We might go on multiplying these illustr_Memoirs of John Abernethy With a View of His Lectures, His Writings, and Character; with Additional Extracts from Original Documents, Now First Published

What, then, is the meaning of the _similia similibus curantur_? This

we will endeavour, so far as there is any truth in it, to explain. The

truth is, that Nature has but one mode, principle, or law, in dealing

with injurious influences on the body. Before we offer the few hints

we propose to do on these subjects (and we can here do no more), we

entirely repudiate that sort of abusive tone which is too generally

adopted. That never can do anybody any good. We believe both systems

to be dangerous fallacies; but, like all other things, not allowed

to be entirely uncharged with good. We shall state, as popularly as

possible, in what respect we deem them to be dangerous fallacies, and

in what we deem them to be capable of effecting some good; because it

is our object to show, in respect to both, that the good they do is

because they accidentally, as it were, chip off a small corner of the

principles of Abernethy.

Homœopathy is one of those hypotheses which show the power that a

minute portion of truth has to give currency to a large quantity of

error; and how much more powerful in the uninformed are appeals to

the imagination than to the intellect. The times are favourable to

homœopathy. To some persons, who had accustomed themselves to associate

medical attendance with short visits, long bills,—a gentleman in

black, all smiles,—and a numerous array of red bottles, homœopathy

must have addressed itself very acceptably. It could not but be welcome

to hear that all the above not very pleasing impressions could be at

once dismissed by simply swallowing the decillionth part of a grain

of some efficacious drug. Then there was the prepossession so common

in favour of mystery. How wonderful! So small a quantity! What a

powerful medicine it must be! It was as good as the fortune-telling of

the gipsies. There! take that, and then you will see what will happen

next! Then, to get released from red bottles tied over with blue or red

paper, which, if they were not infinitesimal in dose, had appeared

infinite in number, to say nothing of the wholesome repulsion of the

palate.

Besides, after the bottles, came the bill, having no doubt the

abominable character of all bills, which, by some law analogous to

gravitation, appear to enlarge in a terrifically accelerating ratio,

in proportion to their longevity; so that they fall at last with an

unexpected and a very unwelcome gravity. Then homœopathy did not

restrict itself to infinitesimal doses of medicine, but recommended

people to live plainly, to relinquish strong drinks, and, in short, to

adopt what at least seemed an approximation to a simple mode of living.

To be serious—what, then, are the objections to homœpathy?

Is there no truth, then, in the dogma, "_Similia similibus curantur_?"

We will explain. The _laws_ governing the human body have an

established mode of dealing with all injurious influences, which is

identical in principle, but infinitely varied and obscured in its

_manifestations_, in consequence of multifarious _interferences_; in

that respect, just like the laws of light or of gravitation. As we

have no opportunity of going into the subject at length, we will give

a hint or two which will enable the observing, with a moderate degree

of painstaking, to see the fallacy. You can _demonstrate_ no fallacy

in a mathematical process even, without some work; neither can you

do so in any science; so let that absence of complete demonstration

be no bar to the _investigation_ of the hints we give. All medicines

are more or less poisons; that is, they have no nutritive properties,

or these are so overbalanced by those which are injurious, that the

economy immediately institutes endeavours for their expulsion, or for

the relief of the disturbance they excite. All organs have a special

function of their own, but all can on occasions execute those of some

other organ. So, in carrying out injurious influences, organs have

peculiar relations to different forms of matter; that is, _ordinarily_.

Thus, the stomach is impatient of ipecacuanha, and substances which

we call emetics; the liver, of mercury, alcohol, fat, and saccharine

matters; and so forth. In the same way we might excite examples of

other organs which ordinarily deal with particular natural substances.

But then, by the compensating power they have, they _can_ deal with

any substance on special occasions.

Now the natural mode in which all organs deal with injurious

substances, or substances which tend to disturb them, is by pouring

forth their respective secretions; but if, when stimulated, they

have not the power to do that, then they evince, as the case may be,

disorder or disease. Thus, for example: If we desire to influence the

secretion from the liver, mercury is one of _the many things_ which

will do it. But if mercury cease to do this, it will produce disease;

and, if carried to a certain extent, of no organ _more certainly_ than

the liver. Thus, again, alcohol, in certain forms, is a very useful

medicine for the liver; yet nothing, in continuance, more notoriously

produces disease of that organ. So that it happens that all things,

which in one form disorder an organ, _may_, in another form, in greater

or more continued doses, tend to correct that disorder, by inducing

there a greater, and thus exciting stimulation of its secretions.

This is the old dogma, long before homœopathy was heard of, of one

poison driving out another. This is the way in which fat bacon, at

one period, or in one case, may be a temporary or a good stimulant of

a liver which it equally disorders in another; for as the liver is a

decarbonizing agent, as well as the lungs, so articles rich in carbon

are all stimulants of that organ; useful, _exceptionally_; invariably

disordering, if _habitual_ or _excessive_.

But if this be so, what becomes of the "_curantur_?" To that, we say

it is far from proven. Medicine hardly ever—perhaps never, _strictly

speaking_—cures; but it often materially assists in putting people

in a _curable condition_, proper for the agencies of more natural

influences. True. Well, then, may not homœopathy be good here? We

doubt it; and for this reason: Medicine, to do good, should _act_ on

the organ to which it is directed; it is itself essentially a poison,

and does well to relieve organs by which _it is expelled_; but if you

give medicine in very small doses, or so as to institute an artificial

condition of _those sentinels_, the nerves, you may _accumulate a

fearful amount of injurious influence in the system before you are

at all aware of it_. And it is the more necessary to be aware of

this in respect to homœopathy; because many of the medicines which

homœopathists employ are active poisons; as belladonna, aconite,

and so on. We have seen disturbed states of nerves, bordering on

paralysis, which were completely unintelligible, until we found that

the patient had been taking small doses of narcotic poisons. We have no

desire whatever to forestall the cool decisions of experience; but we

earnestly request the attention of the homœopathist to the foregoing

remarks; and, if he thinks there is anything in them, to peruse

the arguments on which we found the law of which we have formerly

spoken[85].

We must in candour admit that, as far as the inquiry into all the facts

of the case go, as laid down by Hahnemann, we think the profession may

take a hint with advantage. We have long pleaded for more accuracy

in this respect; but we fear, as yet, pleaded in vain. Homœopathic

influences may be perhaps more successful. Practically, the good that

results from homœopathy, as it appears to us, may be thus stated: that

if people will leave off drinking alcohol, live plainly, and take very

little medicine, they will find that many disorders will be relieved by

this treatment alone.

For the rest, we fear that the so-called small doses are either inert,

or, if persisted in so as to produce effect, that they incur the risk

of accumulating in the system influences injurious to the economy;

which the histories of mercury, arsenic, and other poisons, show to be

nothing uncommon: and, further, that this tends to keep out of sight

the real uses and the _measured influences_ of medicine, which, in the

ordinary practice, their usual effects serve, as the case may be, to

suggest or demonstrate.

Practically, therefore, the effects of homœopathy resolve themselves,

so far as they are good, into a more or less careful diet, and small

doses of medicine; which, as we have said, is a chipping off of the

views of Abernethy.

We regret we have no space to consider the relation of homœopathy to

serious and acute diseases. We can therefore only say that the facts

which have come before us have left no doubts on our minds of its being

alike dangerous and inapplicable.

One morning, a nobleman asked his surgeon (who was representing to

him the uselessness of consulting a medical man without obeying his

injunctions) what he thought would be the effect of his going into a

hydropathic establishment? "That you would get perfectly well," was the

reply; "for there your lordship would get plain diet and good air, and,

as I am informed, good hours; in short, the very things I recommend to

you, but which you will not adopt with any regularity."

Hydropathy sets out, indeed, with water as its staple, and the skin as

the organ to which it chiefly addresses itself; but we imagine that the

hydropathic physician, if he sees nothing in philosophical medicine,

discovers sufficient in human nature, to prevent him from trading on so

slender a capital. There was, no doubt, in the imperfection of medical

science, a fine opening left for a scheme which proposed to rest its

merits chiefly on an organ so much neglected.

There has never been anything bordering on a proper attention to the

skin, until recently; and even now, any care commensurate with the

importance of the organ, is the exception rather than the rule. Thirty

years ago, Abernethy, when asked by a gentleman as to the probable

success of a bathing establishment, said that the profession would not

be persuaded to attend to the subject; and that, in respect to the

capital which the gentleman proposed to invest in it, he had better

keep the money in his pocket. This was said in relation to the general

importance of attention to the skin, and also in connection with

making it the portal for the introduction of medical agents generally.

Abernethy was, in fact, the first who introduced into this country

Lalonette's method of affecting the system by mercury applied to the

skin in vapour.

Hydropathy deals with a very potent agent, and applies it to a very

powerful and important organ, the skin; and it employs in combination

the energetic influences, temperature and moisture; so that we may be

assured there will be very little that is equivocal or infinitesimal in

_its_ results; that in almost every case it must do good or harm.

But it does not limit itself to these agencies. It has

"establishments;" that is to say, pleasant rural retreats, tastefully

laid-out gardens; plain diet; often, no doubt, agreeable society;

rational amusements; and, as we understand, good hours, with abstinence

from alcohol. These are, indeed, powerful agencies in a vast variety

of diseases. So that, if hydropathy be not very scientific, it is

certainly a clever scheme; and as there are very many people who

require nothing but good air, plain living, rest from their anxious

occupations, with agreeable society,—it is very possible that many

hydropathic patients get well, by just doing that which they could not

be induced to do before.

But here comes the objection: The skin is, in the first place, only

_one_ of the organs of the body, and it is in very different conditions

in different people, and in the same people at different periods.

