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."