It has been stated by an acute observer that it was impossible for any man to be with Abernethy, even for a short time, without feeling that he was in communion with no common mind; and it was just, I think, the first effect he produced. In person, he was of middle stature1, and well proportioned for strength and activity. He had a most interesting countenance2; it combined the character of a philosopher and a philanthropist, lighted up by cheerfulness and humour. It was not that his features were particularly well formed or handsome, though there was not a bad one in the whole countenance; but the harmony of composition (if we may be allowed the expression) was so perfect.
A sufficiently3 high and ample forehead towered over two of the most observant and expressive4 eyes I almost ever saw. People differ about colour; they appeared to me always of a greyish-blue, and were characterized as the rule by a mirthful yet piercing expression, from which an overlaying of benevolence5 was seldom wanting; yet, as we have before observed, they would sometimes launch forth6 gleams of humour, anger, or pathos7, as the case might be, which were such as the term dramatic can alone convey.
There was another expression of his eye which was very characteristic; it was when his benevolence was excited without the means of gratifying it, as would sometimes happen in the case of hospital patients, for whom he wanted good air, and things which370 their position did not allow them to procure8. He would in this case step a pace or two from the bed, throw his head a little aside, and, talking to the dresser, exhibit an expression of deep feeling which was extremely peculiar9; it was a mixture of suffering, of impatience10, and sympathy; but the force which the scene drew from the dramatic character of his expressive countenance is entirely11 lost in the mere12 relation. If, at such times, he gave utterance13 to a few words, they were always extremely touching14 and expressive. On an occasion, for example, like the following, these characters were combined. A woman came into the hospital to have an operation performed; and Abernethy, as was his invariable custom, took some time to get her health into a more favourable15 condition. When the day for the operation was at hand, the dresser informed him that she was about to quit the hospital.
"Why, my good woman," said Abernethy, "what a fool you must be to come here to have an operation performed; and now, just as you are in a fit state for it, to go out again." Somebody here whispered to him that her father in the country "was dying." With a burst of indignation, his eyes flashing fire, he turned to the dresser, and said: "You fool, why did you not tell me this before?" Then, after a moment or two looking at the patient, he went from the foot up to the side of the bed, and said in the kindest tone possible: "Yes, my good woman, you shall go out immediately; you may come back again when you please, and I will take all the care I can of you."
Now there was nothing in all this, perhaps; but his manner gave it immense force. And I remember one of the old pupils saying to me: "How kind he was to that woman; upon my soul, I could hardly help crying."
Abernethy exemplified a very rare and powerful combination of intellectual qualities. He had a perception of the facts of a subject at once rapid, penetrating17, and comprehensive, and a power of analysis which immediately elicited18 those relations which were most important to the immediate16 objects of the investigation19; a power, of course, of the utmost value in a practical profession.
This faculty20 was never more marvellously displayed than sometimes in doubtful or difficult cases; and this had been always371 a striking excellence21 in him, even when a young man. I recollect22 hearing my father say, that to see Abernethy to advantage, you must observe him when roused by some difficulty, and in a case where other men were at fault, or puzzled. It was just so; his penetrating mind seemed to remove to either side at once what was foreign or doubtful, and go straight to the point with which alone he had to grapple. Allied23 to this, if not part of it, was that suggestive power which he possessed24 in so remarkable25 a degree, and which by a kind of intuition seemed to single out those pertinent26 relations and inquiries27 which the judgment28 is to examine, and reject, or approve, as the case may be; a faculty absolutely necessary to success in endeavours at extending the boundaries of a science. He was thus sometimes enabled, as has been shown, to convert facts to the highest purposes, in aid of practical improvement, which, with an ordinary observer, would have passed unnoticed.
These qualities, combined with a memory, as we have seen, peculiarly ready, capacious, and retentive29, placed his resources at once at hand for practical application. Then, while his quick perception of relation always supplied him with abundant analogies, his imaginative faculty enabled him to illustrate30, enforce, and adorn31 them with such a multitude and variety of illustration as seemed well-nigh inexhaustible.
Of his humour we have already spoken; but the same properties which served him so well in more important matters were really, as it appears to us, the foundation of much of that humour by which his conversation was characterized—we mean his quick perception of relation, and his marvellously retentive memory. Many of the things that he said, "told," not because they were original, so much as that they were ready at hand; not because they were intrinsically good, as so apposite in application; and, lastly, because they were further assisted by his inimitable manner. Nevertheless, sometimes his quick perception would be characterized by a corresponding felicity of expression. Bartleman was an intimate friend of Abernethy's; and those who remember the magnificent voice and peculiarly chaste33 style of that celebrated34 singer, will appreciate the felicity of the expression372 applied35 to him by Abernethy, when he said, "Bartleman is an orator36 in music."
Abernethy had the talent of conveying, by his manner, and apparently37 without the smallest effort, that which in the drama is scarcely known but as the result of constant and careful study. It was a manner which no analysis of his character can convey, of which none of his own compositions even give an adequate idea. The finest colours are often the most fugitive38. This is just the case with that heightened expression which we term dramatic. Who can express in words the thrilling effect that an earnest, heartfull delivery of a single phrase has sometimes conveyed. But brilliant as these endowments were, they were graced by moral qualities of the first order.
