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MEMOIRS
OF
JOHN ABERNETHY.

Sir Tho^s. Lawrence P.R.A.      Cook.
Y^rs. most sincerely
John Abernethy

MEMOIRS
OF
JOHN ABERNETHY,
WITH A VIEW OF
HIS LECTURES, HIS WRITINGS, AND CHARACTER;
WITH ADDITIONAL
EXTRACTS FROM ORIGINAL DOCUMENTS,
NOW FIRST PUBLISHED;

BY GEORGE MACILWAIN, F.R.C.S.
AUTHOR OF "MEDICINE AND SURGERY ONE INDUCTIVE SCIENCE,"
&c. &c. &c.
"The evil that men do, lives after them:
The good is oft interred with their bones."
Shakspeare.

Third Edition.
LONDON:
HATCHARD AND CO. PICCADILLY.
1856.

The Author reserves the right of publishing a Translation of this Work in France.
LONDON:
PRINTED BY J. MALLETT, WARDOUR STREET.

TO THE MEMORY
OF
JOHN ABERNETHY,
THIS VOLUME IS INSCRIBED
BY
ONE OF HIS NUMEROUS
AND
GRATEFUL PUPILS,
THE AUTHOR.

PREFACE
TO
THE FIRST EDITION.

In submitting to the Public a Memoir of a great man, it may naturally be expected that an author should endeavour to convey to them some idea of the associations, or other circumstances, which have prompted the undertaking.

My father practised on the borders of a forest; and when he was called at night to visit a distant patient, it was the greatest treat to me, then a little boy, to be allowed to saddle my pony and accompany him. My father knew the forest nearly as well as his own garden; but still, in passing bogs in impenetrable darkness, the more refined topography of a forester would be necessary; and it was on one of these occasions that I first heard two words, "Me-ward" and "Abernethy:" the one from our forester guide, which I have never heard since, and the other which I have heard more frequently perhaps than any. The idea I then had of Abernethy was, that he was a great man who lived in London. The next distinct impression I have of him was derived from hearing my father say that a lady, who had gone up to London to have an operation performed, had been sent by him to Mr. Abernethy, because my father did not think the operation necessary or proper; that Mr. Abernethy entirely agreed with him, and that the operation was not performed; that the lady had returned home, and was getting well. I then found that my father had studied under him, and his name became a sort of household word in our family. Circumstances now occurred which occupied my mind in a different direction, and for some years I thought no more of Abernethy.

As long as Surgery meant riding across a forest with my father, I thought it a very agreeable occupation; but when I found that it included many other things, I soon discovered there was a profession I liked much better. Some years had rolled away, when, one afternoon in October, about the year 1816, somewhat to my own surprise, I found myself, about two o'clock, walking down Holborn Hill, on my way to Mr. Abernethy's opening lecture at St. Bartholomew's. Disappointed of being able to follow the profession I had chosen, looking on the one I was about to adopt with something very much allied to repulsion, considering everything in this world "flat and unprofitable," and painfully depressed in spirits, I took my seat at the lecture.

When Mr. Abernethy entered, I was pleased with the expression of his countenance. I almost fancied that he could have sympathized with the melancholy with which I felt oppressed. When he commenced, I listened with some attention; as he went on, I began even to feel some pleasure; as he proceeded, I found myself entertained; and before he concluded, I was delighted. What an agreeable, happy man he seems! thought I. What a fine profession! What would I give now to know as much as he does! In short, I was converted.

Years again rolled on. I found myself in practice. Now, I had an opportunity of proving the truth and excellence of the beautiful principles I had been taught. I found how truthful had been his representations of them. I was, however, grieved to find that his opinions and views were very much misunderstood and misrepresented; and I had very frequent opportunities of seeing how much this restricted their application, and abridged their utility.

Some few years after his death, I tried to induce some one to endeavour to correct the erroneous impressions which prevailed in regard to him; but to do Abernethy full justice, would require a republication of his works, with an elaborate commentary. This was a task involving too much time, labour, and expense, for any individual to undertake; whilst anything less, however useful or instructive to the public, must necessarily subject the author to a criticism which few are disposed to encounter.

But as it appeared to me that scruples like these stood in the way of that which was alike just to the memory of Abernethy and useful to the public, I was resolved at all hazards to undertake at least a Memoir myself. I shall say little of the difficulties of the task. I feel them to have been onerous, and I believe them to have been, in some respects, unexampled.

Apologies for imperfections in works which we are not obliged to write, are seldom valued: the public very sensibly take a work for what it is worth, and are ultimately seldom wrong in their decision. I have only said thus much, not in deprecation of criticism, so much as to show that I have not shrunk from what I deemed just and useful, on account of the somewhat oppressive sense I entertain of the risk or difficulty which it involves.

The scientific reader may, I fear, think that, in endeavouring to avoid too tedious a gravity, I may sometimes have been forgetful of the dignity of biographical memoir; but, in the difficulty of having to treat of subjects which, however important, are not always of the most popular kind, I have been obliged sometimes to think of the "quid vetat ridentem." In the very delicate task of discussing subjects relating to some of my contemporaries, I have endeavoured simply to do Abernethy justice; and, beyond what is necessary for that purpose, have avoided any quotations or other matter calculated unnecessarily to revive or rekindle impressions which may as well be dismissed or forgotten. It may appear to some, that, in my remarks on the present state of professional affairs, I have been too free. I can only say, that I have stated exactly what I feel. I am earnestly desirous of seeing a better state of things; but I have no idea that we can materially improve that which we are afraid to examine.

I have to express my warmest thanks to several gentlemen for the readiness with which they have contributed their assistance; my most grateful acknowledgments to my respected friend, Mr. Fowler of Datchet, and his son, Mr. Alfred Fowler, Mr. Thacker and Mr. Tummins of Wolverhampton—three of them being old schoolfellows of Abernethy; to Mr. White, the distinguished head master of Wolverhampton School, whose acceptable services have been further enhanced by the ready kindness with which they were contributed; to Mr. Belfour, the Secretary of the Royal College of Surgeons, and Mr. Stone, the Librarian, I have to express my best thanks for their kind assistance; and to the latter especially, for many very acceptable contributions.

I have also to acknowledge the kind interest taken in the work by Mr. Wood of Rochdale, Mr. Stowe of Buckingham—old and distinguished pupils of Abernethy. My best thanks are also due to Dr. Nixon of Antrim, not only for his own contributions, but still more for the personal trouble he was so kind as to take in relation to some particulars concerning the ancestors of Mr. Abernethy; to Mr. Chevasse of Sutton Coldfield, for very acceptable communications; and to Mr. Preston of Norwich. Nor must I omit to express my obligation to several gentlemen whom I have consulted at various times. My thanks are specially due to Professor Owen. My old friends and fellow-pupils, Mr. Kingdon, Mr. E. A. Lloyd, Dr. Barnett, Mr. Skey, and Mr. Welbank, have shown as much interest in the work as their opportunities allowed them, and will please to accept my best acknowledgments.

G. M.

London, September 20, 1853.

PREFACE
TO
THE SECOND EDITION.

The indulgent reception which the Public and the Profession have been pleased to accord to these Memoirs having already rendered a second edition necessary, the volumes have been carefully revised. This has enabled me to correct some typographical errors, and so to modify certain passages, that, whilst the narrative remains essentially the same, it may be in some points presented in an improved dress. I have also availed myself of the opportunity of making some additions and corrections, which, though few, are not unimportant.

Although not unacquainted with the fact that Mr. Abernethy had declined the honour of a Baronetcy, no allusion was made to it in the first edition; because I was not then in possession of such evidence as appeared to me necessary in relation to a circumstance that had not fallen within my own knowledge.

By the kindness of the family, I have been enabled to correct an error in regard to those who were present in his last moments; which, if in an historical point of view immaterial, is by no means so with regard to the feelings of those whom it more immediately concerns.

G. M.

The Court Yard, Albany,
Nov. 14, 1853.

PREFACE
TO
THE THIRD EDITION.

In publishing a third edition of these Memoirs, I have to express the grateful sense I entertain of the indulgence with which they continue to be received.

Since the appearance of the second edition, Miss Abernethy has kindly placed at my disposal the few papers which Mr. Abernethy had preserved; and I trust that the additions they have enabled me to make, may not prove unacceptable. Besides circumstances of minor interest, interspersed through the volume, there are some of great importance. The facts relating to the marriage of Mr. Abernethy not only disprove a number of idle reports, but offer another contribution to the general kindness and sincerity of his character. In selecting a few extracts from his thoughts on Religion and Morals, I have been desirous of placing on record some of Mr. Abernethy's sentiments on these all-important questions, without forgetting that I am writing the Memoirs, not of a Divine, but of a Philosophical Physiologist and Surgeon. In like manner, in the accompanying observations which I have submitted on the relations of Science and Religion, I have restricted myself to little more than a Layman's repudiation of a vulgar error. Some little anxiety to impress this may be excused, lest it should be supposed that an argument has been stated in a few pages, which, even in an abridged form, would require a volume; besides being inconsistent with the more measured objects of a Biographical Memoir. I have carefully avoided quoting any papers which, either by opinion or otherwise, reflected on the conduct of any party; and I have taken some pains to render this unnecessary. No man could be more sensitive than Abernethy with regard to any imputation on his honour; but that once satisfied, I am persuaded that nothing would have been more unwelcome to him than that his Memoirs should have contained, unnecessarily, one word that should offend any one; nor anything more acceptable than its avoidance under circumstances of provocation. I have had to contend with difficulties which I need not particularize; it is far more agreeable to express the gratitude I feel for that sympathy and assistance which have placed papers and documents at my disposal, with a generous confidence which, though scarcely easy sufficiently to appreciate, I trust it is impossible knowingly to abuse.

Should it appear that, in my anxiety to avoid disagreeable discussions, I have left any subject imperfectly handled, as regards the high character of Mr. Abernethy, I should of course avail myself of the documents now in my possession. I trust, however, nothing of the kind may be necessary. Having long thought it would be interesting to many persons, old pupils and others, to record his manner in his later days, when delivering his Surgical or Evening Lectures, as well as the position he was so accustomed to assume when enunciating the fundamental axiom of that improved Surgery of which he was the author, I have added the lithograph at page 219. For this artistic sketch I am indebted scarcely less to the painstaking than to the genius of the late Mr. Charles Blair Leighton, who, as stated in the text, did not live to realize those expectations of future excellence to which his talents had given rise. Mr. Leighton, after a short illness, died in May, 1855.

G. M.

The Court Yard, Albany,
November, 1856.

MEMOIRS.

