Such bitter writing was not, however, solely on one side. On another occasion, by the consent of the Royal College of Physicians, ‘A narrative of the conduct of Dr James Gregory towards the Royal College of Physicians of Edinburgh’ was published, which opens with this ominous paragraph, ‘It is with great pain, that the Royal College of Physicians, not a numerous, but hitherto, they trust, a very respectable society, find themselves compelled to come before the public with a narrative of their internal dissensions. The intemperate and injurious conduct of one of their members however has now made this a matter of necessity. Like other collections of individuals, they have had their dissensions and disagreements, but till very lately they were always conducted with the temper and the language of gentlemen, and were begun and ended within the walls of the College. Dr James Gregory has introduced a new style and a new jurisdiction.’
There is not much to choose between in these samples of professional controversy, but on the whole Gregory was usually more right in his views, and more wrong in his expression, than the other side. In spite of these quarrels Gregory’s practice increased steadily. In 1818 his professional income was £2723, and in the following year £100 more, while in the same years he derived from his professorship by way of fees, £1364 and £1200 respectively. These figures represented a much larger sum in 1818 than they would in 1900, and give a substantial proof of Gregory’s popularity.
A story told of Professor Gregory is peculiarly touching. One day when he was giving out the tickets for his class, he had to go into another room to fetch something. When he came back he saw a student, who was waiting for his ticket, take some money off his table and put it into his pocket. The Professor gave him his pass and said nothing, but just as the lad was leaving the room, he rose up and laying his hand on his shoulder said, ‘I saw what you did, and I am so sorry. I know how great must have been your need before you would take money. Keep it, keep it,’ he added, seeing that the student meant to give the stolen money back to him, ‘but for God’s sake, never do it again.’
Sir Walter Scott has remembered also how Professor Gregory on one occasion gave a very ready reply to a learned member of the Scottish Bar. He was giving evidence about a man, who in his opinion, was insane. On a cross-examination, the professor was obliged to admit that the person in question played an admirable game of whist. The eminent counsel thought he had made a point. ‘And do you seriously say, Doctor,’ he added, ‘that a person having a superior capacity for a game so difficult, and which requires in a pre-eminent degree, memory, judgment, and combination, can be at the same time deranged in his understanding?’ ‘I am no card player,’ replied the doctor, ‘but I have read in history that cards were invented for the amusement of an insane king.’ Needless to say, he won his case!
In 1818 Gregory had a serious carriage accident, in which his arm was broken, and from this shock he never really recovered, though we still see him in the midst of work. He was one of a deputation from the University of Edinburgh to congratulate George IV. on his accession to the throne, and while in London he received the honour of a private audience of the king. During that visit his thoughts went back often to his time of study in London, and to all the prosperity that had come to him since. He had received almost every honour which his profession could bring him. He had been President of the College of Physicians. He was made king’s physician to George III., and his commission had been most graciously renewed (during this visit) by George IV. Innumerable societies had bestowed their honorary membership upon him, and many towns had given him the privilege of their freedom, but he felt that his days were nearly over.
During the last year he had attacks of difficulty of breathing, which made it impossible for him to lecture after Christmas 1820. The end came in April. He died of hydro-thorax at the age of sixty-eight.
Of Gregory’s eleven children only five survived him. Two of them were in their turn to become teachers. William, afterwards Professor of Chemistry in Aberdeen and Edinburgh, and Duncan Farquharson, the Cambridge mathematician.
There was not lacking one token of the love and esteem in which the great professor was held. The voices of his rivals were hushed. His friends mourned for him, and the town where he had been such a familiar figure arranged a public funeral for him. He lies buried in the family vault in the Canongate Churchyard.
‘Vir priscae virtutis, per omnes vitae gradus et in omni vitae officio probatissimae.’