Quick as he was to see everything, he was necessarily rapid in his perception of character, and would sometimes at a glance hit on the leading influence of this always difficult assemblage of phenomena39, with the same rapidity that marked his dealings with facts which were the more usual objects of his inquiries. But, though quick in his perception of character, and therefore rapidly detective of faults, his views were always tempered by generosity40 and good sense. Indignant at injustice41 and oppression, and intolerant only of baseness or cruelty, he was kind and charitable in his construction of more common or excusable failings.
He loved man as his brother, and, with enlarged ideas of the duties of benevolence, never dispensed42 it as a gift which it was creditable to bestow43, so much as an obligation which it would have been immoral44 to have omitted. It was not that he did anything which the world calls noble or great in giving sums of money to this or that person. There were, indeed, plenty of instances of that sort of generosity and benevolence, which would creep out, in spite of him, from those whom he had benefited; and no man knew how to do it better. A gentleman, for example, came up from the country to the school, and went to Bedford Row, to enter the lectures. Abernethy asked him a few questions about his intentions and his prospects45, and found that his proceedings46 would be little doubtful, as they were contingent47 on the receipt of some funds which were uncertain.373 Abernethy gave him a perpetual ticket to all his own lectures. "And what made so much impression on me," said the gentleman, "was, that instead of paying me less attention, in asking me to his house, than the other pupils, if there were any difference, he paid me rather more." We have seen this gentleman within a few days, and we are happy to say he has had a happy and prosperous career.
The benevolence, however, to which we allude48, was not merely shown in giving or remitting49 money; that, indeed, would be a marvellous overcoming of the world with many people, but not with Abernethy; his benevolence was no fitful suggestion of impulse, but a steadily50 glowing principle of action, never obtrusive51, but always ready when required. It has been said, "a good man's life is a constant prayer." It may be asserted that a good surgeon's life should be a gentle stream of benevolent52 sympathies, supporting and distributing the conscientious53 administration of the duties of his profession. That this really intrinsic part of his character should have been occasionally overlaid by unkindness of manner, is, indeed, much to be regretted; and, we believe, was subsequently deplored54 by no one more sincerely than himself, and those who most loved and respected him. The faults of ordinary acquaintances are taken as matters of course; but the errors of those who are the objects of our respect and affection, are always distressing56. We feel them almost as a personal wrong; and, in a character like Abernethy, where every spot on so fair a surface became luminously57 evident, such defects gave one a feeling of mortification59 which was at once humiliating and oppressive. But, whilst we are the last to conceal60 his failings, we cannot but think he was, after all, himself the greatest sufferer; we have no doubt they originated, at least, in good motives61, and that they have been charged, after all, with much good.
Unfortunately, we have at all times had too many Gnathos in our profession, too much of the
"Quidquid dicunt laudo, id rursum si negant, laudo id quoque.
Negat quis? nego. ait? aio."
These assenting63 flatterers are the bane of an honest man, and,374 under the name of tact64 and the influence of an uncompromising ambition to get on, merge65 the highest duties into a mere desire to please; and, adopting the creed66 of Gnatho, appropriately arrive at the same climax67 as their conclusion:
"Postremo imperavi egomet mihi
Omnia assentari."
Now, Abernethy knew this well, and detested68 it with a repulsion deep and sincere. He had no knowledge of Gnathonics. He felt that he was called on to practise a profession, the legitimate69 object of which was alone achieved when it ministered to real suffering; and that mere assentation to please patients was a prostitution of the highest qualities of mind to the lowest purposes. If one may so say, he felt like a painter who has a feeling for the highest department of his art, and who could see nothing in an assenting Gnathonicism but an immoral daub.
Neither was this without use to others; for though he looked, as the public may be assured many others have done, on a "parcel of people who came to him with nothing the matter," yet even in his roughness he was discriminate70, and sometimes accomplished71 more good than the most successful time-server by all his lubricity. One day, for example, a lady took her daughter, evidently most tightly laced—a practice which we believe mothers now are aware is mischievous72, but scarcely to the extent known to medical men. She complained of Abernethy's rudeness to her, as well she might; still he gave her, in a few words, a useful lesson. "Why, madam," said he, "do you know there are upwards73 of thirty yards of bowels74 squeezed underneath75 that girdle of your daughter's? Go home and cut it, let Nature have fair play, and you will have no need of my advice."
But, if we must acknowledge and regret, as we do, his occasional rudenesses of manner, let us also give him the credit of overcoming these besetting76 impulses. In all hospitals, of course, there are occasional vexations; but who ever saw Abernethy really unkind to a hospital patient? Now, we cannot affirm any thing beyond our own experience. We had, as dresser, for a considerable period, the care of many of his patients, and we continued frequently to observe his practice from the commencement375 of our pupilage, which was about a year or a little more after his appointment as surgeon, until the close of his hospital labours. We speak subject to correction, therefore, but we cannot charge our memory with a single instance of unkindness to a hospital patient; whilst we are deeply impressed by the constant prevalence of a generally kind and unaffected sympathy with them.