My dear Sir
I return you my best Thanks for your Book which you did me the favor of sending. I have read the new Matter with which I am well pleased. I feel also obliged to you for your kind Wishes, & asure you that they are on my part reciprocal I am a cripple with Rheumatism & good for nothing but still remain

My dear Sir
Y^rs. most sincerely
John Abernethy

Enfield
26 April
To George Macilwain Esq^re

TABLE OF CONTENTS

MEMOIRS OF ABERNETHY.

CHAPTER I.

"The Author of Nature appears deliberate throughout His operations, accomplishing His natural ends by slow successive steps. And there is a plan of things beforehand laid out, which, from the nature of it, requires various systems of means, as well as length of time, in order to the carrying on its several parts into execution."—Butler's Analogy.

A retrospect of the history of human knowledge offers to our contemplation few things of deeper interest than the evidence it so repeatedly affords of some great law which regulates the gradual development of truth, and determines the Progress of Discovery.

Although knowledge has, at times, appeared to exhibit something of uniformity in its advances, yet it cannot have escaped the least observant that, as a whole, the Progress of Science has been marked by very variable activity—at one time, marvellously rapid; at another, indefinitely slow; now merged in darkness or obscurity; and now blazing forth with meridian splendour.

We observe a series of epochs divided by intervals of great apparent irregularity—intervals which we can neither calculate nor explain; but which, nevertheless, exhibit a periodicity, which the very irregularity serves to render striking and impressive.

We may remark, also, a peculiar fitness in the minds of those to whom the enunciation of truth has been successively entrusted: a fitness, not merely for the tasks which have been assigned to each, as the special mission of the individual, but also in the relations of different minds to each other. This adaptation to ends which individual minds have unconsciously combined to accomplish, might be illustrated by many examples, from the earliest records of antiquity, down to our own times. This would be incompatible with our present purpose. We will therefore only refer to one or two illustrations, which, as being familiar, will serve to show what we mean, and to lead us, not unnaturally, to our more immediate object.

We cannot contemplate men like Bacon, Galileo, and Kepler, for example, without feeling how auspicious the precession of such minds must have been to the development of the genius of Newton[¹]. Newton was born the same year that Galileo died. There is something very interesting and significant too in the peculiar powers of Kepler. Prolific in suggestion, great in mathematical ability, elaborate in analysis, and singularly truthful in spirit, Kepler exemplified two things. These, though very distinct from each other, were both equally instructive; both alike suggestive of the link he represented in the chain of progress. In the laws he discovered, he showed the harvest seldom withheld from the earnest search for truth; but the enormous labour of the mode in which he conducted his researches, as well as the limits prescribed to his discoveries, exemplify the evils which, even in a man of the greatest power, result from proceeding too much on hypothesis. Now it is interesting to remember that this was coincident with the dawning of that glorious light, the Inductive philosophy of Bacon, and shortly succeeded by the splendid generalization of Newton.

In like manner, if we think of the discoveries of Sir Humphrey Davy—their nature and relations to physiology as well as chemistry,—we see how much there might have been that was preparatory, and, to a mind like Davy's, suggestive, in the investigations of preceding and contemporaneous philosophers. Priestly had discovered oxygen gas; Galvani and Volta had shown those remarkable phenomena which constitute that important branch of knowledge, "Voltaic electricity;" Berzelius had effected the decomposition of certain salts by the Voltaic pile; and Lavoisier had even predicted as probable what Davy was destined to demonstrate[³]

In medical science, few things have been more talked of than the discovery of the circulation of the blood. Now it is curious to observe that every fact essential to the demonstration of it had been made out by previous investigators[⁴] but no one had deduced from them the discovery of the circulation until Harvey, although it was a conclusion scarcely more important than obvious.

There is surely something very encouraging in the reflection, that the advance of knowledge thus results from the accumulated labours of successive minds. It suggests, that however unequally the honours may appear to be distributed—however humble, in our eyes, the function of those who unconsciously prepare the way to great discoveries,—still it may involve a duty no less important than the more lofty mission of enunciating them. The importance of a man's mission can never be estimated by human judgment. We can never know the mission; still less its relations to the power, or the temptations by which that power has been assailed. The most humble may here often approach as nearly to his duty, as the most gifted may have fallen short of it. Our faculties cannot penetrate the matter. We often see men placed in positions for which they appear wholly unfitted—men who seem to be bars to that progress which we should fancy it their duty to promote. Again, we observe that almost all great discoveries have to encounter opposition, persecution, obloquy, or derision; and when they are established, a host of claimants rise up to dispute the property with the rightful owner. A man who is in earnest cares little for these things. They may at times discourage and disappoint him; but they only strengthen his faith, that a day will come when an unerring justice will accord to every useful improvement its proper place and distinction.

Humanly speaking, we naturally ascribe discoveries to those who have practically demonstrated them; but when we examine all the clues which have been furnished by previous observers, we frequently have misgivings as to the justice of our decisions. In our admiration of the successful labour of the recent inquirer, we sometimes forget the patient industry of the early pioneer. With regard to those laws which govern the human body, we cannot suppose that the development of them can be destined to progress on any plan less determined than other branches of human inquiry. But in all laws of nature we know that there are interferences which, until explained, serve to obscure or altogether to conceal the law from our view.

In relation to the Physiological laws, these interferences are very numerous. 1st. Many are furnished by the physical laws; many more arise from the connection of the physiological with the moral laws, and especially from the abuse of (a responsible) volition. These interferences, however, when their nature is clearly developed, beautifully illustrate the laws they at first obscured; for the common characters of subjects, in which the law is usually exemplified, are brought out into higher relief by the very diversities in the midst of which they occur. The progress of mankind towards a popular familiarity with this fact, is necessarily slow; but still we think it plainly perceptible. An individual life, indeed, however distinguished, represents a mere point in time; it affords little scope for considering, much less for estimating, as they occur, the true meaning of various events, which nevertheless ultimately prove to have had important influence on the progress of knowledge.

These are world-wide things, which we must survey as the geologist does the facts concerning which he inquires. We must endeavour to combine, in one view, facts over which long periods of time may have rolled away, with such as are still passing around us. This will frequently suggest designs and relations altogether unobservable by the mere abstract inquirer. In the course of the following pages, a further opportunity may occur for a few remarks on such views; the elaborate discussion of the subject would be altogether beyond our present objects.

It will be our endeavour to point out the position occupied by Abernethy, in that (as we trust) gradually dawning science, to a particular phase of which our object and our limits will alike restrict our attention. We mean that period when Surgery, having approached to something like a zenith as a mere practical art, began to exhibit, by slow and almost imperceptible degrees, some faint characters of science—a shadowy commencement of a metamorphose, which we believe promises to convert (though we fear at a period yet distant) a monstrous hybrid of mystery and conjecture into the symmetrical beauty of an Inductive science—a science based on axioms and laws which are constantly exerting a powerful influence on the social progress and the health of nations.

In considering Hunter and Abernethy, we shall see not only a remarkable adaptation for the tasks in which they were respectively engaged, but also how the peculiar defects of the one were supplied by the characteristic excellences of the other. We shall see that they cooperated in laying open clear and definite objects; and that, though their modes of inquiry were far from fulfilling the requisitions of an Inductive science, they were eminently calculated to suggest the convenience, and impress the necessity of it.

We no sooner begin to inquire with clear and definite purpose, than we are led to the means necessary for the attainment of it.

Abernethy himself, in speaking of the ordinary resources of daily practice, used to say: "If a man has a clear idea of what he desires to do, he will seldom fail in selecting the proper means of accomplishing it."

So, in gathering the materials for building up a science, the first thing is, to be clear as to those things in which it is deficient. This once determined, all may lend assistance; and this very division of labour, when directed with definite purpose, may render even men most addicted to narrow and partial inquiries, contributors to a great and common object.

In this way, those blows and discouragements so common in the infancy of science, which test our motives and try our patience, may prove tolerable when distributed over the many, instead of proving, as is too common, depressing or destructive when bearing only on the efforts of the few.

If we desire to shorten this labour, we need scarcely say there is no way of doing it but by the adoption of that mode of proceeding to which every other branch of science owes its present position.

I mean the rigid suspension of all hypotheses, setting to work by collecting all the facts in relation to the subject, and dealing with them in strict compliance with the precepts of common sense—or, what is the same thing, Inductive philosophy.

This will soon show us the just amount of the debt we owe to Hunter and Abernethy; and, in leading us onwards, instructively point out why these great men did not farther increase our obligations.

We shall see how the industry and circumspection of the Argus-eyed Hunter, as Abernethy used to call him, enabled him to unfold a legend in nature, which he had neither length of days, sufficient opportunity, nor perhaps aptitude, wholly to decipher; and how far it was developed into practical usefulness by the penetrative sagacity and happy genius of Abernethy; which, like light in darkness, guides and sustains immediate research, and animates and encourages onward inquiry. To appreciate Abernethy, however, it is necessary that the public should have correct views at least of the general nature and objects of Medical Science.

The public have not only a very real interest in acquiring a sound common-sense view of the objects of medicine and surgery, but a far deeper interest than it is possible for any one medical man to have, merely as such, or all medical men put together. This may, for the moment, appear startling to those who have not been compelled to consider the subject; but the reader may glean even from this volume, that so long as life or health, or even money, has value, the remark is strictly true. From all sides mankind have hitherto imbibed little but error. They have been taught or induced to believe that the only objects of medicine and surgery are to prevent or relieve diseases and accidents by the astute employment of drugs, or by certain adroit manipulatory or mechanical proceedings, and par excellence by "operations." Now here is a great mistake—an idea so far from true, that nothing can more delusively define, or more entirely conceal, the higher objects of the science.

The direct contrary of the proposition would be nearer the truth. It would be more correct to say that the object was to relieve diseases and accidents by removing all interferences with the reparative powers of nature; and that this was accomplished more perfectly in proportion as we were enabled to dispense with the employment of drugs, or the performance of operations.

The making the lame to walk, the blind to see, and the deaf to hear, were chosen amongst the appropriate symbols of a Divine Mission; and we need scarcely observe, that, in the restricted sphere of human capacity, this is a portion of the mission of every conscientious surgeon.

We may well, therefore, be dissatisfied with the narrow, not to say degrading, definition of our duties too generally entertained; but, on the other hand, if we would realize our claims to these higher views of our calling, and enlarge the sphere of its practical usefulness, we should recollect there is only one way of attaining that object; and that is, by the applied interpretation of those symbols, no less miraculous, no less certain manifestations of Divine Power, the "Laws of Nature." To name a science from something not essential to it, is like naming a class of animals from some exceptional peculiarity in an individual. It is as if we would infer the mission of the ocean wave from the scum sometimes seen on its surface; or the purposes served by a feather, from the use we make of it in writing, rather than from its common character of levity and toughness; as if we treated an exception as a rule, or any other manifest absurdity.