It has, like other organs, its mode of dealing with powerful or with

injurious influences; and _if it deal with them_ in the full force

of the natural law, it affects (and, in disease, almost uniformly)

favourably the internal organs; but, on the other hand, _if there

be interfering influences opposed to the healthy_ exhibition of the

natural law, so that the skin do not deal with the cold, or other

agencies, to which it is subjected, _as it naturally should do_, then

the cold, moisture, or other agent, increases the determination of the

blood to the internal organs, and does mischief. This it may do in one

of two ways: we have seen both. 1st. The blood driven from the surface,

increases, _pro tanto_, the quantity in the internal organs: it must

go somewhere; it can go nowhere else. Or, if cold and moisture produce

not this effect, nor be attended with a reactive determination to the

surface, there may be an _imperfect_ reaction; that is, _short_ of the

surface of the body. In the first case, you dangerously increase the

disorder of any materially affected organ; in the latter, you incur the

risk of diseased depositions; as, for example, Tumours. We here speak

from our own experience, having seen tumours of the most malignant and

cancerous character developed under circumstances in which it appeared

impossible to ascribe the immediate cause to anything but the violently

depressing influence of hydropathic treatment on the skin, with a

co-existing disordered condition of internal organs.

In one very frightful case indeed, the patient was told, when he first

stated his alarm, that the tumour was a "crisis" or reaction; as sure

enough it was; but it was the reaction of a cancerous disease, which

destroyed the patient. But, as we have said, hydropathy has many

features which obviously minister very agreeably and advantageously

to various conditions of indisposition, whilst they favour the _bonâ

fide observance_ of something like a rational diet—a point of immense

consequence, and too much neglected in regular practice. Here again

we speak from actual observation. One man allows his patient to eat

what he pleases. An eminent physician replied to a patient who, as he

was leaving the room, asked what he should do about his diet, "Oh, I

leave that to yourself;" showing, as we think, a better knowledge of

human nature than of his profession. Another restricts his patient to

"anything light." Others see no harm in patients eating three or four

things at dinner, "provided they are wholesome;" thus rendering the

solution of many a question in serious cases three or four times, of

course, as difficult. Now we do not require the elaborate apparatus

of a hydropathic establishment to cure disorders, after such loose

practice as this; and we do protest against the assertion that any such

treatment can be called, as we have sometimes heard it, "Abernethy's

plan, attention to diet," and so forth.

So far from anything _less_ than the beautifully simple views held

out by Abernethy being necessary, we trust that we have, some of us,

arrived, as we ought to do, at several improvements. But people will

confound a _plain_ diet, or a select diet, with a _starving_ diet, and,

hating restrictions altogether, naturally prefer a physician who is

good-natured and assenting; still this assentation is being visited, we

think, with a justly retributive reaction.

Hydropathy, in many points, no doubt, tends to excite attention to

the real desiderata; but it is nevertheless imperfect and dangerous,

because evidently charged with a capital error. It entirely fails in

that comprehensive view of the relations which exists in all animals

between the various organs; and on a sustained recollection and

examination of which, rests the safe treatment of _any one_ of them. It

is, therefore, unsafe and unscientific. Again, it is illogical, because

it proceeds, as regard the skin, on the suppressed premise, that it

will obtain a natural reaction; a thing, in a very large number of

cases, and those of the most serious kind, seldom to be calculated on.

It is quite clear, therefore, that, so far as hydropathy does good, it

effects it by the institution of diet, abstinence from alcohol, country

air, exercise, agreeable society, and, _we_ will suppose, in some

cases, appropriate care of the surface; all of which are, in a general

sense, beneficial to the nervous system and the digestive organs—the

points insisted on by Abernethy.

So long as the Public are not better informed, and until medicine

is more strictly cultivated as a science, they will necessarily be

governed by the first impression on their feelings; and so long as

this is the case, fallacies can never be exposed, except by the severe

lessons of experience. To hope to reason successfully with those whose

feelings induce them to adopt that which they decline to examine with

their intellect, is madness, and is just what Terence says of some

other feelings:

"Nihilo plus agas

Quam si des operam ut cum ratione insanias."

But, although, therefore, we are neither hydropathists nor

homœopathists, we begin to see, in the very success of these things,

some good; and that the "great shadow of the evil" of a conjectural

science will one day be replaced by another example of the triumph of

an inductive philosophy; that the retiring confidence of the public

will induce in us a more earnest and successful effort to give them

a more definite science; and that, as Professor Smythe says, the

"returning spring will no longer renew the honours of the one," whilst

it will gradually evolve the development of the other.

The efforts, too, which the profession are already making, though,

as we humbly consider, not in the right direction, will certainly

arrive in time at a path that is more auspicious. When we see the

hydropathist looking so much to the skin, homœopathy leading people to

think of _quantities_ of medicine; when, in the regular profession, we

see one man restricting his views to one organ, another to another,

a third thinking that _everything_ can be learnt only by examination

of the dead, thus confounding morbid anatomy with pathology—a fourth

_restricting_ his labours to the microscope, as if the discovery of

laws depended rather on the enlargement of sensual objects than on the

improvement of _intellectual_ vision; still we cannot but perceive

that these isolated labours, if _once concentrated by unity of purpose

and combined action_, would be shadowing forth the outline of a really

inductive inquiry.

Hydropathy and homœopathy are making powerful uses, too, of the

_argumenta ad crumenam_. Their professors are amassing very large sums

of money, and that is an influence which will in time probably generate

exertions in favour of a more definite science. Still, Medicine and

Surgery cannot be formed into a science so long as men consider it

impossible; nor can there be any material advance, if they will persist

in measuring the remedial processes of nature by their present power

of educing them—a presumption obviously infinitely greater than any

in which the veriest quack ever dared to indulge. Well did Lord Bacon

see the real difficulties of establishing the dominion of an inductive

philosophy, when he laboured so much in the first place to destroy the

influence of preconceived opinions—idols, as he justly called them.

You cannot, of course, write truth on a page already filled with

conjecture. Nevertheless, mankind seem gradually exhausting the

resources of Error: many of her paths have been trodden, and their

misleading lures discovered; and by and by that of Truth will be

well-nigh the only one left untried. In the meantime, we fear the

science is nearly good enough for the age. The difficulty of advance

is founded deeply in the principles of human nature. People know that

there are physical laws as well as moral laws, and they may rely on

it that disobedience and disease, sin and death, are as indissolubly

bound up with infractions of the one as well as the other.

It is true there are many who have (however unconsciously) discovered

that the pleasures procured by the abuses of our appetites, are a

cheat; and that permanent good is only attained by obeying those laws

which were clearly made for our happiness.

Error has, indeed, long darkened the horizon of medical science; and,

albeit, there have been lightning—like coruscations of genius—from

time to time; still they have passed away, and left the atmosphere as

dark as before. At length, however, there has arisen, we hope, a small,

but steady, light, which is gradually diffusing itself through the

mists of Error; and which, when it shall have gained a very little more

power, it will succeed in dispelling.

Then, we trust, Medicine will be seen in the graceful form in which

she exists in nature; as a Science which will enable us to administer

the physical laws in harmony with that moral code over which her

elder sister presides; but, whenever this shall happen, Surgery will

recognize, as the earliest gleams of light shed on her paths of

inquiry, in aid of the progress of science and the welfare of mankind,

the honoured contributions of John Hunter and John Abernethy.

[Footnote 84: Professor Smythe, Lectures on Modern History, vol. i, p.

74.]

[Footnote 85: See "Medicine and Surgery One Inductive Science" (the

so-called Law of Inflammation).]

CHAPTER XXXIII.

"Eheu fugaces Postume Postume

Labuntur anni: nec pietas moram

Rugis et instanti senectæ

Adferet, indomitæque morti."

HOR.

"How swiftly glide our flying years,

Alas! nor piety, nor tears,

Can stop the fleeting day;

Deep-furrow'd wrinkles, frosting age,

And Death's unconquerable rage,

Are strangers to delay."

FRANCIS.

We have already observed that Abernethy had begun to feel the wear and

tear of an anxious and active life, when, after a tenure of office

for twenty-eight years as assistant, he was appointed surgeon to St.

Bartholomew's Hospital. After a few years, he took a house at Enfield,

where he occasionally went at leisure hours, on Wednesday and Saturday;

and, as the Spring Course of Lectures came near to a conclusion, and

in the summer, sometimes on other afternoons. At this season, he had

been accustomed to doff the black knee-breeches, silk stockings, and

shoes, sometimes with, sometimes without, short gaiters, and refresh

one's rural recollections with drab kerseymeres and top-boots; in which

costume he would at that season not unfrequently come down to lecture.

He was fond of riding, and had a favourite mare he called Jenny; and

many a time have we seen her jogging along on a fine summer afternoon,

and her master looking as happy as any schoolboy that he was escaping

from the botherations of Bedford Row and the smoke of London. Jenny was

a favourite mare, which Abernethy had for nearly twenty-five years. She

was a great pet, and her excellent qualities had been associated with

almost every little excursion of relaxation or pleasure. All things,

however, must have an end. At last, the poor animal became affected

with a kind of rheumatism, attended with much suffering. After various

hesitations, the pain of which those who are fond of animals can very

well understand, the order was given that she should be destroyed. This

took place in the stables behind Bedford Row. The family were all in

one apartment, except Mr. Abernethy, who was heard pacing up and down

his private room. A short pause, and the coachman is seen running from

the stable to say that Jenny was no more. One of his daughters ran to

Mr. Abernethy's room to say, "it is all over, papa." "Good girl," said

he, patting her head, "to come and tell me so soon." He is said to have

suffered greatly on this occasion.

Some years before this, he met with what might have been a serious

accident: in stooping forward, his horse threw up his head and struck

him a violent blow on the forehead and nose; as Mr. Abernethy first

thought, breaking the bones of the latter. He rode up a gateway, and,

having dismounted, was endeavouring to adjust the bruise and staunch

the blood, when some people ran to assist him, and, as he said, very

kindly asked him if they should fetch him a doctor; "but," said

Abernethy, "I told them I thought they had better fetch me a hackney

coach," which they accordingly did. He was conveyed home, and in a

short time recovered from the accident.

His taking the house at Enfield was probably a prudent measure; he

seemed to enjoy it very much, and especially in getting a quiet friend

or two down on a Saturday to stay over till the Monday; amongst whom, a

very favourite visitor was our respected friend Mr. Clift, of whom we

have already spoken. Abernethy had always, however, had what he used

aptly enough to term a fidgetty nervous system. From early life he had

been annoyed by a particularly irritable heart. The first time he ever

suffered materially from it was while he was yet a young man. He had

been exceedingly depressed by the death of a patient in whose case he

had been much interested, and his heart became alarmingly violent and

disordered in its action. He could not sleep at night, and sometimes

in the day it would beat so violently as to shake his waistcoat. He

was afterwards subject to fugitive returns of this complaint, and few,

unless by experience, know how distressing such attacks are.

