Bell replied by adopting the nickname used by his opponent, at the same time attacking his surgical ally in conventional methods, Benjamin Bell, whose “System of Surgery,” in six volumes, afforded him excellent sport. Bell says, “I neither mistook my bird, nor missed my shot; and on the day in which the second number was published, the great surgical work of Benjamin fell down dead.” At this time it was customary for all the surgeons of Edinburgh who cared to do so to operate in rotation at the infirmary, and Gregory put forward a plan by which only a select and limited number of surgeons were to be allowed this privilege. But the scheme was especially aimed at securing the exclusion of John Bell, and this Gregory accomplished in 1800. However, Bell had gained notoriety and practice, though he had lost the hospital appointment, and apparently all chance of a university professorship. He gave up teaching, and devoted himself to practice. He had been instrumental in raising the tone of university requirements and theories in his branch, and it could not again sink to its former inferior condition. He became the leading operator and consulting surgeon of his time. “He was not only a bold and dexterous operator,” says Professor Struthers, “but combined all the qualities, natural and acquired, of a great surgeon, to an extraordinary degree. He was original and fearless, and a thorough anatomist; he had intellect, nerve, and also language—was master alike of head, hand, and tongue or pen; and he was laborious as well as brilliant.” Generous himself and liberal to those who were necessitous, he knew how to reprove niggardliness in the wealthy. On one occasion a rich Lanarkshire laird gave him a cheque for £50 for services which Bell considered to deserve much higher remuneration. On reaching the outer door he met with the butler, and said to him, “You have had considerable trouble opening the door to me, there is a trifle for you,” and gave him his master’s cheque. The astonished butler of course consulted his master about this mark of doubtful favour, and the laird, understanding the hint, sent after the skilful surgeon a cheque for £150.
John Bell has, however, other claims to remembrance than his teaching and his operative skill. His anatomical and surgical writings are still worthy of consultation, and aided materially in the progress of the science. His principal works of this class were the “Anatomy of the Human Body,” 3 vols. (1793-1802); “Engravings of the Bones, Muscles, and Joints,” illustrating vol. i. of the Anatomy, 1794; “On the Nature and Cure of Wounds,” 1795; and “Principles of Surgery,” 3 vols., 1801-8. Sir Charles Bell speaks of “the rapid improvement in the surgery of the arteries which followed the publication of this part of the Anatomy:” and further, that it could not easily be surpassed for correctness and minuteness of description. The third volume of the Anatomy was by his brother Charles, under whose subsequent editorship the book went through numerous editions, and was translated into German. The treatise on Wounds contained clear expositions of the novel practice of aiming at the early union of wounds after operations, and also emphasised the importance of the free anastomosis of arteries in all cases where injuries were sustained by the main arterial trunks. In his “Principles of Surgery” he gave excellent historical views of his subject, as well as the latest and best practice founded on anatomy and physiology. Sir Charles Bell makes the following pointed contrast between his brother and Sir Astley Cooper, in regard to their methods: “He (John Bell) seems ever most happy when he can support his reasoning by the authority of those who have preceded him, and feels that he has conferred a double benefit when he can at the same time illustrate the truth and vindicate the character of some excellent old surgeon, and teach the youth of the present day to look back to the history of the profession for their most useful lessons. Sir Astley Cooper, on the other hand, hates all authority which interferes with his popularity; votes that volume to be an old musty one which is dedicated to himself; omits all mention of his respectable contemporaries; and only varies his terms of praise and eulogy on the young men whom he flatters, journalists and connections in business, down to the cutler who makes his instruments.”
In 1805 John Bell married Rosina Congleton, daughter of a retired Edinburgh physician, and in her found congeniality of tastes, an appreciation of the artistic, literary, and musical sides of his nature, and admirable assistance in his propensity for exercising hospitality. His entertainments, and his own performances on the trombone, became celebrated. His taste for art was accompanied by remarkable skill in design and execution, in which he was only excelled among surgeons by his own brother Charles. He never, however, felt quite at ease after his exclusion from the infirmary. His rivals occupying their position of authority, Dr. Gregory in perpetual sway, could not but impress him with a sense of undeserved failure. Early in 1816 he was thrown from his horse, and did not recover rapidly from his injuries. In 1817 his health was so much impaired that he went on a foreign tour with his wife, and his last three years were spent in Italy, where his artist soul found great delight, and where he also, had much professional practice among English visitors to Italy.
During his residence in Italy he was well aware of the dangerous condition of his health, but his singular degree of spirit and ardour of character prevented his ever betraying his consciousness of it. A few pencilled lines, written by him before leaving Paris, express well the inmost heart of the man whose career had presented such outward turbulence. He says: “I have seen much of the disappointments of life. I shall not feel them long. Sickness, in an awful and sudden form; loss of blood, in which I lay sinking for many hours, with the feeling of death long protracted, when I felt how painful it was not to come quite to life, yet not to die—a clamorous dream! tell that in no long time that must happen, which was lately so near.” He died of dropsy, at Rome, on April 15, 1820.