The quickness with which he observed any imperfection in the execution of his directions, was, on the contrary, the source of many a "rowing," as we apprehend78 some of his dressers well enough remember; whilst he seldom took a dresser without making more than usual inquiries as to his competency. In private practice, also, any case that really required skill and discrimination was pretty sure to meet with the attention that it deserved. This was noticed in the remarks made on the character of Abernethy, at the time of his death, by the Duke of Sussex, at the Royal Society, at their anniversary meeting on the 30th of November, 1831, of which the following is a report, copied from the books of the Society:
His Royal Highness observed that "Mr. Abernethy was one of those pupils of John Hunter who appears the most completely to have caught the bold and philosophical79 spirit of his great master. He was the author of various works and memoirs80 upon physiological81 and anatomical or surgical82 subjects, including papers which have appeared in our Transactions. Few persons have contributed more abundantly to the establishment of the true principles of surgery and medical science in those cases which require that minute criticism of the symptoms of disease, upon the proper knowledge and study of which the perfection of medical art must mainly depend.
"As a lecturer, he was not less distinguished83 than as an author; and he appears to have attained84 the art of fixing strongly the attention of his hearers, not less by the just authority of his opinions than by his ready command of apt and forcible illustrations. He enjoyed, during many years of his life, more than an ordinary share of public favour in the practice of his profession; and, though not a little remarkable376 for the eccentricities85 of his manner and an affected77 roughness in his intercourse86 with his ordinary patients, he was generally kind and courteous87 in those cases which required the full exercise of his skill and knowledge, and also liberal in the extreme when the infliction88 of poverty was superadded to those of disease."
The high character of his benevolence was shown also in the ready forgiveness of injuries; and he was as grateful as he was forgiving. How constant his attachment89 to his early friend and teacher, Sir William Blizard. There is something very characteristic of this, when, in the decline of life, he writes "Yours unremittingly," to one whose unusually lengthened90 years had enabled him to witness Abernethy's entry into life, and, at the conclusion of the labours of his distinguished pupil, to join with a public body in expressing the high sense entertained of the obligations which he had conferred on science and mankind. Few men could have been placed in positions more trying than that in which he found himself in his controversy91 with Mr. Lawrence. When the time arrived at which, in the ordinary course, that gentleman would have been elected into the Council of the College, there was a very strong feeling on the part of some of the members against his admission. Abernethy, however, proposed him himself, and it was by his casting vote that the election terminated in Mr. Lawrence's favour.
A member of the Council having expressed his surprise that Mr. Abernethy should propose a gentleman with whom he had had so unpleasant a difference—"What has that to do with it?" rejoined Abernethy. Some friends of Mr. Lawrence wished to pay that gentleman the compliment of having his portrait drawn92, and a subscription93 was to be entered into for this purpose. It was suggested that it would be very desirable to get Mr. Abernethy to allow his name to be in the list; and our friend, Mr. Kingdon88, with the best intentions no doubt, ventured to ask377 Mr. Abernethy to put his name at the head of the list. But there was nothing of Quixotism in Abernethy. He would have been very glad to do a kind thing to anybody; and any obstacle affecting him personally was much more likely to be an argument in favour than otherwise. He liked justice for its own sake; but he was circumspect94 as well as penetrative. At first he seemed inclined to do it, but asked a day to consider of it; and then wrote the following letter, into a more particular examination of which we need not enter:
"1828–9.
"My dear sir,
"'Fiat95 Justitia' is, as I flatter myself, the rule of my conduct. At all times have I expressed my approbation96 and respect for William Lawrence, on account of his professional learning, and of his ability as a writer and public speaker. But, if I do what you would have me, I should do much more, and be made to appear as a leader in a scheme the object of which is indefinite; so that persons will be at liberty to put what construction they please upon my conduct. Being desirous of doing what you wish, I have been for some time in a state of perplexity and hesitation97.
"At length I have resolved—that since I cannot determine what ought to be done—to follow a useful rule of professional conduct, and to do nothing. Vexed99 to refuse you anything, I hope you will still believe me,
"My dear sir,??
"Your obliged and very sincere friend,?
"John Abernethy."
The question of how far letters are to be relied on as expositions of character, has been much discussed.
The remarks of Dr. Johnson on the subject, in his Life of Pope, are put with great force, and almost carry us with him; but, on reflection, they appear too general; they do not, perhaps, get close enough to the question in which the student in Biography is chiefly interested.
378
Although letters obviously afford opportunities for a variety of affectation—and Pope seems to have seldom been quite natural—yet we cannot think that "friendship has no tendency to produce veracity100." But it seems impossible to generalize on the subject. We might as well ask whether oral evidence is to be relied on. There is no one quality that we can think of that can be said to be so universally distributed in letters as to be safe to generalize on. Common sense tells us that the testimony101 they give may be false or true. They are, like witnesses, capable of telling truth, but having, under different circumstances, all the characters of all other kinds of witnesses. Strictly102, the dependence103 one would place on them would be on the abstract probability of that which they suggest; or as supported by any corroborative104 evidence.
The following is a note to his daughter, the late Mrs. Warburton, thanking her for a watch-chain:
"Bedford Row,?
"Sept. 30.
"My dear Anne,
"I am quite accablé by the liberality of the Dr. and yourself; but I've been thinking that the Dr. is leading me into temptation, and that you are spending your money for an ornament105 which will never be seen, and which will only increase my apprehensions106 of having my pocket picked. However, what is meant in kindness should be received according to its design. Thus occasionally shall I taste the old rum; though, according to the phrase of the Doctor's schoolfellow (who reiterated107 that the wine was capital), blue ruin might have done as well. Thus also shall I wear the chain in remembrance of a chain which attaches me to you; one forged by Nature, and riveted108 by your good conduct and excellent disposition109.
"I am, my dear Anne,??
"Your affectionate and attached?