We have no opportunity of entering more fully into this important distinction of the more lofty objects of our profession, as contrasted with those usually assigned to it; we must therefore rest satisfied in having awakened the reader's attention to the subject, and proceed to the more ordinary objects of Biographical Memoir.

John Abernethy was born in London, in the parish of St. Stephen's, Coleman Street, on the 3rd of April, 1764, exactly one year after John Hunter settled in London. It is also interesting to remark, that Abernethy's first work, his "Surgical and Physiological Essays"—Part I—was published the same year that Hunter died, 1793; so that, whilst his birth occurred nearly at the same time as the commencement of the more sustained investigations of Hunter, his opening contribution to science was coincident with the close of the labours of his illustrious friend and predecessor.

The Abernethy family in their origin were possibly Scotch, and formed one of those numerous inter-migrations between Scotland and the north of Ireland, which, after lapse of time, frequently render it difficult to trace the original stock. There seems little doubt they had resided for some generations in Ireland. John Abernethy, who was the pastor of a Coleraine congregation, in 1688, was an eminent Protestant dissenting minister, and the father of one still more distinguished. The son (also named John) had been for some time pastor of the old congregation of Antrim, whence he removed to Dublin about the year 1733, to take charge of the Wood Street, now Strand Street, Dublin. He is the author of several volumes of sermons, which are not a little remarkable for clearness of thought, and the earnestness of purpose, with which they inculcate practical piety. He had a son who was a merchant, who subsequently removed to London, and traded under the firm of Abernethy and Donaldson, in Rood Lane, Fenchurch Street. This gentleman married a lady whose name was Elizabeth Weir, daughter of Henry and Margaret Weir, of the town of Antrim, and they had two sons and three daughters.

James[⁵], the elder brother, was also in business as a merchant, and died about the year 1823. He was a man of considerable talent, spoke with an accent suggestive of an Irish origin, and was remarkable for his admiration and critical familiarity with our immortal Shakspeare. He was probably born before his father left Ireland. John, the second son, the subject of our Memoir, was, as we have already said, born in London. The register of his christening at St. Stephen's is as follows:

This register would suggest that he was born a year later than I have stated. I have, however, preferred 1764, as the year adopted by his family; for although a man's birth is an occurrence respecting the date of which he is not the very best authority, he usually gets his information from those who are. Besides, it was no uncommon thing at that time to defer the christening of children for a much longer period. The education of his early childhood was, most likely, altogether conducted at home; but it is certain that, while yet very young, he was sent to the Grammar School at Wolverhampton. Here he received the principal part of his education; and though the records are somewhat meagre, yet they tend to show that at an early age he manifested abilities, both general and peculiar, which were indicative of no ordinary mind; and which, though they do not necessarily prefigure the future eminence at which he arrived, were sufficiently suggestive of the probability that, whatever his career might be, he would occupy a distinguished position.

[1]

[2] The same year that Galileo died.

[3]

[4] The valvular contrivances in the veins and heart, which showed that the blood could move in only one direction, had been either observed, described, or their effects respectively remarked on, by Paul, Sylvius, Michael Servetus, Realdus Columbus, Andreas Cesalpinus, and especially by Fabricius ab Aquapendente, of whom Harvey was a pupil.

[5] In a polite letter which I recently received from a distinguished pupil of Abernethy's (Dr. Butter, of Plymouth), I find that James Abernethy died of apoplexy, at Plymouth.

CHAPTER II.

"Ah, happy hills! ah, pleasing shade!

Ah, fields beloved in vain,

Where once my careless childhood stray'd,

A stranger yet to pain."

Gray.

Mankind naturally feel an interest in the boyhood of men of genius; but it often happens that very little attention is paid to early indications; and, when observed, it is certain that they are often interpreted very falsely.

Nothing more emphatically suggests how much we have to learn on this subject, than the obscurity which so often hangs over the earlier years of distinguished men. At school, a number of variable organizations are subjected to very much the same influences; the necessity for generalization affords little opportunity for individual analysis. The main road is broad and familiar; there is no time for indulging in bye-paths, even should the master have the penetration to perceive, in individual cases, the expediency of such selection. Hence the quickening of those impulses, on which the development of character so much depends, is greatly a matter of uncertainty. The moment boys leave school, on the contrary, this uniformity of external influences is replaced by an interminable diversity; at home, scarcely two boys being subjected to exactly the same. Thus, in many instances, it would be easier to deduce the character of the boy from the man, than to have predicted the man from the boy. The evidences of the one are present to us, those of the other may have been entirely unelicited, unobserved, or forgotten.

We cannot wonder, then, that expectation should have been so often disappointed in the boy, or that excellences little dreamt of should have been developed in the man.

Dryden, who, regarded in the triple capacity of poet, prose-writer, and critic, is hardly second to any English author, took no honour at the University. Swift, perhaps our best writer of pure English, whose talents proved scarcely less versatile and extraordinary than they had appeared restricted and deficient, was "plucked" for his degree, in Dublin, and only obtained his recommendation to Oxford "speciali gratia" as it was termed. The phrase, however, being obviously equivocal, and used only in the bad sense at Dublin, was, fortunately for Swift, interpreted in a good sense at Oxford—a misapprehension which Swift, of course, was at no pains to remove.

Sheridan was remarkable for his readiness, his invention, and his wit; as a writer, he showed considerable powers of sustained thought also. He had an habitual eloquence, and, on one occasion, delivered an oration before one of the most distinguished audiences that the world ever saw[⁶], with an effect that seems to have rivalled the most successful efforts of Cicero, or even Demosthenes. Yet he had shown so little capacity as a boy, that he was presented to a tutor by his own mother with the complimentary accompaniment that he was an incorrigible dunce.

Some boys live on encouragement, others seem to work best "up stream." Niebuhr, the traveller, the father of a son no less illustrious, with anything but an originally acute mind, seems to have overcome every disadvantage which the almost constant absence of opportunity could combine. Those who are curious in such matters might easily multiply examples of the foregoing description, and add others where—as in the case of Galileo, Newton, Wren, and many others—the predictions suggested by early physical organization proved as erroneous as the intellectual indications to which we have just adverted.

The truth is, we have a great deal to learn on the subject of mind, although there is no want of materials for instruction. Medicine and surgery are not the only branches of knowledge which require the aid of strictly inductive inquiry. In all, the materials (facts) are abundant.

In Abernethy there was a polarity of character, an individuality, a positiveness of type, which would have made the boy a tolerably intelligible outline of the future man. The evidence is imperfect; it is chiefly drawn from the recollections of a living few, who, though living, have become the men of former days; but still the evidence all inclines one way.

We can quite imagine a little boy, "careless in his dress, not slovenly," with his hands in his pockets, some morning about the year 1774, standing under the sunny side of the wall, at Wolverhampton Grammar School[⁷]; his pockets containing, perhaps, a few shillings, some halfpence, and a knife with the point broken, a pencil, together with a tolerably accurate sketch of "Old Robertson's" wig. This article, as shown in an accredited portrait[⁸] now lying before us, was one of those enormous bygone bushes which represented a sort of impenetrable fence round the cranium, as if to guard the precious material within. The said boy just finishing a story to his laughing companions, though no sign of fun appeared in him, save a little curl of the lip, and a smile which would creep out of the corner of his eye in spite of him. I have had the good fortune to find no less than three schoolfellows of Abernethy, who are still living: John Fowler, Esq. of Datchet, a gentleman whom I have had the pleasure of knowing for many years, and who enjoys, in honourable retirement at his country seat, at the age of eighty-two, the perfect possession of all his faculties; William Thacker[⁹], Esq. of Muchall, about two miles from Wolverhampton, who is in his eighty-fifth year; T. Tummins, Esq. of King Street, Wolverhampton, who is in his eighty-seventh year. To these gentlemen, and to J. Wynn, Esq. also of Wolverhampton, I am principally indebted for the few reminiscences I have been able to collect of the boyish days of Abernethy.

The information which I gained from Mr. Fowler, he gave me himself; he also kindly procured me a long letter from Mr. Wynn. The reminiscences of Mr. Tummins and Mr. Thacker, I have obtained through the very courteous and kind assistance of the Rev. W. White, the late[¹⁰] distinguished head master of the Wolverhampton School.

To all of these gentlemen I cannot too strongly express my thanks, for the prompt and kind manner in which they have replied to all the enquiries which have been addressed to them. The following are the principal facts which their letters contain, or the conclusions they justify. Abernethy must have gone to Wolverhampton when very young, probably; I should say certainly before 1774. He was brought by Dr. Robertson from London, with another pupil, "his friend Thomas;" and the "two Londoners" boarded with Dr. Robertson. When Mr. Fowler went there in 1778, Abernethy was high up in the school, and ultimately got to the head of the senior form. He must have left Wolverhampton in all probability not later than 1778, because Dr. Robertson resigned the head mastership in that year; and we know that in the following (1779), when he was fifteen, Abernethy was apprenticed to Sir Charles Blicke.

Mr. Thacker says he was very studious, clever, a good scholar, humorous, but very passionate. Mr. Tummins, Mr. Thacker says, knew Abernethy well. Abernethy used to go and dine frequently with Mr. Tummins's father. Mr. Tummins says "Abernethy was a sharp boy, a very sharp boy, and a very passionate one too. Dr. Robertson," he says, "was also a very passionate man."

One day, Abernethy had to "do" some Greek Testament; and it appeared that he set off very glibly, having a "crib" in the shape of a Greek Testament, with a Latin version on the other side. The old Doctor, suspecting the case, discovered the crib, and the pupil was instantly "levelled with the earth." This fortiter in re plan of carrying the intellect by a coup-de-main, has, as the late head master observed, been replaced by more refined modes of proceeding. The more energetic plan was (however coarse and objectionable) not always unsuccessful in implanting a certain quantity of Latin and Greek. Abernethy was a very fair Latin scholar, and he certainly had not, at one period, a bad knowledge of Greek also.

There are, however, many other things to be learnt besides Latin and Greek; and it is probable that the more measured reliance on such violent appeals, which characterizes modern education, might have been better suited to Abernethy. To a boy who was naturally shy, and certainly passionate, such mechanical illustrations of his duty were likely to augment shyness into distrust, and to exacerbate an excitable temper into an irritable disposition.

Abernethy, in chatting over matters, was accustomed jocularly to observe that, for his part, he thought his mind had, on some subjects, what he called a "punctum saturationis;" so that "if you put anything more into his head, you pushed something out." If so, we may readily conceive that this plan of forcing in the Greek, might have forced out an equivalent quantity of patience or self-possession. It is difficult to imagine anything less appropriate to a disposition like Abernethy's than the discipline in question. It was, in fact, calculated to create those very infirmities of character which it is the object of education to correct or remove.

