“‘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.’

“‘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.’

“‘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.’