We suspect that surgeons are more frequently thus affected than is

generally supposed. A cold, half-brutal indifference is one thing, but

a calm and humane self-possession in many of our duties is another,

and, as we saw in Cheselden, not obtained always without some cost;

the effects of this sometimes appear only when the causes have ceased

to recur, or are forgotten. A lively sensibility to impressions was

natural to Abernethy; but this susceptibility had been increased by

the well-known influence of the air and excitement of crowded cities

on people who are engaged in much mental exertion. His physical

organization, easily susceptible of disturbance, did not always shake

it off again very readily. At one period he suffered an unusually long

time from the consequences of a wound in dissection.

These not uncommon accidents occur perhaps a hundred or a thousand

times without being followed by any material results; but, if they

happen in disordered conditions of health, either of mind or body,

they are sometimes serious affairs, and usually of a more or less

active kind—that is, soon terminating in death or recovery. Not so in

Abernethy. The complaint went through various phases, so that it was

nearly three years, he used to tell us, before he fairly and finally

got rid of the effects of it. One of the most difficult things for a

man so actively engaged in a profession in London as was Abernethy,

is to get the requisite quantity of exercise; whilst the great mental

exertion which characterizes a London, as distinguished from almost any

other kind of life, requires that the digestive organs should be "up

to" pretty good living.

Then, again, Abernethy lived in the days of port wine; when every

man had something to say of the sample his hospitality produced of

that popular beverage. Abernethy, who was never intemperate, was very

hospitable, and always selected the finest port wine he could get,

which, as being generally full and powerful, was for him perhaps the

least fitted.

Mr. Lloyd, of Fleet Street, who was one of the old-fashioned family

wine-merchants, and one of the best men of his day, was the purveyor

of his Falernian; never was there a more correct application of

nomenclature than that which gave to him the title, by which he was

best known, of "Honest John Lloyd." He was one of the kindest-hearted

men I ever knew: he had a great regard for Mr. Abernethy; and was

treated himself by almost everybody as an intimate friend. One day I

went there just as Abernethy had left. "Well," says Mr. Lloyd, "what

a funny man your master is!" "Who?" said I. "Why, Mr. Abernethy. He

has just been here, and paid me for a pipe of wine; and threw down a

handful of notes and pieces of papers with fees. I wanted him to stop

to see if they were right, 'for,' said I, 'some of these fees may be

more than you think, perhaps.' 'Never mind,' said he; 'I can't stop;

you have them as I took them,' and hastily went his way."

Sedentary habits, however, as people now begin to find, do not

harmonize well with great mental exertion, or constant and anxious

occupation. In 1817, Abernethy felt his combined duties as surgeon to

the hospital, as lecturer there, and also at the College, becoming too

onerous, and therefore in that year resigned the Professorship. On this

occasion, the Council sent him the following unanimous expression of

their appreciation of his services.

"At the Court of Assistants of the Royal College of Surgeons in

London, holden at the College on the 15th day of July, 1817;

"Resolved unanimously:

"That the thanks of this Court be presented to John Abernethy,

Esq. for the series of Lectures delivered by him in the theatre

of this College, in the years 1814, 1815, 1816, 1817, with

distinguished energy and perspicuity, by which he has elucidated

the physiological and pathological opinions of John Hunter,

explained his design in the formation of the Hunterian Collection,

illustrated the principles of surgery, and thereby has highly

conduced to the improvement of anatomical and physiological

knowledge, the art and science of surgery, and to the promotion of

the honour of the College."

This seems to have gratified him, as, under all circumstances, we can

readily understand it might do; and he accordingly replied to it as

follows:

"TO THE MASTER, GOVERNORS, AND COUNCIL OF THE ROYAL

COLLEGE OF SURGEONS.

"Sir and Gentlemen,

"To obtain the good opinion of others, is a universal object of

human actions; and we often strive to acquire it by circuitous

and absurd means; but to obtain the approbation of eminent and

judicious characters, by pursuing the direct path of professional

duty, is the most gratifying mode of seeking and receiving this

object of general ambition.

"I have ventured to premise these observations, to show you,

gentlemen, that I do not write inconsiderately, or merely as a

matter of form, when I thus return you my warmest thanks for the

distinguished honour you have conferred on me by your public

approbation of my _endeavours_[86] to discharge the duties of an

arduous office, to which I was elected through your kindness and

confidence.

"I have the honour to remain,

"Sir and Gentlemen,

"Your very grateful and obedient servant,

"JOHN ABERNETHY."

We insert in this place a letter which he wrote about this time to Sir

William Blizard; because it shows two things which are characteristic:

the one, how constant he was in not allowing any considerations to

interfere with the lectures; and the other, the endurance of his old

attachment to Sir William Blizard. It is an apology for not having been

present at the Council.

"Dear Sir William,

"I was yesterday desired to see a patient residing seven or eight

miles from London. I could not go that day, for it was lecture

evening; I cannot go to-morrow for the same reason; consequently I

must go this evening. I hope you will consider these circumstances

as an apology for my _absence_ from the Board.

"If you cite my example as one misleading future Professors, be so

good as to remember that I retired, leaving the task which I had

undertaken incomplete, wherefore it became necessary to _explain

publicly_ to an indulgent audience my _motives_ for resigning the

Professorship.

"I remain, dear Sir William,

"Yours unremittingly,

"JOHN ABERNETHY."

Abernethy had at various periods of his life been subject to an

inflammatory sore throat of a very active kind, which would on some

days impede so as almost to prevent his swallowing, and then suddenly

terminate in abscess, leaving him perfectly well again. He was young

when these sorts of attack began; for in his lectures he used to speak

of one of them having subsided only the night before he had some

lectures to deliver before the Council of the College, when they were

accustomed to meet in the Old Bailey.

As he advanced in life, the disposition to disorder of the digestive

organs, which had hitherto shown a tendency to terminate in

inflammation of the mucous membrane of the throat, began to affect

other structures; and he became teazed and subsequently greatly

tortured by rheumatism. The disorder so termed (a kind of general name

for various conditions of disorder very different from each other, and

which occasionally affect, not only joints, but other structures) is

in many cases, as we all know, extremely painful; and is never more

excruciating than when muscular parts thus conditioned are affected by

spasm. These spasms were a source of much acute suffering to Abernethy.

His constant occupations gave him no opportunity of relieving himself

from work, except there was that accommodation of indisposition to

convenient times, which of course seldom happens.

In the early parts of his life, Abernethy, when he was out of health,

would take the first opportunity which his occupations allowed of going

a little way into the country; and there, by diet, and amusing himself

by reading and exercise, he would soon get well. But as he advanced

in life, he was not so ready to attend to himself as perhaps he ought

to have been. Besides, he would occasionally do things which incurred

unnecessary risks, which we ourselves have sometimes ventured to

mention to him.

Living, at the time to which we are now alluding, in Ely Place, and

attending his lectures long after we had commenced practice, we

frequently walked down with him to lecture; sometimes in the rain,

when we used to think his knee-breeches and silk stockings looked most

uncomfortable. Besides this, he was very careless about his umbrella;

I never recollect him on such occasions calling a coach, and I hardly

ever knew him come down to his evening lecture in his carriage. He

generally came to the two-o'clock lecture some minutes before the time;

and, as he often complained of cold feet, he would stand opposite one

of the flue openings in the Museum. One day, I ventured to suggest to

him that the transition of temperature to the cold place he occupied in

the theatre rendered this hardly prudent, when he said, "Ay!" and moved

away. Though temperate, without being very particular in his diet,

these other imprudences were unfortunate; because we saw him, every

year almost, becoming troubled more and more by his painful visitor.

The time, however, was now arriving when he was about to resign the

Surgeoncy of the hospital.

We have seen that, when elected to that appointment, he had been no

less than twenty-eight years assistant surgeon; he, however, took no

pains to indemnify himself for this long and profitless tenure of

a subordinate post; but, mindful of what he had himself suffered,

immediately on his appointment he did the best he could at once to

provide against others being subjected to such an unrequited service.

He accordingly, on his election, addressed a letter to the Governors of

the Hospital, of which, when the first edition went to press, we had

no copy. As we then stated, our friend, Mr. E. A. Lloyd, a friend and

favourite pupil of Abernethy's, had found one, and kindly laid it aside

for us; but he unfortunately again mislaid it; and there is no copy of

it on the books of the hospital. Subsequently, Mr. Pettigrew has most

kindly sent us a volume containing the letter in question. To us it is

a very interesting document; but as we had already mentioned the most

important fact in it, we have not thought it necessary to reprint the

letter. We must not fail to repeat publicly our thanks to Mr. Pettigrew

for his kind assistance.

The object of the letter was to recommend some alteration in the

arrangement of the duties of the surgeons of the hospital; and, amongst

other things, that they should resign at the age of sixty, with a

retiring salary. Nothing could, we think, be more just or considerate

than such a proposal; and it came very well from Abernethy, who had

just stepped into the lucrative appointment. The proposal, however,

was not acted upon; and it would appear that his successors, however

much they may have at the time approved of the precept, have not been

in haste to follow the example. There is little doubt that Abernethy's

proposal was as just and considerate of the interests of all parties,

as it was in favour of those of science. We cannot think that any one,

who considers the whole subject without prejudice, will arrive at any

other conclusion.

The absence, however, of any law on the subject, made no difference

to Abernethy; he had expressed his own intention of resigning at

the age of sixty; and when that time arrived, he accordingly did

so. The Governors, however, would not, on that occasion, accept his

resignation, but requested him to continue. This he did for about

another year, when, in 1827—having been elected in 1815,—he finally

resigned the hospital, in the following letter, addressed to the

President of the Hospital:

"St. Bartholomew's Hospital,

"July 24, 1827.

"Finding myself incompetent to discharge the duties of surgeon to

your Hospital in a satisfactory manner, and having led my junior

to believe that I should resign my office at a certain period of

my life, I hereby tender my resignation accordingly. At the same

time, I beg leave to assure the Governors of my gratitude for their

appointment to the offices which I have held under them, and for

the good opinion and confidence which they have manifested towards

me. I annex a draft for £100 for the use of the Hospital.

