HOME LIFE--CONTROVERSIES
The foundations of his fame; Comparison with Boerhaave--Family
letters--Home amusements--Affection for children--And for
animals--Puck--Holidays--Wide area of practice--"The arrows of
malignancy"--Squabbles--Homoeopathy--Mesmerism--Refuses to leave
Edinburgh.
Great as was Simpson's contemporary fame, the chief part of it had its
origin in his indescribable personal power over his fellows, and in
his inexhaustible energy. When to these was added the reputation won
by the discovery of chloroform's anaesthetic properties, he stood not
only as the most famous physician of his day, but also as a man marked
out for posthumous fame. The personal characteristics of the man were
speedily forgotten after his death, save by those who had been brought
under their influence; the marked prominence given to Simpson and the
"discovery of chloroform" in the numerous recent reviews of Queen
Victoria's reign on the occasion of the Diamond Jubilee, indicates
that it is by chloroform that Simpson will ever be remembered. His
lasting reputation depends on this work, not upon the characteristics
which made him famous in the judgment of his contemporaries. The only
physician in comparatively modern times, whose reputation approached
Simpson's in magnitude was Hermann Boerhaave (1668 to 1738), the Dutch
physician, whose fame and influence during his own lifetime were
immense. Boerhaave's leading characteristics greatly resembled
Simpson's: he had an enormous capacity for acquiring information, and
a wonderful facility for imparting instruction to others; his energy
and industry were indefatigable, and his memory prodigious. He taught
from separate chairs in Leyden the Theory of Medicine, the Practice of
Medicine, Botany, Chemistry, and Clinical Medicine, and at the same
time carried on his large practice. Patients of both sexes flocked to
him from all quarters of the globe, and he is said to have accumulated
from his practice a fortune of L200,000 in five and thirty years.
Although his treatment and method were, according to our modern
knowledge, unscientific, his success in practice was as great as
Simpson's; it sprang from the same cause; a wonderful magnetic
personal influence, which commanded confidence and faith, so that he
succeeded with the same possibly quite simple means which were
fruitless in the hands of others. In his day all Europe rang with
Boerhaave's name. To-day he is practically unknown. His books are
antiquated, and if known, are neglected by modern physicians. He
achieved nothing of lasting benefit to humanity. His fate, at least so
far as the public is concerned, would undoubtedly have been Simpson's,
in spite of his obstetric and gynaecological work, had it not been for
the discovery of chloroform.
The increased fame and greatly increased professional income which
followed the successful struggle for anaesthesia did not affect
Simpson's homely characteristics. He found time in the midst of it all
to enjoy the pleasures of home in the society of those he loved best,
and of intimate friends. He took a keen delight in quite the smallest
enjoyments of the home circle. A characteristic letter was written to
his wife in the summer of 1849; she had gone with the children to the
Isle of Man; he told her the great and small events of his daily
life:--
"Delighted to hear from you that all were so well. Everything goes on
nicely here. I have been looking out for a headache (but keep
excellently well), for I have been working very busily, and scarcely
with enough of sleep. Yesterday _beat_ (as Clark writes it) any day I
ever yet saw in the house. Did not get out till half-past four, and
the drawing-room actually filled beyond the number of chairs and
seats! Have had a capital sleep, and got up to look at the ducks; but
none laying this morning, so I write instead. To-day I have a fancy to
run out to Bathgate, and I think I will.... Yesterday dined with
Miller, and Williamson, the Duke of Buccleuch's huntsman, enlightened
us about dogs. Miller and I go to Hamilton Palace on Saturday.... My
ducks won't lay any more eggs, at which I feel very chagrined.... Two
salmon came as presents last week. I gave one to Mrs. Bennet. We are
beginning a new batch of examinations at the college. _Such_ a sleep
as I had yesterday morning! I came home by the last Glasgow train,
_very_ tired. Tom came to waken me at eight, but I snored so that he
didn't. He called me at half-past nine. I don't think I had stirred
from the moment I lay down. This morning I have been reading in bed
since six. I did not rise till now (half-past seven), because there
was no duck laying."
In another letter written on the same occasion he says:--
"... Tell Davie I expect a letter from him. Say to Walter that
yesterday Carlo jumped into the carriage after me and saw with me
several patients. He usually mounted a chair at the side of each bed
and looked in. But Mrs. S. gave him too much encouragement. He leaped
into bed altogether and tramped upon a blister! which was very
painful."