It seems that neither writing nor arithmetic were taught in the school; and "Tummins and Abernethy" used to go to learn these matters at the school of a Miss Ready, in King Street, Wolverhampton. This lady appears to have had, like Dr. Robertson, a high opinion of what the profession usually term "local applications" in the conduct of education. Many years afterwards, she called upon Mr. Abernethy. He was then in full practice in London. He received her with the greatest kindness, begged her to come and dine with him as often as she could while she stayed in London; and, introducing her to Mrs. Abernethy, said: "I beg to introduce to you a lady who has boxed my years many a time."

Had Miss Ready, however, heard us call in question the necessity of this association of boxing ears and quill-driving, she would probably have retorted on us, that few men wrote so good a hand as John Abernethy. It is certain that, brusque as the discipline might have been, or ill-suited to the disposition of Abernethy, it did not interfere with the happiness of his schoolboy life. He always looked back to his days at Wolverhampton with peculiar pleasure, and seemed to regard every association with the place with affectionate remembrance.

Mr. Wynn observes, in his letter: "About twenty years ago I accompanied a patient to Mr. Abernethy. After prescribing, he said, 'let me see you again in about a week,' 'We cannot, for we are returning into the country.' 'Why, where do you live?' 'Wolverhampton.' 'Wolverhampton? Why, I went to school there. Come, sit down, and tell me who's alive and who's dead.' After running over the names of some of the old families, their health, circumstances, &c. he wished us good morning, saying, 'Ah! I cannot forget Wolverhampton!'"

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

"Muchall, near Wolverhampton,
"May 17, 1852.

"Sir,

"As a boy, I remember John Abernethy and William Thomas coming from London to board with, and as scholars to, Dr. Robertson, the head master of the Wolverhampton School, in which there were two masters, both clergymen. We were formed into several classes, in which John Abernethy, William Thomas, Walter Acton Mosely, and myself, formed one. Abernethy took the head or top of the class; but the boys used to change places in the classes according to their proficiency; but I do not recollect that Abernethy ever took a third place in the class. So also in his sports, he usually made a strong side, for he was remarkably quick and active, and soon learned a new game. He had but one fault that I knew of—he was rather hasty and impetuous in his manner, but it was soon over and forgotten.

"The 'Doctor,' as we used to call him (Robertson), had a daughter grown up, and she used to hear the boarders in the house read plays before her father, in which, in particular passages, she showed where the emphasis should be laid, and how to pronounce the same properly; this occasioned the use of the play of 'Cato,' and originated the boys' performance of that play in the school-room before their fathers and friends. I do not remember the part that Abernethy took in that play. I have applied to Mr. Tummins of Wolverhampton, but his memory does not supply information. He knew Mr. Abernethy well.

"If I recollect any others of my schoolfellows who knew him, I will apply to them for information, and communicate the same to you immediately.

"I am, Sir,
"Your obedient servant,
"William Thacker.

To George Macilwain, Esq."

We learn from another reminiscent, that in the play at Wolverhampton Abernethy took a "principal part." He certainly had a good deal of dramatic talent, in the highest sense of the word; and, as will be seen in the sequel, could light up a story with rich humour, or clothe it with pathos, as suited the occasion, with equal facility. Scanty as they are, there is much in these school reminiscences significant of his future character.

As we have observed, Abernethy left Wolverhampton in 1778. He was then head of the school, a quick, clever boy, and more that an average scholar. He returned to London, that world of hopes, fears, and anxieties; that spacious arena, on which all are desirous of entering as competitors who are ambitious of professional or commercial distinction.

[6] We allude to his first speech on the trial of Warren Hastings.

[7] Wolverhampton School, founded by Sir Stephen Jermyn, Alderman and Knight of the City of London, in the reign of Henry VIII, for the "Instruction of youth in morals and learning." Many distinguished men were educated at the School; as Abernethy; Mr. Tork, fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge; Sir William Congreve; and others.

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

[9] This gentleman died last year. He had retired to his seat at Muchall, from Wolverhampton, where he had practised as a solicitor of great eminence and respectability.

[10] Since the last edition, I have to regret the death of this gentleman. He was an excellent man, a good mathematician, and an accomplished scholar. He graduated at Cambridge, and took honors in 1815.

CHAPTER III.

"Nunquam ita quisquam bene subductâ ratione ad vitam fuit

Quin res, ætas, usus, semper aliquid apportet novi

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

Et quæ tibi putâris primâ, in experiundo repudias."

Ter. ad. a. 5, sc. 4.

"Never did man lay down so fair a plan,

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

Or long experience made some change in it,

And taught him that those things he thought he knew,

He did not know, and what he held as best

In practice, he threw by."

Colman.

Circumstances, in themselves apparently unimportant, often determine the selection of a profession. Few boys can do exactly what they please, and the pros and cons are seldom placed before them in a way to assist them in determining the just value of the reasons on which their choice may have proceeded. They are not, indeed, unfrequently dealt with as if, whilst not incompetent to make choice of a profession, they were held incapable of weighing the circumstances by which alone such choice could be judiciously directed. The absurdity of this appears, when we think a moment of what it involves, which is nothing less than expecting them to do what is impossible; viz. to form an opinion on a subject when the main facts in relation to it are withheld from them. Be this as it may, every day shows us that men are too frequently dissatisfied with the profession which they follow. The question of our boyhood recollections—

"Qui fit Mæcenas ut nemo quam sibi sortem,

Seu ratio dederit seu fors objecerit, illâ,

Contentus vivat?"[¹¹]

is just as applicable as ever; and although human nature has almost everything ascribed to its natural infirmities, yet it appears quite as sensible, and not a whit less humble, to conclude, that paths chosen without consideration naturally lead to disappointment. The evil, like most others, carries with it the elements of self correction.

Parents are slow to encourage their children to select paths which they themselves have trodden with regret. This tends to distribute their professions to other families. Mutual interchanges of this kind serve to protect the interests of society, by, in some degree, limiting the number of cases in which men have failed to select the pursuits best adapted to them.

In almost all pursuits of life, success is determined, much more than many are disposed to imagine, by the homely qualities of steadiness and industry. We are apt—and sometimes not improperly—to ascribe peculiar excellence to peculiar powers. Yet the more insight we obtain into the histories of men, the more we perceive how constantly the most brilliant have been aided by the more homely qualifications to which we have adverted.

No doubt some minds are so constituted as to be moderately certain of success or distinction in almost any pursuit to which they might have been directed; and we are disposed to think that Abernethy's was a mind of that order; but there is abundant evidence to show that his talents were at least equalled by his industry. One paper of his, which contains a beautiful and discriminative adjustment of a difficult point of practice in Injuries of the Head—which contains no intrinsic evidence of such industry—was not published until after he had attended to every serious injury of the head in a large hospital for almost twenty years; besides examining the bodies of all the fatal cases. Nor can we estimate this industry properly, without recollecting that all this time he was only an assistant surgeon, whose duties, for the most part, neither required nor permitted him to do more than to observe the treatment; and that, therefore, the whole of this industry was simply in the character of a student of his profession[¹²]. All biography is full of this kind of evidence; and art, as well as science, furnishes its contribution. Who could have imagined that the peculiar, chaste composition, the easy and graceful touch of Sir Augustus Callcott, could have owed so much to industry as it undoubtedly must have done? It is known, for example, that he made no less than forty different sketches in the composition of one picture. We allude to his "Rochester." Had Abernethy been allowed to choose his profession, he, no doubt, would have selected the Bar. It is impossible to reflect on the various powers he evinced, without feeling that, had he followed the law, he would have arrived at a very distinguished position. "Had my father let me be a lawyer," he would say, "I should have known every Act of Parliament by heart." This, though no doubt intended as a mere figure of speech, was not so far from possibility as might be imagined, for it referred to one of his most striking characteristics; viz. a memory alike marvellously ready, capacious, and retentive—qualities common enough separately, but rare in powerful combination.

We may have opportunities by and by, perhaps, of further illustrating it. We will give one anecdote here. A gentleman, dining with him on a birthday of Mrs. Abernethy's, had composed a long copy of verses in honour of the occasion, which he repeated to the family circle after dinner. "Ah!" said Abernethy, smiling, "that is a good joke, now, your pretending to have written those verses." His friend simply rejoined, that, such as they were, they were certainly his own. After a little good-natured bantering, his friend began to evince something like annoyance at Abernethy's apparent incredulity; so, thinking it was time to finish the joke, "Why," said Abernethy, "I know those verses very well, and could say them by heart[¹³]." His friend declared it to be impossible; when Abernethy immediately repeated them throughout correctly, and with the greatest apparent ease. To return. However useful this quality might have been at the Bar, Abernethy was destined to another course of life—a pathway more in need, perhaps, of that light which his higher qualifications enabled him to throw over it, and which "his position" "in time" afforded him an opportunity of doing just when it seemed most required. He probably thus became, both during life and prospectively, the instrument of greater good to his fellow-creatures than he would have been in any other station whatever.

I have not been able to discover what the particular circumstances were which determined his choice of the medical profession. It is probable that they were not very peculiar. A boy thwarted in his choice of a profession, is generally somewhat indifferent as to the course which is next presented to him; besides, as his views would not have been opposed but for some good reason, a warm and affectionate disposition would induce him to favour any suggestion from his parents. Sir Charles Blicke was a surgeon in large practice; he lived at that time in Mildred's Court, and Abernethy's father was a near neighbour, probably in Coleman Street.

Abernethy had shown himself a clever boy, a good scholar; and he was at the top of Wolverhampton School before he was fifteen. Sir Charles Blicke was quick-sighted, and would easily discover that Abernethy was a "sharp boy." All that Abernethy probably knew of Sir Charles, was, that he rode about in his carriage, saw a good many people, and took a good many fees, all of which, though perhaps presenting no particular attractions for Abernethy, made a primâ facie case, which was not repulsive. Accordingly, in the year 1779, being then fifteen years of age, he became bound an apprentice to Sir Charles, and, probably, for about five years.

This first step, this apprenticing, has a questionable tendency as regards the interests of the public and the profession. It exerts, also, a considerable influence on the character and disposition of the boy, which we must by and by consider. It is a mode of proceeding which, we fear, has done not a little to impede the progress of surgery as a science, and to maintain that handicraft idea of it suggested by the etymology of the word. Where one man strikes out a new path, thousands follow the beaten track. A boy, with his mind ill-prepared, having no definite ideas of the nature and objects of scientific inquiries, and almost certainly uninstructed as to the rules to be observed in conducting them—knowing neither any distinction between an art and a science—a boy thus conditioned is bound for a certain number of years! to a man of whom he knows little, and to a profession of which he knows nothing. He takes his ideas and his tone from his master; or, if these be repulsive to him, he probably adopts an opposite extreme. If the master practise his profession merely as an art, he furnishes his pupil with little more than a string of conventionalisms; of which, if the pupil has talent enough to do anything for himself, he is tolerably certain to have a great deal to unlearn.