"I am, dear Sir,

"Your obedient servant,

"JOHN ABERNETHY."

"To Rowland Stephenson, Esq."

At the next meeting of the "Court" of Governors, it was proposed by Dr.

Latham, seconded by Mr. Wells, and unanimously resolved:

"That this Court accept, with great regret, the resignation of Mr.

Abernethy as one of its Surgeons, an office which he has discharged

with consummate ability for forty years; and the Court offers him

their best, their most unanimous, and warmest thanks for his very

long and important services.

"July 25, 1827."

There is something significant in this vote of thanks, merging his long

period of assistant surgeon in the general expression of his services

as surgeon. It is very suggestive of the influence which had been felt

from the presence of his master mind, although so long in a position

which necessarily restricted its useful energies in regard to hospital

matters. We have little doubt that, had Abernethy become surgeon to the

hospital at a time of life when his physical energies were unimpaired,

he would have suggested many improvements on the system; but, with

little real power in this respect, and with men who were opposed to

him, he was just the last man in the world to commence a crusade

against the opinions of those with whom he was associated. The moment

he became surgeon, we see him endeavouring to remove an evil from which

he had greatly suffered, and which is obviously a most undesirable

state of things; namely, that men should so often arrive at a post

in which their active energies are most required, at a time of life

when those energies have been, perhaps, necessarily addressed to other

objects, have become weary with hope deferred, or already on the wane.

He was, also, very averse to so spacious a portion of the hospital

being devoted to the festive meetings of the Governors; and, on showing

it, would sometimes go so far as to say—"Ay, this is what I call the

useless portion of the hospital." He continued to lecture another year,

when he resigned the lectures; and, in 1829, his appointment at the

College of Surgeons also.

In May, 1829, he wrote to Mr. Belfour, the Secretary of the College of

Surgeons (whose politeness and attention in facilitating our inquiries

at the College we are happy thus publicly to acknowledge), as follows:

"My dear Sir,

"Early in April, the thermometer was above 70°, and I had so

violent a relapse of rheumatism, that I have not been able (nor

am I now able) to leave this place since that time. Apologize to

the President, therefore, for my non-attendance on Monday. _Entre

nous_: as I think I shall not be able to perform the duties of

those situations which I now hold at the College, I think of

resigning them; yet I will not decide till I have talked with

Clift[87] upon it. If he could come down this or the following

Saturday, I should be glad to see him.

"I remain, my dear Sir,

"Yours very sincerely,

"JOHN ABERNETHY.

"Enfield, May 21.

"To Edmund Belfour, Esq."

He accordingly, in July of 1829, resigned his seat at the Court of

Examiners, when the following Memorial was sent him by the Court of

Examiners:

"At the College, at the Court holden on Friday, the 17th of July,

1829:

"Present: Mr. Thomas, President; Mr. Headington, Mr. Keate,

Vice-Presidents; Sir William Blizard, Mr. Lynn, Sir A. Cooper,

Bart., Sir A. Carlisle, Mr. Vincent, and Mr. Guthrie:

"Resolved, that the following Memorial be entered in the minutes of

this Court:

"Conscious of having been enlightened by the scientific labours

of Mr. Abernethy; convinced that teachers of anatomy, physiology,

and of surgery (and consequently their pupils), have derived

most important information from these sources of knowledge; and

impressed that the healing art has been eminently advanced by the

writings of that excellent individual; the Members of the Court

of Examiners lament the tendered resignation of an associate

so endowed, and whose conduct in the Court has always been so

exemplary.

"Resolved also, that a copy of the foregoing Memorial be delivered

by the Secretary to Mr. Abernethy."

He had by this time become a great sufferer—walked very lamely; and

this difficulty, interfering more than ever with his exercise, no doubt

tended to make matters worse. He consulted nobody, I believe, but his

old friend Dr. Roberts, of St. Bartholomew's. He was induced to go for

some time into the country; and on his return, hearing that he was

again in Bedford Row, and not having seen him for some time, I called

on him one morning, about eleven o'clock.

I knew that he had been very ill; but I was not in the least prepared

to see him so altered. When I was shown into his room, I was so

struck with his appearance, that it was with difficulty I concealed

the emotion it occasioned; but I felt happy in observing that I had

succeeded.

He appeared, all at once as it were, to have become a very old man;

he was much thinner; his features appeared shrunk. He had always

before worn a good deal of powder; but his hair, which used to hang

rather thickly over his ears, was now thin, and, as it appeared to me,

silvered by age and suffering.

There was the same expressive eye which I had so often seen lit up

by mirth or humour, or animated by some more impassioned feeling,

looking as penetrating and intellectual as ever, but with a calmness

and languor which seemed to tell of continued pain, and which I had

never seen before. He was sitting at a table, on a sort of stool, as

it appeared to me, and had been seeing patients, and there were still

several waiting to see him. On asking him how he was, his reply was

very striking.

It was indeed the same voice which I had so often listened to with

pleasure; but the tone was exceedingly changed. It was the subdued

character which is expressive of recent suffering, and sounded to me

most mournfully. "Ay," say he, "this is very kind of you—very kind

indeed!" And he somewhat distressed me by repeating this several times,

so that I hardly knew what to reply. He said he was better, and that he

could now walk pretty fairly again, "as," said he, "you shall see."

He accordingly slowly dismounted from his seat, and, with the aid of

two sticks, began to walk; but it was a melancholy sight to me. I had

never seen him nearly so lame before.

I asked him what he was going to do. He said he was going to Enfield

on the morrow, and that he did not think he should return. I suggested

that he might possibly try a drier air with more advantage; that I

feared Enfield might be a little low and damp, and not, possibly, the

best place for him. "Well," he said, "anything is better than this."

I very shortly after took my leave; not sorry to be again alone; for

I felt considerably depressed by the unexpected impressions I had

received from this interview. It was too plain that his powers were

rapidly waning. He went to Enfield on the following day (a Wednesday, I

think), and never returned again to practice. He lingered about another

year, during which time I once went to see him, when I found him

something better. He was able to see his friends occasionally, and at

times seemed to rally. In the spring, however, of 1831, he gradually

got weaker, and died on the 20th of April in that year.

He perfectly retained his consciousness to the last, and died as

tranquilly as possible. In exhausted conditions of the body, persons

will sometimes linger much longer than the medical attendant had

considered possible; in other cases, the flickering lamp becomes

extinguished many days before they had been apprehensive of immediate

danger. The latter was the case with Mr. Abernethy. Dr. Roberts had

just been to see him; and the family, who scarcely ever left him,

had followed the Doctor down into the dining room, anxious to hear

his report. This, although it gave them no hope as to the ultimate

result, expressed no apprehension of immediate danger. On returning to

Mr. Abernethy, but a few minutes had elapsed when he gently laid his

head back and expired; but with such entire absence of any struggle,

alteration of countenance, or other indication, that for a short time

it was difficult to realize the fact that he was no more. His body

was not examined; but, from the history and symptoms of his case,

there could be little doubt that there would have been found organic

changes, in which the valvular structures of the heart had more or less

participated.

He was buried in the parish church of Enfield. The funeral was a

private one; and there is a plain tablet on the wall over his vault,

with the following inscription:

H. S. E.

JOHANNES ABERNETHY, R. S. S.

REGII CHIRURGORUM COLLEGII QUONDAM PRÆSES,

QUI INGENIO, PROBITATE, BENIGNITATE

EXIMIE PRÆDITUS

ARTEM MEDICAM PER ANNOS PLURIMOS,

SUMMA CUM DILIGENTIA, SOLERTIA, FELICITATE

COLUIT, EXERCUIT, DOCUIT, AUXIT,

ET SCRIPTIS HOC MARMORE PERENNIORIBUS

POSTERITATI TRADIDIT,

MORBO DEMUM GRAVISSIMO CONFECTUS

CUJUS ANGORES HAUD ALITER DOMANDOS

PIO ET CONSTANTI ANIMO SUBEGIT.

CONJUGI, LIBERIS, AMICIS, DISCIPULIS,

HUMANO GENERI, CUI TANTOPERE SUCCURRERAT

FLEBILIS,

APRILIS DIE 20, A. D. 1831, ÆTATIS SUÆ 67.

PLACIDE IN CHRISTO OBDORMIVIT.

[Footnote 86: Underscored in the original.]

[Footnote 87: Our excellent Conservator at that time, of whom we have

already spoken, and a great favorite of Abernethy's.]

CHAPTER XXXIV.

"It is as much commendation as any man can bear, to own him

excellent; all beyond it is idolatry."—DRYDEN.

It has been stated by an acute observer that it was impossible for

any man to be with Abernethy, even for a short time, without feeling

that he was in communion with no common mind; and it was just, I

think, the first effect he produced. In person, he was of middle

stature, and well proportioned for strength and activity. He had a most

interesting countenance; it combined the character of a philosopher and

a philanthropist, lighted up by cheerfulness and humour. It was not

that his features were particularly well formed or handsome, though

there was not a bad one in the whole countenance; but the harmony of

composition (if we may be allowed the expression) was so perfect.

A sufficiently high and ample forehead towered over two of the most

observant and expressive eyes I almost ever saw. People differ about

colour; they appeared to me always of a greyish-blue, and were

characterized as the rule by a mirthful yet piercing expression, from

which an overlaying of benevolence was seldom wanting; yet, as we have

before observed, they would sometimes launch forth gleams of humour,

anger, or pathos, as the case might be, which were such as the term

dramatic can alone convey.

There was another expression of his eye which was very characteristic;

it was when his benevolence was excited without the means of gratifying

it, as would sometimes happen in the case of hospital patients, for

whom he wanted good air, and things which their position did not

allow them to procure. He would in this case step a pace or two from

the bed, throw his head a little aside, and, talking to the dresser,

exhibit an expression of deep feeling which was extremely peculiar; it

was a mixture of suffering, of impatience, and sympathy; but the force

which the scene drew from the dramatic character of his expressive

countenance is entirely lost in the mere relation. If, at such times,

he gave utterance to a few words, they were always extremely touching

and expressive. On an occasion, for example, like the following, these

characters were combined. A woman came into the hospital to have an

operation performed; and Abernethy, as was his invariable custom, took

some time to get her health into a more favourable condition. When the

day for the operation was at hand, the dresser informed him that she

was about to quit the hospital.

