He used to put his not very slowly accumulating fees anywhere; sometimes by the side of his portfolio; sometimes on a shelf in his bookcase, between something else which might be there. When he retired from Bedford Row, they found a considerable heap of fees which he had placed in the bookcase and forgotten—an anecdote which shows that he must have been making some way in practice as early as his marriage, exemplifies this sort of carelessness, and suggests its impropriety. He was in the habit, even then, of leaving his fees on his table in his private room. He thought, on more than one occasion, that some had been removed: he, however, said nothing; but, having taken means to assure himself of the fact, he marked some fees and allowed matters to go on as usual. Again missing fees, he waited till the whole party, which consisted of pupils residing in the house, were settled at breakfast. "Gentlemen," he said, "I must beg you to give me your purses." This was of course immediately done. In one of the purses he found the marked fees. This individual has been dead many years. He turned out, as may be supposed, badly.
It had become the fashion in Abernethy's latter days to speak lightly of him as an operator; and we have very little desire to rest any portion of his reputation on this branch of our duty. Nevertheless, when we first knew Abernethy, if we had had to be the subject of an operation, we knew no man to whom we should have submitted with the same confidence. He was considerate and humane; he did as he would be done by; and we have seen him perform those operations which are usually regarded as the most difficult, as well as we have seen them ever performed by any body; and without any of that display or effect too often observed, which is equally misplaced and disgusting.
His benevolent disposition led him to feel a great deal in regard to operations. Like Cheselden and Hunter, he regarded them, as in a scientific sense they truly are, the reproach of the profession; since, with the exception of such as become necessary from accidents, they are almost all of them consequent on the imperfection of Medicine or Surgery as a science.
Highly impulsive, Abernethy could not at all times prevent the expression of his feelings, when perhaps his humanity was most earnestly engaged in his suppression of them. It was usually an additional trial to him when a patient bore pain with fortitude.
One day, he was performing rather a severe operation on a woman. He had, before commencing, said a few words of encouragement, as was usual with him, and the patient was bearing the operation with great fortitude. After suffering some seconds, she very earnestly, but firmly, said, "I hope, sir, it will not be long." "No, indeed," earnestly replied Abernethy; "that would indeed be horrible."
In fact, he held operations as occupying altogether so low a place in our duties, and as having so little to do with the science of our profession, that there was very little in most of them to set against that repulsion which both his science and his humanity suggested.
As he advanced in life, his dislike to operations increased. He was apt to be fidgetty and impatient. If things went smoothly, it was all very well; but if any untoward occurrence took place, he suffered a great deal, and it became unpleasant to assist him; but he was never unkind to the patient. It is, however, not always easy to estimate correctly the amount of operative dexterity. Hardly any man will perform a dozen operations in the same manner. We have seen a very bungling operator occasionally perform an operation extremely well; whilst the very worst operation we ever saw was performed by a man whose fame rested almost entirely on his dexterity; and what made it the more startling, was that it was nothing more than taking up the femoral artery. But whether it were that he was not well, or had been careless in the site of his first incision, or in opening the sheath of the vessels before he passed his ligature, or all of these causes in conjunction, we could not tell, because we were not quite near enough; but we never witnessed a more clumsy affair.
The conditions calculated to ensure good operating, are few and simple; there are moral as well as medical conditions; and no familiarity ever enables a surgeon, on any occasion, safely to dispense with any of them. When they are all observed, operating usually becomes steady and uniform; when any of them are dispensed with or wanting, there is always risk of error and confusion.
We are afraid that we should be hardly excused in a work of this kind, were we to lay down the canons to which we allude. We cannot, therefore, enter any further into the subject.
Previously to offering a few remarks on the causes of Abernethy's occasional irritability, we must not omit to mention a hoax that was played on him. He had been in particularly good, boy-like spirits, and had proposed going to the theatre; where he had enjoyed himself very much. On reaching home, there was a message desiring his attendance at Harrow. This was a very unwelcome finale. The hoax had been clumsily managed, but it did not strike anybody at the moment; so it was decided that Mr. Abernethy must go; and he took Mr. Skey with him. When they got to Harrow, they drove to the house of the surgeon, and, knocking him up, the surgeon came to the window in his night-cap, when the following dialogue began. The name of the patient we shall suppose to be Wilson.