CHAPTER XXXIV. 369

INDEX. 391

MEMOIRS OF ABERNETHY.

CHAPTER I.

"The Author of Nature appears deliberate throughout His operations,

accomplishing His natural ends by slow successive steps. And

there is a plan of things beforehand laid out, which, from the

nature of it, requires various systems of means, as well as length

of time, in order to the carrying on its several parts into

execution."—BUTLER'S ANALOGY.

A retrospect of the history of human knowledge offers to our

contemplation few things of deeper interest than the evidence it so

repeatedly affords of some great law which regulates the gradual

development of truth, and determines the Progress of Discovery.

Although knowledge has, at times, appeared to exhibit something of

uniformity in its advances, yet it cannot have escaped the least

observant that, as a whole, the Progress of Science has been marked by

very variable activity—at one time, marvellously rapid; at another,

indefinitely slow; now merged in darkness or obscurity; and now blazing

forth with meridian splendour.

We observe a series of epochs divided by intervals of great apparent

irregularity—intervals which we can neither calculate nor explain; but

which, nevertheless, exhibit a periodicity, which the very irregularity

serves to render striking and impressive.

We may remark, also, a peculiar fitness in the minds of those to whom

the enunciation of truth has been successively entrusted: a fitness,

not merely for the tasks which have been assigned to each, as the

special mission of the individual, but also in the relations of

different minds to each other. This adaptation to ends which individual

minds have unconsciously combined to accomplish, might be illustrated

by many examples, from the earliest records of antiquity, down to

our own times. This would be incompatible with our present purpose.

We will therefore only refer to one or two illustrations, which, as

being familiar, will serve to show what we mean, and to lead us, not

unnaturally, to our more immediate object.

We cannot contemplate men like Bacon, Galileo, and Kepler, for example,

without feeling how auspicious the precession of such minds must have

been to the development of the genius of Newton[1]. Newton was born

the same year that Galileo died. There is something very interesting

and significant too in the peculiar powers of Kepler. Prolific in

suggestion, great in mathematical ability, elaborate in analysis, and

singularly truthful in spirit, Kepler exemplified two things. These,

though very distinct from each other, were both equally instructive;

both alike suggestive of the link he represented in the chain of

progress. In the laws he discovered, he showed the harvest seldom

withheld from the earnest search for truth; but the enormous labour of

the mode in which he conducted his researches, as well as the limits

prescribed to his discoveries, exemplify the evils which, even in a man

of the greatest power, result from proceeding too much on hypothesis.

Now it is interesting to remember that this was coincident with the

dawning of that glorious light, the Inductive philosophy of Bacon, and

shortly succeeded by the splendid generalization of Newton.

In like manner, if we think of the discoveries of Sir Humphrey

Davy—their nature and relations to physiology as well as

chemistry,—we see how much there might have been that was preparatory,

and, to a mind like Davy's, suggestive, in the investigations of

preceding and contemporaneous philosophers. Priestly had discovered

oxygen gas; Galvani and Volta had shown those remarkable phenomena

which constitute that important branch of knowledge, "Voltaic

electricity;" Berzelius had effected the decomposition of certain salts

by the Voltaic pile; and Lavoisier had even predicted as _probable_

what Davy was destined to demonstrate[3]

In medical science, few things have been more talked of than the

discovery of the circulation of the blood. Now it is curious to observe

that every fact essential to the demonstration of it had been made

out by previous investigators[4] but no one had deduced from them the

discovery of the circulation until Harvey, although it was a conclusion

scarcely more important than obvious.

There is surely something very encouraging in the reflection, that

the advance of knowledge thus results from the accumulated labours of

successive minds. It suggests, that however unequally the honours may

appear to be distributed—however humble, in our eyes, the function of

those who unconsciously prepare the way to great discoveries,—still

it may involve a duty no less important than the more lofty mission

of enunciating them. The importance of a man's mission can never be

estimated by human judgment. We can never know the mission; still less

its relations to the power, or the temptations by which that power has

been assailed. The most humble may here often approach as nearly to his

duty, as the most gifted may have fallen short of it. Our faculties

cannot penetrate the matter. We often see men placed in positions for

which they appear wholly unfitted—men who seem to be bars to that

progress which we should fancy it their duty to promote. Again, we

observe that almost all great discoveries have to encounter opposition,

persecution, obloquy, or derision; and when they are established, a

host of claimants rise up to dispute the property with the rightful

owner. A man who is in earnest cares little for these things. They may

at times discourage and disappoint him; but they only strengthen his

faith, that a day will come when an unerring justice will accord to

every useful improvement its proper place and distinction.

Humanly speaking, we naturally ascribe discoveries to those who have

practically demonstrated them; but when we examine all the clues

which have been furnished by previous observers, we frequently have

misgivings as to the justice of our decisions. In our admiration of

the successful labour of the recent inquirer, we sometimes forget the

patient industry of the early pioneer. With regard to those laws which

govern the human body, we cannot suppose that the development of them

can be destined to progress on any plan less determined than other

branches of human inquiry. But in all laws of nature we know that

there are interferences which, until explained, serve to obscure or

altogether to conceal the law from our view.

In relation to the Physiological laws, these interferences are very

numerous. 1st. Many are furnished by the physical laws; many more

arise from the connection of the physiological with the moral laws,

and especially from the abuse of (a responsible) volition. These

interferences, however, when their nature is clearly developed,

beautifully illustrate the laws they at first obscured; for the common

characters of subjects, in which the law is usually exemplified, are

brought out into higher relief by the very diversities in the midst of

which they occur. The progress of mankind towards a popular familiarity

with this fact, is necessarily slow; but still we think it plainly

perceptible. An individual life, indeed, however distinguished,

represents a mere point in time; it affords little scope for

considering, much less for estimating, as they occur, the true meaning

of various events, which nevertheless ultimately prove to have had

important influence on the progress of knowledge.

These are world-wide things, which we must survey as the geologist does

the facts concerning which he inquires. We must endeavour to combine,

in one view, facts over which long periods of time may have rolled

away, with such as are still passing around us. This will frequently

suggest designs and relations altogether unobservable by the mere

abstract inquirer. In the course of the following pages, a further

opportunity may occur for a few remarks on such views; the elaborate

discussion of the subject would be altogether beyond our present

objects.

It will be our endeavour to point out the position occupied by

Abernethy, in that (as we trust) gradually dawning science, to a

particular phase of which our object and our limits will alike restrict

our attention. We mean that period when Surgery, having approached to

something like a zenith as a mere practical _art_, began to exhibit,

by slow and almost imperceptible degrees, some faint characters of

science—a shadowy commencement of a metamorphose, which we believe

promises to convert (though we fear at a period yet distant) a

monstrous hybrid of mystery and conjecture into the symmetrical beauty

of an Inductive science—a science based on axioms and laws which are

constantly exerting a powerful influence on the social progress and the

health of nations.

In considering Hunter and Abernethy, we shall see not only a remarkable

adaptation for the tasks in which they were respectively engaged,

but also how the peculiar defects of the one were supplied by the

characteristic excellences of the other. We shall see that they

cooperated in laying open clear and definite objects; and that, though

their modes of inquiry were far from fulfilling the requisitions of

an Inductive science, they were eminently calculated to suggest the

convenience, and impress the necessity of it.

We no sooner begin to inquire with clear and definite purpose, than we

are led to the means necessary for the attainment of it.

Abernethy himself, in speaking of the ordinary resources of daily

practice, used to say: "If a man has a clear idea of what he desires to

do, he will seldom fail in selecting the proper means of accomplishing

it."

So, in gathering the materials for building up a science, the first

thing is, to be clear as to those things in which it is deficient. This

once determined, all may lend assistance; and this very division of

labour, when directed with definite purpose, may render even men most

addicted to narrow and partial inquiries, contributors to a great and

common object.

In this way, those blows and discouragements so common in the infancy

of science, which test our motives and try our patience, may prove

tolerable when distributed over the many, instead of proving, as is too

common, depressing or destructive when bearing only on the efforts of

the few.

If we desire to shorten this labour, we need scarcely say there is no

way of doing it but by the adoption of that mode of proceeding to which

every other branch of science owes its present position.

I mean the rigid suspension of all hypotheses, setting to work by

collecting _all_ the facts in relation to the subject, and dealing with

them in strict compliance with the precepts of common sense—or, what

is the same thing, Inductive philosophy.

This will soon show us the just amount of the debt we owe to Hunter

and Abernethy; and, in leading us onwards, instructively point out why

these great men did not farther increase our obligations.

We shall see how the industry and circumspection of the Argus-eyed

Hunter, as Abernethy used to call him, enabled him to unfold a legend

in nature, which he had neither length of days, sufficient opportunity,

nor perhaps aptitude, wholly to decipher; and how far it was developed

into practical usefulness by the penetrative sagacity and happy genius

of Abernethy; which, like light in darkness, guides and sustains

immediate research, and animates and encourages onward inquiry. To

appreciate Abernethy, however, it is necessary that the public should

have correct views at _least_ of the _general_ nature and objects of

Medical Science.

The public have not only a very real interest in acquiring a sound

common-sense view of the objects of medicine and surgery, but a far

deeper interest than it is possible for any one medical man to have,

merely as such, or all medical men put together. This may, for the

moment, appear startling to those who have not been compelled to

consider the subject; but the reader may glean even from this volume,

that so long as life or health, or even money, has value, the remark

is strictly true. From all sides mankind have hitherto imbibed little

but error. They have been taught or induced to believe that the only

objects of medicine and surgery are to prevent or relieve diseases

and accidents by the astute employment of drugs, or by certain adroit

manipulatory or mechanical proceedings, and _par excellence_ by

"operations." Now here is a great mistake—an idea so far from true,

that nothing can more delusively define, or more entirely conceal, the

higher objects of the science.

The direct contrary of the proposition would be nearer the truth. It

would be _more_ correct to say that the object was to relieve diseases

and accidents by removing all interferences with the reparative powers

of nature; and that this was accomplished more perfectly in proportion

as we were enabled to _dispense_ with the employment of drugs, or the

performance of operations.

The making the lame to walk, the blind to see, and the deaf to hear,

were chosen amongst the appropriate symbols of a Divine Mission; and

we need scarcely observe, that, in the restricted sphere of human

capacity, this is a portion of the mission of every conscientious

surgeon.

We may well, therefore, be dissatisfied with the narrow, not to say

degrading, definition of our duties too generally entertained; but, on

the other hand, if we would realize our claims to these higher views

of our calling, and enlarge the sphere of its practical usefulness,

we should recollect there is only one way of attaining that object;

and that is, by the applied interpretation of those symbols, no less

miraculous, no less certain manifestations of Divine Power, the "Laws

of Nature." To name a science from something not essential to it, is

like naming a class of animals from some exceptional peculiarity in an

individual. It is as if we would infer the mission of the ocean wave

from the scum sometimes seen on its surface; or the purposes served by

a feather, from the use we make of it in writing, rather than from its

common character of levity and toughness; as if we treated an exception

as a rule, or any other manifest absurdity.

We have no opportunity of entering more fully into this important

distinction of the more lofty objects of our profession, as contrasted

with those usually assigned to it; we must therefore rest satisfied in

having awakened the reader's attention to the subject, and proceed to

the more ordinary objects of Biographical Memoir.