It was his custom to keep open house at breakfast and luncheon time;
but the evening meal was, as a rule, reserved so that he might see and
enjoy his own family and intimates. He lived exceedingly plainly
himself; he did not smoke; his drink was water: but he delighted in
setting a goodly repast before his guests. He loved a romp with his
children, and spared an occasional hour from the afternoon for that
enjoyment. The same energy entered into his play that was seen in his
work. A craze ran through fashionable circles in the fifties for
_tableaux vivants_, and was taken up by the Simpson household. He
entered with spirit into the new amusement, perhaps more keenly
because he saw an opportunity of combining in such representations
instruction with amusement. Historical personages and scenes were
represented, as well as illustrations of poetry and fiction. With his
infective enthusiasm he pressed poets and painters, grave and gay,
into service, and there is a record of one highly successful
entertainment at 52, Queen Street, in 1854, to which young and old
alike were invited. On this occasion most of the scenes represented
serious events in Scots history, but Simpson himself seems to have
supplied a little comedy. Sandwiched between a scene of "Flora
Macdonald watching Prince Charlie" and one of "Rebecca and Eleazar at
the Well" came that of "The Babes in the Wood." Simpson and a
professional colleague disported themselves as the Babes, and appeared
sucking oranges and dressed as children--short dresses, pinafores,
frilled drawers, white socks, and children's shoes. They wandered
about a while, and then lay weeping down to die to an accompaniment of
roars of laughter and to the great delight of the juveniles. It is
but a small incident to chronicle, but it shows in his home life the
great physician who was beloved by thousands. His deep sympathies made
him delight in the society of children. As years increased, and with
them work became overwhelming and worries and troubles persistent, he
appreciated more and more the refreshment of a frolic with his
children. He echoed Longfellow's pure words:--
"Come to me, oh ye children,
For I hear you at your play,
And the questions that perplexed me
Have vanished quite away.
. . . . . . . . . .
For what are all our contrivings,
And the wisdom of our books,
When compared with your caresses
And the gladness of your looks."
His affectionate disposition and kindly manner gained the devotion of
his many child patients; and his own family bereavements made him a
sympathetic physician and friend to many a sorrowing mother. There was
no cant or affectation in his sympathy; it grew out of his large
heart.
Animals also he was fond of and gentle to, as we know from the history
of the dogs who successively reigned in the household, so charmingly
given to us by his daughter. One episode in the life of Puck, a black
and tan terrier more intelligent than "breedy," deserves repetition.
The dog had accompanied the Professor and some of his children into
the country one afternoon on an expedition to dig for antiquarian
relics. "After tea Puck, seeing every one carrying something to the
station, demanded the honour of relieving his master of a _Lancet_,
and went off with his small burden looking very important.... At the
station the dog was missing. All got into their places but Puck. 'I
will follow in the next train,' said the Professor; 'Puck is too dear
a little friend to lose....' All he found of Puck was a muddy
_Lancet_, and the last that had been seen of the old dog was that he
was pushing his way through a crowd of idle colliers, where it was
supposed his energies had been so engrossed in guarding the _Lancet_
that he had lost sight of his party.... His master stayed there until
next morning, and some remembered afterwards how Puck's loss gave them
another evening's talk with one they loved, though he broke in on the
reminiscences with 'I wonder where little Puck is,' or 'Is that his
bark?' No Puck came to demand entrance, and hope of his return was
given up after three days passing without news of him. His master was
thinking of the sorrowful letter he would have to write to Puck's
companions when late one night, as he paced wearily up and down the
room, he thought he heard a faint bark. There had been a great deal of
listening of late for the little dog's bark; but it seemed vain to
think of Puck's retracing his steps through an unknown country for so
many miles. Still the Professor opened the door and called. Up the
area steps something did limp into the hall. That it was Puck seemed
doubtful at first, for he was quick and bright, and this animal was a
lame ball of mud hardly able to crawl. The bright eyes, however, were
Puck's; and he confirmed his identity by exerting his remaining
energies to give one leap gratefully to kiss the friendly face that
bent over him.... His truant play-fellows received a long letter from
their father telling them of Puck's adventure and imagining Puck's
feelings and trials through his long wanderings.... That letter always
recalls Puck and his never-resting master bending over his desk,
despite press of business, to send the news to Puck's companions."
