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DEATH OF LORD BYRON.

THE following very affecting letter from one who was intimate with, and highly esteemed by, Lord Byron, cannot fail of interesting every reader. It is extracted from the Hon. Colonel Leycester Stanhope's Journal, entitled "Greece in 1823 and 1824;" the 2nd Edition of which, comprising the Colonel's reminiscences of Lord Byron, has just met the public eye.

"From Capt. Trelawny to Col. Stanhope.

Missolonghi, April 28th, 1824.

"MY DEAR COLONEL,

"With all my anxiety, I could not get here before the third day. It was the second, after having crossed the first great torrent, that I met some soldiers from Missolonghi. I had let them all pass me, ere I had resolution enough to inquire the news from Missolonghi. I then rode back, and demanded of a straggler the news. I heard nothing more than- Lord Byron is dead,'-and I proceeded on in gloomy silence. With all his faults, I loved him truly; he is connected with every event of the most interesting years of my wandering life: his everyday companion,we lived in ships, boats, and in houses together, we had no secrets-no re

serve, and, though we often differed in opinion, never quarrelled. If it gave me pain witnessing his frailties, he only wanted a little excitement to awaken and put forth virtues that redeemed them all. He was an only child,-early an orphan,the world adopted him and spoilt him, his conceptions were so noble when his best elements were aroused, that we, his friends, considered it pure inspiration. He was violent and capricious.

"In one of his moments of frailty, two years back, he could think of nothing which could give him so much pleasure as saving money, and he talked of nothing but its accumulation, and the power and respect it would be the means of giving him; and so much did he indulge in this contemptible vice, that we, his friends, began to fear it would become his leading passion: however, as in all his other passions, he indulged it to satiety, and then grew weary. I was absent from him in Rome when he wrote me from Genoa, and said, Trelawny, you must have heard I am going to Greece; why do you not come to me? I can do nothing without you, and am exceedingly anxious to see you: pray come, for I am at last determined to go to Greece, it is the only place I was ever contented in. I

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am serious, and did not write before, as I might have given you a journey for nothing: they all say I can be of use to Greece; I do not know how, nor do they; but, at all events, let's go.' I who had long despaired of getting him out of Italy, to which he had become attached from habit, indolence, and strong ties; I lost no time; every thing was hurried on, and, from the moment he left Genoa, though twice driven back, his ruling passion became ambition of a name, or, rather, by one great effort, to wipe out the memory of those deeds which his enemies had begun to rather freely descant on in the public prints, and to make his name as great in glorious acts, as it already was by his writings.

"He wrote a song, the other day, on his birth-day, his thirty-sixth year, strongly exemplifying this.-It is the most beautiful and touching of all his songs, for he was not very happy at composing them. It is here amongst his papers.

'If thou regret thy youth, why live?

The land of honourable death

Is here. Up to the field and give

Away thy breath.

Awake! not Greece, she is awake!

Awake! my spirit.'

"He died on the 19th April, at six o'clock at night; the two last days he was altogether insensible, and died so, apparently without pain. From the first moment of his illness, he expressed on this, as on all former occasions, his dread of pain and fearlessness of death. He talked chiefly of Ada, both in his sensible and insensible state. He had much to say, and many directions to leave, as was manifest from his calling Fletcher, Tita, Gamba, Parry, to his bed-side: his lips moved, but he could articulate nothing distinctly. Ada-my sister-wifesay-do you understand my directions?' said he, to Fletcher, after muttering thus for half an hour, about—' Say this to Ada,'-' this to my sister,'—wringing his hands; Not a word, my Lord,' said Fletcher. That's a pity,' said he, for 'tis now too late,

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for I shall die or go mad.' He then raved, said-'I will not live a madman, for I can destroy myself.' I know the reason of this fear he had of losing his senses; he had lately, on his voyage from Italy, read, with deep interest, Swift's Life,' and was always talking to me of his horrible fate.

"Byron's malady was a rheumatic fever; was brought on by getting wet after violent perspiration from hard riding, and neglecting to

change his clothes. Its commencement was trifling. On the 10th, he was taken ill; his Doctors urged him to be bled, but this was one of his greatest prejudices,—he abhorred bleeding. Medicine was not efficient; the fever gained rapid ground, and on the third day the blood shewed a tendency to mount to his head: he then submitted to bleeding, but it proved too late; it had already affected his brain, and this caused his death. Had he submitted to bleeding on its first appearance, he would have assuredly recovered in a few days.

"On opening him, a great quantity of blood was found in the head and brain: the latter, his brain, the Doctor says, was a third greater in quantity than is usually found, weighing four pounds. His heart is likewise strikingly large, but performed its functions feebly, and was very exhausted; his liver much too small, which was the reason of that deficiency of bile, which necessitated him to continually stimulate his stomach by medicine. His body was in a perfect state of health and soundness. They say his only malady was a strong tendency of the blood to mount to the head, and weakness of the vessels there; that he could not, for this reason,

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