"Why, my good woman," said Abernethy, "what a fool you must be to come

here to have an operation performed; and now, just as you are in a fit

state for it, to go out again." Somebody here whispered to him that her

father in the country "was dying." With a burst of indignation, his

eyes flashing fire, he turned to the dresser, and said: "You fool, why

did you not tell me this before?" Then, after a moment or two looking

at the patient, he went from the foot up to the side of the bed, and

said in the kindest tone possible: "Yes, my good woman, you shall go

out immediately; you may come back again when you please, and I will

take all the care I can of you."

Now there was nothing in all this, perhaps; but his manner gave it

immense force. And I remember one of the old pupils saying to me: "How

kind he was to that woman; upon my soul, I could hardly help crying."

Abernethy exemplified a very rare and powerful combination of

intellectual qualities. He had a perception of the facts of a subject

at once rapid, penetrating, and comprehensive, and a power of analysis

which immediately elicited those relations which were most important to

the immediate objects of the investigation; a power, of course, of the

utmost value in a practical profession.

This faculty was never more marvellously displayed than sometimes in

doubtful or difficult cases; and this had been always a striking

excellence in him, even when a young man. I recollect hearing my

father say, that to see Abernethy to advantage, you must observe him

when roused by some difficulty, and in a case where other men were

at fault, or puzzled. It was just so; his penetrating mind seemed to

remove to either side at once what was foreign or doubtful, and go

straight to the point with which alone he had to grapple. Allied to

this, if not part of it, was that suggestive power which he possessed

in so remarkable a degree, and which by a kind of intuition seemed

to single out those pertinent relations and inquiries which the

judgment is to examine, and reject, or approve, as the case may be; a

faculty absolutely necessary to success in endeavours at extending the

boundaries of a science. He was thus sometimes enabled, as has been

shown, to convert facts to the highest purposes, in aid of practical

improvement, which, with an ordinary observer, would have passed

unnoticed.

These qualities, combined with a memory, as we have seen, peculiarly

ready, capacious, and retentive, placed his resources at once at

hand for practical application. Then, while his quick perception of

relation always supplied him with abundant analogies, his imaginative

faculty enabled him to illustrate, enforce, and adorn them with such a

multitude and variety of illustration as seemed well-nigh inexhaustible.

Of his humour we have already spoken; but the same properties which

served him so well in more important matters were really, as it appears

to us, the foundation of much of that humour by which his conversation

was characterized—we mean his quick perception of relation, and his

marvellously retentive memory. Many of the things that he said, "told,"

not because they were original, so much as that they were ready at

hand; not because they were intrinsically good, as so apposite in

application; and, lastly, because they were further assisted by his

inimitable manner. Nevertheless, sometimes his quick perception would

be characterized by a corresponding felicity of expression. Bartleman

was an intimate friend of Abernethy's; and those who remember the

magnificent voice and peculiarly chaste style of that celebrated

singer, will appreciate the felicity of the expression applied to him

by Abernethy, when he said, "Bartleman is an orator in music."

Abernethy had the talent of conveying, by his manner, and apparently

without the smallest effort, that which in the drama is scarcely known

but as the result of constant and careful study. It was a manner

which no analysis of his character can convey, of which none of his

own compositions even give an adequate idea. The finest colours are

often the most fugitive. This is just the case with that heightened

expression which we term dramatic. Who can express in words the

thrilling effect that an earnest, heartfull delivery of a single phrase

has sometimes conveyed. But brilliant as these endowments were, they

were graced by moral qualities of the first order.

Quick as he was to see everything, he was necessarily rapid in his

perception of character, and would sometimes at a glance hit on the

leading influence of this always difficult assemblage of phenomena,

with the same rapidity that marked his dealings with facts which were

the more usual objects of his inquiries. But, though quick in his

perception of character, and therefore rapidly detective of faults, his

views were always tempered by generosity and good sense. Indignant at

injustice and oppression, and intolerant only of baseness or cruelty,

he was kind and charitable in his construction of more common or

excusable failings.

He loved man as his brother, and, with enlarged ideas of the duties of

benevolence, never dispensed it as a gift which it was creditable to

bestow, so much as an obligation which it would have been immoral to

have omitted. It was not that he did anything which the world calls

noble or great in giving sums of money to this or that person. There

were, indeed, plenty of instances of that sort of generosity and

benevolence, which would creep out, in spite of him, from those whom he

had benefited; and no man knew how to do it better. A gentleman, for

example, came up from the country to the school, and went to Bedford

Row, to enter the lectures. Abernethy asked him a few questions about

his intentions and his prospects, and found that his proceedings would

be little doubtful, as they were contingent on the receipt of some

funds which were uncertain. Abernethy gave him a perpetual ticket

to all his own lectures. "And what made so much impression on me,"

said the gentleman, "was, that instead of paying me less attention,

in asking me to his house, than the other pupils, if there were any

difference, he paid me rather more." We have seen this gentleman within

a few days, and we are happy to say he has had a happy and prosperous

career.

The benevolence, however, to which we allude, was not merely shown

in giving or remitting money; that, indeed, would be a marvellous

overcoming of the world with many people, but not with Abernethy;

his benevolence was no fitful suggestion of impulse, but a steadily

glowing principle of action, never obtrusive, but always ready when

required. It has been said, "a good man's life is a constant prayer."

It may be asserted that a good surgeon's life should be a gentle

stream of benevolent sympathies, supporting and distributing the

conscientious administration of the duties of his profession. That this

really intrinsic part of his character should have been occasionally

overlaid by unkindness of manner, is, indeed, much to be regretted;

and, we believe, was subsequently deplored by no one more sincerely

than himself, and those who most loved and respected him. The faults

of ordinary acquaintances are taken as matters of course; but the

errors of those who are the objects of our respect and affection, are

always distressing. We feel them almost as a personal wrong; and, in a

character like Abernethy, where every spot on so fair a surface became

luminously evident, such defects gave one a feeling of mortification

which was at once humiliating and oppressive. But, whilst we are the

last to conceal his failings, we cannot but think he was, after all,

himself the greatest sufferer; we have no doubt they originated, at

least, in good motives, and that they have been charged, after all,

with much good.

Unfortunately, we have at all times had too many Gnathos in our

profession, too much of the

"Quidquid dicunt laudo, id rursum si negant, laudo id quoque.

Negat quis? nego. ait? aio."

These assenting flatterers are the bane of an honest man, and, under

the name of tact and the influence of an uncompromising ambition to

get on, merge the highest duties into a mere desire to please; and,

adopting the creed of Gnatho, appropriately arrive at the same climax

as their conclusion:

"Postremo imperavi egomet mihi

Omnia assentari."

Now, Abernethy knew this well, and detested it with a repulsion deep

and sincere. He had no knowledge of Gnathonics. He felt that he was

called on to practise a profession, the legitimate object of which

was alone achieved when it ministered to real suffering; and that

mere assentation to please patients was a prostitution of the highest

qualities of mind to the lowest purposes. If one may so say, he felt

like a painter who has a feeling for the highest department of his art,

and who could see nothing in an assenting Gnathonicism but an immoral

daub.

Neither was this without use to others; for though he looked, as the

public may be assured many others have done, on a "parcel of people

who came to him with nothing the matter," yet even in his roughness he

was discriminate, and sometimes accomplished more good than the most

successful time-server by all his lubricity. One day, for example, a

lady took her daughter, evidently most tightly laced—a practice which

we believe mothers now are aware is mischievous, but scarcely to the

extent known to medical men. She complained of Abernethy's rudeness to

her, as well she might; still he gave her, in a few words, a useful

lesson. "Why, madam," said he, "do you know there are upwards of thirty

yards of bowels squeezed underneath that girdle of your daughter's? Go

home and cut it, let Nature have fair play, and you will have no need

of my advice."

But, if we must acknowledge and regret, as we do, his occasional

rudenesses of manner, let us also give him the credit of overcoming

these besetting impulses. In all hospitals, of course, there are

occasional vexations; but who ever saw Abernethy really unkind to

a hospital patient? Now, we cannot affirm any thing beyond our own

experience. We had, as dresser, for a considerable period, the care

of many of his patients, and we continued frequently to observe his

practice from the commencement of our pupilage, which was about a year

or a little more after his appointment as surgeon, until the close of

his hospital labours. We speak subject to correction, therefore, but

we cannot charge our memory with a single instance of unkindness to

a hospital patient; whilst we are deeply impressed by the constant

prevalence of a generally kind and unaffected sympathy with them.

The quickness with which he observed any imperfection in the execution

of his directions, was, on the contrary, the source of many a "rowing,"

as we apprehend some of his dressers well enough remember; whilst he

seldom took a dresser without making more than usual inquiries as

to his competency. In private practice, also, any case that really

required skill and discrimination was pretty sure to meet with the

attention that it deserved. This was noticed in the remarks made on

the character of Abernethy, at the time of his death, by the Duke of

Sussex, at the Royal Society, at their anniversary meeting on the 30th

of November, 1831, of which the following is a report, copied from the

books of the Society:

His Royal Highness observed that "Mr. Abernethy was one of those

pupils of John Hunter who appears the most completely to have

caught the bold and philosophical spirit of his great master. He

was the author of various works and memoirs upon physiological

and anatomical or surgical subjects, including papers which have

appeared in our Transactions. Few persons have contributed more

abundantly to the establishment of the true principles of surgery

and medical science in those cases which require that minute

criticism of the symptoms of disease, upon the proper knowledge and

study of which the perfection of medical art must mainly depend.

"As a lecturer, he was not less distinguished than as an author;

and he appears to have attained the art of fixing strongly

the attention of his hearers, not less by the just authority

of his opinions than by his ready command of apt and forcible

illustrations. He enjoyed, during many years of his life, more

than an ordinary share of public favour in the practice of

his profession; and, though not a little remarkable for the

eccentricities of his manner and an affected roughness in his

intercourse with his ordinary patients, he was generally kind and

courteous in those cases which required the full exercise of his

skill and knowledge, and also liberal in the extreme when the

infliction of poverty was superadded to those of disease."

