"It is as much commendation as any man can bear, to own him excellent; all beyond it is idolatry."—Dryden.

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 stature, and well proportioned for strength and activity. He had a most interesting countenance; 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 sufficiently high and ample forehead towered over two of the most observant and expressive 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 benevolence was seldom wanting; yet, as we have before observed, they would sometimes launch forth gleams of humour, anger, or pathos, 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 which their position did not allow them to procure. 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 peculiar; it was a mixture of suffering, of impatience, and sympathy; but the force which the scene drew from the dramatic character of his expressive countenance is entirely lost in the mere relation. If, at such times, he gave utterance to a few words, they were always extremely touching 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 favourable 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, penetrating, and comprehensive, and a power of analysis which immediately elicited those relations which were most important to the immediate objects of the investigation; a power, of course, of the utmost value in a practical profession.

This faculty was never more marvellously displayed than sometimes in doubtful or difficult cases; and this had been always a striking excellence in him, even when a young man. I recollect 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. Allied to this, if not part of it, was that suggestive power which he possessed in so remarkable a degree, and which by a kind of intuition seemed to single out those pertinent relations and inquiries which the judgment 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 retentive, 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 illustrate, enforce, and adorn 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 chaste style of that celebrated singer, will appreciate the felicity of the expression applied to him by Abernethy, when he said, "Bartleman is an orator in music."

Abernethy had the talent of conveying, by his manner, and apparently without the smallest effort, that which in the drama is scarcely known but as the result of constant and careful study. It was a manner which no analysis of his character can convey, of which none of his own compositions even give an adequate idea. The finest colours are often the most fugitive. This is just the case with that heightened expression which we term dramatic. Who can express in words the thrilling effect that an earnest, heartfull delivery of a single phrase has sometimes conveyed. But brilliant as these endowments were, they were graced by moral qualities of the first order.

Quick as he was to see everything, he was necessarily rapid in his perception of character, and would sometimes at a glance hit on the leading influence of this always difficult assemblage of phenomena, with the same rapidity that marked his dealings with facts which were the more usual objects of his inquiries. But, though quick in his perception of character, and therefore rapidly detective of faults, his views were always tempered by generosity and good sense. Indignant at injustice and oppression, and intolerant only of baseness or cruelty, he was kind and charitable in his construction of more common or excusable failings.

He loved man as his brother, and, with enlarged ideas of the duties of benevolence, never dispensed it as a gift which it was creditable to bestow, so much as an obligation which it would have been immoral to have omitted. It was not that he did anything which the world calls noble or great in giving sums of money to this or that person. There were, indeed, plenty of instances of that sort of generosity and benevolence, which would creep out, in spite of him, from those whom he had benefited; and no man knew how to do it better. A gentleman, for example, came up from the country to the school, and went to Bedford Row, to enter the lectures. Abernethy asked him a few questions about his intentions and his prospects, and found that his proceedings would be little doubtful, as they were contingent on the receipt of some funds which were uncertain. Abernethy gave him a perpetual ticket to all his own lectures. "And what made so much impression on me," said the gentleman, "was, that instead of paying me less attention, in asking me to his house, than the other pupils, if there were any difference, he paid me rather more." We have seen this gentleman within a few days, and we are happy to say he has had a happy and prosperous career.

The benevolence, however, to which we allude, was not merely shown in giving or remitting money; that, indeed, would be a marvellous overcoming of the world with many people, but not with Abernethy; his benevolence was no fitful suggestion of impulse, but a steadily glowing principle of action, never obtrusive, but always ready when required. It has been said, "a good man's life is a constant prayer." It may be asserted that a good surgeon's life should be a gentle stream of benevolent sympathies, supporting and distributing the conscientious administration of the duties of his profession. That this really intrinsic part of his character should have been occasionally overlaid by unkindness of manner, is, indeed, much to be regretted; and, we believe, was subsequently deplored by no one more sincerely than himself, and those who most loved and respected him. The faults of ordinary acquaintances are taken as matters of course; but the errors of those who are the objects of our respect and affection, are always distressing. We feel them almost as a personal wrong; and, in a character like Abernethy, where every spot on so fair a surface became luminously evident, such defects gave one a feeling of mortification which was at once humiliating and oppressive. But, whilst we are the last to conceal his failings, we cannot but think he was, after all, himself the greatest sufferer; we have no doubt they originated, at least, in good motives, and that they have been charged, after all, with much good.

Unfortunately, we have at all times had too many Gnathos in our profession, too much of the

These assenting flatterers are the bane of an honest man, and, under the name of tact and the influence of an uncompromising ambition to get on, merge the highest duties into a mere desire to please; and, adopting the creed of Gnatho, appropriately arrive at the same climax as their conclusion:

Now, Abernethy knew this well, and detested 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 legitimate 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 discriminate, and sometimes accomplished 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 mischievous, 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 upwards of thirty yards of bowels squeezed underneath 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 besetting 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 commencement 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 apprehend 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 philosophical spirit of his great master. He was the author of various works and memoirs upon physiological and anatomical or surgical 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 distinguished than as an author; and he appears to have attained 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 remarkable for the eccentricities of his manner and an affected roughness in his intercourse with his ordinary patients, he was generally kind and courteous in those cases which required the full exercise of his skill and knowledge, and also liberal in the extreme when the infliction 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 attachment 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 lengthened 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 controversy 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 drawn, and a subscription 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 ask 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 circumspect 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,

"'Fiat Justitia' is, as I flatter myself, the rule of my conduct. At all times have I expressed my approbation 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 hesitation.

