“I arrived in New York City in due time, and set about the work which
Doctor Dodson had charged me with. When I reached Philadelphia I found a
long letter from Lottie. Here it is:
“‘DEAR EDDIE--Your letter was received yesterday, and if you knew
how happy it made me you would write me one every day. I have read
it through at least a dozen times, and every dear expression is
engraved on my heart. I beseech you to take good care of yourself,
and you must be sure to tell me if you ever feel the least ill. But
lest I should bore you with so much talk about love matters, I will
tell you something about Viola. She has been with me nearly three
weeks, and is the sweetest, prettiest little cricket that any one
ever looked upon--not so little, however, as you might think, for
she is as tall as I am. She has a most charming disposition--as
gentle as a dove--and can sing, oh, so sweetly! It would make you
weep to hear her play on the guitar, while singing one of her
plaintive songs. She is complete mistress of the piano and guitar.
I had been flattering myself that I was a pretty good musician, but
when I heard Viola play my conceit oozed out. She is in love with
Harry, but just as I expected, he is too proud to let her know how
he loves her. He maintains a dignified stiffness of manner, when
with her, that chills me to the heart and frightens her. I wonder
if this hateful money of Mr. Bramlett’s is going to break these two
young, loving hearts? Viola has Harry’s picture--wears it in her
bosom all the time; I saw her kissing it the other day and crying
over it, when she thought no one was near. What a darling little
wife she would make for Harry, if he would only ask her! I wish I
had a gold mine, so I could give it to him, and make his fortune
equal to hers. I believe he loves her fervently, and would tell her
so, but for the hateful gulf that Mr. Bramlett’s gold has placed
between them. I fear that much sorrow is in store for both of them;
but let us hope for the best. Viola and I are rooming together;
poor old Bob dozes on the hearth in my room all the time since the
weather got too cold for him to stay in his house. He has quit
quarreling with old Roderick, and they have become very good
friends now. The parrot comes up to my room every night, and takes
his snooze in the closet. He has learned to speak several new words
since you went away. It would amuse you to hear him try to say
Philadelphia; but he can’t do it--the word is too big for him. I
was trying to teach him to tell where you were living, and when he
failed to say Philadelphia we compromised on New York, because he
can say that as plainly as I can.
“‘Mr. Heartsell has called on me several times since you left. Poor
fellow, he looks so sad! He treats me with such tender
consideration--never mentions the subject; I suppose he has given
up all hope in that direction. I can’t help having the very highest
respect for him; but do not become jealous, for I don’t love him
the least bit. How could I love any one else when my Eddie has
taken my heart away with him?
“‘I think poor old Bob will die before you come home--he is very
old, you know; I never let him want for anything--how could I, as I
think of the time when we were poor homeless tramps? Do you ever
let your mind wander back to those old days when we were all
tramps? Have you forgotten the cloth shoes you made for me while
you were convalescing at Mrs. Holly’s farmhouse? I have got those
old shoes yet; I am preserving them as relics of the happy days of
old.
“‘Papa says that he will have to mortgage his estate to buy postage
stamps if I don’t quit writing so many long letters to you. I don’t
care if he does--I mean to write a long letter every day.
“‘The autumn weather has been delightful, and you may guess Viola
and I have made good use of it. She is the liveliest girl I ever
saw--always mirthful and happy, except when Harry gets on his high
horse of pride; then a shade of melancholy chases away the jolly
look. Alas! what misery will ensue if Harry does not conquer this
strange, mysterious passion called pride. Poor girl! she does not
know that it is the hateful money that keeps Harry and her so far
apart. Harry is not happy, as he was before Viola came, and I begin
to see a cloud of sorrow rising in the distance which is sure to
burst over their heads, unless something intervenes to prevent it.
Oh, love, love, love! what a wonderful thing thou art! How much
happiness canst thou give when circumstances are favorable, and
what misery when unfavorable! When I think of what exquisite
delight your love has given me I can’t realize the fact that the
same kind of passion has caused so much misery to others. I am so
selfish in my love, yet so happy; but then, when I think of the
many long, dreary days that must elapse before I shall see you, I
am in despair. I sometimes imagine that I should like to fall into
a trance, and not wake up till you return. The old clock on the
mantel goes on ticking away deliberately, while an age seems to
intervene between the strokes. Oh, how can I wait so long before I
shall look again in those dear eyes? Your eyes always looked so
tenderly down into mine; I could read your thoughts when gazing in
your eyes. You were always so tender and gentle with me, in the
good old days; when my feet were bleeding from their many wounds, I
remember you lifted me in your arms--when I was unable to walk--and
carried me to the banks of the little brook and bathed my feet so
tenderly! Do you never let your mind recall those happy days? I
call them happy days, though they were not unmixed with
sadness--but those were the days in which you won my heart. Do you
remember the evening when old Bob came to our camp looking so poor
and miserable? What a lucky thing it was he happened to take it
into his head to follow me! But you will be laughing at me when you
read this nonsense. Well, do you know, darling, I don’t care how
much you laugh at me? I rather like it, when I know you love me so
well. Viola is looking over my shoulder just now, telling me to
give you her highest regards; and I imagine it makes her sad to
know that my love is returned, while she thinks hers for Harry is
not. Harry says he wishes to be kindly remembered by you; he thinks
you are the best fellow in the world--shows his good sense, don’t
it, darling? Well, I suppose when you read this long letter you
will be tired; but I could write all day to you and never tire. I
could write a volume about love, and then not have space sufficient
to describe all I feel for my darling; but I reckon I had better
halt here. Good-by, and don’t forget the kisses I have sent in this
letter. Your faithful, loving
“‘LOTTIE.’
