"
"Julia!" ejaculated Mrs. Dodd, "this is very extraordinary."
"No, it is not extraordinary," cried Dr. Sampson defiantly; "nothing is
extraordinary. D'ye think I've known these shallow men thirty years, and
not plumbed 'um?"
"Shallow, my good friend? Excuse me! they are the ablest men in your own
branch of your own learned profession."
"Th' ablest! Oh, you mean the money-makingest: now listen me! our lairned
Profession is a rascally one. It is like a barrel of beer. What rises to
the top?" Here he paused for a moment, then answered himself furiously,
"THE SCUM."
This blast blown, he moderated a little. "Look see!" said he, "up to
three or four thousand a year, a Docker is often an honest man, and
sometimes knows something of midicine; not much, because it is not taught
anywhere. But if he is making over five thousand, he must be a rogue or
else a fool: either he has booed an' booed, an' cript an' crawled, int'
wholesale collusion with th' apothecary an' the accoucheur--the two
jockeys that drive John Bull's faemily coach--and they are sucking the
pashint togither, like a leash o' leeches: or else he has turned
spicialist; has tacked his name to some poplar disorder, real or
imaginary; it needn't exist to be poplar.
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