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

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

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

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

We may remark, also, a peculiar fitness in the minds of those to whom the enunciation of truth has been successively entrusted: a fitness, not merely for the tasks which have been assigned to2 each, as the special mission of the individual, but also in the relations of different minds to each other. This adaptation to ends which individual minds have unconsciously combined to accomplish, might be illustrated by many examples, from the earliest records of antiquity, down to our own times. This would be incompatible with our present purpose. We will therefore only refer to one or two illustrations, which, as being familiar, will serve to show what we mean, and to lead us, not unnaturally, to our more immediate object.

We cannot contemplate men like Bacon, Galileo, and Kepler, for example, without feeling how auspicious the precession of such minds must have been to the development of the genius of Newton1. Newton was born the same year that Galileo died. There is something very interesting and significant too in the peculiar powers of Kepler. Prolific in suggestion, great in mathematical ability, elaborate in analysis, and singularly truthful in spirit, Kepler exemplified two things. These, though very distinct from each other, were both equally instructive; both alike suggestive of the link he represented in the chain of progress. In the laws he discovered, he showed the harvest seldom withheld from the earnest search for truth; but the enormous labour of the mode in which he conducted his researches, as well as the limits prescribed to his discoveries, exemplify the evils which, even in a man of the greatest power, result from proceeding too much on hypothesis. Now it is interesting to remember that this was coincident with the dawning of that glorious light, the Inductive philosophy of Bacon, and shortly succeeded by the splendid generalization of Newton.

In like manner, if we think of the discoveries of Sir Humphrey Davy—their nature and relations to physiology as well as3 chemistry,—we see how much there might have been that was preparatory, and, to a mind like Davy\'s, suggestive, in the investigations of preceding and contemporaneous philosophers. Priestly had discovered oxygen gas; Galvani and Volta had shown those remarkable phenomena which constitute that important branch of knowledge, "Voltaic electricity;" Berzelius had effected the decomposition of certain salts by the Voltaic pile; and Lavoisier had even predicted as probable what Davy was destined to demonstrate3

In medical science, few things have been more talked of than the discovery of the circulation of the blood. Now it is curious to observe that every fact essential to the demonstration of it had been made out by previous investigators4 but no one had deduced from them the discovery of the circulation until Harvey, although it was a conclusion scarcely more important than obvious.

There is surely something very encouraging in the reflection, that the advance of knowledge thus results from the accumulated labours of successive minds. It suggests, that however unequally the honours may appear to be distributed—however humble, in our eyes, the function of those who unconsciously prepare the way to great discoveries,—still it may involve a duty no less important than the more lofty mission of enunciating them. The importance of a man\'s mission can never be estimated by human judgment. We can never know the mission; still less its relations4 to the power, or the temptations by which that power has been assailed. The most humble may here often approach as nearly to his duty, as the most gifted may have fallen short of it. Our faculties cannot penetrate the matter. We often see men placed in positions for which they appear wholly unfitted—men who seem to be bars to that progress which we should fancy it their duty to promote. Again, we observe that almost all great discoveries have to encounter opposition, persecution, obloquy, or derision; and when they are established, a host of claimants rise up to dispute the property with the rightful owner. A man who is in earnest cares little for these things. They may at times discourage and disappoint him; but they only strengthen his faith, that a day will come when an unerring justice will accord to every useful improvement its proper place and distinction.

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

In relation to the Physiological laws, these interferences are very numerous. 1st. Many are furnished by the physical laws; many more arise from the connection of the physiological with the moral laws, and especially from the abuse of (a responsible) volition. These interferences, however, when their nature is clearly developed, beautifully illustrate the laws they at first obscured; for the common characters of subjects, in which the law is usually exemplified, are brought out into higher relief by the very diversities in the midst of which they occur. The progress of mankind towards a popular familiarity with this fact, is necessarily slow; but still we think it plainly perceptible. An individual5 life, indeed, however distinguished, represents a mere point in time; it affords little scope for considering, much less for estimating, as they occur, the true meaning of various events, which nevertheless ultimately prove to have had important influence on the progress of knowledge.

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

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

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

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

6

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

7

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

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

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

We may well, therefore, be dissatisfied with the narrow, not to say degrading, definition of our duties too generally entertained; but, on the other hand, if we would realize our claims to these higher views of our calling, and enlarge the sphere of its practical usefulness, we should recollect there is only one way of attaining that object; and that is, by the applied interpretation of those symbols, no less miraculous, no less certain manifestations of Divine Power, the "Laws of Nature." To name a science from something not essential to it, is like naming a class of animals from some exceptional peculiarity8 in an individual. It is as if we would infer the mission of the ocean wave from the scum sometimes seen on its surface; or the purposes served by a feather, from the use we make of it in writing, rather than from its common character of levity and toughness; as if we treated an exception as a rule, or any other manifest absurdity.

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

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

The Abernethy family in their origin were possibly Scotch, and formed one of those numerous inter-migrations between Scotland and the north of Ireland, which, after lapse of time, frequently render it difficult to trace the original stock. There seems little doubt they had resided for some generations in Ireland. John Abernethy, who was the pastor of a Coleraine congregation, in 1688, was an eminent Protestant dissenting minister, and the father of one still more distinguished. The son (also named John) had been for some time pastor of the old congregation of Antrim, whence he removed to Dublin about the year 1733, to take charge of the Wood Street, now Strand Street, Dublin. He is the author of several volumes of sermons, which are not a little remarkable for clearness of thought, and the earnestness of purpose, with which they inculcate practical piety. He had a son who was a merchant, who subsequently9 removed to London, and traded under the firm of Abernethy and Donaldson, in Rood Lane, Fenchurch Street. This gentleman married a lady whose name was Elizabeth Weir, daughter of Henry and Margaret Weir, of the town of Antrim, and they had two sons and three daughters.

James5, the elder brother, was also in business as a merchant, and died about the year 1823. He was a man of considerable talent, spoke with an accent suggestive of an Irish origin, and was remarkable for his admiration and critical familiarity with our immortal Shakspeare. He was probably born before his father left Ireland. John, the second son, the subject of our Memoir, was, as we have already said, born in London. The register of his christening at St. Stephen\'s is as follows:
Abernethy     {     1765.
John, son of
John and Elizabeth,
 April, 24.

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