Plain speaking was a note of those old Edinburgh medicals. Dr. John Clark was called in to consult as to the state of Lord Provost Drummond, who was ill of a fever. Bleeding seemed his only chance, but they thought him doomed, and it seemed useless to torture him. “None of your idle pity,” said Clark, “but stick the lancet into him. I am sure he would be of that opinion were he able to decide upon his case.” Drummond survived because, or in spite, of the operation. Lord Huntington died suddenly on the bench after having delivered an opinion. Clark was hurried in from the Parliament Close. “The man is as dead as a herring,” said he brutally. Every one was shocked, for even in old Edinburgh plain speaking had its limits. He might have taken a lesson from queer old Monboddo, who said to Dr. Gregory, “I know it is not in the power of man to cure me; all I wish is euthanasia, viz. a happy death.” However, he recovered. “Dr. Gregory, you have given me more than I asked—a happy life.” This was the younger Gregory (1753-1821), Professor of Medicine in the University, as his father had been earlier. He was an eminent medical man, but a great deal more; his quick temper, his caustic wit, his gift of style, made him a dangerous opponent. The public laughed with him whether he was right or wrong. His History of the Western Islands and Highlands of Scotland showed that he had other than medical interests. In 1793, when the Royal Edinburgh volunteers were formed, he became one of them, and he disturbed the temper of Sergeant Gould, who said, “He might be a good physician, but he was a very awkward soldier.” He asked too many questions. “Sir,” said the instructor, “you are here to obey orders and not to ask reasons; there is nothing in the King’s orders about reasons,” and again, “Hold your tongue, sir. I would rather drill ten clowns than one philosopher.”

He who professes universal knowledge is not in favour with the specialist. Gregory visited Matthew Baillie in London, and the two eminent medicos were in after talk not entirely laudatory of one another. “Baillie,” said Gregory, “knows nothing but physic.” “Gregory,” said the other, “seems to me to know everything but physic.” This Matthew Baillie (1761-1823) was a well-known physician of his time who had done well in Edinburgh and gone south to do better still. He worked sixteen hours a day, and no wonder he was sometimes a little irritable. A fashionable lady once troubled him with a long account of imaginary ills, he managed to escape, but was recalled by an urgent message: “Might she eat some oysters on her return from the opera?” “Yes, ma’m,” said Baillie, “shells and all.”

Robert Liston (1794-1847) began as Barclay’s assistant. Like other eminent surgeons stories are told of his presence of mind and fertility of resource during an operation. In an amputation of the thigh by Russell, Professor of Clinical Surgery at the University, an artery bled profusely. From its position it could not be tied up or even got at. Liston, with the amputating knife, chipped off a piece of wood from the operating table, formed it into a cone, and inserted it so as at once to stop the bleeding and so save the patient. In 1818 Liston left Barclay and lectured with James Syme (1799-1870) as his assistant, but in 1822 Syme withdrew and commenced to lecture for himself. His old master was jealous. “Don’t support quackery and humbug,” he wrote as late as 1830 in the subscription book of his rival’s hospital. However, the two made it up before the end. This is not the place to speak of the skill of one of the greatest surgeons of his time; it was emphatically said of him “he never wasted a word, nor a drop of ink, nor a drop of blood.”

PROFESSOR JAMES SYME
From a Drawing in the Scottish National Portrait Gallery

A contemporary of Syme was Sir William Fergusson (1808-1877). He was one of that brilliant Edinburgh band who did so well in London; he began as a demonstrator to Knox. In London he became President of the Royal College of Surgeons, and the best known stories are of his later period. The speed and certainty of his work were remarkable. “Look out sharp,” said a student, “for if you only even wink, you’ll miss the operation altogether.” Once when operating on a large deep-seated tumour in the neck, a severed artery gave forth an enormous quantity of blood; an assistant stopped the wound with his finger. “Just get your finger out of the way, and let’s see what it is,” and quick as lightning he had the artery tied up. There must have been something magical in the very touch of those great operators. A man afflicted with a tumour was perplexed as to the operation and the operator. But as he himself said: “When Fergusson put his hand upon me to examine my jaw, I felt that he was the man who should do the operation for me, the contrast between his examination and that of the others was so great.”

A little earlier than these last were the famous family of Bells. Sir Charles Bell (1774-1842) is rather of London than of Edinburgh, though to him is ascribed the saying that “London is the place to live in, but not to die in.” John Bell (1763-1820), his brother, was an Edinburgh surgeon of note, and a famous lecturer on surgery and anatomy. He had a violent controversy with Professor James Gregory, who attacked him in a Review of the Writings of John Bell by Jonathan Dawplucker. This malignant document was stuck up like a playbill on the door of the lecture room, on the gates of the college, and of the infirmary, where he operated; in short, everywhere, for such were the genial methods of Edinburgh controversy. Bell was much occupied and had large fees for his operations. A rich country laird once gave him a cheque for £50, which the surgeon thought much below his deserts. As the butler opened the door for him, he said to that functionary: “You have had considerable trouble opening the door for me, here is a trifle for you,” and he tossed him the bill. The laird took the hint and immediately forwarded a cheque for £150. It is worth while to note that Joseph Bell (1837-1911), who sprang from the same family, has a place in literary fiction as the original Sherlock Holmes.