“I often think that men who never loved are not capable of understanding
the wonderful mystery, because they are often heard to speak of it as
simple nonsense--a foolish weakness, only known to weak minds. I have
been told that many a man has lived a long life, and died without ever
having felt the charming influence of true love; if they did, they died
in ignorance of what real happiness was. To say that I read Lottie’s
sweet letter a thousand times would, perhaps, be an exaggeration--to say
I only read it once would be short of the mark; I read it a great many
times. But I must hasten on, and not consume your time with too much
talk about my dear Lottie, as I shall have many thrilling events to
describe--events that occurred after I had finished my attendance at the
lectures. I will, however, ask permission to read one of my letters to
Lottie, after which I promise to hasten on to the stirring events which
really constitute the gist of this story.
“‘DEAR LOTTIE--Your highly appreciated letter was here when I
arrived, and were I to exhaust Webster’s unabridged, I am sure I
could find no words adequate to describe the pleasure I felt while
perusing it. You inquired if I ever let my mind wander back to the
old days, when we were homeless tramps. Ah, yes, Lottie! my mind
has traveled a thousand times over every path where your dear feet
have trod. I can call to mind every little trifling circumstance
that was in any manner connected with you. I have seen nothing in
the shape of a woman that can begin to compare with my Lottie.
“‘I am stopping at the Girard House, on Chestnut street--have
comfortable quarters on the second floor, fronting the street. That
is one of the most beautiful streets in the city. Every evening it
is crowded with splendid equipages and handsome ladies, but none so
beautiful as my Lottie. Independence Hall is situated on this
street; I spent one whole day looking at the quaint old relics that
are to be seen there. The old bell, whose brazen tongue proclaimed
the birth of a new nation nearly a hundred years ago, is there
still. The heavy old carved chairs that were used by the members of
the Continental Congress may be seen in the very places where they
stood when occupied by those heroic old patriots. A life-size
portrait of George III. hangs on the wall. His youthful features
have no expression that would indicate the tyrant. The old
flint-lock pistols used by Lafayette during the war of independence
are great curiosities in themselves. Washington’s camp-chest may be
seen, with the cooking utensils used while commanding the American
army; all put together would scarcely weigh fifty pounds. A common
lieutenant of the present day would tender his resignation, if he
were required to reduce the bulk of his camp equipage to that used
by the Commander-in-Chief in 1776. This is a fast age, you know,
and ideas have changed since the honest days of old. Strange
reflections crowded on my mind as I gazed on those dear old relics.
Where are all those brave old soldiers now? Where are all the
heroic men and beautiful women who inhabited this continent then?
All dead, all gone; perhaps not a living soul can now be found on
the earth who heard the old bell proclaim the notes of liberty to
the people in 1776.
“‘Philadelphia is a beautiful city--so clean, so quiet, so
charming; everything so systematic. I think I should like to live
here, but for the severely cold winters. I visited Girard College
the other day, and would you believe it, Lottie, a man at the gate
asked me if I was a preacher. Now, don’t I look like a preacher?
Have you ever imagined that I, in any manner, resembled one? Of
course not, yet he did ask me the strange question. I, of course,
answered promptly, No! and then he allowed me to go in. My
curiosity was roused, and I didn’t stop till I learned the reasons
why the question was put to me. Mr. Girard inserted a clause in his
will that no minister of the gospel should ever be permitted to
enter the inclosure.