John Abernethy was born in London, in the parish of St. Stephen's,

Coleman Street, on the 3rd of April, 1764, exactly one year after

John Hunter settled in London. It is also interesting to remark, that

Abernethy's first work, his "Surgical and Physiological Essays"—Part

I—was published the same year that Hunter died, 1793; so that, whilst

his birth occurred nearly at the same time as the commencement of the

more sustained investigations of Hunter, his opening contribution to

science was coincident with the close of the labours of his illustrious

friend and predecessor.

The Abernethy family in their origin were possibly Scotch, and formed

one of those numerous inter-migrations between Scotland and the north

of Ireland, which, after lapse of time, frequently render it difficult

to trace the original stock. There seems little doubt they had resided

for some generations in Ireland. John Abernethy, who was the pastor of

a Coleraine congregation, in 1688, was an eminent Protestant dissenting

minister, and the father of one still more distinguished. The son (also

named John) had been for some time pastor of the old congregation

of Antrim, whence he removed to Dublin about the year 1733, to take

charge of the Wood Street, now Strand Street, Dublin. He is the author

of several volumes of sermons, which are not a little remarkable for

clearness of thought, and the earnestness of purpose, with which

they inculcate practical piety. He had a son who was a merchant, who

subsequently removed to London, and traded under the firm of Abernethy

and Donaldson, in Rood Lane, Fenchurch Street. This gentleman married

a lady whose name was Elizabeth Weir, daughter of Henry and Margaret

Weir, of the town of Antrim, and they had two sons and three daughters.

James[5], the elder brother, was also in business as a merchant, and

died about the year 1823. He was a man of considerable talent, spoke

with an accent suggestive of an Irish origin, and was remarkable for

his admiration and critical familiarity with our immortal Shakspeare.

He was probably born before his father left Ireland. John, the second

son, the subject of our Memoir, was, as we have already said, born in

London. The register of his christening at St. Stephen's is as follows:

{ 1765.

Abernethy { John, son of

{ John and Elizabeth,

{ April, 24.

This register would suggest that he was born a year later than I

have stated. I have, however, preferred 1764, as the year adopted by

his family; for although a man's birth is an occurrence respecting

the date of which he is not the very best authority, he usually gets

his information from those who are. Besides, it was no uncommon

thing at that time to defer the christening of children for a much

longer period. The education of his early childhood was, most likely,

altogether conducted at home; but it is certain that, while yet very

young, he was sent to the Grammar School at Wolverhampton. Here he

received the principal part of his education; and though the records

are somewhat meagre, yet they tend to show that at an early age he

manifested abilities, both general and peculiar, which were indicative

of no ordinary mind; and which, though they do not necessarily

prefigure the future eminence at which he arrived, were sufficiently

suggestive of the probability that, whatever his career might be, he

would occupy a distinguished position.

[Footnote 1:

Born. Died.

Galileo 1564 1642.

Kepler 1571 1630.

Bacon 1561 1626.

Newton 1642[2] 1727.]

[Footnote 2: The same year that Galileo died.]

[Footnote 3:

Born. Died.

Priestly 1733 1804.

Galvani 1737 1798.

Volta 1745 1826.

Lavoisier 1743 1794.

Crauford 1749 1795.

Hunter 1728 1793.

Davy 1778 1829.]

[Footnote 4: The valvular contrivances in the veins and heart, which

showed that the blood could move in only one direction, had been either

observed, described, or their effects respectively remarked on, by Paul,

Sylvius, Michael Servetus, Realdus Columbus, Andreas Cesalpinus, and

especially by Fabricius ab Aquapendente, of whom Harvey was a pupil.]

[Footnote 5: In a polite letter which I recently received from a

distinguished pupil of Abernethy's (Dr. Butter, of Plymouth), I find

that James Abernethy died of apoplexy, at Plymouth.]

CHAPTER II.

"Ah, happy hills! ah, pleasing shade!

Ah, fields beloved in vain,

Where once my careless childhood stray'd,

A stranger yet to pain."

GRAY.

Mankind naturally feel an interest in the boyhood of men of genius;

but it often happens that very little attention is paid to early

indications; and, when observed, it is certain that they are often

interpreted very falsely.

Nothing more emphatically suggests how much we have to learn on this

subject, than the obscurity which so often hangs over the earlier years

of distinguished men. At school, a number of variable organizations

are subjected to very much the same influences; the necessity for

generalization affords little opportunity for individual analysis. The

main road is broad and familiar; there is no time for indulging in

bye-paths, even should the master have the penetration to perceive,

in individual cases, the expediency of such selection. Hence the

quickening of those impulses, on which the development of character

so much depends, is greatly a matter of uncertainty. The moment boys

leave school, on the contrary, this uniformity of external influences

is replaced by an interminable diversity; at home, scarcely two boys

being subjected to exactly the same. Thus, in many instances, it would

be easier to deduce the character of the boy from the man, than to have

predicted the man from the boy. The evidences of the one are present to

us, those of the other may have been entirely unelicited, unobserved,

or forgotten.

We cannot wonder, then, that expectation should have been so often

disappointed in the boy, or that excellences little dreamt of should

have been developed in the man.

Dryden, who, regarded in the triple capacity of poet, prose-writer,

and critic, is hardly second to any English author, took no honour at

the University. Swift, perhaps our best writer of pure English, whose

talents proved scarcely less versatile and extraordinary than they

had appeared restricted and deficient, was "plucked" for his degree,

in Dublin, and only obtained his recommendation to Oxford "_speciali

gratia_" as it was termed. The phrase, however, being obviously

equivocal, and used only in the bad sense at Dublin, was, fortunately

for Swift, interpreted in a good sense at Oxford—a misapprehension

which Swift, of course, was at no pains to remove.

Sheridan was remarkable for his readiness, his invention, and his

wit; as a writer, he showed considerable powers of sustained thought

also. He had an habitual eloquence, and, on one occasion, delivered

an oration before one of the most distinguished audiences that the

world ever saw[6], with an effect that seems to have rivalled the most

successful efforts of Cicero, or even Demosthenes. Yet he had shown so

little capacity as a boy, that he was presented to a tutor by his own

mother with the complimentary accompaniment that he was an incorrigible

dunce.

Some boys live on encouragement, others seem to work best "up stream."

Niebuhr, the traveller, the father of a son no less illustrious, with

anything but an originally acute mind, seems to have overcome every

disadvantage which the almost constant absence of opportunity could

combine. Those who are curious in such matters might easily multiply

examples of the foregoing description, and add others where—as in

the case of Galileo, Newton, Wren, and many others—the predictions

suggested by early physical organization proved as erroneous as the

intellectual indications to which we have just adverted.

The truth is, we have a great deal to learn on the subject of mind,

although there is no want of materials for instruction. Medicine and

surgery are not the only branches of knowledge which require the aid of

strictly inductive inquiry. In all, the materials (facts) are abundant.

In Abernethy there was a polarity of character, an individuality,

a positiveness of type, which would have made the boy a tolerably

intelligible outline of the future man. The evidence is imperfect; it

is chiefly drawn from the recollections of a living few, who, though

living, have become the men of former days; but still the evidence all

inclines one way.

We can quite imagine a little boy, "careless in his dress, not

slovenly," with his hands in his pockets, some morning about the year

1774, standing under the sunny side of the wall, at Wolverhampton

Grammar School[7]; his pockets containing, perhaps, a few shillings,

some halfpence, and a knife with the point broken, a pencil, together

with a tolerably accurate sketch of "Old Robertson's" wig. This

article, as shown in an accredited portrait[8] now lying before us,

was one of those enormous bygone bushes which represented a sort of

impenetrable fence round the cranium, as if to guard the precious

material within. The said boy just finishing a story to his laughing

companions, though no sign of fun appeared in him, save a little curl

of the lip, and a smile which would creep out of the corner of his

eye in spite of him. I have had the good fortune to find no less than

three schoolfellows of Abernethy, who are still living: John Fowler,

Esq. of Datchet, a gentleman whom I have had the pleasure of knowing

for many years, and who enjoys, in honourable retirement at his country

seat, at the age of eighty-two, the perfect possession of all his

faculties; William Thacker[9], Esq. of Muchall, about two miles from

Wolverhampton, who is in his eighty-fifth year; T. Tummins, Esq. of

King Street, Wolverhampton, who is in his eighty-seventh year. To

these gentlemen, and to J. Wynn, Esq. also of Wolverhampton, I am

principally indebted for the few reminiscences I have been able to

collect of the boyish days of Abernethy.

The information which I gained from Mr. Fowler, he gave me himself; he

also kindly procured me a long letter from Mr. Wynn. The reminiscences

of Mr. Tummins and Mr. Thacker, I have obtained through the very

courteous and kind assistance of the Rev. W. White, the late[10]

distinguished head master of the Wolverhampton School.

To all of these gentlemen I cannot too strongly express my thanks,

for the prompt and kind manner in which they have replied to all the

enquiries which have been addressed to them. The following are the

principal facts which their letters contain, or the conclusions they

justify. Abernethy must have gone to Wolverhampton when very young,

probably; I should say certainly before 1774. He was brought by Dr.

Robertson from London, with another pupil, "his friend Thomas;" and

the "two Londoners" boarded with Dr. Robertson. When Mr. Fowler went

there in 1778, Abernethy was high up in the school, and ultimately got

to the head of the senior form. He must have left Wolverhampton in all

probability not later than 1778, because Dr. Robertson resigned the

head mastership in that year; and we know that in the following (1779),

when he was fifteen, Abernethy was apprenticed to Sir Charles Blicke.

Mr. Thacker says he was very studious, clever, a good scholar,

humorous, but very passionate. Mr. Tummins, Mr. Thacker says, knew

Abernethy well. Abernethy used to go and dine frequently with Mr.

Tummins's father. Mr. Tummins says "Abernethy was a sharp boy, a very

sharp boy, and a very passionate one too. Dr. Robertson," he says, "was

also a very passionate man."

One day, Abernethy had to "do" some Greek Testament; and it appeared

that he set off very glibly, having a "crib" in the shape of a Greek

Testament, with a Latin version on the other side. The old Doctor,

suspecting the case, discovered the crib, and the pupil was instantly

"levelled with the earth." This _fortiter in re_ plan of carrying the

intellect by a _coup-de-main_, has, as the late head master observed,

been replaced by more refined modes of proceeding. The more energetic

plan was (however coarse and objectionable) not always unsuccessful

in implanting a certain quantity of Latin and Greek. Abernethy was a

very fair Latin scholar, and he certainly had not, at one period, a bad

knowledge of Greek also.

There are, however, many other things to be learnt besides Latin and

Greek; and it is probable that the more measured reliance on such

violent appeals, which characterizes modern education, might have

been better suited to Abernethy. To a boy who was naturally shy, and

certainly passionate, such mechanical illustrations of his duty were

likely to augment shyness into distrust, and to exacerbate an excitable

_temper_ into an irritable _disposition_.

Abernethy, in chatting over matters, was accustomed jocularly to

observe that, for his part, he thought his mind had, on some subjects,

what he called a "_punctum saturationis_;" so that "if you put anything

more into his head, you pushed something out." If so, we may readily

conceive that this plan of forcing in the Greek, might have forced out

an equivalent quantity of patience or self-possession. It is difficult

to imagine anything less appropriate to a disposition like Abernethy's

than the discipline in question. It was, in fact, calculated to create

those very infirmities of character which it is the object of education

to correct or remove.

