THE LOST LEADER.
Well, he is gone, and with him go these thoughts.—_Shakespeare._
Meantime, how much I loved him,
I find out now I’ve lost him.—_Browning._
It was the 9th of November, and Lord Mayor’s Show day—a festival of
the first class at all the medical schools of the metropolis. On great
occasions like this, the spirits of all medicos run high. They drink
deeply, sally forth with knobby sticks, and prepare for multiform
scrimmages. On this particular day word had been sent round to all the
medical schools that a raid was to be made on the “Frivolity” Music
Hall, Oxford Street, and Medicine expected every hospital man to do his
duty. The rendezvous was at Piccadilly Circus, the time ten o’clock. At
the appointed hour the locality was crowded with active, healthy young
fellows, armed with their characteristic bludgeons; and the word was
quickly passed to link arms and rush up Regent Street, driving
everybody before them. No sooner suggested than done; right across the
street they formed, from house-front to house-front, in triple rows. Of
course everybody got out of their way, and gave a wide berth to them,
and the young clerks and shopmen, who were delighted to join in the
spree, and willing to undergo the indignity of being arrested for the
pleasure of being suspected and perhaps described in the papers as
medical students. As it is not the cowl that makes the monk, these vain
persons do not always deceive either the public or the magistrates
before whom they appear. The music hall was quickly reached, with
little interference on the part of the police who had not previously
got notice of the raid. The turnstiles were upset or broken down, the
money-takers roughly handled, and the spacious “hall of splendour and
realm of dazzling light,” as one of the fellows called it, was taken by
storm; the glasses and crockery at the refreshment bars were smashed,
the looking-glass on the walls demolished, the marble tables
overthrown, and the unfortunate portion of the audience, which did
not succeed in escaping, soon had cause to regret the excessive
demonstrativeness of the followers of medicine. Of course, when the
place was half wrecked, the police came in force, and restored order.
Some half-dozen of the rioters were arrested, and duly appeared before
the magistrate, received their lecture on the manner they disgraced
their noble calling, and were let off with fines. But the event of the
night was the disappearance of Elsworth. No one knew what had become of
him; he was not among the arrested, nor had he turned up at the
hospital or his lodgings. No one had seen him after the row at the
“Frivolity,” and all sorts of alarming rumours began to circulate as to
his absence. He was last remembered in the heat of battle in the music
hall, rallying his forces, crying, “St. Bernard’s to the rescue!” when
the police had captured one of his heroes. After that no one saw him
more. Had he met with an accident? Had he been attacked and robbed, and
then killed by some of the bad characters in Seven Dials close by? No
one could say. A week passed, and though inquiries had been made at
every possible place, and all his friends communicated with, nothing
whatever could be heard of him. The fellows began to rake up every bit
of his conversation they could recollect. As we have already narrated,
at Oxford he was deeply religious, but his medical studies had
imbued him with serious doubts on all the distinctive dogmas of
Christianity, till at last the atmosphere of the dissecting-room and the
physiological laboratory seemed to have weakened his faith in God, the
soul, and the future life. It was the fact that this state of things
often obtained at St Bernard’s. All its professors but one or two were
agnostics, or even atheists. Some were serious, thoughtful men, who
grieved they could not believe; while others, as far as they dared,
made a jest of the most sacred themes. Young men—and especially young
medical men—are prone to copy very closely the speech and the modes of
thought of those who are in authority over them, and the school took
its tone from the many brilliant men of science on its teaching staff.
The microscope, the test-tube, and the scalpel had dissipated much of
young Elsworth’s faith, and he had not cared to conceal it. Had he
committed suicide? Why should he? He was not embarrassed; he had ample
means and wealthy friends. Nor was he involved in any intrigues, as far
as could be known; and as he was of the liveliest and most optimistic
turn of mind, the idea was scouted by those who knew him best.