In the Theater
It was said across England and in every city of the Continent, scattering one sentiment over half a dozen languages: no one likes a medical student. He has every vice of the young. He is arrogant, he is callous and impatient. At twenty-two he has comprehended the world. He is an opportunist, knowing the day will come when you give your body over to him.
His studies make a mockery of his religion. In the dissecting room he learns that God’s image, the paragon of animals, is a faulty engine and may be pulled apart to its last cog. Just so his moral being is unstrung fiber by fiber. Soon he thinks it a rare joke to slap his fellow student with a detached arm, or to slip a cold kidney down an unwitting collar.
He drinks strong punch. He takes snuff and plays at faro. He goes