It seems that neither writing nor arithmetic were taught in the

school; and "Tummins and Abernethy" used to go to learn these matters

at the school of a Miss Ready, in King Street, Wolverhampton. This

lady appears to have had, like Dr. Robertson, a high opinion of what

the profession usually term "local applications" in the conduct of

education. Many years afterwards, she called upon Mr. Abernethy. He was

then in full practice in London. He received her with the greatest

kindness, begged her to come and dine with him as often as she could

while she stayed in London; and, introducing her to Mrs. Abernethy,

said: "I beg to introduce to you a lady who has boxed my years many a

time."

Had Miss Ready, however, heard us call in question the necessity

of this association of boxing ears and quill-driving, she would

probably have retorted on us, that few men wrote so good a hand as

John Abernethy. It is certain that, _brusque_ as the discipline might

have been, or ill-suited to the disposition of Abernethy, it did not

interfere with the happiness of his schoolboy life. He always looked

back to his days at Wolverhampton with peculiar pleasure, and seemed to

regard every association with the place with affectionate remembrance.

Mr. Wynn observes, in his letter: "About twenty years ago I accompanied

a patient to Mr. Abernethy. After prescribing, he said, 'let me see

you again in about a week,' 'We cannot, for we are returning into the

country.' 'Why, where do you live?' 'Wolverhampton.' 'Wolverhampton?

Why, I went to school there. Come, sit down, and tell me who's alive

and who's dead.' After running over the names of some of the old

families, their health, circumstances, &c. he wished us good morning,

saying, 'Ah! I cannot forget Wolverhampton!'"

Mr. Thacker's note I subjoin, written in a good firm hand, at

eighty-five.

"Muchall, near Wolverhampton,

"May 17, 1852.

"Sir,

"As a boy, I remember John Abernethy and William Thomas coming

from London to board with, and as scholars to, Dr. Robertson, the

head master of the Wolverhampton School, in which there were two

masters, both clergymen. We were formed into several classes, in

which John Abernethy, William Thomas, Walter Acton Mosely, and

myself, formed one. Abernethy took the head or top of the class;

but the boys used to change places in the classes according to

their proficiency; but I do not recollect that Abernethy ever took

a third place in the class. So also in his sports, he usually made

a strong side, for he was remarkably quick and active, and soon

learned a new game. He had but one fault that I knew of—he was

rather hasty and impetuous in his manner, but it was soon over and

forgotten.

"The 'Doctor,' as we used to call him (Robertson), had a daughter

grown up, and she used to hear the boarders in the house read

plays before her father, in which, in particular passages, she

showed where the emphasis should be laid, and how to pronounce the

same properly; this occasioned the use of the play of 'Cato,' and

originated the boys' performance of that play in the school-room

before their fathers and friends. I do not remember the part that

Abernethy took in that play. I have applied to Mr. Tummins of

Wolverhampton, but his memory does not supply information. He knew

Mr. Abernethy well.

"If I recollect any others of my schoolfellows who knew him, I will

apply to them for information, and communicate the same to you

immediately.

"I am, Sir,

"Your obedient servant,

"WILLIAM THACKER.

"To George Macilwain, Esq."

We learn from another reminiscent, that in the play at Wolverhampton

Abernethy took a "principal part." He certainly had a good deal of

dramatic talent, in the highest sense of the word; and, as will be seen

in the sequel, could light up a story with rich humour, or clothe it

with pathos, as suited the occasion, with equal facility. Scanty as

they are, there is much in these school reminiscences significant of

his future character.

As we have observed, Abernethy left Wolverhampton in 1778. He was

then head of the school, a quick, clever boy, and more that an

average scholar. He returned to London, that world of hopes, fears,

and anxieties; that spacious arena, on which all are desirous of

entering as competitors who are ambitious of professional or commercial

distinction.

[Footnote 6: We allude to his first speech on the trial of Warren

Hastings.]

[Footnote 7: Wolverhampton School, founded by Sir Stephen Jermyn,

Alderman and Knight of the City of London, in the reign of Henry

VIII, for the "Instruction of youth in morals and learning." Many

distinguished men were educated at the School; as Abernethy; Mr. Tork,

fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge; Sir William Congreve; and others.]

[Footnote 8: Kindly sent us by Mr. Fowler, of Datchet.]

[Footnote 9: This gentleman died last year. He had retired to his seat

at Muchall, from Wolverhampton, where he had practised as a solicitor

of great eminence and respectability.]

[Footnote 10: Since the last edition, I have to regret the death of

this gentleman. He was an excellent man, a good mathematician, and an

accomplished scholar. He graduated at Cambridge, and took honors in

1815.]

CHAPTER III.

"Nunquam ita quisquam bene subductâ ratione ad vitam fuit

Quin res, ætas, usus, semper aliquid apportet novi

Aliquid moneat; ut illâ quæ te scire credas, nescias:

Et quæ tibi putâris primâ, in experiundo repudias."

TER. AD. A. 5, SC. 4.

"Never did man lay down so fair a plan,

So wise a rule of life, but fortune, age,

Or long experience made some change in it,

And taught him that those things he thought he knew,

He did not know, and what he held as best

In practice, he threw by."

COLMAN.

Circumstances, in themselves apparently unimportant, often determine

the selection of a profession. Few boys can do exactly what they

please, and the _pros_ and _cons_ are seldom placed before them in

a way to assist them in determining the just value of the reasons

on which their choice may have proceeded. They are not, indeed,

unfrequently dealt with as if, whilst not incompetent to make choice of

a profession, they were held incapable of weighing the circumstances by

which alone such choice could be judiciously directed. The absurdity

of this appears, when we think a moment of what it involves, which is

nothing less than expecting them to do what is impossible; viz. to

form an opinion on a subject when the main facts in relation to it are

withheld from them. Be this as it may, every day shows us that men are

too frequently dissatisfied with the profession which they follow. The

question of our boyhood recollections—

"Qui fit Mæcenas ut nemo quam sibi sortem,

Seu ratio dederit seu fors objecerit, illâ,

Contentus vivat?"[11]

is just as applicable as ever; and although human nature has almost

everything ascribed to its natural infirmities, yet it appears quite as

sensible, and not a whit less humble, to conclude, that paths chosen

without consideration naturally lead to disappointment. The evil, like

most others, carries with it the elements of self correction.

Parents are slow to encourage their children to select paths which they

themselves have trodden with regret. This tends to distribute their

professions to other families. Mutual interchanges of this kind serve

to protect the interests of society, by, in some degree, limiting the

number of cases in which men have failed to select the pursuits best

adapted to them.

In almost all pursuits of life, success is determined, much more than

many are disposed to imagine, by the homely qualities of steadiness and

industry. We are apt—and sometimes not improperly—to ascribe peculiar

_excellence_ to peculiar powers. Yet the more insight we obtain into

the histories of men, the more we perceive how constantly the most

brilliant have been aided by the more homely qualifications to which we

have adverted.

No doubt some minds are so constituted as to be moderately certain

of success or distinction in almost any pursuit to which they might

have been directed; and we are disposed to think that Abernethy's was

a mind of that order; but there is abundant evidence to show that

his talents were at least equalled by his industry. One paper of

his, which contains a beautiful and discriminative adjustment of a

difficult point of practice in Injuries of the Head—which contains no

intrinsic evidence of such industry—was not published until after he

had attended to every serious injury of the head in a large hospital

for almost twenty years; besides examining the bodies of all the

fatal cases. Nor can we estimate this industry properly, without

recollecting that all this time he was only an _assistant surgeon_,

whose duties, for the _most_ part, neither required nor _permitted_ him

to do more than to _observe_ the treatment; and that, therefore, the

whole of this industry was simply in the character of a student of his

profession[12]. All biography is full of this kind of evidence; and

art, as well as science, furnishes its contribution. Who could have

imagined that the peculiar, chaste composition, the easy and graceful

touch of Sir Augustus Callcott, could have owed so much to industry

as it undoubtedly must have done? It is known, for example, that he

made no less than forty different sketches in the composition of one

picture. We allude to his "Rochester." Had Abernethy been allowed to

choose his profession, he, no doubt, would have selected the Bar. It

is impossible to reflect on the various powers he evinced, without

feeling that, had he followed the law, he would have arrived at a very

distinguished position. "Had my father let me be a lawyer," he would

say, "I should have known every Act of Parliament by heart." This,

though no doubt intended as a mere figure of speech, was not so far

from possibility as might be imagined, for it referred to one of his

most striking characteristics; viz. a memory alike marvellously ready,

capacious, and retentive—qualities common enough separately, but rare

in powerful combination.

We may have opportunities by and by, perhaps, of further illustrating

it. We will give one anecdote here. A gentleman, dining with him on a

birthday of Mrs. Abernethy's, had composed a long copy of verses in

honour of the occasion, which he repeated to the family circle after

dinner. "Ah!" said Abernethy, smiling, "that is a good joke, now, your

pretending to have written those verses." His friend simply rejoined,

that, such as they were, they were certainly his own. After a little

good-natured bantering, his friend began to evince something like

annoyance at Abernethy's apparent incredulity; so, thinking it was

time to finish the joke, "Why," said Abernethy, "I know those verses

very well, and could say them by heart[13]." His friend declared it

to be impossible; when Abernethy immediately repeated them throughout

correctly, and with the greatest apparent ease. To return. However

useful this quality might have been at the Bar, Abernethy was destined

to another course of life—a pathway more in need, perhaps, of that

light which his higher qualifications enabled him to throw over it,

and which "his position" "in time" afforded him an opportunity of

doing just when it seemed most required. He probably thus became, both

during life and prospectively, the instrument of greater good to his

fellow-creatures than he would have been in any other station whatever.

I have not been able to discover what the particular circumstances were

which determined his choice of the medical profession. It is probable

that they were not very peculiar. A boy thwarted in his choice of a

profession, is generally somewhat indifferent as to the course which

is next presented to him; besides, as his views would not have been

opposed but for some good reason, a warm and affectionate disposition

would induce him to favour any suggestion from his parents. Sir Charles

Blicke was a surgeon in large practice; he lived at that time in

Mildred's Court, and Abernethy's father was a near neighbour, probably

in Coleman Street.

Abernethy had shown himself a clever boy, a good scholar; and he was

at the top of Wolverhampton School before he was fifteen. Sir Charles

Blicke was quick-sighted, and would easily discover that Abernethy was

a "sharp boy." All that Abernethy probably knew of Sir Charles, was,

that he rode about in his carriage, saw a good many people, and took a

good many fees, all of which, though perhaps presenting no particular

attractions for Abernethy, made a _primâ facie_ case, which was not

repulsive. Accordingly, in the year 1779, being then fifteen years of

age, he became bound an apprentice to Sir Charles, and, probably, for

about five years.

This first step, this apprenticing, has a questionable tendency as

regards the interests of the public and the profession. It exerts,

also, a considerable influence on the character and disposition of

the boy, which we must by and by consider. It is a mode of proceeding

which, we fear, has done not a little to impede the progress of

surgery as a science, and to maintain that handicraft idea of it

suggested by the etymology of the word. Where one man strikes out a

new path, thousands follow the beaten track. A boy, with his mind

ill-prepared, having no _definite_ ideas of the nature and objects of

scientific inquiries, and almost certainly uninstructed as to the rules

to be observed in conducting them—knowing neither any distinction

between an art and a science—a boy thus conditioned is bound for a

certain number of _years_! to a man of whom he knows little, and to

a profession of which he knows nothing. He takes his ideas and his

tone from his master; or, if these be repulsive to him, he _probably

adopts an opposite extreme_. If the master practise his profession

merely as an art, he furnishes his pupil with little more than a string

of conventionalisms; of which, if the pupil has talent enough to do

anything for himself, he is tolerably certain to have a great deal to

unlearn.

