Arthur O'Leary Part 45

'How I reached my bed and became undressed, I never knew since; but by noon the next day I was awakened from a deep slumber, and saw Jacob beside me.

'"Well, old fellow, you take it coolly," said he, laughing; "you don't know it's past twelve o'clock."

'"Indeed!" said I, starting up, and scarce remembering where I was. "The fact is, my wits are none of the clearest this morning--that bowl of bishop finished me."

'"Did it, by Jove?" replied he, with a half saucy laugh; "I'll wager a pony, notwithstanding, that you never played better in your life."

'"Played! why, I never touched a card," said I, in horror and amazement.

'"I wish you hadn't, that's all," said he, while he took a pocket-book from his pocket, and proceeded to open it on the bed. "If you hadn't, I should have been somewhat of a richer man this morning."

'"I can only tell you," said I, as I rubbed my eyes, and endeavoured to waken up more completely--"I can only tell you that I don't remember anything of what you allude to, nor can I believe that I would have broken a firm resolve I made against play----"

'"Gently, sir, gently," said he, in a low, smooth voice; "be a little careful, I beseech you; what you have just said amounts to something very like a direct contradiction of my words. Please to remember, sir, that we were strangers to each other yesterday morning. But to be brief, was your last bet a double or quit, or only a ten-pound note, for on that depends whether I owe you two hundred and sixty, or two hundred and seventy pounds? Can you set me right on that point--they made such a noise at the time, I can't be clear about it."

'"I protest, sir," said I, once more, "this is all a dream to me; as I have told you already, I never played----"

'"You never played, sir?"

'"I mean, I never knew I played, or I have no remembrance of it now."

'"Well, young gentleman, fortune treats _you_ better when asleep than she does _me_ with my eyes open, and as I have no time to lose, for I leave for Bingen in half an hour, I have only to say, here is your money. You may forget what you have won; I have also an obligation, but a stronger one, to remember what I have lost; and as for the ten pounds, shall we say head or tail for it, as we neither of us are quite clear about it?"

'"Say anything you like, for I firmly believe one or the other of us must be out of our reason."

'"What do you say, sir--head or tail?"

'"Head!" cried I, in a frenzy; "there ought to be _one_ in the party."

'"Won again, by Jove!" said he, opening his hand; "I think you'll find that rouleau correct; and now, sir, _au revoir_. I shall have my revenge one of these days."

'He shook my hand and went out, leaving me sitting up in the bed, trying to remember some one circ.u.mstance of the previous night, by which I could recall my joining the play-table. But nothing of the kind; a thick haze was over everything, through which I could merely recollect the spicy bishop, and my continued efforts to keep their gla.s.ses filled.

There I sat, puzzled and confused, the bed covered with bank-notes, which after all have some confounded magic in their faces that makes our acceptance of them a matter of far less repugnance than it ought. While I counted over my gains, stopping every instant to think on the strange caprices of fortune, that wouldn't afford me the gambler's pleasure of winning, while enriching me with gain, the door opened, and in came Crotty.

'"Not up yet! why, we start in ten minutes; didn't the waiter call you?"

'"No. I am in a state of bewilderment this whole morning-----"

'"Well, well, get clear of it for a few seconds, I advise you, and let us settle scores----"

'"What!" cried I, laughing, "have I won from you also?"

'"No, by Jove, it's the other way. You pushed me rather sharply though, and if I had taken all your bets I should have made a good thing of it.

As it is"--here he opened a memorandum-book and read out--"as it is, I have only won seven hundred and twenty, and two hundred and fifty-eight--nine hundred and seventy-eight, I believe; does not that make it?"

'I s.h.i.+vered like one in the ague, and couldn't speak a word.

'"Has Jacob booked up?" asked Crotty.

'"Yes," said I, pointing to the notes on the bed, that now looked like a brood of rattlesnakes to my eyes.

'"All right," continued he, "Jacob is a most punctilious fellow--foolishly so, indeed, among friends. Well, what are we to say about this--are you strong in cash just now?"

'"No," stammered I, with a sigh.

'"Well, never mind--a short bill for the balance; I'll take what's here in part payment, and don't let the thing give you any inconvenience."

'This was done in a good off-hand way. I signed the bill which he drew up in due form. He had a dozen stamps ready in his pocket-book. He rolled up the banknotes carelessly, stuffed them into his coat-pocket, and with a most affectionate hope of seeing me next day at Wiesbaden, left the room.

'The bill is paid--I released it in less than a week. My trip to Kreuznach just cost me seven hundred pounds, and I may be pardoned if I never like "bishop" for the rest of my life after.'

