John Andrew Weaver (1923–2013)

President of the Ulster Medical Society 1984–85

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Presidential Opening AddressUlster Medical Society1st November 1984

JOHN HENRY BIGGART 1905-1979 —A PORTRAIT IN RESPECT AND AFFECTION

John Henry Biggart was born on 17th November 1905in Belfast in a house a few hundred yards fromQueen’s University. He was to be associated with theUniversity as student, medical graduate, Professor ofPathology, Dean of the Medical Faculty,Pro-Vice-Chancellor and Pro-Chancellor, in all forhalf a century or more. He is arguably one of themajor influences in the development of the Queen’sMedical School on a par with other significantfigures—McDonnell, Redfern, Whitla.

My intention is to describe his life in respect andaffection, an affection shared by many here tonightbecause he accepted them into the medical schooland was usually a benevolent father-figurethroughout their undergraduate and postgraduatecareers—more than a father-figure, an epitome of thephilosophy that medicine should be a cultured calling,and he was ever a standard-bearer for Queen’sUniversity medicine. The emphasis on respect andaffection does not intend to hint that others mighttake a more critical approach. It has been said that, inorder to escape criticism, one should do nothing, saynothing, be nothing. None of those attributes wasJohn Henry Biggart. One possible criticism of Sir JohnBiggart is that he held too much personal power fortoo long. Leave that for now—I will return to it.

I have been fortunate in my task by being grantedaccess to personal papers of Sir John Biggart, and Iam most grateful to Lady Isobel Biggart for herkindness and help. Lady Biggart is very well, or per-haps her own words portray the justifiable scepticismof a pathologist's wife: “The doctors tell me I am verywell”; to which she added: “They have been very niceto me at the Belfast City Hospital”. I joined with her inpraising that excellent hospital, but no further test ofour mutual sincerity was undertaken. In the course ofan afternoon’s conversation in the family home inKing’s Road, which she does not intend to leave, wetalked about much that I will say. Her regrettedabsence tonight is encapsulated in “ I am too

sentimental an old thing at heart to come”.I have just referred to Sir John, and I have a

difficulty in repeated reference to him as to whatname I should use. To many he was simply “JohnHenry”. To others “Harry” (and he was “Harry” to hisfamily). He was personally amused at having oncebeen called "a black bastard”. Dr Desmond Burrowsrecounts that when he was working in the PathologyDepartment it was his task to approach the cliniciansto present a case at the pathology meeting. He wassent to request a rather strong-willed physician"Would he show a case?” When he came back to JohnHenry’s office, Dr Burrows reported that thephysician would not show a case. John Henry asked“Why?” Dr Burrows replied, “He won’t show it”. JohnHenry persisted. Dr Burrows repeated, “He won’tshow it”. John Henry still questioned, “What did heactually say?” Reluctantly, Desmond Burrows said,“He said he wouldn’t do it for that black bastard”.

Sir John opens his personal biography notes witha declared intent that they are “for my own

Image courtesy of the Office of Archives, R.V.H., Belfast

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delectation and to place on record for myself thoseepisodes which bubble up through the morass ofmemory. So my journal is for me alone, for myenjoyment, but if others care to read some name,some place, may evoke for them, too, fond memory”. Iaccept that as my licence for quoting from the papers.The journal begins: “I was born on the 17th November1905. At that time my father was principal of a schoolin Ennis, Co. Clare. He had previously been principalin the school of Stranocum, Co. Antrim, and it wasthere that he met my mother. At that time he lived abachelor life in the teacher’s residence which,because of its architecture was known locally as the‘salt box’. It still exists and still justifies thedescription. Still, though I was conceived in Co. Clare,my mother, also of Antrim stock, came back to Belfast,and so I was born in the house of my aunt on theStranmillis Road. My father later returned to NorthernIreland and we settled in the old Unitarian Mansenear Templepatrick. Here the Rev. Robert Campbellhad dominated his parish, and fathered Robert andJohn, who were subsequently to make their mark inthe development of medicine in Northern Ireland.

John was to build the Samaritan Hospital. Robert as asurgeon at the Children’s Hospital in Queen Street iscommemorated in the Campbell Oration”.

Sir John Biggart’s account continues, “And so Ispent my youth in South Antrim. Yet my affection andmy family ties were always with the northern part ofthe county. On the Biggart side my ancestors hadcome from Ayrshire in the early fifteen hundreds. Mymother’s family were Gaults from Ballynure”.

About his childhood, Sir John wrote, “Myaffection is still to North Antrim, and its cliffs andrough seas. These North Antrim people were acurious but attractive mixture of the people of theglens and those Scots who had made their perilousway by Rathlin and the Isles to the land of ruggedcliffs, who had made their way past Fair Head toMurlough Bay or Ballycastle. In 1921 my parentsmoved from their beloved Co. Antrim to Co.Down—near Ballygowan. They had been appointed toa mixed school. Of those early years in Ballygowan itis curious the memories that remain—Sunday schoolat 10.30 am, church at 12 noon, Sunday school at 3pm and church at 6.30 pm—repeating the whole ofthe 119th Psalm, the whole of the Shorter Catechismwith proofs.

“It is a curious thing that in a small provincialarea like Ulster there should be such a diversity ofliving. While I lived in the village of Ballygowan, ourhouse looked out over the village square, and fromour windows one could overlook the whole comingsand goings of the community. Yet perhaps the charmof the village life was the intimacy of it all. Thecountry came through it and about it and pureundiluted country was only a few yards away”.

Sir John continues, “I recall those to whom I owea great debt—my Presbyterian and bachelor parsonthe Rev. W.K. McLernon. I remember the day heannounced the creation of a lending library in hissmall village church. The establishment of the churchlibrary led to my having read most of Scott, ofDickens and of Thackeray by the age of 15. Thus wasestablished a habit of reading which has been mysolace: come riot, come bomb, come frayed tempersat committees, or frustration in one’s work, one hourof deep immersion in one’s books brought back peaceand understanding. Gradually the novel has ceased tobe of interest and had been replaced by history,biography and the volume of George Eliot essayswhich I first read some fifty years ago. I foundinscribed on its fly leaf ‘In omnibus quietum quaesivi,sed numquam inveni salve in angulo cum libro’—‘In allthings have I sought peace, but never have I found itsave in a corner with a book’. Fifty years ago and

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perhaps the only prophecy which has remained true”.John Henry Biggart entered Royal Belfast