We believe the system is in course of improvement; it is high time it

was put an end to altogether. Apprenticeships might not have been an

inauspicious mode of going to work in former times, when there existed

barber-surgeons. This alliance of surgery and shaving, to say nothing

of the numerous other qualifications with which they were sometimes

associated, might conceivably enough have furnished some pretext for

apprenticeships; since Dickey Gossip's definition of

"Shaving and tooth-drawing,

Bleeding, cabbaging, and sawing,"

was by no means always sufficiently comprehensive to include the

multifarious accomplishments of "the doctor." I have myself seen,

in a distant part of this island, within twenty-five years, chemist,

druggist, surgeon, apothecary, and the significant &c. followed by the

hatter, hosier, and linen-draper, in one establishment; but as we shall

have to discuss this subject more fully in relation to Abernethy in

another place, we may proceed.

Sir Charles Blicke had a large and lucrative practice. He had the

character of taking care to be well remunerated for his services. He

amassed a considerable fortune; but we incline to think that the ideas

of the profession which Abernethy derived from his experience of his

apprenticeship were not very favourable. The astute, business-like mode

of carrying on the profession, which seems to have characterized Sir

Charles Blicke's practice, could have had few charms for Abernethy.

Mere money-making had never at any time much attraction for him, and,

at that period of his life, probably none at all; whilst the measured

pretensions of surgery to anything like a science could hardly have

been, at times, otherwise than repulsive.

The tone in which he usually spoke of Sir Charles's practice did not

convey a very favourable idea of the impression which it had left on

him. In relating a case, he would say: "Sir Charles was at his house

in the country, where he was always on the look out for patients." On

another occasion, speaking of patients becoming faint under peculiar

circumstances, he observed: "When I was an apprentice, my master used

to say: 'Oh, Sir! you are faint; pray drink some of this water.' And

what do you think was the effect of his putting cold water into a man's

stomach under these circumstances? Why, of course, that it was often

rejected in his face."

Sir Charles's manipulatory and operative proceedings seem, however, to

have represented a tolerably adroit adoption of the prevailing modes of

practice; while his medical surgery consisted chiefly of the empirical

employment of such remedies as he had found most frequently successful,

or, at all events, somehow or other associated with a successful issue;

with the usual absence of any investigation of the cause of either

success or failure. By a mind like Abernethy's, this sort of routine

would be very soon acquired, and, in a short time, estimated at its

real value. Still, while a clear head is all that is necessary to the

reception of what may be positive and truthful, it requires a vivid

perception and a cultivated understanding to detect error. Many things,

however, would creep out in Abernethy's lectures, showing that, young

as he was, even during his apprenticeship, he was not only a real

student, but he had begun to think for himself.

He mentions a case of "Locked-jaw," that occurred as early as 1780 (the

first year of his apprenticeship), which he appears to have noted with

great accuracy. He mentions the medicine that was given to the man, the

unusually large doses, and, lastly, the enormous quantity of it which

was found in the stomach after death. It was opium, and amounted to

many drachms.

We also find him engaged in inquiries involving much more extended

views than were in that day _generally_ associated with the study of

_surgery_. He very early participated in those researches which had for

their object to determine the relation of the digestive functions to

one of the most recondite affections of an extremely important organ

(the kidney).

"When I was a boy," said he, "I half ruined myself in buying oranges

and other things, to ascertain the effects of different kinds of diet

in this disease."

The same researches show how early also he began to perceive the

importance of chemistry in investigating the functions of different

organs, and in _aiding_, generally, physiological researches. We have

heard a contemporary and a lecturer on chemistry attest Abernethy's

proficiency in that science. As his investigations proceeded, he

had the still higher merit of taking _just and sober views_ of the

relations of chemistry to physiological science.

We mean that whilst he fully recognized the importance of it, he

entirely avoided that _exclusive_ reliance on it which is too often

created by some of the more striking demonstrations of chemical

science; that one—idea—tendency, which unconsciously wrests it to the

solution of phenomena which, in the _present state_ of our knowledge,

it is wholly inadequate to explain. We have alluded to the foregoing

facts touching the impressions derived from his apprenticeship, and

his early disposition for philosophical research, because both will be

found to have relations to his subsequent labours and peculiarities.

Diligent as he was, we suspect he found, during his apprenticeship,

little of those attractions which make labour and industry sources of

happiness and pleasure.

As a matter of course, he would have been allowed to attend any

lectures which were given at the hospital to which Sir Charles Blicke

was surgeon (St. Bartholomew's), and this would bring him in contact

with Mr. Pott, who delivered a certain number of surgical lectures

there.

There were no _courses_ of anatomical lectures given at St.

Bartholomew's at that period; but anatomical lectures were delivered

regularly at the London Hospital, by Dr. Maclaurin and Sir William

Blizard, and afterwards by Sir William Blizard alone. As Sir Charles

Blicke lived in Mildred's Court and subsequently in Billiter Square,

Abernethy would be about equidistant from the two hospitals, both of

which he attended. We incline to think that it was in attending these

lectures, and perhaps especially those of Sir William Blizard, that he

first found those awakening impulses which excited in him a real love

for his profession.

It was about this time, we think, that he began to have more enlarged

ideas of the nature and objects of surgical science; a state of mind

calculated to enable him to thoroughly understand and appreciate Mr.

Hunter, and to deduce from the principles which he was shadowing forth,

those relations and consequences which we shall endeavour popularly to

explain; principles which, though originally directed to the treatment

of so-called surgical maladies, were found equally to affect the

practice of medicine.

[Footnote 11: "How happens it, Mæcenas, that no one is content with his

condition, whether reason gave it him, or chance threw it in his way?"]

[Footnote 12: The assistant-surgeons at that period having no

_in_-patients under their care, except in the absence, or by

permission, of their chiefs.]

[Footnote 13: A public journalist was inclined to give this anecdote

to another person. We then stated that we had it on the authority of a

gentleman who was present. Such power of memory, though _rare_, is not

_singular_; other examples have fallen within our own observation.]

CHAPTER IV.

"There is not a more pleasing exercise of the mind than

gratitude. Were there no positive command which enjoined it, nor

any recompense laid up for it hereafter, a generous mind would

indulge in it, for the natural gratification which accompanies

it."—ADDISON.

Sir William Blizard was an eminent surgeon and an enthusiastic student

of the profession, as studied in his day. He had a certain bluntness

of manner, which was not unkind neither. He was very straightforward,

which Abernethy liked; and he had nothing of a mercenary disposition,

which Abernethy held in abhorrence. He was a kind of man very likely to

excite in one of Abernethy's tone of mind many agreeable impressions.

He early perceived the talents, and was probably the first to encourage

the industry, of his distinguished pupil. Enthusiastic himself, he had

the power of communicating a similar feeling to many of his pupils; and

he appears to have contributed one of those impulses to Abernethy which

are from time to time necessary to sustain the pursuit of an arduous

profession.

Some men seem to like anatomy for its own sake; examinations of

structure merely, by dissection, or the microscope, have a kind of

intrinsic charm for them. This was not the case with Abernethy. _Mere_

anatomy had few charms for him. He regarded it in its true light, as a

means to an end; as the basis on which he could alone found, not only

the more common or handicraft duties of surgery, but also those higher

views which aim at developing the uses and relations of the various

organs; and in this way to ascertain what the processes of nature are

in the preservation of health and the _conduct of disease_; in short, a

knowledge of what he called physio-pathology.

Sir William, therefore, in exciting Abernethy's enthusiasm at this

time, was probably of great service. He was thus impelled to pursue the

study of anatomy, which perhaps might otherwise have failed to interest

him sufficiently, whilst his attention was by no means diverted from

the real purposes of that study. On the contrary, he always saw

anatomy, as it were, through a physiological medium. This threw a

pleasure into his anatomical pursuits, and was _one_ of the means by

which, in his own lectures, he contrived to impart an interest to the

driest parts of our studies.

Many years afterwards, he was fond of illustrating the true relations

of anatomy and physiology, and at the same time contrasting the

attractions of the one with the comparatively repulsive requisitions of

the other, by saying, with Dr. Barclay, of Edinburgh, that "he never

would have wedded himself to so ugly a witch (anatomy), but for the

dower she brought him (physiology)." The impressions which he derived

from Sir William Blizard were deep and durable. More than thirty years

after, when he himself was at the zenith of his career, we find his

grateful feeling towards Sir William still glowing warm as ever. He

seems to have considered the expression of it as the most appropriate

opening to the first of the beautiful lectures which he delivered at

the College of Surgeons in 1814. It must have been a moment of no small

gratification to Sir William, who was present, now venerable with age,

to have found that the honourable course of his own younger days, and

the purity and excellence of his precepts, had all been garnered up

in the heart of his grateful and most distinguished pupil. Nor could

the evidence of it be well made more striking than when heralded forth

before an audience composed of the most venerable and experienced, as

well as of the most rising members of the profession; and, to crown the

whole, with an eloquence at once modest and emotional, impressive of

the depth and sincerity with which the eulogium was delivered.

It is difficult to imagine a scene more moving to the master, more

gratifying to the pupil, or more honourable to both. As the style

was very characteristic, we select a few passages. He commences the

lecture by saying, of Sir William Blizard, that "he was my earliest

instructor in anatomy and surgery, and I am greatly indebted to him

for much valuable information. My warmest thanks are also due to him

for the _interest he excited in my mind towards these studies_, and

for his excellent advice. 'Let your search after truth,' he would say,

'be eager and constant. Be wary in admitting propositions to be facts,

before you have submitted them to the strictest examination. If, after

this, you believe them to be true, never disregard or forget _any

one_ of them, however unimportant it may at the time appear. Should

you perceive truths to be important, make them motives of action. Let

them serve as springs to your conduct. If we _neglect to draw such

inferences_, or to act in conformity with them, we fail in essential

duties!'" Again, in remarking how Sir William excited his enthusiasm by

the _beau-idéal_ which he drew of the medical character, Mr. Abernethy

observed: "I cannot tell you how splendid and brilliant he made it

appear; and then he cautioned us _never_ to tarnish its lustre by any

disingenuous conduct, or by anything that bore even the _semblance_

of dishonour." Abernethy, then proceeding in a strain, warm, yet

apologetic (Sir William being present), at length concluded his public

thanks to his venerable instructor, by saying, "what I have now stated

is a tribute due from me to him; and I pay it on the present occasion

in the _hope_ that the same precepts and motives may have the same

effects on the junior part of my audience as they were accustomed, in

general, to have on the pupils of Sir William Blizard."[14]

Abernethy then proceeded to advocate similar lofty views of the nature

and duties of our profession in the following manner: "That which

most dignifies man, is the cultivation of those qualities which most

distinguish him from the brute creation. We should indeed seek truth

for its importance, and act as the dictates of reason direct us. By

exercising our minds in the attainment of medical knowledge, we may

improve a science of great public utility. We have need of enthusiasm,

or of some strong incentive, to induce us to spend our nights in study,

and our days in the disgusting and health-destroying duties of the

dissecting-room, or in that careful and distressing observation of

human diseases and infirmities which can alone enable us to alleviate

or remove them; some powerful inducement," he adds, "exclusive of fame

or emolument (for, unfortunately, a man may attain a considerable

share of reputation and _practice, without being a real student of his

profession_). I place before you the most animating incentive I know

of—that is, the enviable power of being extensively useful to your

fellow-creatures. You will be able to confer that which sick kings

would fondly purchase with their diadems, which wealth cannot command,

nor state nor rank bestow:—to alleviate or remove disease, the most

insupportable of human afflictions; and thereby give health, the most

invaluable of human blessings."