We believe the system is in course of improvement; it is high time it was put an end to altogether. Apprenticeships might not have been an inauspicious mode of going to work in former times, when there existed barber-surgeons. This alliance of surgery and shaving, to say nothing of the numerous other qualifications with which they were sometimes associated, might conceivably enough have furnished some pretext for apprenticeships; since Dickey Gossip's definition of

"Shaving and tooth-drawing,

Bleeding, cabbaging, and sawing,"

was by no means always sufficiently comprehensive to include the multifarious accomplishments of "the doctor." I have myself seen, in a distant part of this island, within twenty-five years, chemist, druggist, surgeon, apothecary, and the significant &c. followed by the hatter, hosier, and linen-draper, in one establishment; but as we shall have to discuss this subject more fully in relation to Abernethy in another place, we may proceed.

Sir Charles Blicke had a large and lucrative practice. He had the character of taking care to be well remunerated for his services. He amassed a considerable fortune; but we incline to think that the ideas of the profession which Abernethy derived from his experience of his apprenticeship were not very favourable. The astute, business-like mode of carrying on the profession, which seems to have characterized Sir Charles Blicke's practice, could have had few charms for Abernethy. Mere money-making had never at any time much attraction for him, and, at that period of his life, probably none at all; whilst the measured pretensions of surgery to anything like a science could hardly have been, at times, otherwise than repulsive.

The tone in which he usually spoke of Sir Charles's practice did not convey a very favourable idea of the impression which it had left on him. In relating a case, he would say: "Sir Charles was at his house in the country, where he was always on the look out for patients." On another occasion, speaking of patients becoming faint under peculiar circumstances, he observed: "When I was an apprentice, my master used to say: 'Oh, Sir! you are faint; pray drink some of this water.' And what do you think was the effect of his putting cold water into a man's stomach under these circumstances? Why, of course, that it was often rejected in his face."

Sir Charles's manipulatory and operative proceedings seem, however, to have represented a tolerably adroit adoption of the prevailing modes of practice; while his medical surgery consisted chiefly of the empirical employment of such remedies as he had found most frequently successful, or, at all events, somehow or other associated with a successful issue; with the usual absence of any investigation of the cause of either success or failure. By a mind like Abernethy's, this sort of routine would be very soon acquired, and, in a short time, estimated at its real value. Still, while a clear head is all that is necessary to the reception of what may be positive and truthful, it requires a vivid perception and a cultivated understanding to detect error. Many things, however, would creep out in Abernethy's lectures, showing that, young as he was, even during his apprenticeship, he was not only a real student, but he had begun to think for himself.

He mentions a case of "Locked-jaw," that occurred as early as 1780 (the first year of his apprenticeship), which he appears to have noted with great accuracy. He mentions the medicine that was given to the man, the unusually large doses, and, lastly, the enormous quantity of it which was found in the stomach after death. It was opium, and amounted to many drachms.

We also find him engaged in inquiries involving much more extended views than were in that day generally associated with the study of surgery. He very early participated in those researches which had for their object to determine the relation of the digestive functions to one of the most recondite affections of an extremely important organ (the kidney).

"When I was a boy," said he, "I half ruined myself in buying oranges and other things, to ascertain the effects of different kinds of diet in this disease."

The same researches show how early also he began to perceive the importance of chemistry in investigating the functions of different organs, and in aiding, generally, physiological researches. We have heard a contemporary and a lecturer on chemistry attest Abernethy's proficiency in that science. As his investigations proceeded, he had the still higher merit of taking just and sober views of the relations of chemistry to physiological science.

We mean that whilst he fully recognized the importance of it, he entirely avoided that exclusive reliance on it which is too often created by some of the more striking demonstrations of chemical science; that one—idea—tendency, which unconsciously wrests it to the solution of phenomena which, in the present state of our knowledge, it is wholly inadequate to explain. We have alluded to the foregoing facts touching the impressions derived from his apprenticeship, and his early disposition for philosophical research, because both will be found to have relations to his subsequent labours and peculiarities. Diligent as he was, we suspect he found, during his apprenticeship, little of those attractions which make labour and industry sources of happiness and pleasure.

As a matter of course, he would have been allowed to attend any lectures which were given at the hospital to which Sir Charles Blicke was surgeon (St. Bartholomew's), and this would bring him in contact with Mr. Pott, who delivered a certain number of surgical lectures there.

There were no courses of anatomical lectures given at St. Bartholomew's at that period; but anatomical lectures were delivered regularly at the London Hospital, by Dr. Maclaurin and Sir William Blizard, and afterwards by Sir William Blizard alone. As Sir Charles Blicke lived in Mildred's Court and subsequently in Billiter Square, Abernethy would be about equidistant from the two hospitals, both of which he attended. We incline to think that it was in attending these lectures, and perhaps especially those of Sir William Blizard, that he first found those awakening impulses which excited in him a real love for his profession.

It was about this time, we think, that he began to have more enlarged ideas of the nature and objects of surgical science; a state of mind calculated to enable him to thoroughly understand and appreciate Mr. Hunter, and to deduce from the principles which he was shadowing forth, those relations and consequences which we shall endeavour popularly to explain; principles which, though originally directed to the treatment of so-called surgical maladies, were found equally to affect the practice of medicine.

[11] "How happens it, Mæcenas, that no one is content with his condition, whether reason gave it him, or chance threw it in his way?"

[12] The assistant-surgeons at that period having no in-patients under their care, except in the absence, or by permission, of their chiefs.

[13] A public journalist was inclined to give this anecdote to another person. We then stated that we had it on the authority of a gentleman who was present. Such power of memory, though rare, is not singular; other examples have fallen within our own observation.

CHAPTER IV.

"There is not a more pleasing exercise of the mind than gratitude. Were there no positive command which enjoined it, nor any recompense laid up for it hereafter, a generous mind would indulge in it, for the natural gratification which accompanies it."—Addison.

Sir William Blizard was an eminent surgeon and an enthusiastic student of the profession, as studied in his day. He had a certain bluntness of manner, which was not unkind neither. He was very straightforward, which Abernethy liked; and he had nothing of a mercenary disposition, which Abernethy held in abhorrence. He was a kind of man very likely to excite in one of Abernethy's tone of mind many agreeable impressions. He early perceived the talents, and was probably the first to encourage the industry, of his distinguished pupil. Enthusiastic himself, he had the power of communicating a similar feeling to many of his pupils; and he appears to have contributed one of those impulses to Abernethy which are from time to time necessary to sustain the pursuit of an arduous profession.

Some men seem to like anatomy for its own sake; examinations of structure merely, by dissection, or the microscope, have a kind of intrinsic charm for them. This was not the case with Abernethy. Mere anatomy had few charms for him. He regarded it in its true light, as a means to an end; as the basis on which he could alone found, not only the more common or handicraft duties of surgery, but also those higher views which aim at developing the uses and relations of the various organs; and in this way to ascertain what the processes of nature are in the preservation of health and the conduct of disease; in short, a knowledge of what he called physio-pathology.

Sir William, therefore, in exciting Abernethy's enthusiasm at this time, was probably of great service. He was thus impelled to pursue the study of anatomy, which perhaps might otherwise have failed to interest him sufficiently, whilst his attention was by no means diverted from the real purposes of that study. On the contrary, he always saw anatomy, as it were, through a physiological medium. This threw a pleasure into his anatomical pursuits, and was one of the means by which, in his own lectures, he contrived to impart an interest to the driest parts of our studies.

Many years afterwards, he was fond of illustrating the true relations of anatomy and physiology, and at the same time contrasting the attractions of the one with the comparatively repulsive requisitions of the other, by saying, with Dr. Barclay, of Edinburgh, that "he never would have wedded himself to so ugly a witch (anatomy), but for the dower she brought him (physiology)." The impressions which he derived from Sir William Blizard were deep and durable. More than thirty years after, when he himself was at the zenith of his career, we find his grateful feeling towards Sir William still glowing warm as ever. He seems to have considered the expression of it as the most appropriate opening to the first of the beautiful lectures which he delivered at the College of Surgeons in 1814. It must have been a moment of no small gratification to Sir William, who was present, now venerable with age, to have found that the honourable course of his own younger days, and the purity and excellence of his precepts, had all been garnered up in the heart of his grateful and most distinguished pupil. Nor could the evidence of it be well made more striking than when heralded forth before an audience composed of the most venerable and experienced, as well as of the most rising members of the profession; and, to crown the whole, with an eloquence at once modest and emotional, impressive of the depth and sincerity with which the eulogium was delivered.

It is difficult to imagine a scene more moving to the master, more gratifying to the pupil, or more honourable to both. As the style was very characteristic, we select a few passages. He commences the lecture by saying, of Sir William Blizard, that "he was my earliest instructor in anatomy and surgery, and I am greatly indebted to him for much valuable information. My warmest thanks are also due to him for the interest he excited in my mind towards these studies, and for his excellent advice. 'Let your search after truth,' he would say, 'be eager and constant. Be wary in admitting propositions to be facts, before you have submitted them to the strictest examination. If, after this, you believe them to be true, never disregard or forget any one of them, however unimportant it may at the time appear. Should you perceive truths to be important, make them motives of action. Let them serve as springs to your conduct. If we neglect to draw such inferences, or to act in conformity with them, we fail in essential duties!'" Again, in remarking how Sir William excited his enthusiasm by the beau-idéal which he drew of the medical character, Mr. Abernethy observed: "I cannot tell you how splendid and brilliant he made it appear; and then he cautioned us never to tarnish its lustre by any disingenuous conduct, or by anything that bore even the semblance of dishonour." Abernethy, then proceeding in a strain, warm, yet apologetic (Sir William being present), at length concluded his public thanks to his venerable instructor, by saying, "what I have now stated is a tribute due from me to him; and I pay it on the present occasion in the hope that the same precepts and motives may have the same effects on the junior part of my audience as they were accustomed, in general, to have on the pupils of Sir William Blizard."[¹⁴]

Abernethy then proceeded to advocate similar lofty views of the nature and duties of our profession in the following manner: "That which most dignifies man, is the cultivation of those qualities which most distinguish him from the brute creation. We should indeed seek truth for its importance, and act as the dictates of reason direct us. By exercising our minds in the attainment of medical knowledge, we may improve a science of great public utility. We have need of enthusiasm, or of some strong incentive, to induce us to spend our nights in study, and our days in the disgusting and health-destroying duties of the dissecting-room, or in that careful and distressing observation of human diseases and infirmities which can alone enable us to alleviate or remove them; some powerful inducement," he adds, "exclusive of fame or emolument (for, unfortunately, a man may attain a considerable share of reputation and practice, without being a real student of his profession). I place before you the most animating incentive I know of—that is, the enviable power of being extensively useful to your fellow-creatures. You will be able to confer that which sick kings would fondly purchase with their diadems, which wealth cannot command, nor state nor rank bestow:—to alleviate or remove disease, the most insupportable of human afflictions; and thereby give health, the most invaluable of human blessings."