Academical Institution at age 13 in 1918. “So I wasaccepted to Inst, went to James’ the outfitters andduly appeared at school in the old black cap with itsinitialled monogram. Subsequent headmasters—not oflocal origin or tradition—were to alter the simplicityof the school cap, but to me it was a badge ofsuperiority which we flaunted on the top of thetramcars as they sped down Wellington Place”. Hisattachment to Inst was, I suspect, life-long. DavidBaird entered first year Dentistry, requested totransfer to medicine, as did a fellow student. Thelatter came out after 15 minutes in John Henry’soffice looking very worried, “I don’t know whether Iam in or not”. David Baird straightened up, adjustedhis Instonian tie and went in. “So you want to changeto medicine, my son. That will be all right”. JohnHenry’s years at Inst seem to have been happy.Setting out each morning on the 7.30 train fromBallygowan, homework checked by father beforeleaving. It was obviously a long day of involvement inacademic work and rugby and the various schoolsocieties. The sum of achievement while at the RoyalBelfast Academical Institution was considerable. TheSullivan scholarship in mathematics, the Hyndmanscholarship in Latin and Greek, the Musgravescholarship in French, the Blair memorial scholarshipin Physics and Chemistry; at the same time playing forthe First Fifteen and obtaining an Ulster Schools cap.

There is a regretful note about social life, for inhis account he says, “Unlike Methodist College whichwas co-educational, we were ruled with spartansimplicity, but it was generally thought that we morethan caught up with the Methody boys in our firstyear after school”. Also, an interesting analysis of DrJones the headmaster which maybe tells us somethingabout John Henry’s own appreciation as to how powershould be exercised. “A great headmaster, but to manyof us his seat upon Olympus seemed too lofty, too farremoved, and the mountain side upon which wesought to climb too steep for us to obtain thatintimacy that we desired”.

And so to Queen’s University. I continue quotingfrom his papers. “In the early twenties Queen’s was alovely university. Scarcely two thousand studentswere in attendance and over coffee in the Union onetalked with budding classicists, or modern linguists,with embryo lawyers, with chemists and physicists. Inthose days the medical school was the dominantfaculty. In my time each successive president of theStudents’ Representative Society, of the Students’Union and of the University Debating Society was a

medical student. Of course that was before thedevelopment of that modern anomaly—the studentpolitician—often neither student nor diplomat”.

Some insight into Sir John Henry Biggart’scommonsense exercise of power as a disciplinarianwhen Dean of the Medical Faculty and also a memberof the General Medical Council can be gleaned fromhis account of his own appearance as a student infront of the University Disciplinary Committee:“Students’ Rag Day in 1926 ended with a fancy dressball in the Great Hall and I, for my sins, was one of theorganizing committee. At the end of the Hall was asettee of matrons—wives of professors and pro-chancellors—in all a most decorous group whom wehoped to entertain with presentations of bouquets,boxes of chocolates and the occasional sacrifice of adance. As a member of committee one felt a certainresponsibility. Students had been collecting all day.They had survived attacks in the spinning mills andfactories which they had dared to invade. Managers inthe offices of our then more frequent distilleries hadpoured out generous portions of their wares hopingsoon to be left in peace. Girl students had donehonour to the night, and many Queens of Shebaadded beauty and excitement. My first call was toremove a student who had decided that he did notlike a portrait of a former, and no doubt eminent,professor of philosophy and had shown his dislike byboxing the portrait. Next was the student whoinsisted on spending the evening in the ladies’lavatory. Then there was the dental student, who tookwhat was normally a colourful professor by the lapelsof his evening jacket and enquired about thewhereabouts of ‘the bloody red shirt’ that he usuallywore. On the whole it was a series of minor accidents.Yet in the morning when I returned to Queen’s thenight had attained the dimensions of a catastrophe.Rumour grew apace. One Queen of Sheba was thecynosure of every eye—had her straps not broken at acritical moment in the cloisters and had she not flednaked to the waist to the women’s quarters pursuedby those still able to run. The Committee was hastilysummoned before the Discipline Committee. So I wasinterviewed by all the learned Deans of all theFaculties, grilled about every possible misbehaviour ofstudents in such situations—indeed it was surprisinghow fervid their imagination could be. It was onlywhen the final interrogator, the Dean of the Faculty ofMedicine, asked me, ‘Biggart, did you see anythingthat a drop of drink couldn’t explain?’ that I realizedthat here at last was a man with his feet on theground”.

Accounts of pre-dinical life as a student read as

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follows: “One of our great treats was the lecturesfrom the Professor of Anatomy (Thomas Walmsley)—aScot with much of the mystique of the Celt. Hislectures were a delight, for with consummate skill hewove together the hard facts of anatomy and thephilosophy of his subject. Many years later when Ibecame involved in trying to understand thehypothalamus I was still to remember thescientifically dear way that I had been introduced tothe anatomy of the third ventricle. He was a greatteacher, possibly because of his reserved personality,too far removed from the average student, but manyof the best were sufficiently stimulated to take up hissubject and eventually to attain chairs in many places.Yet possibly the credit should not all be his, for backfrom the USA in the early twenties came as hislecturer one of the great characters of medicine—oneDr Richard Hunter. He had taken up medicine after aperiod in business, after acting as an interpreter forthe British troops in France and I think partly becausehis brother, a general practitioner, had died frompneumonia after an exhausting journey in the snow tosuccour a patient”. Sir John had obviously greataffection for Dickie Hunter. In the 1949 RVH openingaddress he refers to him as “sometime lecturer inanatomy, artist, medical author and circus impresario...” Dickie had just returned from the Johns HopkinsMedical School and had been greatly enthused.Though a lifelong bachelor he was to us the ultimateauthority on procreation. From semen to ovum toblastocyte, to embryo, to foetus, we followed hismagic drawings and his wit. He had the great facilityof knowing each and every one of his students andwhen I returned to academic life he fathered me like ason, introduced me to medical history, taught mesomething of art, and years later led me into aparticular type of personal, rather than paper,administration. A great lover of life, he was eventuallypersuaded to give up anatomy. So he becameSecretary to the University, and as such I found himwhen I returned to Queen’s. Whether as Professor orDean I don’t remember that we ever wrote a letter toeach other. Every morning I dropped into his officeabout 8.45, and we talked of many things. What littlebusiness we had to transact was duly noted, put uponthe agenda of the committee and eventually therequired end result achieved”. At a later stage in hiswritings, John Henry describes the continuation of hishappy working relationship with George Cowie,Dickie Hunter’s successor.

It should be recorded in relation to anatomy thatSir John Biggart was the first winner of the SymingtonMedal—and was probably the only winner of the

Symington and the University billiards championshipin the same year. Generations of students will recallhis pathology lectures opening the first year ofclinical work—always the question to the class,peering up from under deep eyebrows at the seatedrows, “Who won the Symington in this year? Whowon the Milroy?”

