two young men who were annoyingly persistent in their approaches despite my best efforts to hide in my poke bonnet, I was decidedly in need of sustenance and refreshment which led me to seek refuge in the Red Lion public house. It was while waiting to receive my hot pork pie and glass of perry that I overheard the landlord instructing his barmaid to fill the pitcher for Mrs.Crawleigh.
When Mrs.Susan Crawleigh arrives twenty minutes later to collect her pitcher, my host makes the briefest of introductions and I find myself swept into the keeping of this human steam-engine of a woman, physically large and bustling with a quiet energy she invites me to return home with her, greeting perhaps half the people we pass on the way as if they were family. The Crawleigh apartments are very modest: three rooms on the second floor of an older house, with a shared privy behind the property. The two older Crawleigh girls are counting pins into papers and stirring a cauldron of laundry over a coal fire while three-year old Jacob Athanasius proudly demonstrates his wooden sword and shield, a model soldier in years to come, and baby Eliza sleeps fitfully in her crib.
Although Susan has several suggestions for possible employers, I am put to work by the family today, taking Jacob and Jane along the canal towpath to collect dandelions for winemaking, tonic, and coffee. And when Mr.Crawleigh finally returns from work the children have been laid down to sleep, under the watchful eye of grandmother Caroline so that the three of us can visit the music hall. The layout of the hall is more reminiscent of a cabaret club than a theatre, with tables arranged so that the audience can see the acts on the stage at one end of the hall. To one side, a Master of Ceremonies announces each act in the most astonishingly convoluted and verbose terms, and Mrs.Crawleigh ensures that we are well-provided with liquid refreshment from the bar at the back of the hall.
Most of the entertainments seemed unremarkable, and a little vulgar to me, but the following recently published Neapolitan barcarolle was encored twice before the performers were allowed to leave the stage.
                    

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