The high character of his benevolence was shown also in the ready

forgiveness of injuries; and he was as grateful as he was forgiving.

How constant his attachment to his early friend and teacher, Sir

William Blizard. There is something very characteristic of this, when,

in the decline of life, he writes "Yours unremittingly," to one whose

unusually lengthened years had enabled him to witness Abernethy's entry

into life, and, at the conclusion of the labours of his distinguished

pupil, to join with a public body in expressing the high sense

entertained of the obligations which he had conferred on science and

mankind. Few men could have been placed in positions more trying than

that in which he found himself in his controversy with Mr. Lawrence.

When the time arrived at which, in the ordinary course, that gentleman

would have been elected into the Council of the College, there was a

very strong feeling on the part of some of the members against his

admission. Abernethy, however, proposed him himself, and it was by his

casting vote that the election terminated in Mr. Lawrence's favour.

A member of the Council having expressed his surprise that Mr.

Abernethy should propose a gentleman with whom he had had so unpleasant

a difference—"What has that to do with it?" rejoined Abernethy. Some

friends of Mr. Lawrence wished to pay that gentleman the compliment of

having his portrait drawn, and a subscription was to be entered into

for this purpose. It was suggested that it would be very desirable to

get Mr. Abernethy to allow his name to be in the list; and our friend,

Mr. Kingdon[88], with the best intentions no doubt, ventured to ask

Mr. Abernethy to put his name at _the head_ of the list. But there was

nothing of Quixotism in Abernethy. He would have been very glad to do

a kind thing to anybody; and any obstacle affecting him personally

was much more likely to be an argument in favour than otherwise. He

liked justice for its own sake; but he was circumspect as well as

penetrative. At first he seemed inclined to do it, but asked a day

to consider of it; and then wrote the following letter, into a more

particular examination of which we need not enter:

"1828-9.

"My dear sir,

"'_Fiat Justitia_' is, as I flatter myself, the rule of my conduct.

At all times have I expressed my approbation and respect for

William Lawrence, on account of his professional learning, and of

his ability as a writer and public speaker. But, if I do what you

would have me, I should do much more, and be made to appear as

a leader in a scheme the object of which is indefinite; so that

persons will be at liberty to put what construction they please

upon my conduct. Being desirous of doing what you wish, I have been

for some time in a state of perplexity and hesitation.

"At length I have resolved—that since I cannot determine what

ought to be done—to follow a useful rule of professional conduct,

and to do nothing. Vexed to refuse you anything, I hope you will

still believe me,

"My dear sir,

"Your obliged and very sincere friend,

"JOHN ABERNETHY."

The question of how far letters are to be relied on as expositions of

character, has been much discussed.

The remarks of Dr. Johnson on the subject, in his Life of Pope, are put

with great force, and almost carry us with him; but, on reflection,

they appear too general; they do not, perhaps, get close enough to the

question in which the student in Biography is chiefly interested.

Although letters obviously afford opportunities for a variety of

affectation—and Pope seems to have seldom been quite natural—yet we

cannot think that "friendship has no tendency to produce veracity."

But it seems impossible to generalize on the subject. We might as well

ask whether oral evidence is to be relied on. There is no one quality

that we can think of that can be said to be so universally distributed

in letters as to be safe to generalize on. Common sense tells us that

the testimony they give may be false or true. They are, like witnesses,

capable of telling truth, but having, under different circumstances,

all the characters of all other kinds of witnesses. Strictly, the

dependence one would place on them would be on the abstract probability

of that which they suggest; or as supported by any corroborative

evidence.

The following is a note to his daughter, the late Mrs. Warburton,

thanking her for a watch-chain:

"Bedford Row,

"Sept. 30.

"My dear Anne,

"I am quite accablé by the liberality of the Dr. and yourself; but

I've been thinking that the Dr. is leading me into temptation,

and that you are spending your money for an ornament which will

never be seen, and which will only increase my apprehensions of

having my pocket picked. However, what is meant in kindness should

be received according to its design. Thus occasionally shall I

taste the old rum; though, according to the phrase of the Doctor's

schoolfellow (who reiterated that the wine was capital), blue

ruin might have done as well. Thus also shall I wear the chain in

remembrance of a chain which attaches me to you; one forged by

Nature, and riveted by your good conduct and excellent disposition.

"I am, my dear Anne,

"Your affectionate and attached

"JOHN ABERNETHY."

TO MRS. ABERNETHY.

"My dear Anne,

"Sir James, becoming a Governor, observed, he could not be both

master and servant, and therefore _must_ relinquish his labours. I

was three hours going round the hospital for the first time. It is

Sir James's taking-in day on Thursday. The admitted patients must

be seen on Friday. I cannot leave town until Saturday, unless Mrs.

A.[89] pleases to encounter the chance of sleeping on the road. I

suppose she will have luggage; and I cannot in reason allow less

than seven hours, with a rest of two to Miss Jenny, with such

additional weight.

"I wish you had seen Dr. Powell; not that I believe he could do

aught more than your own reason would suggest, or else you should

never, with my goodwill, have gone to Southend. I know nought

of —— Could you not return by water? By engaging a suitable

vessel, the whole party might then be transported—ay, even to

Putney. I should think ten or twelve pounds well bestowed on such

a desideratum. Do not think of expense; for money cannot be put in

competition with your welfare. If you are healthy and long-lived, I

should be surprised if the children were not good and prosperous. I

say nothing about myself, because I am no Professor, although they

so nickname me.

"Yours in all events,

"JOHN ABERNETHY."

The following has some points of interest. The reason why merciful; the

observance of approved custom in shutting up the house; yet connecting

so much of "forms, modes, shows of grief," as Hamlet calls them,

with the best feelings, because "she had loved you," &c.; the gentle

tenderness with which he alludes to the excellence of the Mother;

and the graceful compliment with which he concludes; seem excellent

teaching.

"My dear Anne,

"I am much concerned to tell you that your Grandmother died last

night, about nine o'clock. Death came to her unattended with pain

or terrors. It is highly probable that she neither felt uneasiness

of body or mind, from the time she was first seized with the fit.

To have lived to her age, respectably and respected, in health,

and to die without bodily or mental sufferings, is a fate which

falls but to the lot of few; so that her friends have no reason to

repine at her death; and it seems to be a merciful dispensation

of Providence. If the servant has left Putney for Radcliff, of

course the house is shut up; if not, it ought to be so. You and

the children ought also to stay within doors, and have the front

windows closed. She loved you all very much, and you ought to

love and respect her memory. To you, who are apt to indulge your

feelings too much, I must add, that it would be wrong to grieve

much for what is in reality, as I have said, a cause to rejoice.

I mean that the pains and decrepitude of age should be spared to

the Individual whose fate we mourn. I have always esteemed it

an excellence in your Mother's character, that though she feels

acutely, yet she bears her lot in the dispensations of Providence

with a gentleness and submission which indeed serve to diminish

their severity. I trust she will do so on this occasion. You will

see her to-morrow at Putney, if not before. On all occasions, and

under every circumstance, rely on it that I remain

"Most affectionately yours,

"JOHN ABERNETHY."

"Bedford Row,

"Friday Morning, August, 1812."

TO MRS. ABERNETHY.

"Dearest,

"The first incident worth relating happened at Cirencester. I

hobbled in haste to Mr. Lawrence's; his dressing room was open,

and articles of apparel, &c. lay about, as if he had been lately

engaged in the (to some agreeable, to others annoying) operation

of dressing himself. His maid servant, however, sought him in

vain, even in the church-yard. She looked mysterious and alarmed.

'Perhaps,' said I, 'he is gone to Mr. Warner's.' Sure enough there

he was, examining a shoulder said to have been dislocated; and

he would make me examine it likewise. So much time having been

lost as to the object of my visit, I had merely time to tell him

that you were at Cheltenham, and would come to see him; and he

to tell me that Mrs. Lawrence was at Malvern. The guard sounded

his tin horn in an imperative manner; the sound was repeated, and

I received a verbal reproof from the coachman for not instantly

obeying the summons. A little way out of Cirencester, on the road

to Tetbury, there is a neat and stile-ish house and grounds which

I anticipated belonged to Charles Lawrence; and my presentiment

was confirmed by a Compagnon de Voyage. Arrived at the York House,

Bath, I was shown into a bed-room which had not been dusted, as

you would think, properly since a fortnight before the fire. So,

with the fear of bugs and other blood-sucking insects, I took

up those of the papilionacious tribe belonging to Mr. Marriott,

and proceeded to his abode; approaching which, I encountered Mr.

Wood. By his recommendation, I procured apartments in a house,

as Bourdillon would say, the entirety of which could only be

obtained by persons in general. Behold me, then, sole occupant

of a spacious and well-furnished house (being No. 9, St. James's

Square), with a garden terminating in a road, beyond which fields

only are visible, and within ken of the brow of Lansdown. The

front and back rooms communicate, and the windows of each being

open, there is perflation in excess. (Diary.) Monday. Descending

Gay Street, in my way to the bath, I called at Soden's, and found

him in great distress, and that Hodgson had gone forth to seek

for me. Mrs. Soden is very ill, and Hodgson had come once to

see her. She has lots of medical attendants, who, to use ——'s

phrase, dovetail their opinions and practice before they prescribe

for their patient. In perambulating Bath with Mr. Hodgson, we

encountered Mr. Leifchild, who recited his case to the former,

in proof of the efficacy of diet, with the eloquence of a public

orator; and it happened to be a case in point. I scrubbed myself

for half an hour, and drank half a pint of water at the pump room;

then reascended the hill; looked in at Wilson Brown's, whose wife

is quite well. No doubt the state of her digestive organs was the

source of her various maladies. Her father, Dr. Chichester, whom

you saw at Mr. Acres', now resides at Cheltenham. I went with Mr.

Brown to the Riding School, thinking that if I could meet with a

kind of shooting pony, I might be tempted to get on his back. But

I escaped temptation, dined on mutton chop or chops, drank half a

pint of ale, felt quiet, dosed a little. Descended to Queen Square;

left a card for Sir George Gibbs, who is at Weymouth; called on Mr.

