''
``Pooh, child! what do we know of your parents?---
But what has your being an Englishman
to do with the present question?''
``Oh Doctor!'' answered the boy, bitterly, ``you
know we from the South side of Tweed cannot
scramble so hard as you do. The Scots are too
moral, and too prudent, and too robust, for a poor
pudding-eater to live amongst them, whether as a
parson, or as a lawyer, or as a doctor---with your
pardon, sir.''
``Upon my life, Dick,'' said Gray, ``this Tom
Hillary will turn your brain. What is the meaning
of all this trash?''
``Tom Hillary says that the parson lives by the
sins of the people, the lawyer by their distresses,
and the doctor by their diseases---always asking
your pardon, sir.''
``Tom Hillary,'' replied the Doctor, ``should be
drummed out of the borough. A whipper-snapper
of an attorney's apprentice, run away from Newcastle!
If I hear him talking so, I'll teach him to
speak with more reverence of the learned professions.
Let me bear no more of Tom Hillary, whom
you have seen far too much of lately. Think a
little, like a lad of sense, and tell me what answer
I am to give Mr Mon
ada.''
``Tell him,'' said the boy, the tone of affected
sarcasm laid aside, and that of injured pride substituted
in its room, ``tell him, that my soul revolts
at the obscure lot he recommends to me.
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