‘‘Having surmounted the hurdle of the secondprofessional examination we proceeded to hospital.Spending our mornings at the Royal Victoria Hospitalwe dashed back to the Union dining room and a fullround of lectures at the University. For the first timewe felt that we were really becoming engaged in ourprofession. I suppose for most of us it meantsomething to do with patients and their ailments, andwe had a rather mystical conception of what thedoctor could do. In hospital we were well taught andCecil Calvert, Ian Fraser, Cecil Woodside and GeorgeMcFadden introduced us to the elementary surgicalproblems. One of the greatest difficulties was theovercoming of the shyness of bodily and physicalintimacy. The belle on the beach is one thing; thesame belle sick in bed is another. Yet somehow orother, almost unconsciously, we slowly acquired theart of medicine. For the art is much more slowlyacquired than the science, a fact which seems oftenforgotten in the drafting of curricula by moderneducationalists. Our clinical studies continued. All theward chiefs were part-timers, giving their servicesfree to the hospital, and I suppose earning theireventual rewards by impressing the next generationof general practitioners. Even the clinical professorswere part-time. We soon learned of course todistinguish between those who could and wouldteach and those who couldn’t and wouldn’t. On thewhole, however, their record of endeavour was verygood, in some cases better than that of some of theirfull-time successors”. I include that quotation from SirJohn, not in the present-day context of part-time butas a tribute to that generation pre-1948 who createdthe medical environment of the hospitals of this city.Not for nothing does the inscription above Ward 9,RVH, proclaim, ‘‘The Honorary Medical Staff”. Theattitude of Sir John to part-timers portrays acharacteristic that, while he was wholeheartedly afull-time academic, he could see virtue in those whowere not and there lies in that an example of anopenness of mind.

Hospital undergraduate years merge into thehouseman year at the Royal Victoria Hospital in SirJohn’s reminiscences: ‘‘Pa Kirk and urea as a panaceafor all things; the ‘Turk’ percussing a chest havingmade up his mind what was wrong, he then

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proceeded to demonstrate, and demonstratebeautifully and convincingly, the sounds that ought toemanate from his diagnosis. S. Boyd Campbell tooksome interest in me throughout my student years— Inever knew why, but thought it possible that becauseour families stemmed from North Antrim we shouldstand together. Certainly he befriended me all thedays of his life and in return I was occasionally able tomollify his colleagues. For he was a man who put hiscase strongly but not always tactfully”. Sir John quotesfrom Dr T.H. Crozier’s tribute, ‘Strong in hisenthusiasms and prejudices, he was a man ofinflexible principles, always a warm-hearted,generous and loyal friend’. “He was one of the clinicalexaminers in my final. I was given a patient with somevalvular disease of the heart, and in my diagnosisclaimed that I heard the relatively rare Austin Flintmurmur. The actual examiner was a lady physicianwhom I knew was somewhat deaf. She listened to theheart sounds, could or would not confirm mydiagnosis and appealed to her co-examiner. Helistened and did not deny the presence of mymurmur, but somehow I have always felt that, when Isaw the twinkle in his eye, he too was fooling myexaminer.

“The senior physician was one Dr John Morrowand I was his house physician in Wards I and 2. Atsome stage he had had an infection of the palm of hisleft hand which left him with a stiff middle finger. Inthe discussion of a problem he had the habit ofmassaging his stiff Finger, and one soon came toappreciate that such massage was the danger signalbefore an emotional explosion. There was a traditionin Wards 1 and 2 that Johnny always liked to score offhis house physician. It was an advantage to miss someobvious finding or test. I think this tradition grewfrom the time when Dr Sidney Allison had been hishouse physician. He was most competent, wrote upprogress notes on his patients each and every day,and poor old Johnny had no excuse to show hisauthority as chief. Yet on one occasion Allison slipped.In the case progress chart he had recorded that thepatient vomited ‘once or twice’ yesterday. So Johnnyread the note, began to rub his finger, and turning toAllison exclaimed, ‘Did he vomit once or did he vomittwice? For Christ’s sake let us have some investigationin this ward’.

“As the houseman year came towards its end, onebegan to wonder what was to be the next stop. Theman and subject that attracted me most wasProfessor Symmers and Pathology. So one afternoon Iwent to visit him. It was the afternoon of his finallecture for he was due to retire but he kindly

appointed me so that his successor had a faitaccompli on his hands”.

Later an obituary of Professor Symmers in theUlster Medical Journal described that he spent hisretirement years studying ‘Virgil’, also reminiscent ofSir William Whitla’s study in his own retirement of theBook of Daniel and the Apocalypse. I had beendejected that such topics were not being pursued byany of my retired friends until this year when DrRichard Womersley retired to study in classics atQueen’s. Sir John continues, “My new chief wasProfessor Drennan—homing back from Otago. WhilstSymmers was the Platonist, who was quite as likely totake us to W.H. Hudson’s ‘Purple Land’ as to expoundon pathology, Drennan revitalised our pathologicalservice. He was a charming and always consideratechief, somewhat shyly encouraging, but at the sametime expecting results”. (Professor Drennan died thisyear—February 1984—at the age of 100 years.) “Mytwo years as assistant passed, my researchcompleted, and my thesis was successful. Because ofthe impoverished state of the University, technicianswere few and far-between, though those which wepossessed were kindly and competent and have beenmy good friends throughout my life. From them Ilearnt the current techniques of the day. So theaverage day was from nine in the morning untilmidnight—cutting, staining, counting. Then onewalked a couple of miles home and found that aconsiderate mother had left a plate of cold ham, apotato or two in the pot, plenty of butter and possiblya raw onion”.

Bert Russell, the doyen of laboratory technicalstaff, describes a life-long sustained personalrelationship with Professor Biggart. As ProfessorBiggart was appointed to more and more committees,the time spent in the Pathology Department was less.Bert describes how he used to chide him and it wasreceived with equanimity. “Professor Biggart, you willsoon be the visiting Professor of Pathology”. BertRussell pays great tribute to John Henry’s technicalability. Professor Biggart was, in fact, elected a Fellowof the Institute of Medical and Laboratory Science.“He was a very competent technical person. He couldstand shoulder to shoulder with you in routinepathological work, cutting and staining. Heunderstood the technical difficulties; I rememberhaving tried to use silver impregnation to stain forsenile plaques in a case of dementia and, try as Imight, it would not work. I went to him and said, ‘Ihave had a lot of trouble with this case and I still can’tget it to take up the stain’. ’Let us have a look’, After amoment. ‘It is not much good. Did you try such and

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such?’ And again, ‘Did you try that?’ Then finally, ‘ Ialways wondered why you got so much success. It isvery nice to see that you are human after all.’”