"John Abernethy."
379
TO MRS. ABERNETHY.
"My dear Anne,
"Sir James, becoming a Governor, observed, he could not be both master and servant, and therefore must relinquish110 his labours. I was three hours going round the hospital for the first time. It is Sir James's taking-in day on Thursday. The admitted patients must be seen on Friday. I cannot leave town until Saturday, unless Mrs. A.89 pleases to encounter the chance of sleeping on the road. I suppose she will have luggage; and I cannot in reason allow less than seven hours, with a rest of two to Miss Jenny, with such additional weight.
"I wish you had seen Dr. Powell; not that I believe he could do aught more than your own reason would suggest, or else you should never, with my goodwill111, have gone to Southend. I know nought112 of —— Could you not return by water? By engaging a suitable vessel113, the whole party might then be transported—ay, even to Putney. I should think ten or twelve pounds well bestowed114 on such a desideratum. Do not think of expense; for money cannot be put in competition with your welfare. If you are healthy and long-lived, I should be surprised if the children were not good and prosperous. I say nothing about myself, because I am no Professor, although they so nickname me.
"Yours in all events,??
"John Abernethy."
The following has some points of interest. The reason why merciful; the observance of approved custom in shutting up the house; yet connecting so much of "forms, modes, shows of grief," as Hamlet calls them, with the best feelings, because "she had loved you," &c.; the gentle tenderness with which he alludes115 to the excellence of the Mother; and the graceful116 compliment with which he concludes; seem excellent teaching.
380
"My dear Anne,
"I am much concerned to tell you that your Grandmother died last night, about nine o'clock. Death came to her unattended with pain or terrors. It is highly probable that she neither felt uneasiness of body or mind, from the time she was first seized with the fit. To have lived to her age, respectably and respected, in health, and to die without bodily or mental sufferings, is a fate which falls but to the lot of few; so that her friends have no reason to repine at her death; and it seems to be a merciful dispensation of Providence117. If the servant has left Putney for Radcliff, of course the house is shut up; if not, it ought to be so. You and the children ought also to stay within doors, and have the front windows closed. She loved you all very much, and you ought to love and respect her memory. To you, who are apt to indulge your feelings too much, I must add, that it would be wrong to grieve much for what is in reality, as I have said, a cause to rejoice. I mean that the pains and decrepitude118 of age should be spared to the Individual whose fate we mourn. I have always esteemed119 it an excellence in your Mother's character, that though she feels acutely, yet she bears her lot in the dispensations of Providence with a gentleness and submission120 which indeed serve to diminish their severity. I trust she will do so on this occasion. You will see her to-morrow at Putney, if not before. On all occasions, and under every circumstance, rely on it that I remain
"Most affectionately yours,
"John Abernethy."
?"Bedford Row,
"Friday Morning, August, 1812."
TO MRS. ABERNETHY.
"Dearest,
"The first incident worth relating happened at Cirencester. I hobbled in haste to Mr. Lawrence's; his dressing121 room was open, and articles of apparel, &c. lay about, as if he had been381 lately engaged in the (to some agreeable, to others annoying) operation of dressing himself. His maid servant, however, sought him in vain, even in the church-yard. She looked mysterious and alarmed. 'Perhaps,' said I, 'he is gone to Mr. Warner's.' Sure enough there he was, examining a shoulder said to have been dislocated; and he would make me examine it likewise. So much time having been lost as to the object of my visit, I had merely time to tell him that you were at Cheltenham, and would come to see him; and he to tell me that Mrs. Lawrence was at Malvern. The guard sounded his tin horn in an imperative122 manner; the sound was repeated, and I received a verbal reproof123 from the coachman for not instantly obeying the summons. A little way out of Cirencester, on the road to Tetbury, there is a neat and stile-ish house and grounds which I anticipated belonged to Charles Lawrence; and my presentiment124 was confirmed by a Compagnon de Voyage. Arrived at the York House, Bath, I was shown into a bed-room which had not been dusted, as you would think, properly since a fortnight before the fire. So, with the fear of bugs125 and other blood-sucking insects, I took up those of the papilionacious tribe belonging to Mr. Marriott, and proceeded to his abode126; approaching which, I encountered Mr. Wood. By his recommendation, I procured127 apartments in a house, as Bourdillon would say, the entirety of which could only be obtained by persons in general. Behold128 me, then, sole occupant of a spacious129 and well-furnished house (being No. 9, St. James's Square), with a garden terminating in a road, beyond which fields only are visible, and within ken32 of the brow of Lansdown. The front and back rooms communicate, and the windows of each being open, there is perflation in excess. (Diary.) Monday. Descending130 Gay Street, in my way to the bath, I called at Soden's, and found him in great distress55, and that Hodgson had gone forth to seek for me. Mrs. Soden is very ill, and Hodgson had come once to see her. She has lots of medical attendants, who, to use ——'s phrase, dovetail their opinions and practice before they prescribe for their patient. In perambulating Bath with Mr. Hodgson, we encountered Mr. Leifchild,382 who recited his case to the former, in proof of the efficacy of diet, with the eloquence131 of a public orator; and it happened to be a case in point. I scrubbed myself for half an hour, and drank half a pint132 of water at the pump room; then reascended the hill; looked in at Wilson Brown's, whose wife is quite well. No doubt the state of her digestive organs was the source of her various maladies. Her father, Dr. Chichester, whom you saw at Mr. Acres', now resides at Cheltenham. I went with Mr. Brown to the Riding School, thinking that if I could meet with a kind of shooting pony133, I might be tempted134 to get on his back. But I escaped temptation, dined on mutton chop or chops, drank half a pint of ale, felt quiet, dosed a little. Descended135 to Queen Square; left a card for Sir George Gibbs, who is at Weymouth; called on Mr. Gore136, who had been called out to a casualty (Bath phrase); went to the White Hart, found the coach did not come in until nine o'clock; thinking that if I did not see Mr. Battiscombe until then, we should both be as weary of seeing each other as of the day's toil137, I reascended the hill, and went to bed. It was necessary that a day should elapse, that I might tell you how time passed; so that I have complied with your request of writing as soon as possible. No doubt that the days will be so monotonous138 as to render a second account unnecessary. I calculate I shall be tout-à-fait ennuyé in a fortnight; so that I expect I shall set off to Cheltenham, in the coach I came by, next Monday sennight, which I believe will arrive there about eight or nine in the evening, when I hope to find you all well. On Friday I think we might visit Oxford139, and house ourselves again at the Angel; from whence, if we start at nine, we may be in London by four o'clock on Saturday.
