faults which abounded in it, short as
it was; for at that time, and for many years afterwards, I detested the
trouble of writing, and would take no pains over it.

It was in the early spring of 1846, that, having finished my obligatory
medical studies and passed the first M. D. examination at the London
University,--though I was still too young to qualify at the College
of Surgeons,--I was talking to a fellow-student (the present eminent
physician, Sir Joseph Fayrer), and wondering what I should do to meet
the imperative necessity for earning my own bread, when my friend
suggested that I should write to Sir William Burnett, at that
time Director-General for the Medical Service of the Navy, for an
appointment. I thought this rather a strong thing to do, as Sir William
was personally unknown to me, but my cheery friend would not listen to
my scruples, so I went to my lodgings and wrote the best letter I could
devise. A few days afterwards I received the usual official circular
acknowledgment, but at the bottom there was written an instruction
to call at Somerset House on such a day. I thought that looked like
business, so at the appointed time I called and sent in my card, while
I waited in Sir William's ante-room. He was a tall, shrewd-looking old
gentleman, with a broad Scotch accent--and I think I see him now as he
entered with my card in his hand. The first thing he did was to return
it, with the frugal reminder that I should probably find it useful on
some other occasion. The second was to ask whether I was an Irishman.
I suppose the air of modesty about my appeal must have struck him. I
satisfied the Director-General that I was English to the backbone, and
he made some inquiries as to my student career, finally desiring me
to hold myself ready for examination. Having passed this, I was in Her
Majesty's Service, and entered on the books of Nelson's [9] old ship,
the Victory, for duty at Haslar Hospital, about a couple of months after
I made my application.

My official chief at Haslar was a very remarkable person, the late
Sir John Richardson, an excellent naturalist, and far-famed as an
indomitable Arctic traveller. He was a silent, reserved man, outside the
circle of his family and intimates; and, having a full share of youthful
vanity, I was extremely disgusted to find that "Old John," as we
irreverent youngsters called him, took not the slightest notice of my
worshipful self either the first time I attended him,