Sir John’s papers continue: “Towards the end ofmy second year Professor Drennan suggested that Iapply for a Commonwealth Fellowship, so withoutmuch hope I filled in the requisite forms and dulyappeared in London for interview. I am afraid I feltvery much the little country boy. I was greatly pleasedwhen a few days later I was notified that I had beenawarded a Fellowship to Johns Hopkins”. On arrival atthe Johns Hopkins, Sir John writes, “I was greatlythrilled by being nominated as Professor McCallum’spersonal assistant in working with Arnold Rich and ingetting to know that most historic pathologist PoppaWelch”. One is conscious of what a royal medicallineage is here, for Welch had worked with Cronheim,Ehrlich, von Recklinghausen and Koch. I was alsointrigued when I was checking Welch’s work inEurope in the Dictionary of American Biography:‘Welch, William Henry. Born Norfolk, Connecticut,1850. Died Baltimore, Maryland, 1934. Pathologist,medical educator’. ‘Medical educator’. Perhaps that

phrase should not have startled me, but startle me itdid. I suspect that in this country we have ceased toregard anyone as having medical education as theprime function of his career. Harry Biggart's lifeshows that ‘medical education’ was to him a veryprime function. My own memory of pathologylectures by Professor Biggart is how frequently thework and opinions of this group of men—Welch,McCallum, Rich—were quoted. There was nothingparticularly chauvinistic in this because by anystandards these men were giants but it. is possible todiscern that the ‘country boy’ from Ulster had at acritical stage of his development, been offered imagesof conduct, of pathological competence, and ofmedical administration (in the case of Poppa Welch).He writes, “Rich was a great stimulus. We met in hishome every Monday night at seven for a journal club.For an hour we had a musical interlude, Rich playingthe violin, his wife the piano”. An asset of theCommonwealth Fellowship was that they suppliedadditional funds to enable the Fellows to travelthroughout the States in the summer vacation. SirJohn describes leaving Maryland down to NewOrleans, across Texas and Arizona to the Californiancoast, calling at Los Angeles (for 1932 was also theyear of the Olympic Games), then up to Canada, theFraser River valley, the Yukon, across the Rockies toChicago. He comments, “As the second year atHopkins drew to its close there was much to worryabout. Academic posts in Great Britain were notnumerous. In April Professor McCallum asked me tostay at Hopkins. Before I had really considered this,my former chief, Professor Drennan, who had movedfrom Belfast to Edinburgh, wrote to offer me alectureship in neuropathology, and so my problemwas solved. I had always been interested in neurology,and the artistry of gold and silver impregnation hadbeen an attraction when I first entered pathology.

“So on the 1st September 1933 I took up my postin Edinburgh. As well as lecturer in neuropathology, Iwas also pathologist to the Scottish Asylums Boardand neuropathologist to the Royal Infirmary, andbecame closely associated with Norman Dott and hisneurological team.” Four years were spent inEdinburgh, a great deal in routine neuropathology,this specialized subject very much in its infancy atthat time. “At the beginning of my fourth year inEdinburgh my small textbook on neuropathology waspublished. It had been an interim in the routine work,and was founded on the lectures which I gave to thecandidates for the Diploma in Psychological Medicine.In the spring of 1937 Sir Hugh Cairns offered me anappointment at Oxford, but whilst I was considering

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whether I should accept, the Chair in my ownuniversity became vacant. My Edinburgh friendsencouraged me to apply for Belfast. Normally I shouldnot have thought of it. I was only 31 years of age. Allthe professors of pathology I knew were men ofmaturity—Symmers, Drennan, McCallum, Muir, ShawDunn, Matthew Stewart, and so on. Obviously in manyways I was incompetent for such a post. Though onehad endeavoured to gain as wide an experience aspossible, and to make good defects in one'sknowledge, such defects were bound to exist.Eventually I found myself on the ‘short list'. Twomornings after the appointments board interview as Ibooked our return to Edinburgh I ran into Dr Hunter,the secretary of the University, who told me I hadbeen appointed’’.

John Henry in a conversation with Ingrid Allen,expressed “a passing regret’’ that he had notremained in neuropathology—perhaps a memory thatHortega took the Chair at Oxford. Dame DorothyRussell had commented “What a pity young Biggartdidn’t take it”. Dorothy Russell—very famous, veryprecise, an austere figure, and Ingrid described asense of awe of her and difficulty in getting on anydegree of terms with her because of her fame andcharacter. John Henry said he had no difficulty, “youjust had to treat her like a woman”.

“So I came back to the medical school as aprofessor, and practically all my colleagues had beenmy teachers. Of course they knew—or thought theyknew all my foibles. On the other hand, I still had therespect for all of them that I had had as a student. Itoo knew their weaknesses, for students are everquick to see through their teachers. The Departmentwas woefully understaffed. So much of the teachingand a great deal of the practical service work of thehospital fell to the professor and senior lecturers”.John Henry Biggart’s early years as Professor ofPathology were magnificent because of theunhindered commitment to the subject and theabsence of the multiple responsibilities of his lateryears. Desmond Montgomery, a student in his firstclasses—“the impression was of the arrival of a whizkid”. About the same time, Gerald Nelson, a junior inpathology— “One knew that one was being taught by amaster”. Dr Robert Marshall records in The RoyalVictoria Hospital 1903-1953 that in 1937 there were700 biopsies and in 1953 there were 6,000 andnecropsies increased from 200 to 1,000. The late DrSidney Allison, during his years as hospital archivist,penned the following unpublished account of JohnHenry and it has reference to these early years. DrAllison writes, “My first meeting with him was in 1930

