"I am, though, and about nobody else."
"Then what's the matter with you?"
"Dispeptic."
"Is that all?" "No! Choleric?" "Is that all?" "No." "What is the matter? out with it."
"To tell you the truth, Geoffery, I hardly know how to describe myself to you. You never were afflicted in the same way."
"How do you know that?"
"I am sure of it. You never were tormented morning, noon, and night. You never hated your profession, as I do mine. You never felt that you killed a great many more than you cured! You never loathed the sight of your wife and children, your house, servants, food, bed, board and lodging. In short, I am a regular monster to myself, and shall soon be good for nothing! Did you ever feel so, my friend?"
"Yes, and ten thousand times worse than all you have described."
"My dear friend, it is impossible."
"You may think it so,—and I certainly thought, once, exactly as you do now,—I can therefore make allowances for you. I tell you, no one ever appears so bad to any man, as the afflicted man does to himself. He would soon be better if he could once see others worse than himself, or as bad as himself, and wish, heartily wish, to see them cured. I tell you, such was my case—even worse than yours,—and I can cure you."