"I think I have written a ladylike letter: no attempt at condensation140. I hope to hear from you in return, and that you will be able to say all's well. I will write to Anne to-morrow, because you say she wishes it—perhaps to-day.
"Love to Miss Moggy and Miss Madge.
"Yours for ever and for aye,?
"John Abernethy.
"Bath, 8th September, 1828."
383
He was fond of joining in anything that could delight and amuse his children. In summer, when he returned home, the "upstairs bell" was generally the signal for the young people to come to have a game of play. Of games, battledore and shuttlecock was a favourite, at which he was as expert and pleased as any of them. Sometimes there would be a petition for stories; and he would delight them all by little histories or tales, in which he appears to have shown the same talent as he did in his lectures. The same stories were often repeated, yet they always had something of the fun or freshness, as the case might be, of things that were heard for the first time. One Christmas, the family, desirous of amusing some friends, proposed to get up some private theatricals141. The anxious question being, what papa would say to it? Well, this was very soon known, by a ready assent62. But what was the play to be? They replied, "The Iron Chest." But now rather an important difficulty arose, of who was to take the part of Sir Edward Mortimer? This was as unexpectedly as joyfully142 solved, by Mr. Abernethy taking it himself.
But, of all the home sports to which he seems to have given such zest143, all yielded to the superior attractions of the Magic lantern. This was generally a gambol144 reserved for Christmas, when the whole establishment were admitted. The fun lay in the number and variety of the stories and remarks which accompanied the optical illustrations.
Every "slide" had remarks and stories made off-hand, which, as stories were of this or that kind, either greatly increased the interest or were the occasion of hearty145 merriment or peals146 of laughter.
He was very fond of the country and his garden, and nothing he enjoyed more than driving down to Enfield with Mr. Clift, and having a holiday. On such occasions, sometimes, even before he went into the house he would set to work in the garden. They used both to be very active in cutting out the dead wood from the laurels147 and other shrubs148. In these domestic operations the children would assist without any of the party recollecting149 that bonnets150 and gowns were not the best costume for making way384 amongst the trees and shrubs, which, however, only assisted to increase the fun and excitement. At other times, there would be an expedition against the duck-weed on the water. In short, he always seems to have been the life of the party, and to have invested even the most ordinary occupations with liveliness and interest, for which he was certainly gifted with unwonted powers. Occasionally he would go to the theatre, which he sometimes enjoyed very much. Like his brother, he was a great lover of our immortal151 Shakspeare, and scarcely less familiar with most of the wonderful creations of his mighty152 genius.
When we contemplate153 Abernethy in a single phase only of his character, we see a "fidgetty" physical organization, influencing an habitual154 irritability155 of which it was too much a supporter, if it were not the original cause; but the moment we penetrate156 this thin and only occasional covering, we meet with nothing but rare and splendid endowments; and, as we proceed in our examination, we are at a loss which most to admire, the brilliant qualities of his intellect, or the moral excellences157 of his heart.
But, in estimating the one or the other, we must view them in relation to the other feelings with which they were accompanied, as impeding158 or assisting their development and application; or otherwise we shall hardly estimate in its due force the powers of that volition159 over which the moral sense so constantly presides.
Abernethy had considerable love of approbation—a quality which, regarded in a religious point of view, may be said to embrace all others; but it is one which, in the ordinary relations of life, is apt to dilute160 the character, bringing down the mind from the contemplation of more elevated motives to the level of those suggested by worldly considerations and conventionalisms. To one shy, even to timidity, and whose organization fitted him rather for the rapid movements of a penetrative and impulsive161 perception, than the more dogged perseverance162 of sustained labour, love of approbation, even in the ordinary application of it, might have been a useful stimulus163 in maintaining exertion164; and we believe it was. Yet, though he avowed165 it as a dominant166 principle in our nature, as the great "incentive167" to human action, he never sought it but by legitimate channels; nor, potential as385 its influences might have been, when sharpened by shyness and timidity, did he hesitate one moment to throw them all aside whenever the interests of truth or justice rendered it necessary.