When Abernethy entered the London Hospital, he soon gave proofs that

Sir William's lessons were not unfruitful. He was early employed to

prepare the subject for lecture. Anatomy is usually taught by combining

three plans.

In one, the various structures—muscles, vessels, nerves, &c.—are

exposed, by the removal of their covering and connecting-tissues,

and so displayed as to be clear and distinct. This is "dissecting

for lecture;" and it is the duty of the lecturer to describe the

connections and immediate uses of the parts so displayed.

The body is then laid on a clean table, covered with a white cloth,

and everything is ready. There is some difference in these matters in

different hands; but attention to order and cleanliness goes a long way

in facilitating anatomical pursuits. To many there may be much that

is disagreeable in anatomy; but we are persuaded that a coarse and

vulgar inattention to decency has often alone rendered it disgusting or

repulsive.

The other plan is not materially different from the foregoing,

excepting that it is generally done by the anatomical

assistant—technically, the "demonstrator." The parts, having been

somewhat exposed, are left, as much as is consistent with clearness,

in their natural and _relative_ positions; and the vessels, nerves,

muscles, &c. which have been for the most part described _separately_

by the lecturer, are now "demonstrated" (as the phrase is) _together_.

The relative positions of all parts are thus more especially impressed

on the student. In these "demonstrations" there is the same attention

to covering the body with a cloth, &c. as in the lecture.

Lastly, the pupil is required to make out the parts by dissecting them

himself, with such occasional assistance as may be at first necessary,

and which is given by the demonstrator, who attends in the room for

that purpose.

Now these duties (the lecture only excepted) were early performed by

Abernethy. We may safely infer from this, that he was distinguished by

his industry and zeal in the pursuit of knowledge, and that he began

thus early to cultivate that power of communicating what he knew to

others; in the exercise of which he ultimately acquired a success, a

_curiosa felicitas_, in which he excelled all his contemporaries. That

special qualifications were already discernible, we may infer from the

post he occupied being invariably filled by a pupil of the hospital

to which the school belongs; whereas Mr. Abernethy was an apprentice

of a surgeon of St. Bartholomew's. On the testimony of a contemporary

and fellow-student, Mr. W. W. Cox, late of Wolverhampton, we learn

that he began to individualize himself very early. That, at the London

Hospital, "he was for the most part reserved, seldom associating with

any of the other students, but sitting in some place or corner by

himself, diligently intent on the business of the lecture." Sir William

Blizard is known to have felt proud of him, and to have soon indulged

in great expectations from his character and talents.

I have already observed that Abernethy had the advantage of attending

also the Surgical Lectures of Mr. Pott, at St. Bartholomew's. Mr. Pott

was a gentleman, a scholar, and a good writer, and seems to have been

a spirited and attractive lecturer. In an oration delivered by Sir

William Blizard, in 1815, it is said that "it was difficult to give

an idea of the elegance of his language, the animation of his manner,

or the perceptive force or effect of his truths and his doctrines"—a

character which is by no means inconsistent with Mr. Pott's more

sustained compositions.

Such opportunities were not lost on Abernethy. He soon became possessed

of what was known in the ordinary business of anatomy and surgery. His

diligence too had afforded him an opportunity of testing those powers

of communicating what he knew, to which I have just alluded. As an

apprentice of a surgeon of Bartholomew's, his views were directed to

that hospital; and it was not long before the resignation of Mr. Pott,

and the appointment of Sir Charles Blicke, who was assistant surgeon,

to succeed him, opened to Abernethy an arena in which he might further

mature his peculiar aptitude for _teaching_ his profession. This had

been, as we learn from his own testimony, an early object of his

ambition, and one for which he had already begun to educate himself at

the London Hospital.

[Footnote 14: Sir William was a good surgeon and an excellent man. He

was born at Barnes, in Surrey, and practised his profession until his

death, which took place at the advanced age of ninety-three. One of his

eyes was affected with cataract, which was removed by operation when

he was ninety-one. He was enthusiastically fond of his profession, and

was chiefly remarkable for his zealous observance of its honourable

practice, and his indifference to lucre. He died in 1835.]

CHAPTER V.

"Terra salutiferas herbas eademque nocentes

Nutrit, et urticæ proxima sæpe rosa est."[15]

OVID.

A large London Hospital is (if we may be excused the Hibernianism, as

Mr. Abernethy used to call it) a large microcosm. There is little in

human nature, of which an observant eye may not here find types or

realities. Hopes and fears, joys and sorrows, solace and suffering,

are here strangely intermingled. General benevolence, with special

exceptions. There is no human good without its shadow of evil; even

the benevolent must take care. Impatient sensibility is much nearer

a heartless indifference than people generally imagine. The rose,

Charity, must take care of the nettle, Temper. The man who is chary or

chafed, in yielding that sympathy which philosophy and feeling require,

must beware lest he degenerate into a brute.

One of the brightest points in Abernethy's character, was, that,

however he might sometimes forget the courtesy due to his private

patients, he was never unkind to those whom charity had confided to his

care. One morning, leaving home for the hospital, when some one was

desirous of detaining him, he said: "Private patients, if they do not

like me, can go elsewhere; but the poor devils in the hospital I am

bound to take care of."

But to the hospital. Here we find some that have had the best this

world can give—some who have known little but misery: the many no

doubt lie between; but all come upon the same errand. Disease is a

great leveller. There all flock, as to Addison's Mountain of Miseries,

to get rid of their respective burthens, or to effect such exchanges as

benevolence may have to offer, or the grave can alone supply. Our large

hospitals have a most efficient "_matériel_;" the accommodations are

extensive, the revenues princely. St. Bartholomew's, for example, has

a revenue of between twenty and thirty thousand pounds a year, and is

capable of receiving six hundred patients.

As regards what is mechanically or physically necessary to the comfort

of the inmates, the ample appliances of our large hospitals leave

little or nothing to be desired. There is every facility for the

execution of the duties, that convenient space and orderly arrangement

can suggest; in short, everything, in the general sense of the word,

that money can procure. Then there are governors, whose hearts are as

open as their purses, whose names are recorded in gold letters, as the

more recent or current contributors to the funds of the establishment,

and who rejoice in the occasional Saturnalia of venison and turtle; all

duties or customs which may be observed, with the gratifying reflection

that they are taking the thorns out of the feet of the afflicted;

provided only that they do not involve forgetfulness of other duties,

the neglect of which may plant a few in their own. The governors

determine the election of the medical men, to whom the welfare of the

patients and the interests of science are to be entrusted.

We have said that money cannot procure all things, and one of these

is mind—a remark requiring some qualification certainly; but this

we must refer to a subsequent chapter. Minds such as Abernethy's are

not to be found every day; and, notwithstanding the sumptuous bill

of fare we have already glanced at, there are many things in a large

London Hospital yet to be desired—defects which, though it need no

great penetration to discover, may, for aught we know, require public

attention, a _Government altogether better informed_ as to the actual

defects in medical science, and the plastic hand of power, to supply.

Abernethy was elected assistant surgeon of St. Bartholomew's Hospital,

July 15th, 1787. Sir Charles Blicke, an assistant surgeon, had been

appointed to the surgeoncy vacant by the resignation of Mr. Pott,

and Abernethy succeeded to the assistant surgeoncy thus vacated. The

election was contested by two or three other candidates; amongst the

rest, by Mr. Heaviside. This gentleman was an eminent surgeon, and a

gentlemanly, facetious, and agreeable companion. He was originally in

the Guards, and practised in London many years with great credit and

respectability. He was fond of science, and expended considerable sums

in the formation of an interesting museum. In the earlier part of his

life, he gave conversaziones, which were attended by great numbers both

of the scientific and fashionable.

He lived in a day when, if a gentleman felt himself insulted, he had

at least the satisfaction of being relieved from his sensibility by

having his brains blown out in a duel—professionally speaking, by a

kind of "operative surgery;" viz. the demolition of the organ in which

the troublesome faculty resided. Mr. Heaviside, in his professional

capacity, is said to have attended more duels than any other surgeon

of his time. This gentleman, albeit not unused to one kind of contest,

retired from that at the hospital; which then lay between Mr. Jones and

Mr. Abernethy—the former polling twenty-nine, the latter fifty-three

votes.

This was an important epoch in the life of Abernethy. It is difficult

to adjust the influence which it ultimately exerted, for good or

evil, on his future prospects and happiness, or on his relations to

science. The hospital had thus secured a man of extraordinary talent,

it is true, and in spite of a system which indefinitely narrows the

field of choice; but then the same "system" (which we shall by and

by describe) kept Abernethy, as regards the hospital, for no less a

term than twenty-eight years, in a position which, although it did not

exclude him altogether from the field of observation it afforded, did

much to restrict his cultivation of it. His talents for observation,

nevertheless, and the estimation in which he was soon held, no doubt

enabled him, to a certain extent, to bring many of his views to the

test of practice. Still, as an assistant surgeon, except in the absence

of his chief, he had officially nothing to do; whatever cases he

conducted, were only by sufferance of his senior.

To a man of his ability, this was a false and miserably cramped

position; one, in fact, much better calculated for detecting faults,

than for developing the best mode of amending them. As assistant

surgeon, he had no emolument from the hospital: he had, therefore, a

very reasonable inducement to set about doing that for which he felt

himself especially fitted, and to which he had early directed his

attention—namely, to teach his profession. The event showed that

he had by no means miscalculated his powers. These proved well-nigh

unrivalled. The appointment to St. Bartholomew's, besides other

advantages, gave him an opportunity of lecturing with the _prestige_

usually afforded by connection with a large hospital. He did not,

however, at first give his lectures at the hospital, but delivered them

in Bartholomew Close.

There was at this time, in fact, no school, properly so called, at St.

Bartholomew's. Mr. Pott had been accustomed to give about twenty-four

lectures, which, as short practical discourses, were first-rate for

that period; but there were no other lectures, not even on anatomy;

which are essentially the basis of a medical school.

Dr. Marshall, who was a very remarkable man, and no less eminent for

his general ability than for his professional acquirements, was at this

time giving anatomical lectures, at his house, in Bartlett's Buildings,

Holborn. In a biographical notice of him, in the "Gentleman's

Magazine," in which we read that he was giving lectures about the year

1787, it is incidentally remarked, that "in all probability he derived

little support from St. Bartholomew's Hospital; for that recently an

ingenious young gentleman, Mr. Abernethy, had begun to give lectures in

the neighbourhood."

Abernethy, who seems to have been always seeking information, certainly

attended some of Marshall's lectures; because he would occasionally

refer to anecdotes he had heard there. He had thus listened to most

of the best lecturers of his day—Sir William Blizard, Dr. Maclaurin,

Mr. Pott, and Dr. Marshall. To the experience which he had thus

acquired, and with the early intention of applying it, he added a

remarkable natural capacity for communicating his ideas to others. We

thus begin to perceive his _early cultivation_ of that aptitude for

lecturing which no doubt greatly contributed to the excellence which he

ultimately achieved in that mode of instruction.

We desire to impress this feature in his education, because by and by

it will, with other things, assist us in a rather difficult task: that

is, an attempt to analyze the means by which he obtained such a power

over his audience. He thus became a teacher at the age of twenty-three,

at a large hospital where he was about to commence a school, of which

he would be at first the sole support. This necessarily involved a

fearful amount of labour, for an organization, active and energetic,

but by no means of great physical power.