'I should not wonder if you became a Presbyterian to-morrow,' said I, endeavouring to encourage his own effort at good-humour: 'but here we are at the Rhine Good-bye; I needn't warn you about----'

'Not a word, I beseech you; I'll never close my eyes as long as I live without a double lock on the door of my bedroom.'

CHAPTER XXVII. THE RECOVERY HOUSE

Frankfort is a German Liverpool, minus the s.h.i.+pping, and consequently has few attractions for the mere traveller. The statue of 'Ariadne,'

by the Danish sculptor Danneker, is almost its only great work of art.

There are some, not first-rate, pictures in the Gallery and the Hotel de Ville, and the Town Library possesses a few Protestant relics--among others, a pair of Luther's slippers.

There is, however, little to delay a wanderer within the walls of the Frey Stadt, if he have no peculiar sympathy with the Jews and money-changers. The whole place smacks of trade and traders, and seems far prouder of being the native city of Rothschild than the birthplace of Goethe.

The happy indolence of a foreign city, the easy enjoyment of life so conspicuous in most continental towns, exists not here. All is activity, haste, and bustle. The tables d'hote are crowded to excess by eager individuals eating away against time, and anxious to get back once more to the Exchange or the counting-house. There is a Yankee abruptness in the manners of the men, who reply-to you as though information were a thing not to be had for nothing; and as for the women, like the wives and daughters of all commercial communities, they are showy dressers and poor talkers, wear the finest clothes and inhabit the most magnificent houses, but scarcely become the one and don't know how to live in the other.

I certainly should not like to pitch my tent in Frankfort, even as successor to the great Munch Bellinghausen himself--Heaven grant I may have given him all his consonants!--the President of the Diet. And yet to the people themselves few places take such rooted hold on the feelings of the inhabitants as trading cities. Talk of the attachment of a Swiss or a Tyrolese to his native mountains--the dweller in Fleet Street or the Hoch Gra.s.se will beat him hollow. The daily occupations of city life, filling up every nook and crevice of the human mind, leave no room for any thought or wish beyond them. Hence arises that insufferable air of self-satisfaction, that contented self-sufficiency, so observable in your genuine c.o.c.kney. Leadenhall Street is to his notion the touchstone of mankind, and a character on 'Change the greatest test of moral worth. Hamburg or Frankfort, Glasgow or Manchester, New York or Bristol, it is all the same; your men of sugar and sa.s.safras, of hides, tallow, and train-oil, are a cla.s.s in which nationality makes little change. No men enjoy life more, few fear death as much. This is truly strange! Any ordinary mind would suppose that the common period of human life spent in such occupations as Frankfort, for instance, affords would have little desire for longevity--that, in short, a man, let him be ever such a glutton of c.o.c.ker, would have had enough of decimal fractions and compound interest after fifty years; and that he could lay down the pen without a sigh, and even for the sake of a little relaxation be glad to go into the next world. Nothing of the kind; your Frankforter hates dying above all things. The hardy peasant who sees the sun rise from his native mountains, and beholds him setting over a glorious landscape of wood and glen, of field and valley, can leave the bright world with fewer regrets than your denizen of some dark alley or some smoke-dried street in a great metropolis. The love of life--it may be axiomised--is in the direct ratio of its artificiality. The more men shut out Nature from their hearts and homes, and surround themselves with the hundred little appliances of a fact.i.tious existence, the more do they become attached to the world. The very changes of flood and field suggest the thought of a hereafter to him who dwells among them; the falling leaf, the withered branch, the mouldering decay of vegetation, bear lessons there is no mistaking; and the mind thus familiarised learns to look forward to the great event as the inevitable course of that law by which he lives and breathes--while to others, again, the speculations which grow out of the contemplation of Nature's great works invariably are blended with this thought. Not so your man of cities, who inhabits some brick-surrounded kingdom, where the incessant din of active life as effectually excludes deep reflection as does the smoky atmosphere the bright sky above it. Immersed in worldly cares, interested heart and soul in the pursuit of wealth, the solemn idea of death is not broken to his mind by any a.n.a.logy whatever. It is the pomp of the funeral that realises the idea to him; it is as a thing of undertakers and mourning-coaches, of mutes and palls, scarfs, s.e.xtons, and grave-diggers, that he knows it--the horrid image of human woe and human mockery, of grief walking in carnival. No wonder if it impress him with a greater dread!

'What has all this sad digression to do with Frankfort, Mr. O'Leary?'

inquires some very impatient reader, who always will pull me short up when I 'm in for a four-mile-heat of moralising. Come, then, I'll tell you. The train of thought was suggested to me as I strolled along the Boulevard to my hotel, meditating on one of the very strangest inst.i.tutions it had ever been my lot to visit in any country; and which, stranger still, so far as I know, guidebook people have not mentioned in any way.

