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BYRON IN GREECE.

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died. I can give you an account of his last days, which I think will interest you.

"I passed the winter of Byron's death in Greece; and in the latter part of February went to Missolonghi to see him. He was then suffering from the effect of his fit of epilepsy, which occurred the middle of February. The first time I called at his residence I was not permitted to see him; but in a few days I received a polite note from him at the hand of his negro servant, who was a native of America, and whom Byron was kind to and proud of to the last.

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"I found the poet in a weak and rather irritable state, but he treated me with the utmost kindness. He said, that at the time I first called upon him, all strangers and most of his friends were excluded from his room. But,' said he, had I known an American was at the door, you should not have been denied. I love your country, sir; it is the land of liberty: the only portion of God's green earth not desecrated by tyranny.'

"In our conversation I alluded to the sympathy at that time felt in America for struggling Greece. All he at that time said in reply was, 'Poor Greece -poor Greece: once the richest land on earth; God knows I have tried to help thee.'

"You will remember that but a little while before this, Marco Botzaris had fallen. When I mentioned his name, Byron said, 'Marco Botzaris? He was as brave as an ancient Spartan. Perhaps he had

the blood of Leonidas in his veins; I presume he had. But of this I am certain, he had as good blood as ever wet this soil.'

"At his request, his servant then brought him a rose-wood box, from which he took a letter written' to himself by that gallant chief. It was a warmhearted welcome of Byron to Greece. There,' said the author of 'Childe Harold,' as he handed the precious relic to me, 'I would not part with that but to see the triumph of Greece. That glorious hero, but a few moments before he led his Suliot band forth to his last battle, wrote this letter to me in his tent.' As he spoke these words, a heroic smile lit up his pale countenance, and I am sure I never saw such an expression on the face of mortal man as at that moment flashed from Byron's.

"Soon he fell back upon his couch, and wiping the cold sweat from his lofty forehead, once more exclaimed, 'Poor Greece! God bless thee and Ada! I only ask of Heaven two things; and Heaven ought to grant them that Greece may become free, and Ada cherish my memory when I am dead.'

"I was surprised that Byron should so freely express his sentiments to a stranger; but a little knowledge of the man explained it all. He was one who concealed nothing from friend or foe: he was fearless of the world, and open and independent to a fault.

"In a few days I received another note from him, requesting me to call and bring with me Irving's

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Sketch Book, if I had it, or could get it for him. As that is a book I always carry with me, I took it my hand and went once more to the illustrious author's residence. He rose from his couch when I entered, and pressing my hand warmly, said, 'Have you brought the Sketch Book?' I handed it to him, when, seizing it with enthusiasm, he turned to the 'Broken Heart.'

"That,' said he, ' is one of the finest things ever written on earth, and I want to hear an American read it. But stay-do you know Irving?' I replied that I had never seen him. God bless him!' exclaimed Byron; "he is a genius; and he has something better than genius-a heart! I wish I could see him; but I fear I never shall. Well, read-the Broken Heart-yes, the Broken Heart. What a word!'

"When I closed the first paragraph, 'Shall I confess it? I believe in broken hearts'-'Yes,' exclaimed Byron,' and so do I; and so does everybody but philosophers and fools.' I waited, whenever he interrupted me, until he requested me to go on; for although the text is beautiful, yet I cared more for the commentary which came fresh from Byron's heart. While I was reading one of the most touching portions of that mournful piece, I observed that Byron wept. He turned his fine eyes upon me and said, 'You see me weep, sir; Irving himself never wrote that story without weeping; nor can I hear it without tears. I have not wept much in this

world, for trouble never brings tears to my eyes; but I always have tears for the Broken Heart.'

"When I read the last line of Moore's verses at the close of the piece, Byron said, 'What a being that Tom Moore is; and Irving, and Emmett, and his beautiful Love! What beings all! Sir, how many such men as Washington Irving are there in America? God don't send many such spirits into this world. I want to go to America for five reasons. I want to see Irving; I want to see your stupendous scenery; I want to go to Washington's grave; I want to see the classic form of living freedom, and I want to get your government to recognise Greece as an independent nation. Poor Greece!' I have always been anxious to see Irving, and describe this scene to him. He does not need even Byron's praise, I know; still I think it would please him; but in this wish I have never been gratified.

"I saw the Great Poet often, and never was with him half an hour without hearing him speak of Greece and his child-of both with the deepest feeling. Byron was a very strange man; if he had only been as good as he was great! But he was good sometimes; and always better than the world have thought him.

"Those were the last days of Byron; and I shall always consider myself happy that I was permitted so often to be with him. I have, day after day, watched the workings of his lofty imagination, while he lay upon his couch or sat by his window, and

BYRON'S LAST ILLNESS.

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deep, troubled thought lit up with an unearthly glow his beautiful features, or clouded them in gloom. It was a painful spectacle to see Byron's form wasting away by disease; and I never gazed upon him after we first met, without feeling as I think I should feel to see a powerful stream undermining in its progress the foundations of some classic temple.

"It was inexpressibly painful; but yet there was something very sublime in the struggle of his proud spirit with the advancing king of terrors. His full, bright eye, which sometimes burned so restlessly, revealed a spirit free, tameless, and unconquerable as the proud ocean.

"At the time I did not doubt, nor have I ever since, that his death was hastened, if not directly caused, by the injudicious treatment of his medical council. Byron had partly recovered from his first attack, and was in the habit of riding on horseback almost every day. On the 9th of April he got very wet during his ride, and took a severe cold, which was attended by fever; still he rode out again in the afternoon of the following day a few miles from town, on his favourite horse; and this was the last time he ever left the house. A slow fever set in, and his symptoms continually grew worse.

"His medical attendants confidently told him that he was in no danger; that his disease was only a common cold. Mr. Fletcher, his confidential and excellent servant, informed me, that in the early part of his master's illness he became alarmed, but that

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