"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. Vexed 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.

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 veracity." 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 testimony 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. Strictly, the dependence one would place on them would be on the abstract probability of that which they suggest; or as supported by any corroborative 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 ornament which will never be seen, and which will only increase my apprehensions 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 reiterated 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 riveted by your good conduct and excellent disposition.

"I am, my dear Anne,
"Your affectionate and attached
"John Abernethy."

TO MRS. ABERNETHY.

"My dear Anne,

"Sir James, becoming a Governor, observed, he could not be both master and servant, and therefore must relinquish 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 goodwill, have gone to Southend. I know nought of —— Could you not return by water? By engaging a suitable vessel, the whole party might then be transported—ay, even to Putney. I should think ten or twelve pounds well bestowed 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 alludes to the excellence of the Mother; and the graceful compliment with which he concludes; seem excellent teaching.

"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 Providence. 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 decrepitude of age should be spared to the Individual whose fate we mourn. I have always esteemed 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 submission 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 dressing room was open, and articles of apparel, &c. lay about, as if he had been 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 imperative manner; the sound was repeated, and I received a verbal reproof 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 presentiment 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 bugs and other blood-sucking insects, I took up those of the papilionacious tribe belonging to Mr. Marriott, and proceeded to his abode; approaching which, I encountered Mr. Wood. By his recommendation, I procured apartments in a house, as Bourdillon would say, the entirety of which could only be obtained by persons in general. Behold me, then, sole occupant of a spacious 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 ken 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. Descending Gay Street, in my way to the bath, I called at Soden's, and found him in great distress, 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, who recited his case to the former, in proof of the efficacy of diet, with the eloquence of a public orator; and it happened to be a case in point. I scrubbed myself for half an hour, and drank half a pint 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 pony, I might be tempted 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. Descended to Queen Square; left a card for Sir George Gibbs, who is at Weymouth; called on Mr. Gore, 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 toil, 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 monotonous 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 Oxford, 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 condensation. 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."

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 theatricals. The anxious question being, what papa would say to it? Well, this was very soon known, by a ready assent. 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 joyfully solved, by Mr. Abernethy taking it himself.

But, of all the home sports to which he seems to have given such zest, all yielded to the superior attractions of the Magic lantern. This was generally a gambol 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 hearty merriment or peals 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 laurels and other shrubs. In these domestic operations the children would assist without any of the party recollecting that bonnets and gowns were not the best costume for making way 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 immortal Shakspeare, and scarcely less familiar with most of the wonderful creations of his mighty genius.

When we contemplate Abernethy in a single phase only of his character, we see a "fidgetty" physical organization, influencing an habitual irritability of which it was too much a supporter, if it were not the original cause; but the moment we penetrate 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 excellences 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 impeding or assisting their development and application; or otherwise we shall hardly estimate in its due force the powers of that volition 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 dilute 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 impulsive perception, than the more dogged perseverance of sustained labour, love of approbation, even in the ordinary application of it, might have been a useful stimulus in maintaining exertion; and we believe it was. Yet, though he avowed it as a dominant principle in our nature, as the great "incentive" to human action, he never sought it but by legitimate channels; nor, potential as 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 speculative 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 imputation of advocating opinions as Hunter's, of which there was no other testimony than the precarious memories of contemporaries,—he stood boldly forward as the fearless, earnest, and eloquent advocate of John Hunter. In this case, he overcome his natural dislike to contest and publicity, and encountered just that individualizing opposition 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 reverting 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 modesty of genius, and how superior it is, when guided by virtue, to any but the most exalted 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 defiance of ridicule 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 augmented by his naturally shy, if not timid, organization. Still, amidst all his brilliant endowments, we feel ourselves fondly reverting to the more peaceful and 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 tenement 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 educe 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 questionable discipline for a shy and irritable organization. To restore to its original form the tree which has been bent 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 dispositions. To this was joined a powerful conscientiousness, which pervaded everything he did, and which could hardly be supported but by sentiments of religious responsibility; and it is certain that his mind was deeply imbued with the precepts 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 obedience of either, he regarded a humble 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 precept 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 Bishop Butler, but with a simplicity highly characteristic, he identifies that which is truly religious with that which is truly philosophical; and, instead of finding difficulties in those barriers 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 obstruct, legitimate inquiry.

In concluding this imperfect sketch 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 remains unoccupied; it would be presumptuous 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 expiation of any weakness, than that it should deter 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 animated 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 homely qualities which are the common privilege of the many—caution, circumspection, industry, and humility. Again, genius is often charged with weaknesses by which more ordinary minds are unfettered or unembarrassed. We may emulate the justice, the independence of mind, the humanity, the generosity, the modesty, and, above all, the conscientiousness of Abernethy, in all serious cases; without withholding from the more ordinary and lighter 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 disgraceful 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 unity 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 honourable, independent, generous, and humane 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 varied 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 essentially 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."

In a world which presents so much of violated faith and broken ties, the mind experiences a grateful repose 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 gratitude 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 kindle for such useful and benevolent purposes was soon to be extinguished for ever.

When Abernethy retired 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 encomium may not be thought an inappropriate conclusion to our humble story.

This almost ancient friend and early instructor observed, of Abernethy, "that his life has been devoted to the improvement of the healing art. His luminous writings breathe simplicity, humanity, reverence of truth, and disdain of worldly art; and have placed the art and science of surgery on the permanent basis of anatomy and physiology; whilst the contemplation of his character excites emulative ideas of public virtue in the cultivation of useful knowledge."