If any man should be so "peculiar," or "crotchety," as to consider that names are of little import, and that "Vice is vice, for a' that," and venture to anathematize any custom, or even refuse to be an accessory, in declining to wink at it, he may encounter charges of violating professional confidence, of being deficient in a proper _esprit de corps_, and be outvoted, for no better reason than that he cannot concur in the dogma, that a _vicious sophism is more valuable than a simple truth_; nor agree with the currier, "that leather is the best material for fortification." He may possibly be let off by conceding his connivance; which is little better than declining to be thief, as too shocking; but having no objection to the more lubricated position of the receiver. But does any one for one moment believe that all this can be hung on any trade, or profession, with no effect? Or that it will not have a baneful influence on every calling, and that in proportion as its _real_ and _proper_ duties are beneficent and exalted? Now, whilst we claim for the medical profession a character which, in its single-mindedness and benevolence, yields to no other whatever, we fear it is not entirely free from these technical besettings. In the medical profession, we trust, that which we, for want of a better term, designate as technical immoralities are exceptions. Exceptional they may be, and we sincerely hope they are; but, in a crowded island, exceptions, even if _relatively_ few, may be _absolutely_ numerous; and whenever they occur, especially if men hold any position, one case of compromise of duty does more harm than a hundred of the most inflexible adhesions to it can remedy. Suppose a patient apply to a surgeon with a complaint requiring one operation, and his fears incline him to another; he is informed it is improper for his case: that so far from relieving him, it will indefinitely increase his sufferings. The patient reiterates his wishes; the surgeon declines doing that which he would not have done in his own person. On lamenting what he believes to be the consequences of the patient's determination, to a brother surgeon, he is met by: "What a fool you must be to throw away —— guineas; if you don't do it, somebody else will." He is too right in his prediction, and so is the surgeon who refused to operate, and he has lost a large fee; he receives the verification of his prediction subsequently from the patient, who exclaims, "Sir, I never have a moment's ease!" and when, after weeks of suffering, the patient dies, the surgeon consoles himself with the melancholy satisfaction of not having contributed to sufferings which he was called in too late to remedy.