Labour, to be sure, is the stuff that life is made of; but then, in

a fine organization like Abernethy's, it should be directed with

economy of power, and in application to the highest purposes. Such an

organization should, if possible, have been relieved from the drudgery

which lies within the sphere of more ordinary capacity. Ready as we

are, then, to congratulate the young philosopher, about to display his

powers on a field where he was so successful, still misgivings creep in

which restrain, or at least moderate, our enthusiasm. Unusual ability,

no doubt, allows men to anticipate the order which, as the rule, Nature

seems to have assigned to the pursuits of intellect; but we must not

suffer ourselves to be blinded to the rule, by the frequency of the

exception. Youth is the time for _acquiring_ knowledge; and, although

there is no reason why the fruits may not be imparted to others as fast

as they are gathered, still, when the larger space of a man's time at

twenty-three is devoted to _teaching_ merely, it may reasonably be

doubted whether it be such a disposition of it as is best calculated

to economise his power, or develop the maximum of its influence, in

_extending_ the science to which it is devoted.

John Hunter declined undertaking to teach anatomy at forty (1768),

because it would have "_engaged his attention too much_ to admit

of that general attention to his profession; to forming habits and

established modes of thinking, which he thought necessary." In

Abernethy's after life, we think we saw a good deal of the wear and

tear that early and diversified labour had impressed on his physical

organization. In advancing life, the natural desire for ease, if not

carefully guarded, may not be without its perils; but precocious

labour, stinted rest, and the malaria of large cities, crowded

hospitals, and filthy dissecting rooms, too certainly bring on a train

of evils, not less grave because more distant.

We shall have to revert to these points when, in conclusion, we

consider the variety and importance of his contributions to the science

of his profession, and why they were not still more numerous. The

latter, though perhaps the less grateful, is by no means the least

useful portion of biographical analysis.

Commencing his lectures in Bartholomew Close, they soon seem to have

attracted notice. The anatomical courses, which were always on a

similar plan, were very skilfully framed to interest and instruct the

students. The arrangement of the matter was such, that the dry details

of anatomy were lighted up by a description, not only of the purposes

served by the various parts, but by as much as could be conveniently

included of the diseases or accidents to which they were subject;

and thus the juxtaposition of the structure, function, and diseases,

naturally tended to impress the whole.

Diseases of more general site, and which therefore did not fall

conveniently under discussion in describing any one part, were reserved

for a separate course of lectures. It was in this course that he more

fully developed those general principles on which his reputation more

especially rests. Of his inimitable manner we shall speak hereafter.

He was one of the first who insisted on the great importance of

Comparative Anatomy, in studying the uses of the several parts of the

human body. Were it not for the comparison of the relations of various

parts in different animals, we should be continually the victims of

hypotheses, which the juxtaposition or other characters of organs in

any _one_ animal are constantly suggesting. Here necessity compels the

observance of that rule of inductive philosophy, which seeks not for

the true relation of any one thing in _itself_, but from _universals_,

from uses and application which are common to _other_ things. In

one case nature makes that luminously clear, which is only dimly

shadowed forth in another; and in seeing organs under every conceivable

variety of circumstance, we learn to estimate at their full value

characteristics which are common to and inseparable from all—the only

point whence we can securely deduce their real uses in the animal

economy. Of this, Abernethy early saw and inculcated the advantages.

As it was impossible to combine anything like a comprehensive study of

a vast science in the same course with lectures on human Anatomy, he

was accustomed, at the conclusion of the course, to devote a lecture

or two to select illustrations of this important subject. This he

ultimately relinquished, the universal admission of the fact rendering

it no longer necessary.

We shall have occasion, by and by, to record the circumstances

under which one of the most important steps was taken for securing

the interests of Comparative Anatomy in this country—a proceeding

in a great degree owing to the good sense and personal influence

of Abernethy, and exemplifying, in the admirable fitness of the

individual[16], the penetrative perception of character which

distinguished his early Preceptor in Anatomy.

We have little doubt that we have now entered on the most laborious

part of Abernethy's life, and that, during this and some succeeding

years, his exertions were so great and unremitting, as to have laid the

foundation of those ailments which, at a comparatively early period of

life, began to embitter its enjoyment, and to strew the onward path

with the elements of decay and suffering.

He lectured himself on anatomy, physiology, and pathology, besides

surgery—subjects which are now usually divided between three or four

teachers. There is abundant evidence that he was an attentive observer

of what was going on in the hospital. He was assiduous in visiting most

places where any information was to be obtained. We find him attending

Mr. Hunter's lectures, and constantly meditating on what he heard

there; thus seeking opportunities of making himself more and more

familiar with those opinions which, in his view, on most of the points

to _which_ they related, _were_ definite—cautiously deduced—not

always clear, perhaps; but, when understood, truthful.

He endeavoured further to mature an accurate perception of Mr.

Hunter's views, by seeking private conferences with him; and Hunter

kindly afforded him facilities for so doing. We have Abernethy's

own acknowledgment of this, coupled with his regret that he could

not more frequently avail himself of them. Indeed, when we consider

that Abernethy lived at this time in St. Mary Axe, or in Mildred's

Court in the Poultry,—that he was lecturing on the sciences I have

mentioned,—that he was observant of cases at the hospital (a very

timeful occupation),—and consider the distance between these points

and Mr. Hunter's residence in Leicester Square, or his school in

Windmill Street,—we see there could not be much time to spare. It was

not, however, merely during the time at which he was delivering his

lectures that he was thus actively employed. We have, not unfrequently,

evidence that he was often at the hospital late in the day, in the most

leisure season of the year, when perhaps his senior had, during his

absence in the summer, confided the patients to his care.

We used to get, occasionally, such passages as these in the lectures:

"One summer evening, as I was crossing the Square of the hospital,

a student came running to me," &c. Very significant of continued

attention during the summer or leisure season—he not being, be it

remembered, other than an assistant-surgeon, and not, therefore,

necessarily having duties at the hospital.

At this period, it was a common practice with him to rise as early as

four in the morning. He would sometimes go away into the country, that

he might read, more free from interruption. He also instituted various

experiments, some of which we shall have shortly to notice, for the

philosophical spirit in which they were conducted. His visit to France

must have been made about this time, when the celebrated Desault was

at the height of his reputation. His stay could not have been long, in

all probability; but we have evidence showing how quickly he perceived,

amidst the success of Desault, the more important defects of the

hospital—the Hôtel Dieu—to which he was _chirurgien-en-chef_, and the

influence exerted by them on his practice.

As we shall be obliged again to mention Desault in connection with a

material item in the catalogue of our obligations to Abernethy, we

postpone for the present any further remarks on that distinguished

French surgeon.

Abernethy now continued actively engaged in the study and teaching

of his profession. The most remarkable circumstance at this time of

his life, and for several years, was his peculiar diffidence—an

unconquerable shyness, a difficulty in commanding at pleasure that

self-possession which was necessary to open his lecture. Everything

connected with his lectures is of importance to those who may be

engaged in this mode of teaching, or who may desire to excel in it. No

man ever attained to excellence more varied or attractive; yet many

years elapsed before he had overcome the difficulty to which I have

alluded.

An old student, who attended his lectures, not earlier than 1795, told

me that he recollected several occasions on which, before beginning

the lecture, he had left the theatre for a time, to collect himself

sufficiently to begin his discourse. On these occasions, a tumult

of applause seemed only to increase the difficulty. The lecture

once commenced, I have no evidence of his having exhibited further

embarrassment. He seems early to have attained that happy manner

which, though no doubt greatly aided by his peculiar and in some sense

dramatic talent, there is every reason to believe had been carefully

cultivated by study and observation.

His lectures continuing to attract a larger and larger class, the

accommodation became inadequate for the increased number of students.

The governors of St. Bartholomew's, therefore, in 1790, determined on

building a regular theatre within the hospital. It was completed in

1791, and Abernethy gave his October courses of anatomy, physiology,

and surgery of that year in the new theatre. He had thus become the

founder of the School of St. Bartholomew's, which, for the approaches

it made towards giving a more scientific phase to the practice of

Surgery, was certainly superior to any other.

In expressing this opinion, we except, of course, John Hunter's

lectures, for the short time that they were contemporaneous with those

of Mr. Abernethy; John Hunter dying, as we have said, in 1793. As St.

Bartholomew's Hospital was our own Alma Mater, we may, perhaps, speak

with a fallible partiality; but we think not. We are far from being

blind to the faults which Bartholomew's has, in common with other

schools; and, we believe, regret as much as anybody can do, that the

arrangements of our hospitals, excellent as in many respects they are,

should still so defectively supply many of the requisitions which the

interests of science demand. Some of these defects we may endeavour to

point out in their proper place. We shall now leave the subject of Mr.

Abernethy and his lectures, and begin to consider some of his earlier

efforts at authorship, sketch the objects he had in view, and the mode

of investigation.

[Footnote 15: "The same earth nourishes both wholesome and noxious

plants, and the nettle is often next the rose."]

[Footnote 16: Professor Owen.]

CHAPTER VI.

"All things are but altered, nothing dies,

And here or there the unbodied spirit flies."

DRYDEN.

The most universal character impressed on all created things that sense

allows us to recognize, or philosophical inquiry to demonstrate, is

"change."

While nothing is more certain, few things pass less observed; or, when

first announced, more stagger conviction.

An old man sees the yew-tree of his boyish days apparently the same.

Gilpin tells us "eight hundred years is no great age for an oak[17]!"

The cliff which we left "beetling" seems to beetle still; mountains

appear to be everlasting; yet, were seas and rivers to disclose even

a small part of their mission, the Danube or the Volga might tell

of millions of tons of soil carried from higher levels to the Black

Sea and the Caspian. Animals, too, are mighty agents in recording

the mutability of the matter of the universe. Coral Reefs, never

spoken of in smaller terms than miles and fathoms, are the vast ocean

structures of countless millions of animalcules, which serve, as it

were, to link together the two great kingdoms of organic nature—the

animal and vegetable creation. The microscopic geologist informs us of

whole strata, well-nigh entirely composed of the silicified skeletons

of insects. Sir Charles Lyell further impresses on us the reality

of continual change, by referring (and, as it would appear, with

increasing probability) even the stupendous changes demonstrated by

geology to the agency of causes still in operation.

Animals, however, besides the curious structures which they combine to

contribute, are individually undergoing constant change. Man is not

only no exception, but he is a "glaring" example.

The whole human race are in hourly progress of mutation. "In the midst

of life we are in death," is a truth to which physiology yields its

tribute of illustration. Every moment we are having the old particles

of our bodies silently taken away, and new materials as silently laid

down. Surrounding influences, as air, moisture, temperature, &c. which,

during life, are necessary to existence—the moment the breath leaves

us, proceed to resolve the body into the elements of which it was

composed. In all cases, change may be regarded as the combined result

of two forces: the force acting, and the body acted on—that is to say,

of certain external agents and certain forces inherent in the thing

changed.

Animals are no exceptions to this view, and diseases are amongst a

multitude of other exemplifications of it; but, in order to distinguish

these more clearly, it is desirable that we should be familiar with

those more ordinary changes in the body which are constantly going on;

and to some of these were Abernethy's early investigations directed.

In proceeding to give some account of his works, we must be necessarily

more brief than a scientific analysis would require.