at a dinner. I had just come to Belfast and at the timehe was working as pathologist at QCiB. Later hereturned to his alma mater as Professor of Pathology.He had spent over a year working at Johns HopkinsHospital and I remember observing the almost ‘tonic’effect which work in one of the foremost hospitals onthe other side of the Atlantic had had on him. Proof ofthis was soon forthcoming when he published hisimportant paper with Colin Campbell on the relationbetween existing diabetes insipidus and lesions of thepituitary. An admirable thing Biggart did was toreorganise the clinical pathological conferenceswhich had been held in the King Edward MemorialBuilding from 1931 onwards, usually under thechairmanship of Thomas Houston. Under Biggart’schairmanship, the plan of the meeting was for threeor four cases to be presented and discussed between4.30 and 6.00 p.m. The procedure was for thephysician or surgeon to give an account of the clinicalaspects of the case and then one of the pathologystaff to project slides on the screen and detail thepathology, after which a short general discussion tookplace. Right from the first meeting these were anoutstanding success. The same advantage was to begiven to Cecil Calvert and myself in 1947 when once amonth we assembled with the Professor and hisassistants at brain ‘cut-ups’ where again the clinicalfeatures presented in a case during life werecompared with the post-mortem findings. In my ownspecial field, multiple sclerosis, it was of interest tofind after the second World War, on application to theSchools of Pathology in Glasgow, Birmingham,Manchester and London, how few records there wereof post-mortems in this disease, whereas, in Belfast,Biggart could turn up some 14 examples at that earlydate without difficulty. I have often thought with suchan active, research-minded attitude as he possessedwhat he might have done had he remained in thescientific field, but in effect the pressure ofadministrative business, the coming of the healthservice and the shaping of the future of the BelfastSchool of Medicine were more than sufficient to takethe place of personal research. This missing elementin his later career, however, was brilliantly displayedby members of his department, John Edgar Morisonand Florence McKeown. Indeed, there can be littledoubt that burying himself in pure research wouldnot have satisfied the urge within, as strong on theday of his retirement in 1971 as it had been in 1946,to take an active guiding part in the affairs of theschool and in the destinies of the students, of whichhe never lost sight”.

Desmond Neill recounts another example of John

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Henry’s character, and it also refers to the lab.meetings. “An ability to do his ‘homework’. With thepassage of time, more case presentations at the lab.meetings had some discussion about biochemistry.‘Desmond, there is a case coming up with abnormallipids. Write me half a page on that. Not toocomplicated. Something I can just let drop as thediscussion develops’.” Another story of Desmond Neill:when appointed as a basic grade biochemist at theRVH, he saw an advertisement for a senior gradebiochemist in the Belfast City Hospital and went tosee Professor Biggart to ask either his permission toapply or else act as referee. “Desmond, just you comeback up to your laboratory and get on with your work.I have plans for you”. (One would comment in passingthat the plans seem to have had a degree of success).

It would be a recitation of facts known to most ofthis audience if I outlined John Henry’s career from1937 onwards. He was Professor of Pathology for 34years and Dean of the Medical Faculty for 27 years. Inorder to record fully his portrait I reproduce theextract fromWho was Who, 1971-1980. [See below]

John Henry Biggart was elected Dean of theMedical Faculty at its 271st meeting on 25th April1944. Item 12 of the minutes reads: “On the motion ofProfessor Lowry, seconded by Professor Thomson,Professor J.H. Biggart was elected Dean for 1944-5.Professor Lowry moved and Professor Thomsonseconded and it was carried unanimously that thethanks of the meeting be given to Professor J.W.Wilson for his services as Dean for 14 years”.Professor Biggart remained Dean of the MedicalFaculty for 27 years. I asked in the Faculty office washe ever concerned that this was too long. The replywas “No. He was proud of it”. I asked was he everopposed for re-election. The reply was, “Who wouldhave been so brave?” A temporary diversion in thestory is to look at the history of the Deanship of theMedical Faculty. The second meeting of the Facultywas on October 21st 1851. Present—Burden, Carlisle,Gordon, Stewart, Ferguson. “A ballot being taken forthe election of Dean of Faculty, Dr Ferguson waselected”. But at a subsequent meeting on May 1st1852, “The Dean having read the resolution of councilrespecting the election of Deans, Faculty proceededto ballot—Dr Ferguson 3 votes, Dr Gordon 2 votes”.This second election within seven months of theoriginal election was presumably based on theStatutes of Queen's College (1849) that each facultymust elect the Dean annually.

The new Statutes of Queen's College of 1863 omitany reference to the constitution and powers of theFaculties: all the professors of the university are

grouped in a single corporate body and I do not thinkthere was a Dean of the Medical Faculty between1863 and 1909. A book of Minutes starts 10thSeptember 1891. The meeting is described as,“Meeting of medical Professors”. The President of theCollege, Dr Hamilton, was in the Chair. There areMinutes of meetings through 1891 to 1907, thePresident often in the Chair, but Professor Cuming in1896 and Professor Whitla in 1902. Professor Byerschaired meetings in 1903 interspersed with the usualchairman President Hamilton: an insight intorelationships. 16th May 1907: “The Presidentexplained the objects of the meeting, then called uponProfessor Sinclair, Senior Professor of the MedicalFaculty of the College, to take the Chair which hevacated and then withdrew from the meeting”. Recentfashion, from 1970, has been a Medical Deanship of 3or 6 years and I had assumed this was a previousnorm. Not so.

1910—1913 Professor T.H. Milroy1914—1929 Professor Symmers1930—1943 Professor W.J. Wilson1944—1971 Professor J.H. Biggart

The statutes of Queen’s University 1909 showthat the office of Dean of a Faculty is extremelypowerful, granted his autonomy depends on yearlyelection. He is the executive of the Faculty, in chargeof the business of the Faculty meetings, a member ofall committees of the Faculty, in charge ofapplications to the Faculty and degrees. In fact, a rolethat demands the exercise of power. As holder of theDean’s office, John Henry Biggart was endowed withthe rare gift of a man who was able to make up hismind and that is an initial premise in any assessmentof him. For instance, Sinclair Irwin on the RVHplanning committee wanted to discuss some futureplanning which Sir John resisted being sent to acommittee, “You compromise if you have too manypeople deciding on a committee”.

What was achieved during the 27 years as Dean?The building of all the extensions of the medicalschool, first on the RVH site in the 1950s and on theBCH site in the 1960s. George Cowie describes thedevelopment of the preclinical departments alongsidethe BCH site—the previous place of the Deaf andDumb and Blind Institute. Although the formerbuilding was of architectural interest, it was in badrepair so the only solution when Queen’s acquired itwas to clear the area for rebuilding. Sir Eric Ashby(later Lord Ashby) strongly favoured building a newUnion and student residential and recreationalfacilities. Not everyone was in total agreement withthis, particularly as the site seemed too small and two

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main roads—Lisburn and Malone—separated it fromthe main university. Sir Eric’s plan was howeveradopted at several meetings of the DevelopmentCommittee at which John Henry was present but saidlittle, if looking unenthusiastic about the project. Hewas challenged after one meeting as to why he didnot voice his obvious opposition. He replied, “Sir EricAshby will be the Master of Clare in seven monthstime. We will later change the plan when he has goneand build the preclinical school there”. Interestingly,in terms of relationships between people, GeorgeCowie felt that Sir David Kerr and Michael Grantrelied absolutely on John Henry and accepted all hisadvice, but that, though Sir Eric Ashby oftenconsulted him, he consulted other people as well. Thestory of the preclinical building reminds me of aremark of Richard Womersley’s: “He was tough andcharming. He got things done”. I do not wish topresent John Henry in any way Machiavellian, excepton occasion with the most altruistic motives for hismedical school. Both his secretaries in Faculty officeand Pathology testify almost in the same terms. “Hewas never devious. We never knew him to go back onhis word”. A former student said, “There were no sidedoors to John Henry”. (I would like to express especialthanks to Mrs Colleen Jackson and Miss ThelmaTennis for particular help in this context).

