examiners insolently said, that he thought I had
better devote myself to agriculture.

And now, more than ever, I had to mourn
the ignorance of mankind. Everybody
questioned me; everybody interrogated me unscientifically; of course, I was unable to give
accurate or satisfactory replies. It is a fearful
thing to be in advance of your generation,
and to be possessed of theories which the
generality of mankind cannot appreciate. Mary
and her mother had come up to Edinburgh; the
excuse was shopping; but they really came to
share my anticipated triumph, andthey witnessed
only my fall. Mary was what unfeeling souls
call a "sensible girl;" she had a little money
of her own, and knew how to take care of it.
On the evening of my examiners' failure,
as I sat beside her—we were alone—she pressed
my hand, and asked me, "What I really had to
live upon?" A question so difficult to answer
was never put, even to me. I fenced with
it, played with it, tried to laugh it off;
but Mary's blue eyes—grey at that moment
were fixed upon me. Minerva had
grey eyes, I believe, but I do not like the
character of Minerva. So, at last, I pretended
to be angry, and got up a passion, but it was
useless. Mary was very quiet, and very still.
Gently disengaging her hand from mine, she
said, "It would be madness to marry, unless
I had some profession. She would wait any
length of time for me; but it was better for
both that we should not meet again until I
had made some advance towards obtaining a
livelihood."

I began to think that ignorance was contagious;
for when I asked myself, what was I to
do now, I could give myself no answer. (Mary
is now hemming near me, unconscious that I
am writing about that weary time, and she has
forgotten the angry outbreak of passion which
accused her of selfish and mercenary motives,
when I had only reason to be angry with
myself.)

A means of escape was opened to me by one
who had been as unfortunate in his examiners
as I had been. I had noticed at the door of a fine
house in a fashionable street a crowd of poor
sickly wretches, who swarmed upon the steps
every morning from ten until eleven o'clock.
At first I supposed the owner of the house to be
a philanthropist, who gave out soup or bread
tickets. But many of the men had ugly bandages
about their heads, or their arms were in
slings, and some supported themselves on
crutches. The women were pale and worn–
faced, many of them had children in their arms,
whose low moans or piercing cries occasionally
betrayed sickness or pain. One day, as the
door opened to admit one of the number and
let out another, the crowd parted for a moment,
and I read, upon a bright brass plate of portentous
size, the name of Theophilus Herbert
Smith, M.D., surgeon and accoucheur. Can
this be my Smith? I thought. Smith, of my old
class, who was as unhappy as myself? Yes, it
was my Smith. He had obtained his degree.
Smith was licensed to kill. I found out that
Smith had bought a practice—that Smith prescribed
for beggars as the best way of advertising.
I resolved to see Smith and ascertain
how this thing was to be done.

We had a jolly evening together, Smith
and I, and a hearty laugh at those solemn
examiners who had tried to puzzle us rather
than to ascertain what we knew. It was a
paying concern, this of Smith's, and I can
vouch for the excellence of his claret. He
laughed me out of my despair, told me how to
proceed, and inquired after Mary. I do not
precisely remember how that night ended, but I
think I offered to prescribe gratuitously for all
my landlady's family during the course of their
natural lives, before I went to bed.

I am a benevolent person, for the world is
prospering with me. I can afford to put all
aspirants for a License to Kill, up to a wrinkle.
Be it, then, known to all who meet with
undiscriminating examiners, that there is a medical
practitioner in Glasgow—a regularly qualified
member of the College of Physicians—who can
furnish a candidate for a dispensary or hospital
with a medical diploma, for a consideration. The
University of Giessen considerately grants degrees
in absentia to all who can afford
to pay for the accommodation. Money makes
not only the man, but the doctor. The Glasgow
practitioner will equip anybody with a
diploma, for the small sum of thirty-seven pounds
fifteen shillings—a fleabite when we think
of the advantages to be gained. You pay twenty–
two pounds by post-office order or bank-note
bill at Giessen, and fifteen pounds ten shillings
to the Glasgow practitioner. I suspect the
first sum to be all that the liberal University of
Giessen obtains, and that the fifteen pounds ten
shillings is the honorarium or fee of the Glasgow
practitioner. I think so, because he emphatically
directs that that sum should be paid to
him  "here." In his letter, stating terms, the
Glasgow practitioner informed me that, as "he
was about to take out four medical diplomas
at Giessen, and four from Pennsylvania, that
week," I had better forward my money at once.
There was an air of business about the transaction
which delighted me. There were no examinations—
no unscientific questionings—no writing
out or translation of abominable prescriptions.
You paid your money, and you got your degree.
You could order a huge brass plate, with the
magic letters, M.D., engraven on it, the
moment you got your receipt for the money.
The arrangement was most agreeable to me. I
closed the matter at once. Mary discreetly forbore
to ask any useless questions. She helped
me to purchase my present business. I keep a
bevy of wounded and ailing paupers as well as
Smith, and I think my claret is as good as
Smith's.

I found shortly afterwards that the
Pennsylvanian degree possessed a great advantage.
It could be obtained antedated
ten or fifteen years. Once I was bitten with
a mania for collecting ancient coins, and, wanting