“There are many things to amuse and instruct one in this sober old
city, and I mean to give you a more elaborate history of them in my
next letter. I don’t think I ever shall make a very great surgeon,
because the dissecting room is a very unpleasant place to me. When
engaged in it I can’t for the life of me keep my mind on the
business before me, but, in spite of me, it will go straying off
into the realms of philosophy. The first time I entered the
dissecting room I felt unusually sad; the subject was a young man
of powerful frame, well-shaped limbs, brawny chest and handsome
face, whom I supposed to be about my own age. A feeling of horror
thrilled through my whole frame as I saw the sharp, glittering
steel inserted in his white flesh. I then and there became
convinced that I never should master the science of surgery, if
that was the only way it could be done. When the dead man’s brain
and heart were taken out, I took the heart in my left hand and the
brain in the other, seated myself as far away as I could without
leaving the room, and began to philosophize in a most singular
manner. What is this little dark red lump of flesh that I hold in
my left hand? Answer--The human heart, the supposed seat of life,
the little governor that regulates the quantity of blood that each
tiny vein is entitled to as its share. This little lump of flesh
puts all the small pumps in motion that move the red life through
the human body. This little insignificant thing is the great throne
where love holds his court; where all the passions assemble round
to pay homage to the king of love. In what corner of this little
ball does love hold his court? Where is the identical spot? How is
it we can feel it, and not see it? How can so much delicious joy
find room in this little bulk? How can it produce such heavenly
joys, such ecstatic bliss, as I feel in my love for my Lottie? Then
again, how can so small a bulk suffer such untold, indescribable
torture as we endure when we love some beautiful object who returns
scorn for true love? As I held the heart in my hand, I thought of
Shakespeare’s wonderful creations of beauty, and asked myself the
question, Was his great heart like this? How could a man possessing
a little heart like this, compose such soul-inspiring poetry? Then
I thought perhaps it was the brain where all those beautiful things
originated, and I turned my attention to it. What was it? Nothing
but a few ounces of soft, fatty substance. Is this the great spring
from whence such brilliant ideas flow? Was the great Bard of Avon’s
brain like this? How could such an insignificant mess of fat give
life to such soul-stirring sentiment, such heaven-born inspiration?
Was this little gob of fat all that Napoleon had to depend on to
enable him to overturn kingdoms and to make kings out of peasants?
Did Alexander and Cæsar have brains like this? Did Byron’s base of
thought depend on such a slender foundation as this? The more
questions I propounded to myself on the subject the more I became
bewildered. Scientists assert that the brain is the dome of
thought; but if it is so, I must say that the dome of thought is a
very insignificant dome. No, it is the soul that dwells in the
head, sitting back on its throne, that directs and moves
everything. It is not dependent on this little lump of fat for its
existence, nor is it in any manner indebted to it for the thoughts
that man produces. The soul sits on a throne in a man’s hand, and
issues orders, like a king from his earthly throne; all parts of
the body are moved by orders from the soul; just as great armies
are moved by orders of the king. When the body falls into decay the
soul steps out uninjured, and reports to its Creator for duty. Who
made this incomprehensible thing called a soul? God. Who made----?
Stop right here and seek to know no more; trust everything to that
mysterious Power who created this admirable machine called man.
“‘“What are you doing, Mr. Demar?” inquired the professor; “you
have been looking at those little organs a long time--what have you
discovered?”
“‘“Enough to convince me that man is a poor, helpless, ignorant
thing, unable to tell anything about his own creation.”
“‘I then took a sharp knife and began to dissect the heart. I cut
it into a hundred little slices, looking with all the eyes I had to
see where love resided, but my search was in vain. Was my Lottie’s
heart like this? Was my own heart like it? If so, why could I find
nothing that would indicate the part where love dwelt? I knew from
the feelings of my own heart that love dwelt there; but with all my
surgery I could not find it. I was so nervous I did not sleep a
wink that night and I think I shall not attempt to pry into the
secrets of nature any more. When I know that my Lottie loves me
dearly, and that I adore her beyond everything on earth, that is
enough for me, and I shall not again attempt to investigate secrets
which God never intended weak mortals to know. I am happy, oh, so
very happy! no matter how or wherefore; I am happy, and that’s
sufficient.