To do him full justice, it would be necessary to republish his

writings, with appropriate commentaries. We shall hope, however, to do

enough to relieve his memory from some of the numerous misconceptions

of his principles and opinions; and to endeavour to show his claims to

the respect and gratitude of posterity.

In everything Abernethy did, we find evidence of the acuteness of his

mind, and his general qualifications for philosophical research.

His lectures had gradually attracted an increasing number of students;

and he seems, about 1791, to have been desirous of prefacing his

lectures on Anatomy by discussing the general composition of Animal

Matter.

The rapid advance of chemistry had given a great impetus to this kind

of investigation. Abernethy was not only well up in the chemistry

of the day, but also not unskilled in the manipulatory application

of it; and he felt interested in observing the great diversity of

substances which appeared to be made up of similar elements. Boyle has

recorded a vast number of facts, many of which would even now well

repay a thoughtful revision; and Fordyce was certainly one of our most

philosophical physicians.

Boyle had grown vegetables in water and air only, and found they

produced woody fibre. Fordyce found that gold fish, placed under

similar conditions, not only lived, but _grew_. Abernethy's experiments

had for their object to inquire how far organized bodies (animals and

vegetables) were capable of deriving their various structures from

similar simple elements.

He grew vegetables on flannel, wetted from time to time with distilled

water; and then, analyzing them, compared the results with those of the

analysis of vegetables grown in the ordinary manner.

Other curious experiments consisted in pouring concentrated acids on

vegetable structures, with a view to dissolve any alkali or iron which

they might contain, and then analyzing the vegetables so treated.

He now found, in the burnt vegetable, lime, iron, &c. which, had they

been free to combine, should have been taken up by the acid to which he

had subjected the vegetable before he analyzed it; but he found neither

in the _acid_, whilst both were discovered in the _vegetables_.

He also inquired whether tadpoles and leeches would live when kept only

in distilled water, with the admission of air. For example, he placed

twelve leeches in two gallons of distilled water, They weighed, in

all, twelve scruples. In three months, two had died, but the remaining

ten weighed twelve scruples, showing that they had _grown_. He next

inquired whether vegetables, grown in air and distilled water, would

admit of further conversion into the structure of animals; and, for

this purpose, he fed rabbits on vegetables so reared. His rabbits

appear to have eaten about six plates at a meal of young cabbages thus

reared on flannel wetted with distilled water.

He also experimented on eggs, both before and at the time of incubation.

He wished to ascertain the quantity of lime in the chicken and the egg,

respectively; and whether any of the lime was absorbed from the shell,

which it appeared not to be.

It is curious to observe the time and labour he gave to these

experiments; they evince a very perfect knowledge of the chemistry

necessary; whilst the circumstances calculated to interfere with or

obscure the conclusions from them are judiciously and clearly stated.

Many of his remarks, as well as the ingenious suggestions with which

they are interspersed, exemplify the caution with which he reasoned.

In speaking of his experiments on leeches and tadpoles, many of which

latter had become perfectly developed frogs, he says: "The experiments

which I made on this plan (in vessels of distilled water, covered

with linen) were made in the summer, when to prevent vegetation was

impossible; and, on the other hand, when the vessels were covered over,

even leeches died. In the winter, vegetation might cease; but then the

torpid state of the animals would render the experiments inconclusive."

He reduced an equal number of eggs and chickens (at the time of

incubation) to ashes; sometimes in crucibles, sometimes in retorts. On

the ashes he poured some distilled water, and ascertained the salts

(as lime, &c.) contained in them. In some experiments, the quantity of

these found in the ashes of the chickens greatly exceeded that found in

the ashes of the eggs. In other experiments, the quantities were equal.

In some of his experiments, after using the best chemical tests for

detecting iron, lime, and the salts, and then washing the residue with

distilled water, he burnt it in a crucible, and found more lime and

iron; on which he makes the following remarks, which suggest what we

apprehend, even at this time, is a very necessary caution:

"This circumstance proves to me that the substances found in the

ashes of burnt animal matter do not formally exist in the mass before

its destruction, but are only new distributions of the same ultimate

particles which, under their former mode of arrangement, made the

animal substance; but which, being driven asunder by the repulsive

power of fire, are left at liberty to form other modifications of

matter." Page 97. Just what happens when animal matter is burned, in

the formation of ammonia, by the union of the nitrogen and hydrogen

then set free.

He investigated, also, the question of how far the results of the

decomposition of animal matter would be identical, if the analyses

were conducted by heat, or by putrefactive decomposition. In this

experiment, he selected blood; and he found that blood which had been

allowed to putrify yielded _a much larger quantity_ of iron and lime.

The whole of the experiments are very suggestive, and full of thought;

and not only indicate very forward views of the elementary constitution

of organic and inorganic matter, but also moot questions which have

not lost any of their interest by the most recent investigations. He

concludes by observing that he had undertaken these experiments for the

reasons already assigned, and because he had imbibed the idea that the

_ultimate particles of matter were the same_.

He remarks that the progress of chemistry had not been applied, in

every respect, to the best purpose; that men's views were becoming

_contracted_ by being directed to _individual_ objects; and that they

had ceased to contemplate the beautiful and extensive subject of matter

and its combinations; and he complains that even Fourcroi, Lavoisier,

and Chaptal, either avoid the subject, or do not sufficiently consider

it. We must recollect this was said before Sir H. Davy had made his

splendid discoveries. Abernethy, after observing that he hopes his

experiments will induce others to investigate the subject, concludes

thus:

"I know not any thought that, on contemplation, can so delight the mind

with admiration of the simplicity and power evident in the operations

of the Creator, as the consideration that, by different arrangement and

motion of singular atoms, He has produced that variety of substances

found in the world, and which are so conducive to the wants and

gratification of the creatures who inhabit it."

DISSECTION OF A WHALE.

SECTION I.

"Mors sola fatetur

Quantula sint hominum corpuscula."

JUV.

Amongst a multitude of examples, which teach us how little we can

infer the importance of anything in nature from its size, or other

impressions which it may convey to mere sense, we might adduce the

wonderful little tubes, certain relations of which were the objects of

this paper. Those constant mutations in animal bodies which are every

moment in progress, are, in great part, due to a very curious order

of vessels, of such extreme minuteness and tenuity, that, being in

the dead animal usually empty and transparent, they are very commonly

invisible, and thus long eluded discovery. There is one situation,

however, in which circumstances combine to expose them to observation.

Transparent though they be, they are here usually rendered visible;

first, by being loaded with a milk-like fluid; and secondly, by being

placed between the folds of a membrane, itself beautifully transparent

(the mesentery). This fluid they have just taken up from the digestive

surfaces on which their mouths open, and they are now carrying it off

to pour it into the blood-vessels, that it may be added to the general

stock of the circulation.

In the situation above mentioned they were at length discovered,

about the commencement of the 17th century. Every thing destined to

support the body with new material, as well as the old, which is to be

taken away, must first be sucked up by the myriads of inconceivably

minute mouths of these vessels, which, from their office, are called

the _absorbents_. These absorbents may therefore be regarded as the

sentinels of the body. They are very sensitive and excitable; but,

besides this, there are placed in the course of their journey, from the

surfaces whence they bring their contents, and the blood-vessels to

which they are carrying them, a number of _douaniers_, or custom-house

officers (the glands, or kernels, as they are popularly called),

whereby, as we have every reason to believe, the fluids they are

importing are subjected to rigid examination; and, if found to be

injurious, to some modification, tending to render them more fit for

admission into the system.

If the contents are very irritating, these vigilant guards—these

kernels—become very painfully affected, and sometimes inflammation is

set up, sufficient even to destroy the part; as if, faithful to their

trust, they perished themselves, rather than give entrance to anything

injurious to the body.

We should never advance, however, in our story, if we were to tell all

the interesting peculiarities of these curious vessels.

When first discovered, and the office assigned to them could no longer

be disputed, the general distribution of them was still doubted. As

it was usual to render them visible by filling them with quicksilver,

so, with a kind of reasoning which has too often characterized mere

anatomical research, when they could not be made visible, it became the

fashion to doubt their existence. Amongst other structures, Bone was

formerly one in regard to which people found a difficulty. How could

such delicate vessels exist in such an apparently dense structure? But

Mr. Abernethy, who, like Bacon, had always opposed mere eye-reasoning,

used to observe, with equal simplicity and good sense, that, for his

part, he could see no more difficulty in an absorbent taking up a

particle of bone, than he could in comprehending how a vessel could

lay it down, which nobody doubted. We now know that bone is not only

supplied with all the vessels which characterize a living structure,

but so liberally, that, in comparison with some other structures of the

body, we regard it as a part of high organization.

Nevertheless, the extreme minuteness and transparency of these

absorbent vessels naturally led persons to regard with considerable

interest any magnified view of them, such as that afforded by

larger animals. In the paper before us, which was published in the

"Philosophical Transactions" for 1793, Mr. Abernethy gives the account

of his examination of the absorbents in a whale; and his object was

to help to determine a question long agitated, whether the glands or

kernels were composed of cells, or whether they were merely multiplied

convolutions of vessels. He selected the absorbents from the situation

to which I have already referred. He threw into the arteries which

carry blood to nourish the gland, a red solution containing wax, which

of course became solid on cooling; and into the veins which return the

blood from all parts, a similar solution, only coloured yellow. He

filled the absorbents with quicksilver.

He found, in filling the absorbents, that wherever the quicksilver

arrived at a gland, there was a hesitation—its course became retarded,

and that this retardation was longest at those glands which were

_nearest the source_ whence the vessels had drawn their contents, viz.

the alimentary canal: as if the surfaces over which the fluid had to

pass were more multiplied where most _necessary_, or, recurring to

our metaphor, as if the more strict _douanier_ had been placed on the

frontier. He says that he found that some of the absorbents went _over_

the glands, whilst others _penetrated_ these bodies. That he found that

the melted wax which he had thrown into the vessels had formed round

nodules of various sizes. He then extended his examination of these

vessels to those of horses and other large animals; and the result of

his investigation was, that it inclined him to the conclusion that the

glands were _not merely_ made up of convolutions of vessels, but were

of _a really cellular structure_.

The paper is very modestly put forth, and he concludes it by observing

that he offers it merely for the facts which it contains, and not as

justifying any _final_ conclusion; but "as all our knowledge of the

absorbents," he continues, "seems to have been acquired by fragments,

I am anxious to add my mite to our general stock of information on the

subject."

It may not be uninteresting to some unprofessional readers to know

that the glands here alluded to are the organs which are so seriously

diseased in those lamentable conditions popularly expressed, I believe,

by the term mesenteric disease, or disease of the mesentery.

SECTION II.

CURIOUS CASES PUBLISHED IN THE "PHILOSOPHICAL

TRANSACTIONS," 1793.

"The Universal Cause

Acts to one end, but acts by various laws."

POPE.

However paradoxical it may appear, it is not the less true, that

nothing more teachingly impresses the inquirer into nature with the

_actual_ presence of general laws than the _apparent_ exceptions to

them. Finite capacities in dealing with the Infinite must of course

encounter multitudes of facts, the meaning of which they cannot

interpret—portions of the Divine Government, as Butler has said, which

they do not as yet understand.

In philosophical investigations, these are properly regarded as facts

which, in the present state of knowledge, cannot be made to fall under

any of our very limited generalizations.

At one period, departures from the ordinary structure or form in

animals were simply regarded as unintelligible abstractions, and

no more philosophical expression was given to them than "Lusus

Naturæ"—sports of Nature. Progressive science, however, has thrown

considerable light on such phenomena, and invested many of them with a

new interest.