In a cemetery of Frankfort--a very tasteful imitation of Pere la Chaise--there stands a large building, handsomely built, and in very correct Roman architecture, which is called the Recovery House--being neither more nor less than an inst.i.tution devoted to the dead, for the purpose of giving them every favourable opportunity of returning to life again should they feel so disposed. The apartments are furnished with all the luxurious elegance of the best houses; the beds are decorated with carving and inlaying, the carpets soft and noiseless to the tread; and, in fact, few of those who live and breathe are surrounded by such appliances of enjoyment. Beside each bed there stands a small table, in which certain ivory keys are fixed, exactly resembling those of a pianoforte. On these is the hand of the dead man laid as he lies in the bed; for instead of being buried, he is conveyed here after his supposed death, and wrapped up in warm blankets, while the temperature of the room itself is regulated by the season of the year. The slightest movement of vitality in his fingers would press down one of the keys, which communicate with a bell at the top of the building, where resides a doctor, or rather two doctors, who take it watch and watch about, ready at the summons to afford all the succour of their art.

Restoratives of every kind abound--all that human ingenuity can devise--in the way of cordials and stimulants, as well as a large and admirably equipped staff of servants and nurses, whose cheerful aspect seems especially intended to rea.s.sure the patient should he open his eyes once more to life.

The inst.i.tution is a most costly one. The physicians, selected from among the highest pract.i.tioners of Frankfort, are most liberally remunerated, and the whole retinue of the establishment is maintained on a footing of even extravagant expenditure. Of course, I need scarcely say that its benefits, if such they be, are reserved for the wealthy only. Indeed, I have been told that the cost of 'this lying in state'

exceeds that of the most expensive funeral fourfold. Sometimes there is great difficulty in obtaining a vacant bed. Periods of epidemic disease crowd the inst.i.tution to such a degree that the greatest influence is exerted for a place. Now, one naturally asks, What success has this system met with to warrant this expenditure, and continue to enjoy public confidence? None whatever. In seventeen years which one of the resident doctors pa.s.sed there, not _one_ case occurred of restored animation; nor was there ever reason to believe that in any instance the slightest signs of vitality ever returned. The physicians themselves make little scruple at avowing the incredulity concerning its necessity, and surprised me by the freedom with which they canva.s.sed the excellent but mistaken notions of its founders.

To what, then, must we look for the reason of maintaining so strange an inst.i.tution? Simply to that love of life so remarkably conspicuous in the people of Frankfort. The failure in a hundred instances is no argument to any man who thinks his own case may present the exception.

It matters little to him that his neighbour was past revival when he arrived there; the question is, What is his own chance? Besides that, the fear of being buried alive--a dread only chimerical in other countries--must often present itself here, when an inst.i.tution is maintained to prevent the casualty; in fact, there looks a something of scant courtesy in consigning a man to the tomb at once, in a land where a kind of purgatorial sojourn is provided for him. But stranger than all is the secret hope this system nourishes in the sick man's heart, that however friends may despond, and doctors may p.r.o.nounce, he has a chance still; there is a period allowed him of appealing against the decree of death--enough if he but lift a finger against it. What a singular feature does the whole system expose, and how fond of the world must they be who practise it! Who can tell whether this House of Recovery does not creep in among the fading hopes of the death-bed, and if, among the last farewells of parting life, some thoughts of that last chance are not present to the sick man's mind? As I walked through its silent chambers, where the pale print of death was marked in every face that lay there, I shuddered to think how the rich man's gold will lead him to struggle against the will of his Creator. La Morgue, in all its fearful reality, came up before me, and the cold moist flags on which were stretched the unknown corpses of the poor seemed far less horrible than this gorgeous palace of the wealthy dead.

Unquestionably, cases of recovery from trance occur in every land, and the feelings of returning animation, I have often been told, are those of most intense suffering. The inch to inch combat with death is a fearful agony; yet what is it to the horrible sensations of _seeming_ death, in which the consciousness survives all power of exertion, and the mind burns bright within while the body is about to be given to the earth. Can there be such a state as this? Some one will say, Is such a condition possible? I believe it firmly. Many years ago a physician of some eminence gave me an account of a fearful circ.u.mstance in his own life, which not only bears upon the point in question, but ill.u.s.trates in a remarkable degree the powerful agency of volition as a principle of vitality. I shall give the detail in his own words, without a syllable of comment, save that I can speak, from my knowledge of the narrator, to the truth of his narrative.

CHAPTER XXVIII. THE 'DREAM OF DEATH'