“‘I was exceedingly sorry to hear that Harry still clings to his
absurd notions of pride; it will kill all pleasure, destroy all
hopes of happiness, unless he discards it. Why should he reject the
love of such a charming woman, when it would make him the happiest
man in Memphis if he would lay aside his foolish pride? I fully
concur with you in the idea that his conduct is going to produce
unspeakable sorrow. I knew that Viola loved him when she was a mere
child, and she is worthy of any man’s love. Use all your powers of
persuasion, my dear Lottie, on him; see if you cannot convince him
of his error. I know he loves you dearly, and has a high opinion of
your judgment, and I trust you may be able to induce him to change
his mind. I am sorry to be compelled, however, to tell you that the
reports you have heard regarding Mr. Bramlett’s wealth have not
been at all exaggerated. His estate is estimated at ten to fifteen
hundred thousand dollars. I was invited to dine with him during my
stay in New York. I accepted the invitation, and was delighted with
the entertainment. The dinner party consisted of a dozen invited
guests besides the family--all persons of distinction, except
myself, of course. One ex-Governor, one United States Senator, one
Brigadier-General, and two railway presidents; the others were
newspaper men, and bankers, and two literary ladies. Mrs. Bramlett,
knowing how green I was in such matters, took charge of me at the
start, and piloted me through so skillfully that I was not at all
embarrassed. To describe the grand display of wealth that met my
eyes would be, indeed, a difficult task. Mrs. Bramlett made a great
many inquiries about Harry; so did Mr. Bramlett. They both seem to
think a great deal of him, and, no doubt, would readily consent for
Viola to marry him. Mr. Bramlett is by no means a gold worshiper;
he has made his fortune by energetic work and close attention to
business, is very liberal with his money, and exceedingly popular
with the business men of New York. Mrs. Bramlett is a confirmed
invalid, though she is one of the best little women I ever knew.
But, dear Lottie, I must not undertake to tell everything in one
letter, but will reserve something to be said in my next. Having
kissed this paper a hundred times for you, I now bid my darling
angel good night. Yours, forever and ever,
“‘EDDIE.’
“I had been in Philadelphia but a short time when the news of Mr.
Bramlett’s death reached me--and Lottie informed me, by letter, that
Viola was overwhelmed with grief at the loss of her father, and that she
had immediately started home, accompanied by Harry. I was glad to learn
that Harry had gone home with her, for I still clung to the idea that
Viola would yet be his wife. I was satisfied that she soon would be left
all alone, for her mother’s health was wretched, and it was certain she
would not long survive her husband. I received a letter from Harry, soon
after his arrival in New York, and as it has an intimate connection with
this narrative, I think I had better read it now:
“‘Dear Edward--I presume you have heard of the death of Mr.
Bramlett, as sister Lottie promised to give you the information.
His death has cast a cloud over Viola’s young life; she loved her
father devotedly, and is plunged in despair at his sudden death.
Misfortunes, it seems, never visit us singly, but most always come
crowding on us in platoons. Mrs. Bramlett is dying now--we don’t
think she will last more than twenty-four hours longer. Poor Viola!
I pity her from the bottom of my heart. I am so glad I consented to
accompany her home, and that I can be with her during this awful
affliction! She is the most amiable, charming girl I ever knew; the
sweetest disposition, the gentlest manners--and I believe I might
say the most beautiful, too. I will tell you a great secret, if
you will keep it to yourself--I am desperately in love with
Viola--nay, to tell you the whole truth, I adore her--and my love
is returned without discount; I might say with a good interest; but
alas! I can never marry her, you know. There is an impassable gulf
that separates us. I should despise myself if I thought that I was
a sneaking fortune-hunter. I would look upon myself as a disgraced,
unworthy, mean fellow, and so would everybody else, were I to take
advantage of that poor girl’s situation.
“‘Mr. Bramlett made a will placing all his property in the hands of
trustees, to be divided equally between Viola and her brother,
Harry W., both to have control of their respective shares on
arriving at the age of twenty-one years. Mrs. Bramlett was amply
provided for under the will, but she will not live to enjoy the
benefits of her husband’s generosity. Stanley Ragland, a
half-brother of Mr. Bramlett’s, is named in the will as guardian to
Viola and her brother. Mr. Ragland resides in Memphis--a lawyer,
though I don’t think he is engaged in the practice of his
profession now. I am glad to know that Viola is to reside
permanently in Memphis; it will be a consolation to see her now and
then, even if she is to be some other man’s wife. I never shall see
another happy moment after the day that Viola is wedded, and, as a
matter of course, she will not remain single long. Memphis will
swarm with unscrupulous fortune-hunters as soon as Viola arrives,
and it becomes known that she is an heiress to a great fortune. I
shall remain here until after Mrs. Bramlett’s funeral, for the
purpose of accompanying Viola and her brother to Memphis. As I have
already said, the poor woman cannot possibly survive more than two
days longer. Viola’s grief is crushing her young heart, and I think
it best to take her away from here as soon as possible. Her brother
is a handsome, well-disposed boy, and I think I shall like him very
much; he is a bright, lively little fellow, and has become very
much attached to me. I am proud to have such a boy named after me;
that, you know, was done by Viola--which, you perceive, is another
evidence of her affection for me.
“‘I shall be glad to hear from you as soon as I get home, and shall
expect you to write often. Poor Lottie! she hated so much to part
with Viola; they had become true friends--loved each other
fervently; she will be quite lonely until we get home. I have
extended this communication much longer than I intended, and must
apologize to you for it. With many wishes for your good health and
happiness, I am,
“‘Yours most truly,
“‘HARRY WALLINGFORD.’