When Mr. Hunter's views were little noticed, less understood, and apparently in danger of being forgotten—when the more speculative168 of his views were not even known as his by any published documents—when, therefore, in addition to other objections, he was, as we have seen, subjected to the imputation169 of advocating opinions as Hunter's, of which there was no other testimony than the precarious170 memories of contemporaries,—he stood boldly forward as the fearless, earnest, and eloquent171 advocate of John Hunter. In this case, he overcome his natural dislike to contest and publicity172, and encountered just that individualizing opposition173 which is most trying to a sensitive organization; exemplifying a rare tribute of truth and justice paid by genius to the claims of a departed brother. At the same time, the power he displayed of moulding views, scarcely even acknowledged, into the elementary beginnings of little less than a new science, strikingly testifies the superiority of his intellectual power.
Whilst, however, he advocated John Hunter's views, and, with a creative spirit, made them the basis of additional structures which were emphatically his own, we find him modestly reverting174 again and again to John Hunter, as if afraid of not awarding him his just due,—and for ever linking both the early bud put forth by Hunter's inquiries and the opening blossom afforded by his own, with the imperishable efforts of his distinguished master,—exemplifying the modesty175 of genius, and how superior it is, when guided by virtue176, to any but the most exalted177 motives.
Another example of his independence of mind and of his conquest over difficulty, when the interests of truth appeared to him to render it necessary, was the manner in which, in defiance178 of ridicule179 and all sorts of opposition, he advocated his own views; with ultimate success, it is true, but obtained only through a variety of difficulties, greatly augmented180 by his naturally shy, if not timid, organization. Still, amidst all his brilliant endowments, we feel ourselves fondly reverting to the more peaceful and386 unobtrusive efforts with which he daily inculcated the conscientious study of an important profession.
That he had faults, is of course true; but they were not the faults of the spirit so much as of the clay-bound tenement181 in which it resided—not so much those of the individual man as those necessarily allied to humanity. The powerful influences of education had not been very happily applied in Abernethy; its legitimate office is, no doubt, to educe182 the good, and suppress the evolution of bad qualities. In Abernethy, we can hardly help thinking that his education was more calculated to do just the contrary. "To level a boy with the earth," because he ventured on "a crib to Greek Testament," is, to say the least of it, very questionable183 discipline for a shy and irritable184 organization. To restore to its original form the tree which has been bent185 as a sapling, is always difficult or impossible.
But, in virtue of those beneficent laws which "shelter the shorn lamb," Abernethy was allowed ultimately, less in consequence than in spite of his education, to develop one of the most benevolent of dispositions186. To this was joined a powerful conscientiousness187, which pervaded188 everything he did, and which could hardly be supported but by sentiments of religious responsibility; and it is certain that his mind was deeply imbued189 with the precepts190 of a vital Christianity, that took the most practical view of his duty to God and to his neighbour; and, in the very imperfect sense in which human nature has ever attained to the full obedience192 of either, he regarded a humble193 and practical observance of the one as the best human exposition of the other. His favourite apothegm on all serious occasions, and especially in those parts of his profession where its guidance was most required, was the divine precept191 of doing to others as we would wish done to ourselves.
In his reflections he strikingly exemplifies how humble and single-minded were his modes of thinking. After the manner of Bishop194 Butler, but with a simplicity195 highly characteristic, he identifies that which is truly religious with that which is truly philosophical; and, instead of finding difficulties in those barriers387 which necessarily lie before finite capacities, when endeavouring to approach the Infinite, he seems to regard them as things which rather direct and limit, than obstruct196, legitimate inquiry197.
In concluding this imperfect sketch198 of a difficult character, we have merely endeavoured to state our own impressions. We cannot help thinking that Abernethy has left a space which yet remains199 unoccupied; it would be presumptuous200 to say that it will long continue so. In his life he has left us an excellent example to follow, nor has it been less useful in teaching us that which we should avoid.
Whilst amongst us, as he taught us how to exercise some important duty, he would occasionally endeavour to impress matters of detail, by showing, first, how they should not be done. His life instructs us after the same manner. In all serious matters, we may generally take him as a guide; in occasional habits, we may most safely recollect that faults are no less faults—as Mirabeau said of Frederick—because they have the "shadow" of a great name; and we believe that, were it possible, no good man would desire to leave a better expiation201 of any weakness, than that it should deter98 others from a similar error. This is the view we would wish our young friends to take of the matter. We cannot all reach the genius of Abernethy, but we may be animated202 by the same spirit.
If great men are endowed with powers given only to the few, their success generally turns on the steady observance of the more homely203 qualities which are the common privilege of the many—caution, circumspection204, industry, and humility205. Again, genius is often charged with weaknesses by which more ordinary minds are unfettered or unembarrassed. We may emulate206 the justice, the independence of mind, the humanity, the generosity, the modesty, and, above all, the conscientiousness of Abernethy, in all serious cases; without withholding207 from the more ordinary and lighter208 duties of our profession a due proportion of these feelings, or necessarily laying aside the forbearance and courtesy which must ever lend an additional grace to our various duties.
We may endeavour with all our power to avoid a disgraceful388 flattery and compliancy, without replacing them by contrasts which, though not equally mischievous, we may be assured are equally unnecessary: whilst we may, in our various stations, emulate his kindness, his constancy as a husband, father, and friend; and yet not refuse a becoming share of such endearing qualities to others, from any fear that we shall be subject to misconstruction.