More important than buildings was the expansionof the medical school in academic staff. Full-timechairs were established in the main clinicaldisciplines—in many of these instances the appointeeswere largely John Henry’s choice and more often thannot he chose well. Perhaps there was also anunderlying intent to minimize any parochialism in themedical school. There was balance in his intentions.Professors Bull, Rodgers, Wate, Pritchard andGreenfield were not Queensmen, but QueensmenProfessors John Gibson, Dundee and Archer wereencouraged to come home again. As regardsparochialism, Professor John Young had warnedGeorge Cowie when he was leaving Aberdeen to be“particularly careful in Belfast for many of the medicalfamilies were related” and he was further warned notto assume that the relationships were always on ahundred per cent friendly basis. John Dundee withChestertonian insight says of John Henry. “During histime as Dean he didn’t know the meaning of the word‘democratic’ but nevertheless he was very much ademocrat”. He remembers John Henry reflecting onanaesthetics and the intention to create a Chair in thesubject. John Henry reminisced on the time he hadgiven anaesthetics when he was a medical student,and went on to reflect that he didn’t see the need for

a chair in the subject and then added “but if otherswant it, I will support it”. Sir John’s account, in hispapers, “My first morning in surgery I was placed onthe anaesthetist’s stool and gave three anaestheticsfor some abdominal complaints. One sat and watchedthe respirations of the patient and gauged theefficiency of the anaesthetic by the tension used onthe abdominal retractors and the temper of thesurgeon”. The Chair in Anaesthetics was founded in1958, the fifth such Chair in the United Kingdomamong 25-30 medical schools. The Chair ofOphthalmology—one of our brightest jewels I wouldadd—was certainly “plotted”. The Institute for theBlind saw that its services, as originally envisaged,were not needed and a scheme was hatched betweenHarold Clokey, Gavin Boyd and John Henry to alterthe rules of the charity and reorganize its variousmonies to fund a Chair in Ophthalmology. At the sametime, an aged aristocratic wealthy patient of my ownwas also potentially involved, provided his will wasworded as had been hinted, and I remember meetingJohn Henry on several occasions about that timewhen he would enquire solicitously, “How is SirCharles?”, although a degree of his ill-health mightpossibly have been advantageous to the founding ofthe Chair.

Lord Richardson wrote about John Henry and theGMC in May 1979. “He had been on the Council since1951, and for those days when new members werekept in their places it was notable that he was electedto committees within two years of his arrival. Heserved on the Disciplinary Committee or on the PenalCases Committee virtually without break from 1954to 1970. He was on the Executive for 23 years. I thinkhe must have been a happy man. His mouth wassingularly untouched with bitterness, although it hada considerable firmness, and I always found hispresence reassuring. He was a comfortable person tohave around. His advice, not readily volunteered, notin committee coupled with loquacity, where hispresence was characterised by silence, was, when itcame, clear and well-defined“.

To Sir John Biggart is attributed the concept ofthe joint appointment system between the HealthDepartment and the University. It is not easy toascertain with certainty his hand in the origin of thisscheme but the Vice-Chancellor Dr Peter Froggattwrites, “At this time (1948-1950) John Henry was ofcourse Dean of the Faculty and for all practicalpurposes ran everything to do with educational andacademic medicine involving the University and theHospitals Authority, at least in so far as Sir Eric Ashby(Vice Chancellor 1950-1959) would allow him—and

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sometimes that wasn’t very far! However, as youprobably know, John Henry kept no records and whenhe did write letters they were in hand and no copieswere kept”. Dr Froggatt forwarded the Senate Minutesof 1950 which set out the reasons for the jointappointment system as outlined by the NorthernIreland Hospitals Authority in 1949. I quote, “Thearrangements in Great Britain are not regarded as thebest possible procedure for the following reasons:-1. The Boards have to accept as Honorary Officers

persons in whose selection they have had novoice;

2. A person whose salary comes from only onesource necessarily must always put first theinterests of the body providing his salary;

3. Honorary Officers naturally feel that they areentitled to more freedom and greater privilegesthan salaried officers;

4. The possibility of friction and of incompleteco-operation between Honorary Officers and theBoards or between Honorary Officers and otherOfficers cannot be dismissed as unlikely or asfanciful”.As incoming President of this Society one is

expected to be as gracious and sensible as personalityallows—which isn’t much. It is impossible to be allthings to all men on the joint appointment system. Itsvirtues are as outlined and its vices are that it onlygets a grudging acceptance from both sides of themarriage. NHS staff sometimes feel that theUniversity derives excessive benefit and facilities; theUniversity staff feel that their contribution to theNHS in time, energy and ability are underestimated.Would it be sufficiently gracious of me to say of thescheme that one hopes its virtues exceed its vices andalso to reflect it is a two centuries old problem. (Forreference read Dr Froggatt’s account of the firstmedical school at Inst.).

In all I have said, I am conscious that one’saccount of Harry Biggart is relatively close in time tohis life and that the excellent lives of Whitla andThomson were written after a 20-year interval whichcreates a clearer perspective. I accept that, but mypersonal ambition in the task is not to cast the coldeye of the passing horseman. Harry Biggart’s role inlife was large, the nature of the man was even larger,and I wish to convey that in the way it has beenconveyed to me by many previous students. DrGeorge Mogey of the GMC, a former student, wrote,“He became the father figure of Queen’s medical anddental graduates; many of them continued to write tohim from ail over the world often seeking his help andadvice. He would say, ‘Don’t come to me when the

trouble has broken around you. Come when theclouds are on the horizon’.”

I hope that I will make this portrait of him morecomplete by recounting incidents in which he wasinvolved—anecdotes which should illustrate hispersonality better than any formal account of hisachievements. He was a compassionate disciplinarian.Dr Jimmy Riddell remembers a fellow studentsummoned to the Dean’s office for admonition. “Youhave been reported to me by the Dean of Residences”.“Yes Sir”. “Make sure it doesn’t happen again”. Theculprit was never sure whether the crime or thereporting by the Dean of Residences was not tohappen again.

