Mr. Langdon seemed to me to have gained in seriousness and strength of character by his late experiences.  He threw his whole energies into his studies with an effect which distanced all his previous efforts.  Remembering my former hint, he employed his spare hours in writing for the annual prizes, both of which he took by a unanimous vote of the judges.  Those who heard him read his Thesis at the Medical Commencement will not soon forget the impression made by his fine personal appearance and manners, nor the universal interest excited in the audience, as he read, with his beautiful enunciation, that striking paper entitled “Unresolved Nebulae in Vital Science.”  It was a general remark of the Faculty,—­and old Doctor Kittredge, who had come down on purpose to hear Mr. Langdon, heartily agreed to it,—­that there had never been a diploma filled up, since the institution which conferred upon him the degree of Doctor Medicdnce was founded, which carried with it more of promise to the profession than that which bore the name of

BERNARDUS Caryl Langdon

CHAPTER XXXII.

CONCLUSION.

Mr. Bernard Langdon had no sooner taken his degree, than, in accordance with the advice of one of his teachers whom he frequently consulted, he took an office in the heart of the city where he had studied.  He had thought of beginning in a suburb or some remoter district of the city proper.

“No,” said his teacher,—­to wit, myself,—­“don’t do any such thing.  You are made for the best kind of practice; don’t hamper yourself with an outside constituency, such as belongs to a practitioner of the second class.  When a fellow like you chooses his beat, he must look ahead a little.  Take care of all the poor that apply to you, but leave the half-pay classes to a different style of doctor,—­the people who spend one half their time in taking care of their patients, and the other half in squeezing out their money.  Go for the swell-fronts and south-exposure houses; the folks inside are just as good as other people, and the pleasantest, on the whole, to take care of.  They must have somebody, and they like a gentleman best.  Don’t throw yourself away.  You have a good presence and pleasing manners.  You wear white linen by inherited instinct.  You can pronounce the word view.  You have all the elements of success; go and take it.  Be polite and generous, but don’t undervalue yourself.  You will be useful, at any rate; you may just as well be happy, while you are about it.  The highest social class furnishes incomparably the best patients, taking them by and large.  Besides, when they won’t get well and bore you to death, you can send ’em off to travel.  Mind me now, and take the tops of your sparrowgrass.  Somebody must have ’em,—­why shouldn’t you?  If you don’t take your chance, you’ll get the butt-ends as a matter of course.”

Mr. Bernard talked like a young man full of noble sentiments.  He wanted to be useful to his fellow-beings.  Their social differences were nothing to him.  He would never court the rich,—­he would go where he was called.  He would rather save the life of a poor mother of a family than that of half a dozen old gouty millionnaires whose heirs had been yawning and stretching these ten years to get rid of them.