Physiologists have not arrived at the explanation of all such facts;

but much has been done by comparative anatomy to show that many of them

are merely arrests of development, and cases of interference with the

ordinary law.

That, in fact, they show the mutual harmony and connection of the

laws of nature to be such, that the development of any one law implies

the concurrence, so to speak, of some other, just as the successful

incubation of an egg, or any other familiar fact, implies the presence

of certain conditions. We cannot boil a drop of water without the

concurrence of various laws: we say it boils ordinarily at 212° of

Fahrenheit; but how many conditions this involves!

Until understood, how few could have guessed that mechanical pressure

could have so modified the degree of heat necessary, as to exalt it

to more than double, or reduce it to less than half; and again, how

few would have looked for the force which, under common circumstances,

governed the point at which water was thus converted into steam, in

the pressure of the atmosphere; yet so mutually influential are these

conditions—namely, heat and a certain pressure in modifying this

change of form or matter—that some of Faraday's most interesting

results in experimental chemistry (we allude to his reducing several

gaseous bodies to the liquid form) were obtained by _abstracting_ heat

and increasing pressure.

It is of very great consequence to remember these interferences in

relation to disease, because most diseases may be regarded as examples

of them. Considered as "abstract wholes," as entities—diseases are

necessarily unintelligible: but when looked at as natural processes

obscured by interferences (if the inquiry be conducted with strict

observance of those principles which are essential in all philosophical

researches), they either at once become intelligible, or, at least, as

open to investigation as any other facts in natural philosophy.

When we investigate the laws of nature with a view to the development

of the sublime objects of natural theology, the concurrence of the

various conditions, necessary to the most ordinary phenomenon, inclose

the most irresistible proofs, from natural evidence, of the Unity of

the Creator.

Regarded in the light of facts which we as yet may not be able to

generalise, the cases here recorded by Abernethy are very interesting;

although it is to be regretted that both cases were bodies brought in

for dissection, in times when the circumstances baffled, if they did

not forbid, any inquiry into the histories of them. It is lamentable to

think of the state of the law with respect to Anatomy at that time.

Any surgeon who was convicted of _mala praxis_, resulting from

ignorance of Anatomy, was severely fined, perhaps ruined; and yet so

entirely unprovided were the profession with any _legitimate_ means of

studying Anatomy, that they could only be obtained by a connivance at

practices the most demoralizing and revolting.

Bodies were, in fact, chiefly obtained by the nightly maraudings of a

set of men, who, uninfluenced alike by the repulsions of instinct or

the terrors of law, made their living by the plunder of grave-yards.

Many a tale of horror, no doubt, might be told on this subject.

Graves were very commonly watched; and severe nocturnal conflicts

occurred, which were conducted in a deadly spirit, not difficult to

imagine. We believe all this has passed away; there is no necessity now

for such revolting horrors. The public began to _think_ for themselves,

the _real remedy_ for abuses. But to our cases. Both were curious; the

one was the body of a boy, who did not appear to have been imperfectly

nourished, but in whom the alimentary canal was found to be less than

one-fourth of its natural length, and in which also the relative length

of its two grand divisions was reversed. The smaller in diameter,

usually very much the longer, was so unnaturally short, as not to

exceed in length more than one half of the more capacious but normally

shorter division of the canal.

The other case presented a no less curious departure from the ordinary

arrangement of parts than a reversed position of the heart; which,

instead of being placed with its point as usual on the left side, was

found to have that part situated on the right. In the natural condition

of things, there is a difference on the two sides of the body, in the

manner in which the large vessels are given off to supply the head and

upper extremities. These differences existed, but were reversed; the

arrangement of vessels ordinarily found on the right, being here on

the left side, and _vice versâ_.

In all this, there would be nothing to prevent the heart from pumping

the blood to all parts in the natural way. But another very singular

arrangement was found in relation to the liver. To the unprofessional

reader we should observe, that usually, whilst all other things are

made, or secreted as we term it, from the purer or arterial blood; in

the _human body_, the Bile is secreted from a vein which enters the

liver for that purpose.

Now, in the case before us, this great vein never entered the liver at

all; so that here the bile was separated, like other animal fluids, by

the arteries. The arteries going to the liver were found much larger

than usual.

Mr. Abernethy examined the bile by submitting it to various tests; and

comparing the results with those obtained from ordinary bile, he found

them to be the same. His remarks are, as usual, ingenious and to the

point, and very characteristic of the penetrative perception with which

he seized on the proximate and practical relations of facts. "When we

see the unusual circumstance," says he, "of secretion taking place

from a _vein_[18], we are apt to conclude that the properties of such

a secretion require that it should be made from venous blood. But, in

this case, we see that bile could be prepared from _arterial_ blood;

and we are led, therefore, so far to modify our conclusion as to infer,

not that venous blood is _necessary_, but that it can be made to answer

the purpose."

We must not omit that these remarks are supported by comparative

anatomy. As we descend in the scale of creation from the more

complicated organizations to those which are more simple in their

structure or their relations, the arrangement which I have stated as

usual in man no longer obtains, but the bile is secreted from the

arteries as the other fluids of the animal—showing, in fact, that the

inference drawn by Abernethy was the legitimate conclusion.

Since the discovery of this case, one or two others have been observed;

and the opinions of several eminent men, in relation to the bearing

such cases have on the ordinary sources of bile, are described in

Mr. Kiernan's interesting paper on the Anatomy and Physiology of the

Liver, in the "Philosophical Transactions." It is very interesting,

particularly to a professional reader, to peruse that discussion, in

order to estimate Mr. Abernethy's comparatively simple, ready, and, as

it would seem, correct view of the subject.

One other thing we learn from these cases—the extreme importance of

examining bodies whilst their histories and symptoms can be recorded.

It might have been highly useful to science, had the histories of these

cases been known; and the circumstance should be mentioned, as, in some

measure, tending to counterbalance in the public that not unnatural

but (as regards their real interest) not less to be lamented aversion

to the inspection of the dead—a branch only, it is true, but a very

important one of physiological inquiry. It is the only means of which

we can have the comfort of knowing that, however unable we may have

been to arrest disease, we were at least right in the seat we had

assigned to it; but it is infinitely more valuable in disclosing to us

affections of organs which _had given no sign_, and in thus impressing

on us the necessity of taking a wider range in our investigations, and

comprehending in them all _those injurious influences_ which have, _at

various periods_, acted on the body; for we _thus_ obtain an insight

into the nature of disease which _no mere present symptoms_ can ever

afford us.

The repulsions which the public have to overcome are admitted; but let

us not, in common justice, forget those sacrifices of time, labour,

and too often of health also, which are made by the profession. Nor is

it immaterial to mention that it is a service for which they seldom

receive any remuneration, the only incentive being one which, if it

excite no sympathy, is at least entitled to respect—namely, the desire

to improve their knowledge of their profession. There is no doubt of

the deep and common interest which the public and the profession have

in this question; and it is from that conviction that I have ventured

on these few remarks. Abernethy, when he introduced any subject in his

lectures, was accustomed to say at once all that he intended to remark

on it. I beg, in the foregoing observations, to follow his example,

which I trust the reader will accept as an apology for the digression.

[Footnote 17: "Forest Scenery."]

[Footnote 18: The ordinary plan in respect to bile in the _human_

body.]

CHAPTER VII.

"L'art (de délicatesse) consiste à ne pas tout dire sur certains

sujets, à glisser dessus plutôt que d'y appuyer; en un mot, à en

laisser penser aux autres plutôt que l'on n'en dit."—BOUHOURS.

One of the most beautiful poems in the English language, perhaps,

is Armstrong's "Art of Health." Whether it be that the title is

uninviting, or from some other cause, I know not, but it is very

little read; yet scarcely any one who has read it, has done so without

pleasure. Besides containing many admirable and valuable instructions,

it shows how an ordinary, and to many even a repulsive, subject can be

treated with such discretion, taste, and even elegance, as to render it

pleasing and attractive.

Such a writer could have conveyed, even in prose, explanations of

disease so as to interest and instruct his readers. With no such power,

we are almost inclined to regret the impossibility of doing Abernethy

justice, without saying something of nearly all his works. If, however,

in so doing, we make one more step towards familiarizing the public

with matters which affect their best interests, we shall not regret

any labour which this, the most difficult part of our task, may have

required.

We so usually connect pain with disease, that, in our haste, we are

apt to imagine that it is not merely the worst feature, but the only

sign of it. "I am very well, I am in no pain whatever," is a common

expression, and yet a person may be irremediably stricken, without

suffering any pain. Pain is, in fact, often the best possible monitor,

and has saved many thousands of lives by the necessity it has imposed

of observing what is the best of all remedies, in a large class of

cases. Amongst hundreds of examples, we might cite several affections

of joints, wherein pain alone has sometimes exacted the observance of

that which surgeons were a long time before they had learned the full

advantage of; and which, when they had been taught it by Abernethy,

they have often failed, with all their endeavours, to accomplish, but

which, when efficiently secured, is of more consequence than any one

other remedy; we mean "_absolute repose_" There are plenty of diseases

marked by little or no pain, or which, at all events, are not painful;

but they are amongst the most fatal and insidious of human maladies.

Let us commence the record of some of the numerous improvements we owe

to the genius of Abernethy, by mentioning one of them.

We have, too many of us probably, observed something like the

following, on the assembling of a family of a morning: the usual

greetings interchanged, and that cheerful meal, breakfast, fairly

begun, our attention has been directed to some fine, comely, perhaps

beautiful girl, who, to the hilarious spirits of her laughing sisters,

has only contributed a somewhat languid smile. We may, perhaps, have

remarked that she is a little more spoken to by her mother than

any other of the family circle; we may, too, have observed a tone

compounded of confidence and gentleness, somewhat different from that

addressed to her sisters. Still, though less hilarious than the rest,

she has chatted away with considerable cheerfulness; she has, however,

a languor in her manner, which but for the surrounding contrast, might

not have occurred to us. On rising from the breakfast-table, we observe

that her gait is peculiar. She is not exactly lame; but her step has

something between firmness and faltering, that seems to indicate more

effort or less power.

Poor girl! she is about to have, if she have it not already, a stealthy

and hitherto almost painless disease; stealthy, because it is so far

a comparatively painless malady. Deep in the loins there has been the

smouldering fire of disease, which is to result in what is called

"Lumbar abscess." This grievous malady, which in _many instances_

begins not less insidiously than I have mentioned, is found on inquiry

not to have been _wholly_ without some of those premonitory signs

which, in obedience to the beneficent laws of the animal economy,

almost invariably precede even the most insidious malady. Inquiry

generally elicits that, however little complained of, there has been at

times more or less of uneasiness, if not pain, felt in the loins; that

it has not been so much lately; but that it has become less in force or

frequency, since the appearance of some swelling, which may be in the

loins, or some other part, lower or more or less distant.

It is a malady very commonly connected with diseased spine, but

frequently without any such complication; and it is curious that

Mr. Abernethy at first met with as many as, I think, eight cases in

succession, which were not complicated with any disease of the spine.

Under any circumstances, it is a serious malady, and usually, when

the collection bursts, or is opened, severe constitutional symptoms

supervene, which, though not without exceptions, gradually usher in

what Armstrong calls

"The slow minings of the hectic fire,"

and destroy the patient.

Now, Mr. Abernethy's plan was intended to prevent this last and dreaded

issue. The chief points of excellence in his recommendations are—