We may remember that intellect alone is dry, cold, and calculating; that feeling, unsupported or uncontrolled, is impulsive, paroxysmal, and misleading; and that the few rare moments of moral excellence which human nature achieves, are, when these powers combine, in harmony of purpose and unity209 of action.
We may be assured that, however much we admire that rapid and searching perceptivity,—that sound, acute, and comprehensive judgment which Abernethy brought to bear on the study of the profession,—or the honourable210, independent, generous, and humane211 manner in which he administered its more important and serious duties,—the greatest, and, for good, the most potential influence of all, was the manner in which he employed his manifold and varied212 excellences as a teacher in endeavouring to infuse a truly conscientious spirit into the numbers who, as pupils, he sent forth to practise in all parts of the world. This is still an unknown amount of obligation. Those resulting from his works may be proximately calculated, and such as are necessarily omitted in a review essentially213 popular, may be chronicled hereafter in a more suitable manner; but, as a teacher, we cannot as yet calculate the amount of our obligations to him. They are only to be estimated by reflection; and by recollecting the moral influence of every man who honestly practises an important profession.
Finally, whether we think of the interests of the public, the profession, or those of each, as affecting the other, or of both as affecting the progress of society; we shall, I think, be disposed to agree with one of our most distinguished modern writers, that the "means on which the interests and prospects of society most depend, are the sustained influence that invariably attends the dignity of private virtue."
389–390
In a world which presents so much of violated faith and broken ties, the mind experiences a grateful repose214 in the contemplation of long and uninterrupted friendship.
Of all men, perhaps Sir William Blizard had known Abernethy the longest, and loved him the best; and an intercourse of more than half a century had only served to cement a friendship entirely reciprocal with sentiments of increased respect and regard.
Sir William had been one of the first to excite in Abernethy that love for his profession which led to such brilliant results. He had witnessed his career with all the pleasure that a teacher regards the success of an early pupil, and no doubt with that satisfaction which is inseparable from a prediction fulfilled. He had lived, also, to receive a public and affectionate tribute of gratitude215 for his early lessons, when Abernethy was in the zenith of his power.
Sir William, however, lived nearly a century, and was still alive and well, when Abernethy's sun was setting, and when that fire which he had been the first to kindle216 for such useful and benevolent purposes was soon to be extinguished for ever.
When Abernethy retired217 from the College of Surgeons, Sir William was requested to draw up the memorial in which his services were to be recorded.
These circumstances invest even formal documents with an unusual interest; and we therefore trust that Sir William's encomium218 may not be thought an inappropriate conclusion to our humble story.
This almost ancient friend and early instructor219 observed, of Abernethy, "that his life has been devoted220 to the improvement of the healing art. His luminous58 writings breathe simplicity, humanity, reverence221 of truth, and disdain222 of worldly art; and have placed the art and science of surgery on the permanent basis of anatomy223 and physiology224; whilst the contemplation of his character excites emulative225 ideas of public virtue in the cultivation226 of useful knowledge."
The End
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stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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elicited
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| 引出，探出( elicit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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pertinent
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| adj.恰当的；贴切的；中肯的；有关的；相干的 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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retentive
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| v.保留的，有记忆的；adv.有记性地，记性强地；n.保持力 | |
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illustrate
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| v.举例说明，阐明；图解，加插图 | |
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adorn
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| vt.使美化，装饰 | |
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ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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chaste
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| adj.贞洁的；有道德的；善良的；简朴的 | |
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celebrated
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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orator
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apparently
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fugitive
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phenomena
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generosity
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injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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dispensed
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| v.分配( dispense的过去式和过去分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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immoral
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| adj.不道德的，淫荡的，荒淫的，有伤风化的 | |
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prospects
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proceedings
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contingent
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| adj.视条件而定的；n.一组，代表团，分遣队 | |
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allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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remitting
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| v.免除（债务），宽恕( remit的现在分词 )；使某事缓和；寄回，传送 | |
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steadily
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obtrusive
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| adj.显眼的；冒失的 | |
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benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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deplored
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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luminously
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| 发光的； 明亮的； 清楚的； 辉赫 | |
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luminous
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mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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conceal
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motives
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assent
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assenting
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| 同意，赞成( assent的现在分词 ) | |
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tact
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merge
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creed
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climax
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detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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discriminate
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| v.区别，辨别，区分；有区别地对待 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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bowels
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| n.肠，内脏，内部；肠( bowel的名词复数 )；内部，最深处 | |
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underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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besetting
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| adj.不断攻击的v.困扰( beset的现在分词 )；不断围攻；镶；嵌 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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apprehend
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| vt.理解，领悟，逮捕，拘捕，忧虑 | |
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philosophical
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memoirs
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physiological
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| adj.生理学的，生理学上的 | |
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surgical
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| adj.外科的，外科医生的，手术上的 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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eccentricities
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| n.古怪行为( eccentricity的名词复数 )；反常；怪癖 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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infliction
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| n.（强加于人身的）痛苦，刑罚 | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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lengthened
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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controversy
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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subscription
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| n.预订，预订费，亲笔签名，调配法，下标（处方） | |
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circumspect
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| adj.慎重的，谨慎的 | |
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fiat
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| n.命令，法令，批准；vt.批准，颁布 | |
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approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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deter
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| vt.阻止，使不敢，吓住 | |
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vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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100
veracity
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| n.诚实 | |
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101
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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102
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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103
dependence
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| n.依靠，依赖；信任，信赖；隶属 | |
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104
corroborative
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| adj.确证（性）的，确凿的 | |
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105
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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106
apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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107
reiterated
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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108
riveted
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| 铆接( rivet的过去式和过去分词 )； 把…固定住； 吸引； 引起某人的注意 | |
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109
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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110
relinquish
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| v.放弃，撤回，让与，放手 | |
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111
goodwill
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| n.善意，亲善，信誉，声誉 | |
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112
nought
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| n.／adj.无，零 | |
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113
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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114
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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115
alludes
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| 提及，暗指( allude的第三人称单数 ) | |
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116
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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117
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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118
decrepitude
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| n.衰老；破旧 | |
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119
esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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120
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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121
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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122
imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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123