In Florence and Rome he visited all the principal galleries, and took pencil notes of his observations, both from a scientific and artistic point of view. These formed the main bulk of his posthumous “Observations on Italy,” edited by his friend, Bishop Sandford of Edinburgh, published in quarto form in 1825, subsequently in 2 vols. 8vo in 1835, with additional chapters on Naples. On their publication they at once took high rank, from their singular combination of artistic sympathies, literary expression, and scientific criticism. The New Monthly Review, on its first page, described the language of these observations as vigorous, terse and pure; his lights and shadows as disposed with a masterly hand. His descriptions both of landscapes and of manners in Italy are referred to as the most fascinating that had yet appeared. As a specimen of this vivid and picturesque style, showing how much his art was aided by that quickness to perceive characteristic expressions and traits which was so trained by his medical experience, we may quote his account of a Lenten preacher whom he heard at Rome.
“A sandal-footed, bare-armed, unclothed-looking monk, young, with a pale visage and negligent aspect, stood leaning against a pillar at the upper end of the middle nave; his grey coarse habit, girded by various folds of thickly-knotted cords, seemed scarcely to cover his person; his almost naked arms hanging down by his side, while his cowl, which had fallen back, discovered a wild pallid countenance, and a long lean bony throat. He stood silent and motionless, like an image or statue, as if lost in meditation, or exhausted by the vehemence of his own overwrought feelings poured out upon his auditors. The orator had evidently reached to an elevated strain before my entrance, leaving, as he had suddenly paused, vivid traces of the force of his arguments on the countenances of those he addressed. Here the spread hands, the half-opened mouth, the strained eye, spoke an earnest yet amazed attention, while perhaps near him stood, with silvered hair and meek aspect, the pale anchorite, trembling while he listened, lest perchance even he might not be secure against the punishments of the evil-doer: while beyond him might be seen the dark, gloomy, steady gaze of the brooding fanatic, whose flashing eye seemed to kindle with the orator, and keep pace with his denunciations,—perhaps contrasted by the quiet unthinking air of contented stupidity, looking as if the sense of hearing alone were roused, or by the speaking eye, beaming with zealous fire, as if ready to challenge or answer each new proposition. Some stood with downcast looks, serious and reflecting; others walked softly along, now seen, now lost among the pillars; while the larger portion, who had been as it were surprised by their emotion into a momentary taciturnity, were hastily forming into groups, and beginning, in whispered accents, to converse with that eagerness and vivacity which so peculiarly characterise their nation. But soon, above those murmuring sounds, the full deep-toned voice of the preacher struck the ear, when suddenly all was again hushed to silence. Slow and solemn he opened his discourse; but, as he proceeded, his features became gradually more animated; his dark deep eloquent eye kindling as he spoke, and throwing momentary radiance over his wan and haggard countenance, while the round mellow tones of the Italian language gave the finest energy to his expressions. With frequent pauses, but with increasing power, he continued his discourse; his voice now low and solemn, now grand and forcible, but still with moderated and ever-varied accents, which worked on the feelings, at one moment producing the chill of strong emotion, and then, as he changed his tone, melting the heart to tenderness. The object of his sermon and self-imposed mission was to gain votaries, and win them to a monastic life, by portraying the dangers, the turbulence, and the sorrows of the worldly, contrasted with the peaceful serenity of the heaven-devoted mind. Occasionally, as if warmed by a prophetic spirit, with an air now imploring and plaintive, now wild and triumphant, with animated gesture and tossing of the arms, alternately pointing to heaven and to the shades below, he seemed as if he would seduce, persuade, or tear his victim from the world. The powers of his voice and action gave an indescribable force to his language, carrying away the minds of his auditors with a rapidity that left no pause for reflection. The sombre chastened light of day bringing forward some objects in strong relief, and leaving others in shade, the peculiar aspect of the monk, the magic influence which seemed to hang on his words and lend force to his eloquence, gave to the whole scene a character at once singular and striking.”
John Bell was below middle stature, of good figure, active, with regular features, keen penetrating eyes, and highly intellectual expression. His widow says of him: “To a classical taste and knowledge of drawing (many of his professional designs being finely executed by his own hand) he joined a mind strongly alive to the beauties of nature. He would often, in his earlier years, yield to the enjoyment they produced, and, wandering among the wild and grand scenery of his native land, indulge his imagination in gazing on the rapid stream or watch the coming storm. Such habits seem to have tended, in some measure, to form his character; training him especially to independence in judgment, and perseverance in investigation, that led him to seek knowledge, and boldly publish his opinions. With warm affections and sanguine temper, he looked forward with the hope that his labours and reputation would one day assuredly bring independence; and meanwhile, listening only to the dictates of an enthusiastic nature, and yielding to the impulse of feeling, he would readily give his last guinea, his time, and his care, to any who required them. Judging of others by himself, he was too confiding in friendship, and too careless in matters of business; consequently from the one he was exposed to disappointment, and from the other involved in difficulties and embarrassments which tinged the colour of his whole life.”
FOOTNOTES:
[11] “Letters on the Education of a Surgeon,” by John Bell, 1810.