Byron himself did not display much anxiety until he had been ill some days. The physicians were often consulted by Byron and his servant minutely about the symptoms, and they very confidently assured them that there was no danger-it was but a common cold.'

"But the sick man knew it was not a common cold, and very often expressed the opinion that the doctors did not understand his disease. Mr. Fletcher said he was very anxious to send to Zante for Dr. Thomas; for his master was all the time growing worse under the treatment of Doctors Bruno and Millingen. This desire, with Byron's approbation, was made known to the council; and, for a time, they partially quieted the well-grounded fears of Mr. Fletcher and his master. In a day or two Mr. Fletcher again supplicated the attending physicians to let him send for Dr. Thomas, and was solemnly assured his lordship would be better immediately. These stifled efforts were not again renewed until it was too late.

"But in regard to the treatment. I know it is common for friends of the dead to censure their physicians; and nothing can be more unjust when they do not deserve it. But the conduct of Byron's physicians was exceedingly culpable in not permitting Dr. Thomas to be called. Besides, they dosed Byron from the beginning of his illness with strong purgative medicines; took a great amount of blood from him, which for a long time he firmly refused to have

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done. His system wasted rapidly; for during the eight days of his illness he took no nourishment except a small quantity of broth, at two or three different times, and two spoonfuls of arrowroot the day before his death.

"And yet it was only a 'common cold.' Well, if this were true, then the medical treatment killed him, and not the disease; and the physicians told Byron they were prescribing only for a cold. In either case they are worthy of censure.

"On the seventh day of his illness, after the most powerful purgatives had been resorted to, and he seemed to be rapidly declining, the physicians insisted upon taking blood; he reluctantly yielded, and one pound was taken from his right arm. Mr. Fletcher then renewed his prayer to send for Dr. Thomas, and was met by the reply, that his master would either be much better, or a dead man, before Dr. Thomas could come from Zante, for his lordship was sinking every hour. The physicians insisted upon bleeding again that same night, and told him it would probably save his life. Oh!' said Byron, with a mournful countenance, 'I fear, gentlemen, you have entirely mistaken my disease; but there, take my arm and do as you like.' Infatuation, as well as quackery, seemed to conspire against the life of the illustrious patient.

"The next morning, although he was in a very feeble state, the doctors bled him again twice; and in both cases fainting fits followed the operation. At

two o'clock this destructive operation was performed again; and thus he was hurried to the grave. No man could be expected to survive such treatment.

"From that time till his death, which occurred two days after, Byron often expressed great dissatisfaction with his physicians.

"The day before he died, the faithful Fletcher, for the last time, implored his master to let him, even at that late hour, and without the knowledge of his physicians, send an express to Zante Do so,' said Byron, but be quick; I wish you had sent sooner; for I know they have mistaken my disease.'

"Fletcher instantly sent for Dr. Thomas, and then informed the attending physicians, who said, 'You have done right;' for they had begun, when too late, to discover their mistake. When Fletcher returned to his master's room, Byron asked him if he had sent to Zante. You have done right,' he answered; if I must die, I want to know what is the matter with me.'

"In a few hours,' said the faithful Fletcher, as he related these facts to me, 'my master called me to his bedside and said, "I begin to think I am going to die pretty soon, Fletcher; and I shall give you several directions, which I hope you will be particular to execute, if you love me!".

"Fletcher did love his master, and told him he would do everything faithfully, and expressed the hope that he should not be called to part with him. Yes, you will,' said Byron; 'it's nearly over; I

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must tell you all without losing a moment. I see my time has come to die.'

"Fletcher went to get a portfolio to write down his master's words. Byron called him back, exclaiming, 'Oh, my God! don't waste time in writing, for I have no more time to waste-now hear me—you will be provided for.' Fletcher begged him to go on to things of more consequence, and Byron continued: 'Oh! my poor, dear child! My dear Ada! My God! could I but have seen her! Give her my blessing, and my dear sister Augusta and her children; and you will go to Lady Byron and say-tell her everything-you are friends with her'-and tears rolled down his emaciated face.

"Here his voice failed him, so that only now and then a word was audible. For some time he muttered something very seriously, and finally, raising his voice, said, 'Now, Fletcher, if you do not execute every order I have given you, I will torment you hereafter, if possible.'

"Poor Fletcher wept over his dying master, and told him he had not understood a word of what he had been last saying. Oh! my God!' said Byron, 'then all is lost; for it is now too late. Can it be possible you have not understood me?' Fletcher said, 'No; but do tell me again, more clearly, my lord!' 'How can I?' answered Byron; 'it's now too late, and all is over!' Fletcher replied, 'Not our will, but God's be done;' and he answered, 'Yes, not mine be done! but I will try once more;'

and he made several efforts to speak; but, through the indistinct mutterings of the dying man, only a few broken accents could be distinguished, and they were about his wife and his child.

"After many ineffectual and painful efforts to make known his wishes, at the request of his friend, Mr. Parry, to compose himself, he shed tears, and apparently sunk into slumber, with an expression of grief and disappointment on his countenance. This was the commencement of the lethargy of death.

"I believe the last words the Great Poet ever spoke on earth were, 'I must sleep now.' How full of meaning those words were. Yes, he had laid himself down to his last sleep. For twenty-four hours not a hand or foot of the sleeper was seen to stir; although that heart, which had been the home of such wild and deep feeling, still continued to beat on. Yet it was evident to all around his bedside that 'the angel of death' had spread his dark wings over Byron's pillow.

"On the evening of the 19th of April he opened his fine eye for the last time, and closed it peacefully, without any appearance of pain. Oh, my God!' exclaimed the kind Fletcher, 'I fear my master is gone!' The doctors then felt his pulse, and said, 'You are right-he is gone.'

"It is impossible to describe the sensation produced at Missolonghi by the death of Lord Byron. All Greece, too, was plunged in tears. Every public demonstration of respect and sorrow was paid to