Simpson looked no further than his own nursery and circle of close
friends for the refreshment and recreation which nature demanded in
the course of his busy daily life. But holidays were necessary
sometimes. He exhibited all the aversion of an enthusiastically
busy man to leaving his work, but would yield sometimes to the
solicitations of friends and would more readily leave his patients for
a time if a prospect was held out of some interesting archaeological
research to be indulged in. In 1850 he suffered from an abscess,
caused by blood-poisoning contracted during professional work. At
the request of his friends Professor Syme was called in, somewhat
to the chagrin of Simpson's old friend and colleague, Miller. It is
interesting to note that in spite of the recent controversy on
anaesthetics, Montgomery of Dublin, who had keenly opposed him, was
amongst the first to write a sympathetic note on hearing of his
illness; although dissenting from some of Simpson's professional
utterances, Montgomery was influenced by the Professor's personality
to respect him as a man and a worker.
After this illness Simpson took a rapid run round the Continent,
visiting those cities where anything professional was to be picked up.
As he expressed it himself he "scampered" round the Universities,
Museums, and Hospitals, seeing and hearing all that was to be seen and
heard. He stowed away the newly acquired knowledge in the recesses of
his mighty brain, and hastened on to the next place of interest before
his companions had gained their breath sufficiently to regard with
intelligent interest the objects he had already left behind. In Paris,
on the occasion of one of his flying visits into a hospital, he was
present at an operation, unknown to the surgeon, in which chloroform
was used not only as a preventive of pain, but also for its remedial
effect; after the operation the surgeon addressed his students upon
the subject of chloroform, and Simpson had the pleasure of listening
to a hearty eulogy of it. When, at the end, he handed in his card, the
operator's delight was genuine and effusive, and the students
enthusiastically appreciated the somewhat dramatic scene. On such
occasions when he had to submit to the embraces of delighted foreign
scientists, the exuberant manner in which they kissed him was not to
his liking; even the remote strain of French blood in his own veins
did not help him to enjoy the Continental mode of salutation. All over
Europe his name was honoured and revered. It is said that when in
later years an Edinburgh citizen was presented at the Court of Denmark
the King remarked, "You come from Edinburgh? Ah! Sir Simpson was of
Edinburgh!"
The last trip to the Continent, indeed his last real holiday, was
taken in 1868, when he ran over to Rome. So public was the life he
led, such matters of interest to his fellow-countrymen were his
comings and goings, that the _Scotsman_ newspaper chronicled his
doings, relating the sights and places of interest which he visited,
and noting that his professional services were taken advantage of by
many Roman citizens during the few days that he was there; and that if
time had permitted a public reception would have been given to him. In
all his foreign trips his object was to learn, not to teach; he
followed Sir Isaac Newton's advice to Ashton, and let his discourse be
more in queries than in assertions or disputings. He took care neither
to seem much wiser nor much more ignorant than his company.
Sometimes feeling the need of rest himself he would take one or
perhaps three days for a rapid run to the Lakes, or would spend
another in the country unearthing some antiquarian object. It was
always a pleasure to him to visit Bathgate, where his uncle and
friend Alexander had latterly resigned the baker's business and taken
up the _role_ of banker. One of his favourite resorts was a small
house called Viewbank which he had taken, situated on the shores of
the Firth of Forth. Here he was close to the fishing village of
Newhaven; the fisher folks--the men and the picturesquely attired
"fish-wives"--a sturdy and original set of people, were a great
interest to him. They knew him well both as an occasional visitor and
as the good physician.
One of his letters written in 1856 gives an indication of the wide
area over which his services were requisitioned and rendered.
"_Sunday._
"I write this at Viewbank, which is very pretty this afternoon,
but where I have not been for a week or more. This year I have not
yet had one single holiday, and scarcely expect one now. I have
had many long runs during the past few months. I have been often
up in England, professionally, during the summer; once as far as
Brighton seeing a consumptive case; once at Scarboro' where my
wife went with me; once or twice in London where I saw the Queen;
once at Ambleside. I long and weary for a _real_ jaunt without a
sick patient lying at the end of it. And I had a great fancy to
run from Manchester to Douglas and send all the patients far
enough; I have been too hard worked to write, but I _must_ write
one or two papers now. Queen Street has been a little hotel
during the summer--always some sick lady or another sleeping in
it, sometimes several at night."
Even on these professional journeys he found time to examine objects
of interest in the neighbourhood; or if he was unable to leave the
immediate proximity of his patient, he brought pen and paper to the
bedside and worked while he waited; thus he economised time as he
advised his students always to do. It is doubtful if any one less
great than Simpson would have ever been allowed to labour thus by a
sufferer's bedside; indeed even he was not always permitted to do so.