The great name among modern Edinburgh doctors is clearly that of Sir James Young Simpson (1811-1870), an accomplished scholar and antiquarian, as well as the discoverer of chloroform. His activity was incessant. An apology was made to him because he had been kept waiting for a ferry-boat. “Oh dear, no,” said he, “I was all the time busy chloroforming the eels in the pool.” His pietistic tendencies by no means quenched his sense of humour. Parting from a young doctor who had started a carriage, “I have just been telling him I will pray for his humility.” Some one propounded the not original view that the Bible and Shakespeare were the greatest books in the world. “Ah,” said he, “the Bible and Shakespeare—and Oliver and Boyd’s Edinburgh Almanac,” this last huge collection of facts he no doubt judged indispensable for the citizen. The final and solemn trial of chloroform was made on the 28th November 1837. Simpson, Keith, and Duncan experimented on themselves. Simpson went off, and was roused by the snores of Dr. Duncan and the convulsive movements of Dr. Keith. “He saw that the great discovery had been made, and that his long labours had come to a successful end.” Some extreme clergymen protested. “It enabled women,” one urged, “to escape part of the primeval curse; it was a scandalous interference with the laws of Providence.” Simpson went on with his experiments. Once he became insensible under the influence of some drug. As he came to himself, he heard his butler, Clarke, shouting in anger and concern: “He’ll kill himself yet wi’ thae experiments, an’ he’s a big fule, for they’ll never find onything better than clory.” On another occasion, Simpson and some friends were taking chloral ether in aerated water. Clarke was much interested in the “new champagne chlory”; he took what was left downstairs and administered it to the cook, who presently became insensible. The butler in great alarm burst in upon the assembled men of science: “For God’s sake, sir, come doun, I’ve pushioned the cook.” Those personal experiments were indeed tricky things. Sir Robert Christison (1797-1882) once nearly killed himself with Calabar bean. He swallowed his shaving water, which acted promptly as an emetic, but he was very ill for some time. One of the most beautiful things in Simpson’s story was the devotion of his own family to him, specially the care of his elder brother Alexander. “Oh, Sandie, Sandie,” said Simpson again and again to the faithful brother, who stood by him even on his death-bed. To the outside world he seemed the one Edinburgh figure of first importance. A citizen was presented at the Court of Denmark to the King of that country. “You come from Edinburgh,” said His Majesty. “Ah! Sir Simpson was of Edinburgh.”

CHAPTER FIVE
ROYALTY

A difficulty meets you in making Kings the subject of anecdote; the “fierce light” that beats about a throne distorts the vision, your anecdote is perhaps grave history. Again, a monarch is sure to be a centre of many untrustworthy myths. What credit is to be placed, for instance, on engaging narratives like that of Howieson of Braehead and James V.? Let us do the best we can. Here I pass over the legends of Queen Margaret and her son David, but one story of the latter I may properly give. Fergus, Prince of Galloway, was a timid if not repentant rebel. He made friends with Abbot Alwyn of Holyrood, who dressed him as a monk and presented him with the brethren on the next visit of the King. The kiss of peace, words of general pardon for all past transgressions, were matters of form, not to be omitted, but quite efficacious. Fergus presently revealed himself, and everybody accepted the dodge as quite legitimate. You recall the trick by which William of Normandy got Harold to swear on the bones of the saints: the principle evidently was, get your oath or your pardon by what dodge you choose, but at all costs get it. Alexander, Lord of the Isles, played a more seemly part in 1458 when he appeared before James I. at the High Altar at Holyrood, and held out in token of submission his naked sword with the hilt towards the King. A quaint story is chronicled of James II. As a child he was held in Edinburgh Castle by Crichton, the Lord Chancellor. The Queen Mother was minded to abduct him; she announced a pilgrimage to Whitekirk, a famous shrine or shrines, for there was more than one of the name. Now a Queen, even on pilgrimage and even in old-time Scotland, must have a reasonable quantity of luggage, change of dresses, and what not. Thus no particular attention was given to a certain small box, though the Queen’s servants, you believe, looked after it with considerable care. In fact it contained His Majesty in propria persona. By means of a number of air-holes practised in the lid he managed to survive the journey. It is said his consent was obtained to his confinement, but those old Scots were used to carry their own lives and the lives of others in their hands, and he had little choice. This is the James who ended at Roxburgh by the bursting of a cannon. His son had peculiar relations with Edinburgh. In 1482 he gave the city its Golden Charter, exalting its civic rulers, and his Queen and her ladies knit with their own hands for the craftsmen the banner of the Holy Ghost, locally known for centuries as the “Blue Blanket,” that famous ensign which it was ridiculously fabled the citizens carried with them to the Holy Land. At this, or rather against the proud spirit of its owners, James VI. girded in the Basilicon Doron. It made a last public appearance when it waved, a strange anachronism, in 1745 from the steeple of St. Giles to animate the spirits of the burghers against Prince Charles and his Highlanders, then pressing on the city. There it hung, limp, bedraggled, a mere hopeless rag! How unmeet, incongruous, improper, to use it against a Stuart! At any rate it was speedily pulled down, and stowed away for ever. James III. fell at Sauchieburn in 1488. It was rumoured he had survived the battle and taken refuge on the Yellow Carvel which Sir Andrew Wood, his Admiral, had brought to the Forth. The rebel lords sent for Sir Andrew, whom the Duke of Rothesay, afterwards James IV., mistook for his dead parent. “Sir, are you my father?” said the boy. “I am not your father, but his faithful servant,” answered the brave sailor with angry tears. The lords after many questions could make nothing of him, so they let him go back to his ship, just in time to save the lives of the hostages whom his brothers, truculent and impatient, were about to string up at the yard-arm.