reproof
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| n.斥责，责备 | |
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124
presentiment
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| n.预感，预觉 | |
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125
bugs
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| adj.疯狂的，发疯的n.窃听器( bug的名词复数 )；病菌；虫子；[计算机]（制作软件程序所产生的意料不到的）错误 | |
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126
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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127
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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128
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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129
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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130
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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131
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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132
pint
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| n.品脱 | |
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133
pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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134
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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135
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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136
gore
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| n.凝血，血污；v.（动物）用角撞伤，用牙刺破；缝以补裆；顶 | |
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137
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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138
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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139
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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140
condensation
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| n.压缩，浓缩；凝结的水珠 | |
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141
theatricals
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| n.（业余性的）戏剧演出，舞台表演艺术；职业演员；戏剧的( theatrical的名词复数 )；剧场的；炫耀的；戏剧性的 | |
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142
joyfully
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| adv. 喜悦地, 高兴地 | |
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143
zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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144
gambol
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| v.欢呼，雀跃 | |
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145
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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146
peals
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| n.（声音大而持续或重复的）洪亮的响声( peal的名词复数 )；隆隆声；洪亮的钟声；钟乐v.（使）（钟等）鸣响，（雷等）发出隆隆声( peal的第三人称单数 ) | |
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147
laurels
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| n.桂冠，荣誉 | |
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148
shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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149
recollecting
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| v.记起，想起( recollect的现在分词 ) | |
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150
bonnets
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| n.童帽( bonnet的名词复数 )；（烟囱等的）覆盖物；（苏格兰男子的）无边呢帽；（女子戴的）任何一种帽子 | |
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151
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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152
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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153
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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154
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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155
irritability
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| n.易怒 | |
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156
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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157
excellences
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| n.卓越( excellence的名词复数 )；（只用于所修饰的名词后）杰出的；卓越的；出类拔萃的 | |
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158
impeding
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| a.(尤指坏事)即将发生的，临近的 | |
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159
volition
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| n.意志；决意 | |
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160
dilute
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| vt.稀释，冲淡；adj.稀释的，冲淡的 | |
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161
impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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162
perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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163
stimulus
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| n.刺激，刺激物，促进因素，引起兴奋的事物 | |
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164
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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165
avowed
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| adj.公开声明的，承认的v.公开声明，承认( avow的过去式和过去分词) | |
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166
dominant
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| adj.支配的，统治的；占优势的；显性的；n.主因，要素，主要的人(或物)；显性基因 | |
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167
incentive
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| n.刺激；动力；鼓励；诱因；动机 | |
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168
speculative
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| adj.思索性的，暝想性的，推理的 | |
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169
imputation
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| n.归罪，责难 | |
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170
precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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171
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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172
publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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173
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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174
reverting
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| 恢复( revert的现在分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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175
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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176
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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177
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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178
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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179
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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180
Augmented
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| adj.增音的 动词augment的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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181
tenement
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| n.公寓；房屋 | |
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182
educe
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| v.引出；演绎 | |
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183
questionable
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| adj.可疑的，有问题的 | |
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184
irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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185
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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186
dispositions
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| 安排( disposition的名词复数 )； 倾向； （财产、金钱的）处置； 气质 | |
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187
conscientiousness
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| 责任心 | |
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188
pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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189
imbued
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| v.使（某人/某事）充满或激起（感情等）( imbue的过去式和过去分词 )；使充满；灌输；激发（强烈感情或品质等） | |
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190
precepts
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| n.规诫，戒律，箴言( precept的名词复数 ) | |
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191
precept
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| n.戒律；格言 | |
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192
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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193
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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194
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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195
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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196
obstruct
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| v.阻隔，阻塞(道路、通道等)；n.阻碍物，障碍物 | |
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197
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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198
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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199
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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200
presumptuous
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| adj.胆大妄为的，放肆的，冒昧的，冒失的 | |
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201
expiation
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| n.赎罪，补偿 | |
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202
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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203
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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204
circumspection
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| n.细心，慎重 | |
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205
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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206
emulate
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| v.努力赶上或超越，与…竞争；效仿 | |
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207
withholding
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| 扣缴税款 | |
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208
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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209
unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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210
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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211
humane
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| adj.人道的，富有同情心的 | |
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212
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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213
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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214
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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215
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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216
kindle
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| v.点燃，着火 | |
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217
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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218
encomium
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| n.赞颂；颂词 | |
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219
instructor
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| n.指导者，教员，教练 | |
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220
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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221
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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222
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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223
anatomy
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| n.解剖学，解剖；功能，结构，组织 | |
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224
physiology
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| n.生理学，生理机能 | |
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225
emulative
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| adj.好胜 | |
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226
cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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