When Abernethy entered the London Hospital, he soon gave proofs that Sir William's lessons were not unfruitful. He was early employed to prepare the subject for lecture. Anatomy is usually taught by combining three plans.

In one, the various structures—muscles, vessels, nerves, &c.—are exposed, by the removal of their covering and connecting-tissues, and so displayed as to be clear and distinct. This is "dissecting for lecture;" and it is the duty of the lecturer to describe the connections and immediate uses of the parts so displayed.

The body is then laid on a clean table, covered with a white cloth, and everything is ready. There is some difference in these matters in different hands; but attention to order and cleanliness goes a long way in facilitating anatomical pursuits. To many there may be much that is disagreeable in anatomy; but we are persuaded that a coarse and vulgar inattention to decency has often alone rendered it disgusting or repulsive.

The other plan is not materially different from the foregoing, excepting that it is generally done by the anatomical assistant—technically, the "demonstrator." The parts, having been somewhat exposed, are left, as much as is consistent with clearness, in their natural and relative positions; and the vessels, nerves, muscles, &c. which have been for the most part described separately by the lecturer, are now "demonstrated" (as the phrase is) together. The relative positions of all parts are thus more especially impressed on the student. In these "demonstrations" there is the same attention to covering the body with a cloth, &c. as in the lecture.

Lastly, the pupil is required to make out the parts by dissecting them himself, with such occasional assistance as may be at first necessary, and which is given by the demonstrator, who attends in the room for that purpose.

Now these duties (the lecture only excepted) were early performed by Abernethy. We may safely infer from this, that he was distinguished by his industry and zeal in the pursuit of knowledge, and that he began thus early to cultivate that power of communicating what he knew to others; in the exercise of which he ultimately acquired a success, a curiosa felicitas, in which he excelled all his contemporaries. That special qualifications were already discernible, we may infer from the post he occupied being invariably filled by a pupil of the hospital to which the school belongs; whereas Mr. Abernethy was an apprentice of a surgeon of St. Bartholomew's. On the testimony of a contemporary and fellow-student, Mr. W. W. Cox, late of Wolverhampton, we learn that he began to individualize himself very early. That, at the London Hospital, "he was for the most part reserved, seldom associating with any of the other students, but sitting in some place or corner by himself, diligently intent on the business of the lecture." Sir William Blizard is known to have felt proud of him, and to have soon indulged in great expectations from his character and talents.

I have already observed that Abernethy had the advantage of attending also the Surgical Lectures of Mr. Pott, at St. Bartholomew's. Mr. Pott was a gentleman, a scholar, and a good writer, and seems to have been a spirited and attractive lecturer. In an oration delivered by Sir William Blizard, in 1815, it is said that "it was difficult to give an idea of the elegance of his language, the animation of his manner, or the perceptive force or effect of his truths and his doctrines"—a character which is by no means inconsistent with Mr. Pott's more sustained compositions.

Such opportunities were not lost on Abernethy. He soon became possessed of what was known in the ordinary business of anatomy and surgery. His diligence too had afforded him an opportunity of testing those powers of communicating what he knew, to which I have just alluded. As an apprentice of a surgeon of Bartholomew's, his views were directed to that hospital; and it was not long before the resignation of Mr. Pott, and the appointment of Sir Charles Blicke, who was assistant surgeon, to succeed him, opened to Abernethy an arena in which he might further mature his peculiar aptitude for teaching his profession. This had been, as we learn from his own testimony, an early object of his ambition, and one for which he had already begun to educate himself at the London Hospital.

[14] Sir William was a good surgeon and an excellent man. He was born at Barnes, in Surrey, and practised his profession until his death, which took place at the advanced age of ninety-three. One of his eyes was affected with cataract, which was removed by operation when he was ninety-one. He was enthusiastically fond of his profession, and was chiefly remarkable for his zealous observance of its honourable practice, and his indifference to lucre. He died in 1835.

CHAPTER V.

"Terra salutiferas herbas eademque nocentes

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

Ovid.

A large London Hospital is (if we may be excused the Hibernianism, as Mr. Abernethy used to call it) a large microcosm. There is little in human nature, of which an observant eye may not here find types or realities. Hopes and fears, joys and sorrows, solace and suffering, are here strangely intermingled. General benevolence, with special exceptions. There is no human good without its shadow of evil; even the benevolent must take care. Impatient sensibility is much nearer a heartless indifference than people generally imagine. The rose, Charity, must take care of the nettle, Temper. The man who is chary or chafed, in yielding that sympathy which philosophy and feeling require, must beware lest he degenerate into a brute.

One of the brightest points in Abernethy's character, was, that, however he might sometimes forget the courtesy due to his private patients, he was never unkind to those whom charity had confided to his care. One morning, leaving home for the hospital, when some one was desirous of detaining him, he said: "Private patients, if they do not like me, can go elsewhere; but the poor devils in the hospital I am bound to take care of."

But to the hospital. Here we find some that have had the best this world can give—some who have known little but misery: the many no doubt lie between; but all come upon the same errand. Disease is a great leveller. There all flock, as to Addison's Mountain of Miseries, to get rid of their respective burthens, or to effect such exchanges as benevolence may have to offer, or the grave can alone supply. Our large hospitals have a most efficient "matériel;" the accommodations are extensive, the revenues princely. St. Bartholomew's, for example, has a revenue of between twenty and thirty thousand pounds a year, and is capable of receiving six hundred patients.

As regards what is mechanically or physically necessary to the comfort of the inmates, the ample appliances of our large hospitals leave little or nothing to be desired. There is every facility for the execution of the duties, that convenient space and orderly arrangement can suggest; in short, everything, in the general sense of the word, that money can procure. Then there are governors, whose hearts are as open as their purses, whose names are recorded in gold letters, as the more recent or current contributors to the funds of the establishment, and who rejoice in the occasional Saturnalia of venison and turtle; all duties or customs which may be observed, with the gratifying reflection that they are taking the thorns out of the feet of the afflicted; provided only that they do not involve forgetfulness of other duties, the neglect of which may plant a few in their own. The governors determine the election of the medical men, to whom the welfare of the patients and the interests of science are to be entrusted.

We have said that money cannot procure all things, and one of these is mind—a remark requiring some qualification certainly; but this we must refer to a subsequent chapter. Minds such as Abernethy's are not to be found every day; and, notwithstanding the sumptuous bill of fare we have already glanced at, there are many things in a large London Hospital yet to be desired—defects which, though it need no great penetration to discover, may, for aught we know, require public attention, a Government altogether better informed as to the actual defects in medical science, and the plastic hand of power, to supply.

Abernethy was elected assistant surgeon of St. Bartholomew's Hospital, July 15th, 1787. Sir Charles Blicke, an assistant surgeon, had been appointed to the surgeoncy vacant by the resignation of Mr. Pott, and Abernethy succeeded to the assistant surgeoncy thus vacated. The election was contested by two or three other candidates; amongst the rest, by Mr. Heaviside. This gentleman was an eminent surgeon, and a gentlemanly, facetious, and agreeable companion. He was originally in the Guards, and practised in London many years with great credit and respectability. He was fond of science, and expended considerable sums in the formation of an interesting museum. In the earlier part of his life, he gave conversaziones, which were attended by great numbers both of the scientific and fashionable.

He lived in a day when, if a gentleman felt himself insulted, he had at least the satisfaction of being relieved from his sensibility by having his brains blown out in a duel—professionally speaking, by a kind of "operative surgery;" viz. the demolition of the organ in which the troublesome faculty resided. Mr. Heaviside, in his professional capacity, is said to have attended more duels than any other surgeon of his time. This gentleman, albeit not unused to one kind of contest, retired from that at the hospital; which then lay between Mr. Jones and Mr. Abernethy—the former polling twenty-nine, the latter fifty-three votes.

This was an important epoch in the life of Abernethy. It is difficult to adjust the influence which it ultimately exerted, for good or evil, on his future prospects and happiness, or on his relations to science. The hospital had thus secured a man of extraordinary talent, it is true, and in spite of a system which indefinitely narrows the field of choice; but then the same "system" (which we shall by and by describe) kept Abernethy, as regards the hospital, for no less a term than twenty-eight years, in a position which, although it did not exclude him altogether from the field of observation it afforded, did much to restrict his cultivation of it. His talents for observation, nevertheless, and the estimation in which he was soon held, no doubt enabled him, to a certain extent, to bring many of his views to the test of practice. Still, as an assistant surgeon, except in the absence of his chief, he had officially nothing to do; whatever cases he conducted, were only by sufferance of his senior.

To a man of his ability, this was a false and miserably cramped position; one, in fact, much better calculated for detecting faults, than for developing the best mode of amending them. As assistant surgeon, he had no emolument from the hospital: he had, therefore, a very reasonable inducement to set about doing that for which he felt himself especially fitted, and to which he had early directed his attention—namely, to teach his profession. The event showed that he had by no means miscalculated his powers. These proved well-nigh unrivalled. The appointment to St. Bartholomew's, besides other advantages, gave him an opportunity of lecturing with the prestige usually afforded by connection with a large hospital. He did not, however, at first give his lectures at the hospital, but delivered them in Bartholomew Close.

There was at this time, in fact, no school, properly so called, at St. Bartholomew's. Mr. Pott had been accustomed to give about twenty-four lectures, which, as short practical discourses, were first-rate for that period; but there were no other lectures, not even on anatomy; which are essentially the basis of a medical school.

Dr. Marshall, who was a very remarkable man, and no less eminent for his general ability than for his professional acquirements, was at this time giving anatomical lectures, at his house, in Bartlett's Buildings, Holborn. In a biographical notice of him, in the "Gentleman's Magazine," in which we read that he was giving lectures about the year 1787, it is incidentally remarked, that "in all probability he derived little support from St. Bartholomew's Hospital; for that recently an ingenious young gentleman, Mr. Abernethy, had begun to give lectures in the neighbourhood."

Abernethy, who seems to have been always seeking information, certainly attended some of Marshall's lectures; because he would occasionally refer to anecdotes he had heard there. He had thus listened to most of the best lecturers of his day—Sir William Blizard, Dr. Maclaurin, Mr. Pott, and Dr. Marshall. To the experience which he had thus acquired, and with the early intention of applying it, he added a remarkable natural capacity for communicating his ideas to others. We thus begin to perceive his early cultivation of that aptitude for lecturing which no doubt greatly contributed to the excellence which he ultimately achieved in that mode of instruction.

