Towards the close of October he followed us to London, alone, and was sadly fatigued and exhausted by his journey. He went at once to his chambers; which he never, with one exception, quitted till his death; lying stretched in his dressing-gown upon the sofa, a large table near him being covered with briefs, cases, and pleadings, which he attended to almost as regularly as if he had been in perfect health. Yet he found it difficult to sit up, his hand trembled when holding even a small book, and his cough was fearfully increased in frequency and violence, and he could get little or no sleep at nights. The reader may imagine the concern and astonishment with which I heard, that about a fortnight after his return, he had actually gone to dine at the Garrick Club! Sitting at his table there, as a friend who saw him told me, "more like a corpse than a living being; in short, I almost thought it must be his ghost!" He left his rooms, however, no more; having his dinner sent in, till within the last few days of his life, from a neighbouring tavern. He had several consultations held at his chambers, in cases where new trials were to be moved for; his leaders, (one of whom was Mr. Sergeant Talfourd,) considerately waving etiquette, and coming to their dying junior's chambers. They were, as may be supposed, most reluctant to transact business with one in his state, but he insisted upon it. He earnestly requested me not to mention at Westminster, or elsewhere, how ill I thought him; "for if you do, my clients will send me no business, and then I shall have nothing to amuse my mind with." Towards the end of the term, he observed to me one morning,—"See how very kind my clients are to me! I suspect they have heard that I cannot go to court, so they send me a great number of pleas, demurrers, and motion papers, which I have merely to sign, and get half a guinea: I think it so considerate!" About the last day of the term, I happened myself to be his opponent, in one of those minor matters of form, a motion for judgment as in case of a nonsuit, on account of my client's not having gone to trial at the preceding assizes. Mr. Smith was lying in a state of great exhaustion on the sofa; but mentioned the "rule." I told him that I had brought my brief with me,—"A peremptory undertaking, I suppose," said he, languidly, "to try at the next assizes?"—"Yes, and I will sign my own papers, and yours too, to save you the trouble,—or your clerk shall?"—"No, thank you," said he, and with difficulty raised himself. "Will you oblige me by giving me a pen?" I did so, and with a trembling hand he wrote his name on the briefs, saying, in a melancholy tone as he wrote, "It is the last time I shall sign my name with yours. Even if you perform your undertaking, I shall not be at the trial." About a week afterwards I found him finishing the last sheet of a huge mass of short-hand writer's notes of an important case in which he was concerned, and he was grievously exhausted. It was in vain to remonstrate with him! An early and devoted friend of his, and I, called upon him daily two or three times, and sat with him as long as our engagements would permit us. We found his mind always vigorous; and though he could converse little, from weakness, and its irritating his cough, his language was as exact and significant as ever, and he liked to hear others talk, especially about what was going on at Westminster. I was sitting silently beside him one afternoon, only a fortnight before his death, when a friend came in, and, after we had sat some time together, asked me a question which had just arisen in his practice. "Don't you think," said he, "that, under these circumstances, we may read the word 'forthwith,' in this act of parliament, to mean, 'as soon as reasonably may be?'" Our poor friend, who had not spoken before, and lay apparently asleep, instantly raised his head, and with some quickness observed, "Ah! if you could only read an act of parliament in any way you liked, what fine things you could do!" The reader is not, however, to suppose that Mr. Smith's mind was exclusively occupied with business, and legal topics. On the contrary, I am certain that he both read and thought much, and anxiously, on religious subjects. I saw the Bible constantly open, and also one or two religious books; in particular, Mr. Wilberforce's "Practical Christianity" lay on his table and on his sofa. He seemed, however, to feel no disposition to converse on such topics, with any one. If any one attempted to lead conversation in that direction, he would either be silent, or in a significant manner change the subject. He had a favourite copy of Dante lying often near him, and it may be interesting to state, that he has left, underscored in pencil, the two following verses in the third canto, (Del Purgatorio,) expressive of faith in the great mysteries of Christianity,—
"Matto è chi spera che nostra ragione,
Possa trascorrer la 'nfinita via,
Che tiene una sustanzia in tre persone.
State contente, umana gente, al quia:
Che si potuto aveste veder tutto,
Mestier non era partorir Maria."
It may not be necessary to say it, but I am persuaded that he was a firm believer in the truths of Christianity, and a conscientious member of the Church of England. One day, within about a fortnight of his death, he said, "There is a work which I have often heard you speak of, and which, it does so happen, I never read, though I have often wished to do so; I mean Paley's Horæ Paulinæ. I may say almost that I know his Evidences off by heart. Now, will you do me the favour of procuring me a copy of the other book, in as large type as you can, and as soon as you can, for," he added with a slight sigh, after a pause, "I have not much time to lose?" I immediately procured him the book in question; and about three days afterwards he said to me, "I have read the Horæ Paulinæ; it is a book of extraordinary merit; I very much wonder that I never read it before." I asked him if he had read "Butler's Analogy." "Oh yes, of course, several times, and know it well," he replied, rather quickly. Life was visibly ebbing fast away during the first week in December. He grew weaker and weaker almost hourly, and scarcely ever rose from his sofa, where he always lay in his dressing-gown, except to go to his bed-room, which adjoined and opened into his sitting-room. He would even then allow no one to be in his chamber with him during the might! not even his attentive and attached laundress, or his clerk! I once very strongly urged upon him to allow the former to sleep in the chambers. "Either she leaves my chambers at her usual hour," said he, peremptorily, "or I do." We felt it, however, impossible to allow this; and, without his being aware of it, his clerk and laundress by turns continued to spend the night in one of the adjoining rooms. It was well that such was the case, for he began to get delirious during the nights. About ten days before his death, a great and marked change came very suddenly over him: his eyes assumed a strange glazed appearance, and his voice was altogether altered. His mind, however, continued calm and collected as ever. He moaned continually, though gently, assuring us, however, repeatedly that he felt no pain, "but an exhaustion that is quite inconceivable by you." Not many days before his end, he gave us a signal proof of the integrity of his reasoning faculties. Two of his friends, I and another, were sitting with him, and he told us, as he often latterly had, that he heard strange voices in the room. He asked the one who sat next him if there were not strangers at that moment in the room speaking? When assured that there were not, he said very earnestly, "Will you, however, oblige me by looking immediately under the sofa, and tell me whether there is really no one there?" His friend looked, and solemnly assured him that there was no one there. "Now," said he, with some difficulty, after a pause, and suddenly looking at us, "how extraordinary this is! Of course, after what you say, I am bound to believe you, and the voices I hear are consequently imaginary: yet I hear them uttering articulate sounds; they are human voices; they speak to me intelligibly. What can make that impression upon the organ of hearing—upon the tympanum? How is it done? There must be some strange disorder in the organs. I can't understand it, nor the state of my own faculties!" Then he relapsed into the state of drowsy, moaning, half-unconsciousness, in which he spent the last fortnight of his life. For a few days previously, no more briefs or papers were taken in by the clerk: but one, a case for an opinion, which had been brought about a week before, Mr. Smith immediately read over with a view of answering it. In consequence of a communication from the physician, we at once summoned Mr.