There are, indeed, occasions when the lecturer had better turn a little aside. Not long ago, we heard a very sensible lecturer, and a very estimable man, produce an effect which was rather ludicrous—a very inconvenient impression when not intended. He had been stating, very clearly, some important facts, and he then observed: "The great importance of these facts I will now proceed to explain to you;" when he immediately began to apply the pocket-handkerchief he had in his hand most elaborately to his nose, still fronting the audience. It had the most ridiculous effect, and followed so closely on the preceding remark, as to suggest to the humorously inclined that it was part of the proposed explanation.
Some think it excusable to cast their eyes upwards, with an expression of intense thought, or even to carry their hands to their heads or forehead for the same purpose. But this conveys a painful feeling to the audience, whose attention is apt to be diverted from the subject by sympathy with the apparent embarrassment of the lecturer. Sometimes it conveys the impression of affectation, which of course is one form of vulgarity.
Abernethy was remarkably free from anything of the kind. The expression of his countenance was, in the highest degree, clear, penetrative, and intellectual; and his long, but not neglected, powdered hair, which covered both ears, gave altogether a philosophic calmness to his whole expression that was peculiarly pleasing. Then came a sort of little smile, which mantled over the whole face, and lighted it up with something which we cannot define, but which seemed a compound of mirth, archness, and benevolence.
The adjustment of the quantity of matter to the time employed in discussing it, is an important point in teaching. A lecture too full, is as objectionable as a lecture too long. If the matter is spread too thinly, the lecture is bald and uninteresting, and apt to fall short of representing any integral division of a subject; if it be too thick, it is worse, for then all is confused and difficult. A man's brain is like a box packed in a hurry; when all is done, you neither know what you have got, nor what you have forgotten.
Here again Abernethy was in general very happy. Various circumstances would sometimes, indeed, in the Anatomical Course, oblige him to put more into one lecture than was usual; but he had always, in such a case, some little manœuvre to sustain the attention of his audience. No man was ever a more perfect master of the ars est celare artem. Everything he did had its object, every joke or anecdote its particular errand, which was in general most effectively fulfilled.
The various ways in which Abernethy managed to lighten up the general lecture, or to illustrate single points, can hardly be conveyed by selection of particular examples. There was a sort of running metaphor in his language, which, aided by a certain quaintness of manner, made common things go very amusingly. Muscles which pursued the same course to a certain point, were said to travel sociably together, and then to "part company." Blood-vessels and nerves had certain habits in their mode of distribution contrasted in this way; arteries were said to creep along the sides or between muscles. Nerves, on the contrary, were represented as penetrating their substance "without ceremony." Then he had always a ready sympathy with his audience. If a thing was difficult, he would, as we have said, anticipate the feelings of the student. This is always encouraging; because, when a student finds a point difficult, if he is merely diffident, he is depressed; if he is disposed to be lazy, he finds too good an excuse for it.
Abernethy's illustrations were usually drawn from some source already familiar; and if they were calculated to impress the fact, he was not very scrupulous whence he drew them. This would sometimes lead him into little trippings against refinement; but these were never wanton. Everything had its object, from the most pathetic tale down to the smallest joke. When the thing to be impressed was not so much single facts or propositions, as a more continued series, he had an admirable mode of pretending to con over the lecture in a manner which he would first recommend students to do—something after this fashion: "Let me see—what did he say?" "Well, first he told us that he should speak of Matter in general; then he said something about the Laws of Matter, of Inertia, &c. Well, I did not understand much of that; and I don't think he knew much about it himself;" and so on. There would now be a general smile; the attention of the class would be thoroughly alive; and then he would, in this "conning over," bring forward the points he most wished to impress of the whole lecture. A very striking proof of how much power he had in this way, came out in a conversation I had with Dr. Thomas Rees. This gentleman knew Abernethy well, and, in kindly answering some inquiries I made of him, he spoke of his power in lecturing. Amongst other things, he said: "The first lecture I ever heard him give, impressed me very much; I thought it admirable. His skill appeared so extraordinary! At the conclusion of the lecture," said Dr. Rees, "he proposed to the students to con over the lecture, which he proceeded to do for them." Dr. Rees then continued repeating the heads of the lecture, and this after at least thirty, perhaps forty years.
Lecturers will sometimes endeavour to illustrate a point which is difficult or obscure by something more difficult still, or something borrowed from another branch of science. Sometimes the illustrations are so lengthy, or intrinsically important, that a pupil forgets what principle it was that was to be illustrated. When we are desirous of learning something about water or air, it is painful for a pupil to be "reminded" of the "properties of angles," which it is an even chance he never knew. It is equally uncomfortable to many an audience, in lectures on other subjects, to have the course of a cannon-ball, which three pieces of string would sufficiently explain, for mere purposes of illustration, charged with the "laws of projectiles," the "composition of forces," &c. We are of course not thinking of learned but learning audiences. To the former, lectures are of no use; but we allude to learners of mixed information and capacity; like young men who have been residing with medical men in the country; who come to a lecture for information, and who require to be interested, in order that they may be instructed. Abernethy's illustrations were always in simple language. Rough ridden sometimes by a succession of many-footed Greek compounds, the mind of a student loves to repose on the refreshing simplicity of household phrases.
Abernethy had stories innumerable. Every case almost was given with the interest of a tale; and every tale impressed some lesson, or taught some relation in the structure, functions, or diseases of the body. We will give one or two; but their effect lay in the admirable manner in which they were related.
If he was telling anything at all humorous, it would be lighted up by his half-shut, half-smiling, and habitually benevolent eye. Yet his eye would easily assume the fire of indignation when he spoke of cruelty or neglect, showing how really repulsive these things were to him. Then his quiet, almost stealthy, but highly dramatic imitation of the manner of some singular patient. His equally finished mode of expressing pain, in the subdued tone of his voice; and then when something soothing or comfortable had been successfully administered to a patient, his "Thank you, sir, thank you, that is very comfortable," was just enough always to interest, and never to offend. Now and then he would sketch some patient who had been as hasty as he himself was sometimes reported to be. "Mr. Abernethy, I am come, sir, to consult you about a complaint that has given me a great deal of trouble." "Show me your tongue, sir. Ah, I see your digestive organs are very wrong." "I beg your pardon, sir; there you are wrong yourself; I never was better in all my life," &c. All this, which is nothing in telling, was delivered in a half-serious, half-Munden-like, humorous manner, and yet so subdued as never to border on vulgarity or farce.