Gore, who had been called out to a casualty (Bath phrase); went to

the White Hart, found the coach did not come in until nine o'clock;

thinking that if I did not see Mr. Battiscombe until then, we

should both be as weary of seeing each other as of the day's toil,

I reascended the hill, and went to bed. It was necessary that a

day should elapse, that I might tell you how time passed; so that

I have complied with your request of writing as soon as possible.

No doubt that the days will be so monotonous as to render a second

account unnecessary. I calculate I shall be tout-à-fait ennuyé in a

fortnight; so that I expect I shall set off to Cheltenham, in the

coach I came by, next Monday sennight, which I believe will arrive

there about eight or nine in the evening, when I hope to find

you all well. On Friday I think we might visit Oxford, and house

ourselves again at the Angel; from whence, if we start at nine, we

may be in London by four o'clock on Saturday.

"I think I have written a ladylike letter: no attempt at

condensation. I hope to hear from you in return, and that you will

be able to say all's well. I will write to Anne to-morrow, because

you say she wishes it—perhaps to-day.

"Love to Miss Moggy and Miss Madge.

"Yours for ever and for aye,

"JOHN ABERNETHY.

"Bath, 8th September, 1828."

He was fond of joining in anything that could delight and amuse his

children. In summer, when he returned home, the "upstairs bell" was

generally the signal for the young people to come to have a game of

play. Of games, battledore and shuttlecock was a favourite, at which he

was as expert and pleased as any of them. Sometimes there would be a

petition for stories; and he would delight them all by little histories

or tales, in which he appears to have shown the same talent as he did

in his lectures. The same stories were often repeated, yet they always

had something of the fun or freshness, as the case might be, of things

that were heard for the first time. One Christmas, the family, desirous

of amusing some friends, proposed to get up some private theatricals.

The anxious question being, what papa would say to it? Well, this was

very soon known, by a ready assent. But what was the play to be? They

replied, "The Iron Chest." But now rather an important difficulty

arose, of who was to take the part of Sir Edward Mortimer? This was as

unexpectedly as joyfully solved, by Mr. Abernethy taking it himself.

But, of all the home sports to which he seems to have given such zest,

all yielded to the superior attractions of the Magic lantern. This was

generally a gambol reserved for Christmas, when the whole establishment

were admitted. The fun lay in the number and variety of the stories and

remarks which accompanied the optical illustrations.

Every "slide" had remarks and stories made off-hand, which, as stories

were of this or that kind, either greatly increased the interest or

were the occasion of hearty merriment or peals of laughter.

He was very fond of the country and his garden, and nothing he enjoyed

more than driving down to Enfield with Mr. Clift, and having a holiday.

On such occasions, sometimes, even before he went into the house he

would set to work in the garden. They used both to be very active in

cutting out the dead wood from the laurels and other shrubs. In these

domestic operations the children would assist without any of the party

recollecting that bonnets and gowns were not the best costume for

making way amongst the trees and shrubs, which, however, only assisted

to increase the fun and excitement. At other times, there would be an

expedition against the duck-weed on the water. In short, he always

seems to have been the life of the party, and to have invested even the

most ordinary occupations with liveliness and interest, for which he

was certainly gifted with unwonted powers. Occasionally he would go to

the theatre, which he sometimes enjoyed very much. Like his brother,

he was a great lover of our immortal Shakspeare, and scarcely less

familiar with most of the wonderful creations of his mighty genius.

When we contemplate Abernethy in a single phase only of his character,

we see a "fidgetty" physical organization, influencing an habitual

irritability of which it was too much a supporter, if it were not

the original cause; but the moment we penetrate this thin and only

occasional covering, we meet with nothing but rare and splendid

endowments; and, as we proceed in our examination, we are at a loss

which most to admire, the brilliant qualities of his intellect, or the

moral excellences of his heart.

But, in estimating the one or the other, we must view them in relation

to the other feelings with which they were accompanied, as impeding

or assisting their development and application; or otherwise we shall

hardly estimate in its due force the powers of that volition over which

the moral sense so constantly presides.

Abernethy had considerable love of approbation—a quality which,

regarded in a religious point of view, may be said to embrace all

others; but it is one which, in the ordinary relations of life, is apt

to dilute the character, bringing down the mind from the contemplation

of more elevated motives to the level of those suggested by worldly

considerations and conventionalisms. To one shy, even to timidity,

and whose organization fitted him rather for the rapid movements of a

penetrative and impulsive perception, than the more dogged perseverance

of sustained labour, love of approbation, even in the ordinary

application of it, might have been a useful stimulus in maintaining

exertion; and we believe it was. Yet, though he avowed it as a dominant

principle in our nature, as the great "incentive" to human action, he

never sought it but by legitimate channels; nor, potential as its

influences might have been, when sharpened by shyness and timidity, did

he hesitate one moment to throw them all aside whenever the interests

of truth or justice rendered it necessary.

When Mr. Hunter's views were little noticed, less understood, and

apparently in danger of being forgotten—when the more speculative

of his views were not even known as his by any _published_

documents—when, therefore, in addition to other objections, he

was, as we have seen, subjected to the imputation of advocating

opinions as Hunter's, of which there was no other testimony than the

precarious memories of contemporaries,—he stood boldly forward as

the fearless, earnest, and eloquent advocate of John Hunter. In this

case, he overcome his natural dislike to contest and publicity, and

encountered just that individualizing opposition which is most trying

to a sensitive organization; exemplifying a rare tribute of truth and

justice paid by genius to the claims of a departed brother. At the

same time, the power he displayed of moulding views, scarcely even

acknowledged, into the elementary beginnings of little less than a new

science, strikingly testifies the superiority of his intellectual power.

Whilst, however, he advocated John Hunter's views, and, with a creative

spirit, made them the basis of additional structures which were

emphatically his own, we find him modestly reverting again and again to

John Hunter, as if afraid of not awarding him his just due,—and for

ever linking both the early bud put forth by Hunter's inquiries and

the opening blossom afforded by his own, with the imperishable efforts

of his distinguished master,—exemplifying the modesty of genius, and

how superior it is, when guided by virtue, to any but the most exalted

motives.

Another example of his independence of mind and of his conquest over

difficulty, when the interests of truth appeared to him to render it

necessary, was the manner in which, in defiance of ridicule and all

sorts of opposition, he advocated his own views; with ultimate success,

it is true, but obtained only through a variety of difficulties,

greatly augmented by his naturally shy, if not timid, organization.

Still, amidst all his brilliant endowments, we feel ourselves fondly

reverting to the more peaceful and unobtrusive efforts with which he

daily inculcated the conscientious study of an important profession.

That he had faults, is of course true; but they were not the faults

of the spirit so much as of the clay-bound tenement in which it

resided—not so much those of the individual man as those necessarily

allied to humanity. The powerful influences of education had not been

very happily applied in Abernethy; its legitimate office is, no doubt,

to educe the good, and suppress the evolution of bad qualities. In

Abernethy, we can hardly help thinking that his education was more

calculated to do just the contrary. "To level a boy with the earth,"

because he ventured on "a crib to Greek Testament," is, to say the

least of it, very questionable discipline for a shy and irritable

organization. To restore to its original form the tree which has been

bent as a sapling, is always difficult or impossible.

But, in virtue of those beneficent laws which "shelter the shorn

lamb," Abernethy was allowed ultimately, less in consequence than

in spite of his education, to develop one of the most benevolent of

dispositions. To this was joined a powerful conscientiousness, which

pervaded everything he did, and which could hardly be supported but by

sentiments of religious responsibility; and it is certain that his mind

was deeply imbued with the precepts of a vital Christianity, that took

the most practical view of his duty to God and to his neighbour; and,

in the very imperfect sense in which human nature has ever attained

to the full obedience of either, he regarded a humble and practical

observance of the one as the best human exposition of the other. His

favourite apothegm on all serious occasions, and especially in those

parts of his profession where its guidance was most required, was the

divine precept of doing to others as we would wish done to ourselves.

In his reflections he strikingly exemplifies how humble and

single-minded were his modes of thinking. After the manner of Bishop

Butler, but with a simplicity highly characteristic, he identifies that

which is truly religious with that which is truly philosophical; and,

instead of finding difficulties in those barriers which necessarily

lie before finite capacities, when endeavouring to approach the

Infinite, he seems to regard them as things which rather direct and

limit, than obstruct, legitimate inquiry.

In concluding this imperfect sketch of a difficult character, we

have merely endeavoured to state our own impressions. We cannot help

thinking that Abernethy has left a space which yet remains unoccupied;

it would be presumptuous to say that it will long continue so. In his

life he has left us an excellent example to follow, nor has it been

less useful in teaching us that which we should avoid.

Whilst amongst us, as he taught us how to exercise some important

duty, he would occasionally endeavour to impress matters of detail,

by showing, first, how they should not be done. His life instructs us

after the same manner. In all serious matters, we may generally take

him as a guide; in occasional habits, we may most safely recollect

that faults are no less faults—as Mirabeau said of Frederick—because

they have the "shadow" of a great name; and we believe that, were it

possible, no good man would desire to leave a better expiation of any

weakness, than that it should deter others from a similar error. This

is the view we would wish our young friends to take of the matter. We

cannot all reach the genius of Abernethy, but we may be animated by the

same spirit.

If great men are endowed with powers given only to the few, their

success generally turns on the steady observance of the more homely

qualities which are the common privilege of the many—caution,

circumspection, industry, and humility. Again, genius is often

charged with weaknesses by which more ordinary minds are unfettered

or unembarrassed. We may emulate the justice, the independence of

mind, the humanity, the generosity, the modesty, and, above all,

the conscientiousness of Abernethy, in all serious cases; without

withholding from the more ordinary and lighter duties of our profession

a due proportion of these feelings, or necessarily laying aside the

forbearance and courtesy which must ever lend an additional grace to

our various duties.

We may endeavour with all our power to avoid a disgraceful flattery

and compliancy, without replacing them by contrasts which, though not

equally mischievous, we may be assured are equally unnecessary: whilst

we may, in our various stations, emulate his kindness, his constancy

as a husband, father, and friend; and yet not refuse a becoming share

of such endearing qualities to others, from any fear that we shall be

subject to misconstruction.

We may remember that intellect alone is dry, cold, and calculating;

that feeling, unsupported or uncontrolled, is impulsive, paroxysmal,

and misleading; and that the few rare moments of moral excellence which

human nature achieves, are, when these powers combine, in harmony of

purpose and unity of action.