A friend of mine did very badly in the Pathologyexamination and was before the Dean and lectured atlength about this lamentable performance, but finallyinterrupted John Henry saying, “Well, Sir, if it is asbad as that I will give up and go back to my father’sgrocery shop”. John Henry replied, “Don’t be so hasty,We are not putting you out yet. There are very fewlike you left around here”. (One student, allowed to sitthe 2nd MB five times—against every precedent—laterbecame a very famous and distinguished surgeon).Denis Gough remembers in the early 1950s Basil Graybecoming engaged while still a medicalstudent—unusual in those days—and John Henryduring his 12 o’clock lecture on that day interjecting afew strictures about the disadvantages of earlymarriage to a doctor’s career, which, as far as theclass could see, was directed to another student,Wilson Clark, whom he had mistaken for Basil Gray.This was rather unusual because he had a startlinglygood memory of all the undergraduates over manyyears. He met Randall Hayes at his year’s reuniondinner. “Ah, Hayes, did you get into medicine throughyour academic ability or rugby?” “Both Sir”, was thereply, and after several seconds John Henry said, “Wedidn’t do too badly did we?” (Anyone who entered thismedical school between the early 1940s and 1970 willdoubtless endorse that).

Dr Froggatt and Professor Roddie relate that,when interviewing possible applicants, he would askabout their sports activities. The reply might be, “Iplayed in the Irish schoolboys’ tennis team”. JohnHenry, “What else?” “Stroked the first eight andplayed interprovincial hockey”. “What about rugby?”“Sorry, had no time for that”. John Henry would notedown opposite the applicant’s name, “No sports". Avisiting American academic in another departmentexpressed a specific wish to see John Henry beforeleaving. “I want to talk to him about selectingstudents for medicine. I hear he has no difficulties.

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We have terrible trouble back home. We do it on acomputer. The smart guys take the course all right,but can’t relate to people. The others flunk out”. Theexcellent—the very excellent—secretary of thisSociety, Dr Philip Reilly, son of a medical family, wentto Clongoes—didn’t do science, but got first place ingeography and history in Irish Leaving Certificate.Knowing John Henry’s humanities background at Inst,one suspected he might have been tempted to takehim. “Reilly, we will take you in. If you fail your firstyear exams we will kick you out”. (Philip’s memory ofthe interview was, “You certainly knew who was incharge”).

In Sir John’s papers he writes about his ownchildren taking up medicine. “Both, in spite of livingin a medical household, eventually chose to becomedoctors. Indeed it is a curious thing that, in spite ofthe full life of medical practitioners and of thefrequent complaint that their services are financiallyundervalued by the community, their offspring sooften strive to follow in father’s footsteps. Previouslythey were welcomed to the parental medical schoolbut today, though they may be starry-eyed,embellished with the requisite characters, and oftenwell informed of the difficulties of the profession, theimpersonal selections of UCCA often lead todisappointment. Admission systems are very fragile,and often produce surprising results. Protagonists ofthis or that system are often militant in theiradvocacy, but in later years I always insisted on aninterview. It is difficult to tabulate what one learns atan interview, but one hoped that one was alwayssufficiently subjective to appreciate something of thecharacter of the candidate”. Perhaps in fairness Ishould allow a subsequent Dean his comments onmedical student selection. Professor Ian Roddie in thelast month has written in The Lancet, “My troublewith interviews is that I tend to prefer people whothink like me and share my interests, especially girls,though in my less egotistical moments I know that tocast all future doctors in my image would not be goodfor medicine”.

One recalls the weary cynicism of Daniel CoitGilman, first President of the Johns Hopkins, whoopined that the medical student was the one tooweak to work on the farm, not clever enough to be alawyer and too immoral to put in the pulpit.

David Hadden must have found Sir John on an ‘off’day, when he was deputed as BMSA representative forhis year to approach the Dean for more recreationalfacilities for medical students—for instance, asitting-room to retire to between lectures. The replyto David was that if things were as bad as that he

would arrange for extra stools in the PathologyMuseum so that everyone could have a place to gobetween lectures. (And extra stools were indeedprovided. So truly it was an ‘off’ day from his usualmood).

In daily contact with a multitude of colleagues,staff, undergraduates, he was uniquely friendly and aconversationalist without any condescension, butalways a strong sense of humour. Professor FrankO’Brien remembers, “I got on well with him”—thoughtit was because “I was a Southern Catholic”. He had theimpression that John Henry was never particularlyattracted to the more rigid tenets of UlsterProtestantism—while being solidly “pro-British”—andfelt that he was essentially a liberal and veryreasonable man. In one passing encounter, FrankO’Brien said to him, “Isn’t it a remarkable thing thatmost of the artistic endeavour in Ireland is theprerogative of Catholics?” John Henry said, “Let methink about it”. And a few days later took up theconversation, “Maybe you are right, it is all due to theMass—the influence of the incense and thevestments”.

John Henry met a classmate of mine, Miss MonaMcQuitty (now Dr Mona Harley) a few days after hermedical jurisprudence paper. A question was,“Discuss the medico-legal problems of a 16-year-oldboy having had intercourse with a 13-year-old girl”.“Miss McQuitty” he said, “You wrote a very goodanswer. In fact, all the girls in the year did well, but Iwill have to enlighten the young men in the year”.

He was indulgent of his own junior staff. Thefollowing story illustrates this but, more especially,his instant and undiluted authority on any matter.Sam Nelson recounts, “In early 1965 I was makingarrangements to go to the USA. I applied to theUniversity for a scholarship and awaited anxiously.One morning Miss Tennis contacted me, ‘The Deanwants to talk to you. Can you come to his office inabout a half-hour’s time?’ The conversation was asfollows:John Henry: ‘Morning Nelson’.Nelson: ‘Morning Sir’.John Henry: ‘You want some money from the

University?’Nelson: ‘Yes Sir!’John Henry: ‘What are you going to do in America?’Nelson: (Explanation about research into donor

selection for transplantation).John Henry: ‘How long will you be away?’Nelson: ‘One year, Sir, perhaps two’.John Henry: ‘And you intend to come back to

Belfast?’

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Nelson: ‘Yes Sir’.John Henry: ‘That will be all right about the money

then’.Nelson: ‘Thank you, Sir’.John Henry: ‘That will be all’.Nelson: Thank you, Sir’.

Next morning, Sam Nelson had the cheque for thefull amount of the scholarship.

Dorothy Hayes had a similar interview in whichshe was advised not to go to America because thefunds she was being offered were insufficient tomaintain her (I suppose in the manner to which shewas accustomed). The interview ended unsatis-factorily but she met the Dean a few days later—simple one sentence, “I have arranged that theUniversity give you another £700. I knew you couldnever manage on that amount”.

