rests upon my belief, as if I could believe what I chose. This is a bad, miserable state,—so bad, that any change must be for the better, at least to me. I cannot go back upon the past; I delude myself no longer. Why should I slave to leave behind me a rich legacy of thought for the careless or ungrateful? A year ago I would not have bartered the world of fame for the world of enjoyment; both are equally beyond me, but I pine now for the latter; and, wanting that, for the calm and the quiet of the cold dark grave. The terrible passion of death is upon me; I long for that eternity which, whether of torture, of annihilation, or of a higher existence, will free me from the intolerable burden of life."
"Two gentlemen to Mr. Smythe," said a servant, opening the door. In one of them Charles recognised the auctioneer. "Ha, ha! young gentleman, come to claim the payment of my bond; this worthy man will soon shew you it is due."
The other, whose solemnity was in singular contrast with the flurry of his companion, now announced himself as Mr. Greaves, solicitor, of Chancery Lane, in whose custody was placed the will of the late Charles Smythe, Esq.
"He was the richest man on 'Change, sir—it's lucky for you that your name is spelt with a y and an e—he made you his heir because you are his namesake: but I have a copy of the will with me, if you please to hear it read."
F