It is recorded that, at least, one lady rose hastily and seized his
pen so that he was obliged to desist.
The striking form with which Nature had endowed him, became more
remarkable when affected by years, work, and domestic afflictions.
Though of medium height his presence, even beside typically large-built
and large-boned fellow-countrymen, was never insignificant. His
features, overhung by his massive forehead, surrounded by the long and
thick hair, spoke his character. Firm, concentrated mouth and piercing
eyes, when his mind was fixed on a scientific or practical object. A
soft, womanly tenderness about the lips, and a genial, sympathetic
emotion in his deep-set eyes when aroused by an object of pity or
pleasure. His hand was "broad and powerful, but the fingers were
pointed and specially sensitive of touch." To see him was to see one of
the sights of the modern Athens. His features are familiar to us
to-day as one of the ring of brilliant, intellectual faces forming a
frame to the picture of Queen Victoria in this the year of her Diamond
Jubilee--a year of triumphant retrospection, unprecedented in the
history of nations.
It was impossible that a man holding Simpson's position, engaged in
his work, and possessed of distinct fighting characteristics, should
not make enemies. He could say, as Jenner said before him, "As for
fame, what is it? A gilded butt for ever pierced by the arrows of
malignancy. The name of John Hunter stamps this observation with the
signature of truth."
The arrows of malignancy did not hurt Simpson. He was very little, if
at all, affected by them; but he paid, perhaps, more attention to them
than we might have expected him to pay; certainly more than they
deserved. His love of the fray led him oftentimes to answer what had
better have been left unnoticed, and dragged him into prolonged,
sometimes bitter, and, it is to be regretted, often unworthy,
controversies. There was so much valuable work to be done, and his
efforts were always so fruitful in result that we grudge the time
spent in these squabbles; there arises an instinctive feeling that had
he devoted the energy wasted in these contests to furthering some
single branch of science, he would have made distinct advances
therein. There was nothing superficial about his work; whatever the
object it was thoroughly entered into; his writings convey to one a
sense of the power he had of seeing all round and through a question,
and of weighing and judging evidence. There was likewise no scamping
in his mode of treating his opponents in these squabbles; he used his
weapons fearlessly and administered many a trouncing to weak
opponents.
It was a time of upheaval in things medical. The microscope and
stethoscope had been introduced into the science and practice of the
healing art. Scientific experiment and research were beginning to lay
the foundations of rational medicine and surgery. Edinburgh was in the
front rank of modern progress, as she has ever been. Men like Simpson,
Syme, Miller, Alison, and Christison, were not likely to lag behind.
But, unfortunately, it was equally unlikely that such great minds
could all think alike in matters concerning the principles of the
science and art which they taught and practised. Thus it happened that
the Edinburgh School became notorious for its internal quarrels, and
in these Simpson was, as a rule, to be found busy.
Quite apart from these professional differences were the disputes
arising from attacks made upon Simpson by professional brethren
and laymen, who accused him of wrong treatment or neglect of
patients. His fame endowed him with almost superhuman powers in the
minds of patients and their friends. When all other means had failed
Simpson was hastened to as a last but sure resource; bitter the
disappointment, bitter was the grief, and also sometimes bitter the
things said of him when the anxious friends of a sufferer found
that even Simpson's powers of healing were limited. These attacks were
some of the "arrows of malignancy," which naturally fell about the
over-busy man. He thought it necessary to stop, pick up these arrows,
and challenge the assailants; we may regret that he stooped so often
to this action, but we feel that it sprang as much from the love of
truth and justice as from the dictates of a disposition inclined
towards quarrel.
It is impossible to pass over the great controversy which raged in
Edinburgh about 1850 on the merits of homoeopathy, in which Simpson,
of course, took a leading part. About the beginning of the century the
practice of medicine by the apothecaries, as the general practitioners
were then called, consisted in the most unscientific, nay, haphazard
administration of drugs in large quantities and combinations. It was
an age of drugging doctors, and the custom had become so thoroughly
established that it is doubtful whether any less completely opposite
system than that introduced by Hahnemann would have convinced the
public that after all so many drugs were not required, nor such large
quantities of them. Homoeopathic practice was founded on facts
improperly interpreted, and laid down for general use a procedure
that was applicable in only a limited number of cases. As Dr. Lauder
Brunton has recently pointed out, it is in many instances only a
method of faith-cure, and as such has its value. The success which its
practitioners certainly obtained in many cases where the ordinary
wholesale drugging of the day had proved futile, at once made men
pause ere allowing their bodies to be made receptacles for the
complicated preparations of the physician. In Edinburgh at this time
the influence of homoeopathy had been felt. Alison, a physician of
great renown, was to the end a pronounced polypharmacist, and was said
scarcely ever to leave a patient without a new bottle or prescription.
