The operation is no longer a race against time; order, method, cleanliness, and silence prevail, where there was formerly disorder, bustle, confusion, dirt, and long-drawn shrieks. Nothing illustrates better the progress of surgery than a picture of the operating-room in the first decade placed beside that of an operating theatre in one of our leading hospitals in this the last decade of the nineteenth century. In the quiet of the patient, in the painlessness of the 132 operation, in the calm deliberation of the operator, and the methodical order of all around him, in the respectful silence that prevails in the room so soon as the patient is laid on the table, we see the direct results of the introduction of anæsthetics. But there are other great, if less direct, results, each making its presence known to the professional spectator. By anæsthesia successful operations previously unheard of and unthought of were made possible after the principle of antiseptic surgery had been established; by anæsthesia experimental research, which has led to numerous beneficent results in practical surgery and medicine, was made possible. Its introduction is an achievement of which the Anglo-Saxon race may well be proud. Wells, Morton, and Simpson are its heroes. The United States has by far the greater share of the honour of its discovery; but to Scotland is due the glory which comes from the victorious fight. No event in surgery up to 1847 had had such far-reaching effects. Simpson himself looked forward to the discovery of some agent, better than both chloroform and ether; and it is still possible that there may be an even greater future in store for anæsthesia than was ever dreamt of in his philosophy.
CHAPTER VIII
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—Homœopathy—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 anæsthetic 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 134 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 £200,000 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 135 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 gynæcological work, had it not been for the discovery of chloroform.
The increased fame and greatly increased professional income which followed the successful struggle for anæsthesia 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 136 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.”