"Conscious of having been enlightened by the scientific labors of Mr. Abernethy; convinced that teachers of anatomy, physiology, and of surgery (and consequently their pupils) have derived most important information from these sources of knowledge; and impressed that the healing art has been eminently advanced by the writings of that excellent individual, the members of the Court of Examiners lament the tendered resignation of an associate so endowed, and whose conduct in the Court has always been so exemplary.

"Resolved also, that a copy of the foregoing memorial be delivered by the Secretary to Mr. Abernethy."

He had by this time become a great sufferer-walked very lame; and this difficulty, interfering more than ever with his exercise, no doubt tended to make matters worse. He consulted nobody, I believe, but his old friend Dr. Roberts, of St. Bartholomew's. He was

induced to go for some time into the country; and on his return, hearing that he was again in Bedford Row, and not having seen him for some time, I called on him one morning about eleven o'clock.

I knew that he had been very ill, but I was not in the least prepared to see him so altered. When I was shown into his room, I was so struck with his appearance that it was with difficulty I concealed the emotion it occasioned; but I felt happy in observing that I had succeeded.

He appeared all at once, as it were, to have become a very old man; he was much thinner; his features appeared shrunk. He had always before worn a good deal of powder; but his hair, which used to hang

rather thickly over his ears, was now thin, and, as it appeared to me, silvered by age and suffering.

There was the same expressive eye which I had so often seen lit up by mirth or humor, or animated by some more impassioned feeling, looking as penetrating and intellectual as ever, but with a calmness and languor which seemed to tell of continued suffering, and which I had never seen before. He was sitting at a table on a sort of stool, as it appeared to me, and had been seeing patients, and there were still several waiting to see him. On asking him how he was, the tone of his reply was very striking.

It was, indeed, the same voice which I had so often listened to with pleasure, but the tone was exceedingly changed. It was the subdued character which is expressive of recent suffering, and sounded to me most mournfully. "Ay," said he, "this is very kind of you ―very kind indeed!" and he somewhat distressed me by repeating this several times, so that I hardly knew what to reply. He said he was better, and that he could now walk pretty fairly again, "as," said he, "you shall see.”

He accordingly slowly dismounted from his seat, and with the aid of two sticks began to walk, but it was a melancholy sight to me. I had never seen him nearly so lame before.

I asked him what he was going to do; he said that he was going to Enfield on the morrow, and that he did not think he should return. I suggested that he might possibly try a drier air with more advantage; that I feared Enfield might be a little low and damp, and not, possibly, the best place for him. "Well," he said, "any thing is better than this." I very shortly

after took my leave, not sorry to be again alone, for I felt considerably depressed by the unexpected impressions I had received from this interview. It was too plain that his powers were rapidly waning. He went to Enfield on the following day (a Wednesday, I think), and never returned again to practice. He lingered about another year, during which time I once went to see him, when I found him something better. He was able to see his friends occasionally, and at times seemed to rally. In the spring, however, of 1831, he gradually got weaker, and died on the 20th of April in that year.

He perfectly retained his consciousness to the last, and, as I understood, died as tranquilly as possible. There was nobody in the room with him at the moment but his servant, to whom he said, "Is there any body in the room?" His servant replied, "No, Sir." Abernethy then laid his head back, and in a few seconds expired. His body was not examined; but from the history and symptoms of his case, there could be little doubt that there would have been found organic changes in which the valvular structures of the heart had more or less participated.

He was buried in the parish church of Enfield. The funeral was a private one; and there is a plain tablet on the wall over his grave, with the following inscription :

H. S. E.

JOHANNES ABERNETHY, R. S. S.

REGII CHIRURGORUM COLLEGII QUONDAM PRÆSES

QUI INGENIO, PROBITATE, BENIGNITATE.

EXIMIE PRÆDITUS

ARTEM MEDICINE PER ANNOS PLURIMOS

SUMMA CUM DILIGENTIA, SOLERTIA, FELICITATE
COLUIT, EXERCUIT, DOCUIT, AUXIT

"Est enim animus cælestis et quasi demersus interram locum divinæ naturæ æternitatique contrarium."-CICERO.

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 humor. was not that his features were particularly well formed or handsome, though he had not a bad one in the whole countenance; but the harmony of composition (if we may be allowed the expression) was so perfect.

It

A sufficiently high and ample forehead towered over two of the most observant and expressive eyes I almost ever saw. People differ about color; they appeared to me always of a grayish-blue, and were characterized as the rule by a mirthful yet piercing expression, from

S

which an overlaying of benevolence was seldom wanting; yet, as we have before observed, they would sometimes lance forth gleams of humor, 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 the scene drew from the dramatic character of his expressive countenance is entirely lost in the mere relation. Then, if 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 favorable condition. Having so far succeeded, the day was at hand when the operation was to be performed, when 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 was dying in the country. With