Дэвид Копперфильд

I Corroborate Mr. Dick, and Choose a Profession

           

           ‘Whatisaproctor,Steerforth?’saidI.

           ‘Why,heisasortofmonkishattorney,’repliedSteerforth.‘Heis,tosomefadedcourtsheldinDoctors’Commons,alazyoldnooknearSt.Paul’sChurchyard—whatsolicitorsaretothecourtsoflawandequity.Heisafunctionarywhoseexistence,inthenaturalcourseofthings,wouldhaveterminatedabouttwohundredyearsago.Icantellyoubestwhatheis,bytellingyouwhatDoctors’Commonsis.It’salittleout-of-the-wayplace,wheretheyadministerwhatiscalledecclesiasticallaw,andplayallkindsoftrickswithobsoleteoldmonstersofactsofParliament,whichthree-fourthsoftheworldknownothingabout,andtheotherfourthsupposestohavebeendugup,inafossilstate,inthedaysoftheEdwards.It’saplacethathasanancientmonopolyinsuitsaboutpeople’swillsandpeople’smarriages,anddisputesamongshipsandboats.’

           ‘Nonsense,Steerforth!’Iexclaimed.‘Youdon’tmeantosaythatthereisanyaffinitybetweennauticalmattersandecclesiasticalmatters?’

           ‘Idon’t,indeed,mydearboy,’hereturned;‘butImeantosaythattheyaremanagedanddecidedbythesamesetofpeople,downinthatsameDoctors’Commons.Youshallgothereoneday,andfindthemblunderingthroughhalfthenauticaltermsinYoung’sDictionary,aproposofthe“Nancy”havingrundownthe“SarahJane”,orMr.

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