We desire to impress this feature in his education, because by and by it will, with other things, assist us in a rather difficult task: that is, an attempt to analyze the means by which he obtained such a power over his audience. He thus became a teacher at the age of twenty-three, at a large hospital where he was about to commence a school, of which he would be at first the sole support. This necessarily involved a fearful amount of labour, for an organization, active and energetic, but by no means of great physical power.

Labour, to be sure, is the stuff that life is made of; but then, in a fine organization like Abernethy's, it should be directed with economy of power, and in application to the highest purposes. Such an organization should, if possible, have been relieved from the drudgery which lies within the sphere of more ordinary capacity. Ready as we are, then, to congratulate the young philosopher, about to display his powers on a field where he was so successful, still misgivings creep in which restrain, or at least moderate, our enthusiasm. Unusual ability, no doubt, allows men to anticipate the order which, as the rule, Nature seems to have assigned to the pursuits of intellect; but we must not suffer ourselves to be blinded to the rule, by the frequency of the exception. Youth is the time for acquiring knowledge; and, although there is no reason why the fruits may not be imparted to others as fast as they are gathered, still, when the larger space of a man's time at twenty-three is devoted to teaching merely, it may reasonably be doubted whether it be such a disposition of it as is best calculated to economise his power, or develop the maximum of its influence, in extending the science to which it is devoted.

John Hunter declined undertaking to teach anatomy at forty (1768), because it would have "engaged his attention too much to admit of that general attention to his profession; to forming habits and established modes of thinking, which he thought necessary." In Abernethy's after life, we think we saw a good deal of the wear and tear that early and diversified labour had impressed on his physical organization. In advancing life, the natural desire for ease, if not carefully guarded, may not be without its perils; but precocious labour, stinted rest, and the malaria of large cities, crowded hospitals, and filthy dissecting rooms, too certainly bring on a train of evils, not less grave because more distant.

We shall have to revert to these points when, in conclusion, we consider the variety and importance of his contributions to the science of his profession, and why they were not still more numerous. The latter, though perhaps the less grateful, is by no means the least useful portion of biographical analysis.

Commencing his lectures in Bartholomew Close, they soon seem to have attracted notice. The anatomical courses, which were always on a similar plan, were very skilfully framed to interest and instruct the students. The arrangement of the matter was such, that the dry details of anatomy were lighted up by a description, not only of the purposes served by the various parts, but by as much as could be conveniently included of the diseases or accidents to which they were subject; and thus the juxtaposition of the structure, function, and diseases, naturally tended to impress the whole.

Diseases of more general site, and which therefore did not fall conveniently under discussion in describing any one part, were reserved for a separate course of lectures. It was in this course that he more fully developed those general principles on which his reputation more especially rests. Of his inimitable manner we shall speak hereafter.

He was one of the first who insisted on the great importance of Comparative Anatomy, in studying the uses of the several parts of the human body. Were it not for the comparison of the relations of various parts in different animals, we should be continually the victims of hypotheses, which the juxtaposition or other characters of organs in any one animal are constantly suggesting. Here necessity compels the observance of that rule of inductive philosophy, which seeks not for the true relation of any one thing in itself, but from universals, from uses and application which are common to other things. In one case nature makes that luminously clear, which is only dimly shadowed forth in another; and in seeing organs under every conceivable variety of circumstance, we learn to estimate at their full value characteristics which are common to and inseparable from all—the only point whence we can securely deduce their real uses in the animal economy. Of this, Abernethy early saw and inculcated the advantages.

As it was impossible to combine anything like a comprehensive study of a vast science in the same course with lectures on human Anatomy, he was accustomed, at the conclusion of the course, to devote a lecture or two to select illustrations of this important subject. This he ultimately relinquished, the universal admission of the fact rendering it no longer necessary.

We shall have occasion, by and by, to record the circumstances under which one of the most important steps was taken for securing the interests of Comparative Anatomy in this country—a proceeding in a great degree owing to the good sense and personal influence of Abernethy, and exemplifying, in the admirable fitness of the individual[¹⁶], the penetrative perception of character which distinguished his early Preceptor in Anatomy.

We have little doubt that we have now entered on the most laborious part of Abernethy's life, and that, during this and some succeeding years, his exertions were so great and unremitting, as to have laid the foundation of those ailments which, at a comparatively early period of life, began to embitter its enjoyment, and to strew the onward path with the elements of decay and suffering.

He lectured himself on anatomy, physiology, and pathology, besides surgery—subjects which are now usually divided between three or four teachers. There is abundant evidence that he was an attentive observer of what was going on in the hospital. He was assiduous in visiting most places where any information was to be obtained. We find him attending Mr. Hunter's lectures, and constantly meditating on what he heard there; thus seeking opportunities of making himself more and more familiar with those opinions which, in his view, on most of the points to which they related, were definite—cautiously deduced—not always clear, perhaps; but, when understood, truthful.

He endeavoured further to mature an accurate perception of Mr. Hunter's views, by seeking private conferences with him; and Hunter kindly afforded him facilities for so doing. We have Abernethy's own acknowledgment of this, coupled with his regret that he could not more frequently avail himself of them. Indeed, when we consider that Abernethy lived at this time in St. Mary Axe, or in Mildred's Court in the Poultry,—that he was lecturing on the sciences I have mentioned,—that he was observant of cases at the hospital (a very timeful occupation),—and consider the distance between these points and Mr. Hunter's residence in Leicester Square, or his school in Windmill Street,—we see there could not be much time to spare. It was not, however, merely during the time at which he was delivering his lectures that he was thus actively employed. We have, not unfrequently, evidence that he was often at the hospital late in the day, in the most leisure season of the year, when perhaps his senior had, during his absence in the summer, confided the patients to his care.

We used to get, occasionally, such passages as these in the lectures: "One summer evening, as I was crossing the Square of the hospital, a student came running to me," &c. Very significant of continued attention during the summer or leisure season—he not being, be it remembered, other than an assistant-surgeon, and not, therefore, necessarily having duties at the hospital.

At this period, it was a common practice with him to rise as early as four in the morning. He would sometimes go away into the country, that he might read, more free from interruption. He also instituted various experiments, some of which we shall have shortly to notice, for the philosophical spirit in which they were conducted. His visit to France must have been made about this time, when the celebrated Desault was at the height of his reputation. His stay could not have been long, in all probability; but we have evidence showing how quickly he perceived, amidst the success of Desault, the more important defects of the hospital—the Hôtel Dieu—to which he was chirurgien-en-chef, and the influence exerted by them on his practice.

As we shall be obliged again to mention Desault in connection with a material item in the catalogue of our obligations to Abernethy, we postpone for the present any further remarks on that distinguished French surgeon.

Abernethy now continued actively engaged in the study and teaching of his profession. The most remarkable circumstance at this time of his life, and for several years, was his peculiar diffidence—an unconquerable shyness, a difficulty in commanding at pleasure that self-possession which was necessary to open his lecture. Everything connected with his lectures is of importance to those who may be engaged in this mode of teaching, or who may desire to excel in it. No man ever attained to excellence more varied or attractive; yet many years elapsed before he had overcome the difficulty to which I have alluded.

An old student, who attended his lectures, not earlier than 1795, told me that he recollected several occasions on which, before beginning the lecture, he had left the theatre for a time, to collect himself sufficiently to begin his discourse. On these occasions, a tumult of applause seemed only to increase the difficulty. The lecture once commenced, I have no evidence of his having exhibited further embarrassment. He seems early to have attained that happy manner which, though no doubt greatly aided by his peculiar and in some sense dramatic talent, there is every reason to believe had been carefully cultivated by study and observation.

His lectures continuing to attract a larger and larger class, the accommodation became inadequate for the increased number of students. The governors of St. Bartholomew's, therefore, in 1790, determined on building a regular theatre within the hospital. It was completed in 1791, and Abernethy gave his October courses of anatomy, physiology, and surgery of that year in the new theatre. He had thus become the founder of the School of St. Bartholomew's, which, for the approaches it made towards giving a more scientific phase to the practice of Surgery, was certainly superior to any other.

In expressing this opinion, we except, of course, John Hunter's lectures, for the short time that they were contemporaneous with those of Mr. Abernethy; John Hunter dying, as we have said, in 1793. As St. Bartholomew's Hospital was our own Alma Mater, we may, perhaps, speak with a fallible partiality; but we think not. We are far from being blind to the faults which Bartholomew's has, in common with other schools; and, we believe, regret as much as anybody can do, that the arrangements of our hospitals, excellent as in many respects they are, should still so defectively supply many of the requisitions which the interests of science demand. Some of these defects we may endeavour to point out in their proper place. We shall now leave the subject of Mr. Abernethy and his lectures, and begin to consider some of his earlier efforts at authorship, sketch the objects he had in view, and the mode of investigation.

[15] "The same earth nourishes both wholesome and noxious plants, and the nettle is often next the rose."

[16] Professor Owen.

CHAPTER VI.

"All things are but altered, nothing dies,

And here or there the unbodied spirit flies."

Dryden.

The most universal character impressed on all created things that sense allows us to recognize, or philosophical inquiry to demonstrate, is "change."

While nothing is more certain, few things pass less observed; or, when first announced, more stagger conviction.

An old man sees the yew-tree of his boyish days apparently the same. Gilpin tells us "eight hundred years is no great age for an oak[¹⁷]!"

The cliff which we left "beetling" seems to beetle still; mountains appear to be everlasting; yet, were seas and rivers to disclose even a small part of their mission, the Danube or the Volga might tell of millions of tons of soil carried from higher levels to the Black Sea and the Caspian. Animals, too, are mighty agents in recording the mutability of the matter of the universe. Coral Reefs, never spoken of in smaller terms than miles and fathoms, are the vast ocean structures of countless millions of animalcules, which serve, as it were, to link together the two great kingdoms of organic nature—the animal and vegetable creation. The microscopic geologist informs us of whole strata, well-nigh entirely composed of the silicified skeletons of insects. Sir Charles Lyell further impresses on us the reality of continual change, by referring (and, as it would appear, with increasing probability) even the stupendous changes demonstrated by geology to the agency of causes still in operation.

Animals, however, besides the curious structures which they combine to contribute, are individually undergoing constant change. Man is not only no exception, but he is a "glaring" example.