Graham, another university professor, was also a thorough-going old
school therapeutist. On the other hand, Syme treated all medicine
except rhubarb and soda with disdain; and Henderson, the professor of
Pathology, and also a practising physician, after professing to
consider no medicine of very much value, became a pronounced sceptic,
and finally horrified his colleagues by making trials of homoeopathy,
and gradually becoming enamoured of it until he confessed himself a
full follower of Hahnemann's doctrines. Christison was leading the
school which urged that the action of medicines should be studied
experimentally if their administration was to be founded on scientific
grounds. The behaviour of Henderson, who so greatly owed his position
as professor to Simpson, stirred the wrath of the latter. He examined
and condemned the irrational system of Hahnemann, and threw himself
into an attitude of strong opposition. Syme and Christison ably
seconded him in strong public action. Henderson was obliged to resign
his chair owing to "loss of health." Homoeopathy was thoroughly
crushed in Edinburgh. The contest between the old system of drugging
with large complicated doses of powerful remedies, and the new one of
giving on principle infinitesimal doses of the same medicines, served
a good purpose. It gave an opportunity for establishing rational
therapeutics, a science which is making daily progress, and in the
presence of which neither the old system nor homoeopathy can stand.
About this same period mesmerism was again coming to the front, this
time cloaked as a science termed electro-biology. Simpson acknowledged
that there was a great deal in mesmerism demanding scientific
investigation; but with his reasoning powers he could not realise the
existence of the mystically-termed higher phenomena of animal
magnetism, _e.g._, lucidity, transference of the senses, and, above
all, clairvoyance. It happened that a professional mesmerist gave a
performance in Edinburgh; learning that the "professor's" daughter was
stated to be able to read anything written on paper, or to divine any
object enclosed in a sealed box while under her father's mesmeric
power, Simpson attended the performance. He took with him a
specially-prepared test--a sealed box with certain unknown contents;
this he presented at a suitable opportunity. Against their own wishes,
but on the insistence of the audience, the performers made an attempt
by their methods to detect the nature of the contents of this
test-box. They pronounced it to be money; on opening it millet seed
was found, and a piece of paper, on which was written, "humbug."
An accusation, couched in bitter terms, that Simpson was really a
supporter of mesmerism as it was then known, was published in one of
the leading professional journals in London. He indignantly repudiated
the suggestion and proposed to settle the matter finally by a simple
expedient. He offered to place five sealed boxes each containing a
line from Shakspeare written by himself on paper, in the hands of the
editor of the journal who had permitted the attack to appear in his
columns. To any clairvoyant who read these lines according to the
professed method, and to the satisfaction of a committee of eminent
medical men, he promised the sum of five hundred pounds. The offer,
however, was not accepted.
The brilliant attainments of many of its teachers at this period not
only placed the Edinburgh school at the head of the British schools of
medicine, but also led to tempting offers being made to individual
professors by rival schools anxious to secure their services.
London was a much more lucrative field for practice than the Scots
metropolis, and several of the most eminent Edinburgh men had from
time to time yielded to the temptation to migrate southwards. Indeed,
London as a medical school owes a great deal to the Scotsmen whom she
imported. Liston had left for London in 1834, and Syme followed, for a
brief period, on Liston's death. In 1848 a strong effort was made to
secure Simpson as a lecturer on midwifery at St. Bartholomew's
Hospital; without any hesitation he decided to remain in the city
where he had fought his way to fame, and where he enjoyed popularity,
and a practice sufficiently lucrative to satisfy the most ambitious
man. Every patriotic Scot applauded the decision.
During these years of fame and prosperity Simpson concerned himself in
schemes for the improvement of the surroundings of the working
classes, and helped with speech and purse those who worked among the
poor. He strongly supported the establishment of improved dwellings
for workpeople and gave much attention to the subject of Cottage
Hospitals. He did not neglect the poor amongst whom he had laboured in
his early days. He loved old Edinburgh, and the poor inhabitants of it
were near his heart. "The Professor" was known in many a "wynd" and
"stair," where his services were rendered willingly and without
reward.