New York: Its Upper Ten and Lower Million

by George Lippard

It is near morning; but one person by a solitary light, keeps his vigil in the deserted mansion; a sleigh drawn by a single horse, (he has been driven hard, for there is foam upon his flanks) and moving noiselessly, without the sound of bells stops at the garden gate. Two persons, whose forms are wrapped in thick overcoats, and whose faces are concealed by fur caps, drawn low over the brows, dismount and pass along the garden walk, bearing a burden on their shoulders. They ascend the steps of the porch, and stand in front of the hall door, looking anxiously about them, as if to assure themselves, their movements were not observed.

"So far safe enough,—" exclaims one in a hoarse voice, "the next thing is to get it up stairs." And he places a key in the lock of the door.

Meanwhile the light, which trembling outward from yonder window, shines redly over the frozen snow, shines within upon the face of the lonely watcher. A young man sits beside a table, reading by the light of a clouded lamp, his cheeks resting on his hands, and his gaze riveted upon the large volume, spread open before him. The light falls brightly upon the book, leaving his features in half twilight, but still you can trace the outlines of his face,—the enthusiasm of his fixed eyes,—the energy of his broad bold forehead. It is a small and comfortable apartment; near him a wood-fire is burning, on the open hearth; opposite him a sofa, and a range of shelves, filled with books, and upon the green cloth of the table by which he is seated, you discover a sort of semicircle of open volumes,—placed there evidently for reference,—a mass of carelessly strewn manuscripts, and a case of surgical instruments.

Arthur Conroy, the favorite student of the celebrated Doctor,—a student, whose organization combines the exactness and untiring industry of the man of science, with the rich enthusiasm of the poet,—is the only tenant of the mansion, during the dreary winter. He is not seen during the day, but every night, arriving from New York, after dark, he builds his fire, lights his candle, and commences his lonely vigil. Sometimes, late at night, he is joined by the grave Doctor himself, and they pursue their researches together. What manner of researches? We cannot tell; but there is a rumor, that one apartment of the huge mansion is used, in winter time, as a Dissecting-Room. And the light streaming night after night, from the window near the roof, strikes the lonely wayfarer with a sensation, in some manner, associated with ghosts, witches, and dealings with the devil in general.

Arthur is ambitious; even while his mind is wrapt in the mazes of a scientific problem, he thinks of his widowed mother and orphan sisters far away in the great village near Seneca lake, and his pulse beats quicker, as he looks forward to the day when their ears shall be greeted by the tidings of his world-wide fame. For he has determined to be a surgeon, and a master in his art; he has the will and the genius; he will accomplish what he wills.

He raises his eyes from his book,—they are glittering with the clear light of intense thought,—and unconsciously begins to think aloud.

"Do the dead return? Are the dead indeed dead? You have nailed down the coffin-lid; you have seen the coffin as it sunk into the grave; you have heard the rattling of the clod,—but is that all? Is the beloved one whom you have given to the grave, indeed dead, or only more truly living in a new body, formed of refined matter, invisible to our gross organs? Is that which we call soul, only the result of a particular organization of gross matter, or is it the real, eternal substance of which all other matter is but the servant and the expression? Do the dead return? Do those whose faces we have seen for the last time, ere the coffin-lid closed upon them forever, ever come back to us, clad in spiritual bodies, and addressing us, not through our external organs, but by directly impressing that divine substance in us, which is like unto them,—that which we call our soul?"

It was a thought which for ages has made the hearts of the noblest and truest of our race, alternately combat with despair, and swell with hope,—that thought which seeks to unvail the mystery of Life and Death, disclose the tie which connects perishable matter with eternal mind, and lift the curtain which hides from the present, the other world.

Arthur felt the vast thought gather all his soul into its embrace. But his meditations were interrupted by the opening of the door, and the two men,—whom we saw dismount from the sleigh,—entered the room of the student, bearing in their arms the burden, which was covered by folds of coarse canvas.

Very ungainly men they were, with their brawny forms wrapped in huge gray overcoats, adorned with white buttons, and their harsh visages half concealed by their coarse fur caps. They came into the room without a word.