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 139 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 140 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 archæological 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 anæsthetics, Montgomery of Dublin, who had keenly opposed him, was amongst 141 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 142 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 143 Alexander had latterly resigned the baker’s business and taken up the rôle 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 144 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 145 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.