Mysteries of Medical Life. WHO IS YOUR DOCTOR? one WERE you to meet a West-End swell, draped in a suit of Stultz's best, he would consider the time well-suited to reply to that familiar question. "Who's your tailor?" But if you chanced to meet a person in a seedy, ill-made suitof the slop productions of the East-he might think the time ill-suited to reply; and in unmeasured tone demand,- What's that to you? Now, in putting the question, Who's your doctor? I have presumed upon my reader being smitten with that fatal drug-devouring mania so common in this land of spleen and bile, of smoke and taciturnity; this land, where every one inquires after everybody's health, and tells everybody he meets how very ill he looks; where every one observes, It is very hot, or very cold —very wet, or very dry—as if everybody else B were senseless, sightless, or impermeable to rain. But perchance the reader, like the seedy-suited man, may simply ask, What's that to you? or make a species of apologetic answer, as if afraid to own; or, what is more, may feel ashamed to tell! There is, unquestionably, a something magic in the name of Doctor which touches all the hidden sources of our sorrows and our joys—our loves and hates—our sympathies and fears. It is the peevish child's abhorrence, and the sick man's dread. It revives the horrors of the bitter pill and draught — the fevered tongue-the parched and burning throat-the maddened brain-the dreaded, agonising pang of parting life, with all its soul-awakening terrors ! Who has not trembled at the name of Doctor, or gladly hailed its welcome sound? In using the term Doctor, I employ it in its commonest acceptation-as it is used by all the world: it therefore includes Physicians, Surgeons, General Practitioners, and Quacks. It is not a little singular that the public should look upon each individual element-each crude ore, which, combined, forms the grand medical amalgamation, as of equal purity and worth. Whereas, the metals do not differ more in relative value, qualities, and uses, than do individual doctors. Almost every town presents its richer and its rarer specimens—its dashing, plodding, fashionable, and eccentric doctor. Yet they are spoken of and treated all alike. How constantly we hear that definite expression,-"Fetch THE doctor," as if perfectly immaterial which! It is proverbial that doctors DIFFER! Some are highly polished, while others are deficient in the common courtesies of life, and neglect its commonest civilities. Some are well educated, and deeply skilled in science-others are practical; while some, again, are nothing more than bunglers. Yet they are all invested with equality of power, and all entrusted with the deadliest drugs to wield as fancy leads them: in short, they are all licensed by the law to kill and slay, and if they only do this after the most approved fashion, or secundum artem, they are not accountable to man! "Who is your doctor ?" is, therefore, a question of some importance. From the loose system of educating doctors, - from the multiplicity of schools, colleges, and examining bodies,-each pursuing its own system, and, from the great variety of examinations, each entitling to a diploma to practise,-a race of medical men has been produced in whom the public have very little confidence. While one diploma is notoriously the reward of a very trying and superior examination, - another, conferring the same title and equal powers, is as notoriously one of which the owner is ashamed, or, at least, not particularly proud. Thus it is, it has been, and it will be, I fear, for some time to come, a melancholy fact, that every man who calls himself a doctor is not necessarily fit to practise medicine, or to be entrusted with the care of human life. Look at the men who daily pass your door, armed with the lance, the potion, and the pill! How few of them ride forth to real fame! How many gain a worthless notoriety! Some, whom the world regards as prodigies of skill, would scarce pass muster in a grocer's shop! while others, who take "the cream of practice," would not be trusted by a West-End draper to serve a lady-customer, or measure out his goods! And is it not sad to contemplate the fearful havoc made with human life—to think of the old and young-the rich and poor-the grave and gay-the prosperous and the wretched -who are sacrificed to fashion or to clique? Does not the blush of shame rise mantling to your cheek when you think how kindred life is sometimes sacrificed to "mother's pride?" For youth is not selected for the medical calling on |