We may be assured that, however much we admire that rapid and searching

perceptivity,—that sound, acute, and comprehensive judgment which

Abernethy brought to bear on the study of the profession,—or the

honourable, independent, generous, and humane manner in which he

administered its more important and serious duties,—the greatest,

and, for good, the most potential influence of all, was the manner in

which he employed his manifold and varied excellences as a teacher in

endeavouring to infuse a truly conscientious spirit into the numbers

who, as pupils, he sent forth to practise in all parts of the world.

This is still an unknown amount of obligation. Those resulting from

his works may be proximately calculated, and such as are necessarily

omitted in a review essentially popular, _may be chronicled hereafter

in a more suitable manner_; but, as a teacher, we cannot as yet

calculate the amount of our obligations to him. They are only to be

estimated by reflection; and by recollecting the _moral influence of

every man_ who honestly practises an important profession.

Finally, whether we think of the interests of the public, the

profession, or those of each, as affecting the other, or of both as

affecting the progress of society; we shall, I think, be disposed to

agree with one of our most distinguished modern writers, that the

"means on which the interests and prospects of society most depend, are

the sustained influence that invariably attends the dignity of private

virtue."

In a world which presents so much of violated faith and broken ties,

the mind experiences a grateful repose in the contemplation of long and

uninterrupted friendship.

Of all men, perhaps Sir William Blizard had known Abernethy the

longest, and loved him the best; and an intercourse of more than half a

century had only served to cement a friendship entirely reciprocal with

sentiments of increased respect and regard.

Sir William had been one of the first to excite in Abernethy that

love for his profession which led to such brilliant results. He had

witnessed his career with all the pleasure that a teacher regards the

success of an early pupil, and no doubt with that satisfaction which is

inseparable from a prediction fulfilled. He had lived, also, to receive

a public and affectionate tribute of gratitude for his early lessons,

when Abernethy was in the zenith of his power.

Sir William, however, lived nearly a century, and was still alive and

well, when Abernethy's sun was setting, and when that fire which he had

been the first to kindle for such useful and benevolent purposes was

soon to be extinguished for ever.

When Abernethy retired from the College of Surgeons, Sir William was

requested to draw up the memorial in which his services were to be

recorded.

These circumstances invest even formal documents with an unusual

interest; and we therefore trust that Sir William's encomium may not be

thought an inappropriate conclusion to our humble story.

This almost ancient friend and early instructor observed, of Abernethy,

"that his life has been devoted to the improvement of the healing art.

His luminous writings breathe simplicity, humanity, reverence of truth,

and disdain of worldly art; and have placed the art and science of

surgery on the permanent basis of anatomy and physiology; whilst the

contemplation of his character excites emulative ideas of public virtue

in the cultivation of useful knowledge."

[Footnote 88: An old and respected pupil of Abernethy's, whose merits,

as an excellent man and kind-hearted professional brother, we are happy

thus publicly to acknowledge.]

[Footnote 89: Mrs. James Abernethy.]

INDEX.

CHAPTER I.

PAGE.

Retrospect 1

Progress of Discovery—Missions of individuals—Galileo,

Bacon, Kepler 2

Berzelius, Davy, &c.—Combined effect 3

Difficulty of estimating individual

efforts—Physiological laws 4

Meaning of events seldom seen at the time 5

Propose to point out the position occupied by Abernethy ib.

Necessity of clearly seeing what is required 6

Medical science—False ideas on 7

Birth of Abernethy 8

Goes to School 9

CHAP. II.

Predictions often erroneous—Dryden, Swift, Sheridan,

Niebuhr, Galileo, Newton, Wren 11

Individuality of Abernethy 12

Schoolfellows of Abernethy 13

School reminiscences 14

Mr. Thacker's letter 15

Leaves school for London 16

CHAP. III.

Of the choice of a profession 17

Of steadiness and industry 18

Abernethy's ready memory 19

Becomes a pupil in surgery 20

Apprenticed to Sir C. Blicke 22

Early indications 23

CHAP. IV.

Sir W. Blizard—His influence 25

Abernethy's view of anatomy 26

His gratitude to Sir William 27

How expressed—Quotation 28

Demonstrates for Sir W. Blizard 28

Mode of teaching anatomy described—Mr. Pott 30

CHAP. V.

A large London hospital 21

Elected Assistant Surgeon—Important epoch in his life 33

His position—Lectures in St. Bartholomew Close 34

Dr. Maclaurin, Dr. Marshall, Mr. Pott ib.

His education as a lecturer 35

Of teaching too early ib.

Its disadvantages—His lectures soon attractive—His

arrangement 36

Impresses the importance of comparative anatomy 37

His labours—Zeal and industry—Early rising 38

Shyness of Abernethy 39

Theatre built in the hospital—His winter courses given

in it, 1791—Thus the founder of the school in St.

Bartholomew's ib.

CHAP. VI.

Of change in all created things 41

Experiments 42

Grows vegetables in distilled water—Boyle,

Fordyce—Tadpoles, observations on 43

Experiments on eggs, curious 44

On the ultimate particles of matter 44

Dissection of a whale 46

Of the absorbent vessels 47

Of glands or kernels 48

Curious cases 49

Combination of natural laws 50

Dissection—How formerly supplied 51

Curious position of heart and liver 52

Of the public aversion to the inspection of the dead 53

CHAP. VII.

Of painless diseases 56

Of insidious maladies ib.

Of his essay on lumbar abscess, &c.—Of his plan 57

How misunderstood 58

Misinterpreted by Sir A. Cooper 59

Real objects of his plan 60

Suggested by an accident ib.

CHAP. VIII.

His paper on the skin and lungs 61

Of the progress of chemistry 62

Objects of his inquiry 64

Of the uses of the lungs 65

Consequences, if mistaken ib.

Of the coverings of animals 66

Of the clothing of birds 67

Of breathing by the skin 68

Leaves, the lungs of vegetables ib.

Great importance of the skin ib.

Sanctorius, Cruikshank, Edwards ib.

Experiments of Abernethy 69

—— in quicksilver, in water 70

Carbonic acid—How formed 71

Errors on this point ib.

Experiments on his own lungs 73

Immense surface of the skin 74

Importance of relations of lungs and other organs 75

His remarks on consumption 76

Investigation required—What? 77

CHAP. IX.

Tic douloureux—What? 78

His remarks on ib.

Use of the nerves 79

Case 80

Of his paper on the consequences of bleeding 82

Comparative infrequency of 83

Abernethy's rising reputation 85

Moves to St. Mildred's Court ib.

Publishes first part of "Physiological Essays" ib.

CHAP. X.

Of his paper on injuries of the head 86

His powers of analysis ib.

Pierre Joseph Desault 87

Of Bichat's eulogium on Desault ib.

Parallel of Desault and Abernethy 88

Their solution of a difficulty 89

Abernethy's improvement 91

CHAP. XI.

His experiments on muscles, &c. 93

Of their contraction after death ib.

Of Galvanism—Its importance in aid of discovery 94

Of Fontana—His experiments ib.

Experiments of Abernethy 95

Of the respiration of fish 97

Of the temperature of animals ib.

CHAP. XII.

Expts. on animals, involving cruelty, questioned 99

Claims of physiology 100-1

Orfila, Charles Bell 101

Cruel experiments useless ib.

Spalanzani 100-3

Cruelty as opposed to the interests of science as to

moral feeling 104-5

CHAP. XIII.

Abernethy on tumours 106

Simplicity of his plan 107

Importance of names—His arrangement—Defects of

plan 108-9

Popular illustration 110

Analogies in vegetables 111

His paper on certain curious results of wounds in

the lungs 112

His paper on mothers' marks, or nævi 114

Hunter's celebrated operation—First extension of it

by Abernethy 115-6

His paper on the Heart 116

His increasing reputation—Removes to Bedford Row 117

CHAP. XIV.

His marriage 118

False reports concerning 119

His difficulty 121

His letter 122

Marriage at Edmonton 123

Lectures the same day 125

CHAP. XV.

His book on the Constitutional Origin of Local

Diseases, otherwise called "My Book" 126

Slow progress of truth 127

Importance of simple facts 128

Mr. Hunter 129

Sir C. Bell—Physiology a science of observation ib.

Popular illustrations 130

Remarks on John Hunter's audience 131

Mr. Cline—His remarks on J. Hunter ib.

A great Evil 132

Mr. Boodle ib.

Important inferences and cautions—Lord Bacon 133

Names of diseases—Their importance 134

Defective nomenclature—Result of partial views which

it tends to perpetuate 135

Misconceptions of his views 136-7

Popular illustrations 137-8

Subtle nature of odours 140

Vigilance of the stomach 140-1

Abernethy's illustrations of his views 141

CHAP. XVI.

Influence of digestive organs 146

Of specific poisons 147

A suggestive case 148

Mr. Boodle—Recapitulatory—Causes of failure

examined 150-3

How nature deals with injurious influences 154-7

Impressions produced by "My Book"—Abernethy's

increasing practice—Sir James

Earle—Anecdote—Retrospect 159-63

CHAP. XVII.

Abernethy's position—His high reputation 164-

Pupils present plate—Subscribe for his portrait 167-8

Offered a Baronetcy, which he declines 169

Note from Sir B. C. Brodie 170

Anecdote—Painful impressions in prospect 171

CHAP. XVIII.

Lincoln's-Inn Fields 173

Hunterian Museum 174

Mr. Clift 175

Abernethy lectures at the College 176

His faithful representation of Hunter—His additional

illustrations—Illustrations not opinions 173-80

CHAP. XIX.

Effects of anatomy 181

Bacon, Pope, Addison 182

Abernethy—Lawrence ib.

Mr. Lawrence's exordium 183

Its comprehensive fidelity ib.

Mr. Lawrence's first lectures 184

Mr. Abernethy in relation to the opinions advocated 185

Personal application by Lawrence of Abernethy's

observations 186

Others engage in the discussion 187

Memoirs of John Abernethy With a View of His Lectures, His Writings, and Character; with Additional Extracts from Original Documents, Now First Published · 第 40 / 41 章

We might go on multiplying these illustrations to almost any extent.