Sir Lucius O’Brien’s toothache illustrates hispragmatic qualities. George Cowie recalls, “JohnHenry in the early days tolerated—perhaps did notactively support—the need for developments in theDental School. (In defence of this attitude, availabilityof money was the problem). A member of the Senate,Sir Lucius O’Brien got toothache, sat for two hours ina corridor in the KEB where the dental departmentthen was, described the conditions as “squalid and aslum” at Standing Committee. John Henry who hadnot altogether been either positive or negative on theneed for improvement prior to this, agreed thatsomething had to be done. As George Cowie says,“When it came to the crunch he didn’t dig his toes in”.

A distant relative of John Henry had a medicalstudent son who did badly in his exams and JohnHenry was approached to see if he would offer anyadvice to the young man. The only comment was,“Work! Work!”—Oslerian advice. “Work”—the masterword in medicine as Osler put it, “Though a little one,the master word looms large in meaning. It is the truephilosopher’s stone which transmutes all the basemetal of humanity into gold”.

I will not quote from well-known papers of SirJohn’s, such as ‘Parergon’, but there are two smallneglected guest editorials on medical education in theUlster Medical Journal. About medical education in1962 he opens with, “Things are not what they usedto be” and ends with “The complete doctor is adept inthe science, proficient in the art, sincere in the ethicand embellished with the culture of medicine. How,inside the framework of a relatively fixed curriculumand within a fixed period of time is this ideal to beattained?”

The 1963 editorial ends, “In our own school wehave all endeavoured to lead the student to the belief

that in spite of all its apparent fragmentation of theadvances which sometimes come here and sometimesthere, there is but one medicine and one medicalproblem—the sick patient”. These words represent, Ithink, his statement of faith with regard to medicaleducation.

Sir John Biggart chaired his last meeting asDean—the 489th meeting—on 29th June 1971. Hewished Professor Froggatt all success as Dean andurged him to endeavour “to preserve the entity that isthe Faculty of Medicine”. John McKnight describedhim in his later years with regard to the PostgraduateCouncil as not particularly initiating anything new butalways being a great source of strength andprotection, and he particularly remembers the stringof people who came to ask his advice. The success ofthe Postgraduate Council owes much to his seniorstatesman involvement. I am not going to attempt toemulate the magnificent obituary tributes of DrFroggatt or Professor Roddie. Lord Richardson wroteabout John Henry’s death which occurred on 21stMay 1979 while attending a GMC meeting in London.Lord Richardson said, “His mother and father bothdied suddenly and it was his wish that this shouldhappen to him. He got his wish, as he did in manythings, so I believe, and we must be grateful for that”. Iintend to say no more that would constitute anemotional tribute except to repeat John Henry’squotation used at the time of Sir Thomas Houston’sdeath, “Cease not, till day streams to the West, thendown that estuary, drop down to peace”.

The portrait I have of John Henry has beencreated for me by many people—almost universally intotal affection. Any dissenting voices were dictated bya view that he was at times too determined and toopowerful, but when I analyse the various stories abouthim, that determination and power were alwaysclothed in the velvet glove of dedication to medicaleducation in general, and to this medical school inparticular, and to the highest and enduring conceptsof medicine as a caring vocation, in which thestudent, the doctor, would “be embellished with theculture of medicine”. This medical school that was thevision of James McDonnell was eventually establishedby Queen Victoria “in or near the city of Belfast in theprovince of Ulster in Ireland”. The Queen’s medicalschool was never likely to be blessed by its geographyor the cursed history of this island, but it was to beblessed by the loyalty and service of many devotedsons. In the almost 150-year history of Queen’s noone controlled the destiny of the medical school forso long or so totally as Harry Biggart—and no onecontrolled it to such purpose.

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

My admiration goes to Lady Isobel Biggart. My thanksto many, some mentioned in the text, but othersprovided much background mood. Particular thanksto Dr Denis Biggart; Dr Hugh Caldwell, Archivist, RVH;Mr Leslie Stuart; Mr Norman McMullan and the staffof the RVH Photographic Department and to MissMay Weller for truly excellent secretarial help.

Entry inWho was Who 1971-1980,reproduced by kind permission of

A & C Black (Publishers) Ltd, London.

BIGGART, Sir John Henry, Kt 1967; CBE 1948;DSc, MD; FRCP, FRCPath; Director of Institute ofPathology, Queen’s University, Belfast, 1948-71; Deanof Faculty of Medicine, 1943-71; Professor ofPathology, 1937-71; Pro-Vice-Chancellor, 1967-71;ProChancellor, 1972; b 17 Nov. 1905; s of John HenryBiggart and Mary Gault; m 1934, Mary Isobel Gibson,Knock, Belfast; one s one d. Educ: Royal BelfastAcademical Instn; Queen’s Univ., Belfast; JohnsHopkins Medical Sch. MB (Hons) 1928; MD (GoldMedal), 1931; DSc 1937; MRCP 1952; FRCP 1957;FCPath 1964; Hon. FRCPI 1969. CommonwealthFellowship, Johns Hopkins, 1931-33; Pathologist toScottish Asylums Board, 1933-37; Lecturer inNeuropathology, Edinburgh Univ., 1933-37; RegionalDir, Blood Transfusion Service, 1936-46. RobertCampbell Orator, 1948; Mem., University Senate,1948; Chm., Laboratory Services Cttee, HospitalsAuthority, 1948-54; Chm., Medical Education andResearch Cttee, Hospitals Authority, 1950-64; Gen.Med. Council, 1951; Gen. Dental Council, 1959; Chm.,Standing Med. Adv. Cttee, Min. of Health, NI, 1967-73;Council, Brit. Empire Cancer Campaign, 1968;Council, Coll. of Pathologists, 1968; Chairman: NICouncil for Postgraduate Med. Educn, 1971-79; Irishbr. Council, GMC, 1971-: Belfast Home for the Blind,1972-; Marie Curie Beaconfield Home, 1969-; AgeAction Year (NI) 1976; VicePresident: NI MentalAssoc.; NI Br., British Empire cancer Campaign; Pres.,NI Muscular Dystrophy Assoc., 1972-; Hon. FRCGP,1971; MD (he) Dublin, 1957; Hon. LLD QUB, 1971;Hon. DSc NUI, 1973. Publications: Text Book ofNeuropathology, 1936; papers on general and nervouspathology in Brain, J I Pathology and Bacteriology,Ulster Med. Jl, and Johns Hopkins Bulletin.Recreations: reading, writing, gardening, music.Address: 64 King’s Road, Belfast. T: Belfast 653107.

[Died 21 May 1979.]