The whole human race are in hourly progress of mutation. "In the midst of life we are in death," is a truth to which physiology yields its tribute of illustration. Every moment we are having the old particles of our bodies silently taken away, and new materials as silently laid down. Surrounding influences, as air, moisture, temperature, &c. which, during life, are necessary to existence—the moment the breath leaves us, proceed to resolve the body into the elements of which it was composed. In all cases, change may be regarded as the combined result of two forces: the force acting, and the body acted on—that is to say, of certain external agents and certain forces inherent in the thing changed.

Animals are no exceptions to this view, and diseases are amongst a multitude of other exemplifications of it; but, in order to distinguish these more clearly, it is desirable that we should be familiar with those more ordinary changes in the body which are constantly going on; and to some of these were Abernethy's early investigations directed.

In proceeding to give some account of his works, we must be necessarily more brief than a scientific analysis would require.

To do him full justice, it would be necessary to republish his writings, with appropriate commentaries. We shall hope, however, to do enough to relieve his memory from some of the numerous misconceptions of his principles and opinions; and to endeavour to show his claims to the respect and gratitude of posterity.

In everything Abernethy did, we find evidence of the acuteness of his mind, and his general qualifications for philosophical research.

His lectures had gradually attracted an increasing number of students; and he seems, about 1791, to have been desirous of prefacing his lectures on Anatomy by discussing the general composition of Animal Matter.

The rapid advance of chemistry had given a great impetus to this kind of investigation. Abernethy was not only well up in the chemistry of the day, but also not unskilled in the manipulatory application of it; and he felt interested in observing the great diversity of substances which appeared to be made up of similar elements. Boyle has recorded a vast number of facts, many of which would even now well repay a thoughtful revision; and Fordyce was certainly one of our most philosophical physicians.

Boyle had grown vegetables in water and air only, and found they produced woody fibre. Fordyce found that gold fish, placed under similar conditions, not only lived, but grew. Abernethy's experiments had for their object to inquire how far organized bodies (animals and vegetables) were capable of deriving their various structures from similar simple elements.

He grew vegetables on flannel, wetted from time to time with distilled water; and then, analyzing them, compared the results with those of the analysis of vegetables grown in the ordinary manner.

Other curious experiments consisted in pouring concentrated acids on vegetable structures, with a view to dissolve any alkali or iron which they might contain, and then analyzing the vegetables so treated.

He now found, in the burnt vegetable, lime, iron, &c. which, had they been free to combine, should have been taken up by the acid to which he had subjected the vegetable before he analyzed it; but he found neither in the acid, whilst both were discovered in the vegetables.

He also inquired whether tadpoles and leeches would live when kept only in distilled water, with the admission of air. For example, he placed twelve leeches in two gallons of distilled water, They weighed, in all, twelve scruples. In three months, two had died, but the remaining ten weighed twelve scruples, showing that they had grown. He next inquired whether vegetables, grown in air and distilled water, would admit of further conversion into the structure of animals; and, for this purpose, he fed rabbits on vegetables so reared. His rabbits appear to have eaten about six plates at a meal of young cabbages thus reared on flannel wetted with distilled water.

He also experimented on eggs, both before and at the time of incubation.

He wished to ascertain the quantity of lime in the chicken and the egg, respectively; and whether any of the lime was absorbed from the shell, which it appeared not to be.

It is curious to observe the time and labour he gave to these experiments; they evince a very perfect knowledge of the chemistry necessary; whilst the circumstances calculated to interfere with or obscure the conclusions from them are judiciously and clearly stated.

Many of his remarks, as well as the ingenious suggestions with which they are interspersed, exemplify the caution with which he reasoned. In speaking of his experiments on leeches and tadpoles, many of which latter had become perfectly developed frogs, he says: "The experiments which I made on this plan (in vessels of distilled water, covered with linen) were made in the summer, when to prevent vegetation was impossible; and, on the other hand, when the vessels were covered over, even leeches died. In the winter, vegetation might cease; but then the torpid state of the animals would render the experiments inconclusive."

He reduced an equal number of eggs and chickens (at the time of incubation) to ashes; sometimes in crucibles, sometimes in retorts. On the ashes he poured some distilled water, and ascertained the salts (as lime, &c.) contained in them. In some experiments, the quantity of these found in the ashes of the chickens greatly exceeded that found in the ashes of the eggs. In other experiments, the quantities were equal.

In some of his experiments, after using the best chemical tests for detecting iron, lime, and the salts, and then washing the residue with distilled water, he burnt it in a crucible, and found more lime and iron; on which he makes the following remarks, which suggest what we apprehend, even at this time, is a very necessary caution:

"This circumstance proves to me that the substances found in the ashes of burnt animal matter do not formally exist in the mass before its destruction, but are only new distributions of the same ultimate particles which, under their former mode of arrangement, made the animal substance; but which, being driven asunder by the repulsive power of fire, are left at liberty to form other modifications of matter." Page 97. Just what happens when animal matter is burned, in the formation of ammonia, by the union of the nitrogen and hydrogen then set free.

He investigated, also, the question of how far the results of the decomposition of animal matter would be identical, if the analyses were conducted by heat, or by putrefactive decomposition. In this experiment, he selected blood; and he found that blood which had been allowed to putrify yielded a much larger quantity of iron and lime.

The whole of the experiments are very suggestive, and full of thought; and not only indicate very forward views of the elementary constitution of organic and inorganic matter, but also moot questions which have not lost any of their interest by the most recent investigations. He concludes by observing that he had undertaken these experiments for the reasons already assigned, and because he had imbibed the idea that the ultimate particles of matter were the same.

He remarks that the progress of chemistry had not been applied, in every respect, to the best purpose; that men's views were becoming contracted by being directed to individual objects; and that they had ceased to contemplate the beautiful and extensive subject of matter and its combinations; and he complains that even Fourcroi, Lavoisier, and Chaptal, either avoid the subject, or do not sufficiently consider it. We must recollect this was said before Sir H. Davy had made his splendid discoveries. Abernethy, after observing that he hopes his experiments will induce others to investigate the subject, concludes thus:

"I know not any thought that, on contemplation, can so delight the mind with admiration of the simplicity and power evident in the operations of the Creator, as the consideration that, by different arrangement and motion of singular atoms, He has produced that variety of substances found in the world, and which are so conducive to the wants and gratification of the creatures who inhabit it."

DISSECTION OF A WHALE.

SECTION I.

"Mors sola fatetur

Quantula sint hominum corpuscula."

Juv.

Amongst a multitude of examples, which teach us how little we can infer the importance of anything in nature from its size, or other impressions which it may convey to mere sense, we might adduce the wonderful little tubes, certain relations of which were the objects of this paper. Those constant mutations in animal bodies which are every moment in progress, are, in great part, due to a very curious order of vessels, of such extreme minuteness and tenuity, that, being in the dead animal usually empty and transparent, they are very commonly invisible, and thus long eluded discovery. There is one situation, however, in which circumstances combine to expose them to observation. Transparent though they be, they are here usually rendered visible; first, by being loaded with a milk-like fluid; and secondly, by being placed between the folds of a membrane, itself beautifully transparent (the mesentery). This fluid they have just taken up from the digestive surfaces on which their mouths open, and they are now carrying it off to pour it into the blood-vessels, that it may be added to the general stock of the circulation.

In the situation above mentioned they were at length discovered, about the commencement of the 17th century. Every thing destined to support the body with new material, as well as the old, which is to be taken away, must first be sucked up by the myriads of inconceivably minute mouths of these vessels, which, from their office, are called the absorbents. These absorbents may therefore be regarded as the sentinels of the body. They are very sensitive and excitable; but, besides this, there are placed in the course of their journey, from the surfaces whence they bring their contents, and the blood-vessels to which they are carrying them, a number of douaniers, or custom-house officers (the glands, or kernels, as they are popularly called), whereby, as we have every reason to believe, the fluids they are importing are subjected to rigid examination; and, if found to be injurious, to some modification, tending to render them more fit for admission into the system.

If the contents are very irritating, these vigilant guards—these kernels—become very painfully affected, and sometimes inflammation is set up, sufficient even to destroy the part; as if, faithful to their trust, they perished themselves, rather than give entrance to anything injurious to the body.

We should never advance, however, in our story, if we were to tell all the interesting peculiarities of these curious vessels.

When first discovered, and the office assigned to them could no longer be disputed, the general distribution of them was still doubted. As it was usual to render them visible by filling them with quicksilver, so, with a kind of reasoning which has too often characterized mere anatomical research, when they could not be made visible, it became the fashion to doubt their existence. Amongst other structures, Bone was formerly one in regard to which people found a difficulty. How could such delicate vessels exist in such an apparently dense structure? But Mr. Abernethy, who, like Bacon, had always opposed mere eye-reasoning, used to observe, with equal simplicity and good sense, that, for his part, he could see no more difficulty in an absorbent taking up a particle of bone, than he could in comprehending how a vessel could lay it down, which nobody doubted. We now know that bone is not only supplied with all the vessels which characterize a living structure, but so liberally, that, in comparison with some other structures of the body, we regard it as a part of high organization.

Nevertheless, the extreme minuteness and transparency of these absorbent vessels naturally led persons to regard with considerable interest any magnified view of them, such as that afforded by larger animals. In the paper before us, which was published in the "Philosophical Transactions" for 1793, Mr. Abernethy gives the account of his examination of the absorbents in a whale; and his object was to help to determine a question long agitated, whether the glands or kernels were composed of cells, or whether they were merely multiplied convolutions of vessels. He selected the absorbents from the situation to which I have already referred. He threw into the arteries which carry blood to nourish the gland, a red solution containing wax, which of course became solid on cooling; and into the veins which return the blood from all parts, a similar solution, only coloured yellow. He filled the absorbents with quicksilver.

He found, in filling the absorbents, that wherever the quicksilver arrived at a gland, there was a hesitation—its course became retarded, and that this retardation was longest at those glands which were nearest the source whence the vessels had drawn their contents, viz. the alimentary canal: as if the surfaces over which the fluid had to pass were more multiplied where most necessary, or, recurring to our metaphor, as if the more strict douanier had been placed on the frontier. He says that he found that some of the absorbents went over the glands, whilst others penetrated these bodies. That he found that the melted wax which he had thrown into the vessels had formed round nodules of various sizes. He then extended his examination of these vessels to those of horses and other large animals; and the result of his investigation was, that it inclined him to the conclusion that the glands were not merely made up of convolutions of vessels, but were of a really cellular structure.

The paper is very modestly put forth, and he concludes it by observing that he offers it merely for the facts which it contains, and not as justifying any final conclusion; but "as all our knowledge of the absorbents," he continues, "seems to have been acquired by fragments, I am anxious to add my mite to our general stock of information on the subject."

It may not be uninteresting to some unprofessional readers to know that the glands here alluded to are the organs which are so seriously diseased in those lamentable conditions popularly expressed, I believe, by the term mesenteric disease, or disease of the mesentery.