On the 15th his Lordship felt the pains abated, insomuch that he was able to transact some business.

On the 16th he wrote a letter, but towards the evening he became worse, and a pound of blood was taken from him. Still the disease was making progress, but Dr. Bruno did not yet seem much alarmed; on the contrary, he thought were more blood removed his recovery was certain. Fletcher immediately told his master, urging him to comply with the doctor's wishes. "I fear," said his Lordship, "they know nothing about my disorder, but" -and he stretched out his arm-" here, take my arm and do whatever you like."

On the 17th his countenance was changed; during the night he had become weaker, and a slight degree of delirium, in which he raved of fighting, had come on. In the course of the day he was bled twice; in the morning, and at two in the afternoon. The bleeding, on both occasions, was followed by fainting fits. On this day he said to Fletcher, "I cannot sleep, and you well know I have not been able to sleep for more than a week. I know that a man can only be a certain time without sleep, and then he must go mad, without any one being able to save him; and I would ten times sooner shoot myself than be mad, for I am not afraid of dying-I am more fit to die than people think."

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On the 18th his Lordship first began to dread that his fate was inevitable. "I fear," said he to Fletcher, you and Tita will be ill by sitting up constantly, night and day;" and he appeared much dissatisfied with his medical treatment. Fletcher again entreated permission to send for Dr. Thomas, at Zante: "Do so, but be quick," said his Lordship, "I am sorry I did not let you do so before, as I am sure they have mistaken my disease; write yourself, for I know they would not like to see other doctors here."

Not a moment was lost in executing the order, and on Fletcher informing the doctors what he had done, they said it was right, as they now began to be afraid themselves. "Have you sent?" said his Lordship, when Fletcher returned to him—“ I have, my Lord."

"You have done well, for I should like to know what is the matter with me."

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From that time his Lordship grew every hour weaker and weaker; and he had occasional flights of delirium. In the intervals he was, however, quite self-possessed, and said to Fletcher, I now begin to think I am seriously ill; and in case I should be taken off suddenly, I wish to give you several directions, which I hope you will be particular in seeing executed." Fletcher in reply expressed his hope that he would live many years, and execute them himself. "No, it is now nearly over; I must tell you all without losing a moment."

"Shall I go, my Lord, and fetch pen, ink, and paper."

"Oh my God! no, you will lose too much time, and I have it not to spare, for my time is now short. Now pay attention-you will be provided for."

"I beseech you, my Lord, to proceed with things of more consequence."

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His Lordship then added,

"Oh, my poor dear child!-my dear Ada!-My God! could I have but seen her-give her my blessing-and my dear sister Augusta, and her childrenand you will go to Lady Byron and say-tell her every thing-you are friends with her."

He appeared to be greatly affected at this moment. His voice failed, and only words could be caught at intervals; but he kept muttering something very seriously for some time, and after raising his voice, said, "Fletcher, now if you do not execute every order which I have given you, I will torment you hereafter, if possible."

He

This little speech is the last characteristic expression which escaped from the dying man. knew Fletcher's superstitious tendency, and it cannot be questioned that the threat was the last feeble flash of his prankfulness. The faithful valet replied in consternation that he had not understood one word of what his Lordship had been saying.

"Oh! my God!" was the reply, "then all is lost, for it is now too late! Can it be possible you have

not understood me !"

“No, my Lord; but I pray you to try and inform me once more."

"How can I? it is now too late, and all is over." "Not our will, but God's be done," said Fletcher, and his Lordship made another effort, saying,

"Yes, not mine be done-but I will try"-and he made several attempts to speak, but could only repeat two or three words at a time; such as,

"My wife! my child—my sister-you know all— you must say all-you know my wishes"-The rest was unintelligible.

A consultation with three other doctors, in addition to the two physicians in regular attendance, was now held; and they appeared to think the disease was changing from inflammatory diathesis to languid; and ordered stimulants to be administered. Dr. Bruno opposed this with the greatest warmth; and pointed out that the symptoms were those, not of an alteration in the disease, but of a fever flying to the brain, which was violently attacked by it; and, that the stimulants they proposed would kill more speedily than the disease itself. While, on the other hand, by copious bleeding, and the medicines that had been taken before, he might still be saved. The other physicians, however, were of a different opinion; and then Dr. Bruno declared he would risk no farther responsibility. Peruvian bark and wine were then administered. After taking these stimulants, his Lordship expressed Сс

a wish to sleep. His last words were, "I must sleep now;" and he composed himself accordingly, but never awoke again.

For four-and-twenty hours he continued in a state of lethargy, with the rattles occasionally in his throat. At six o'clock in the morning of the 19th, Fletcher, who was watching by his bed-side, saw him open his eyes and then shut them, apparently without pain or moving hand or foot. "My God!" exclaimed the faithful valet," I fear his Lordship is gone." The doctors felt his pulse-it was so.

After life's fitful fever he sleeps well.

But the fittest dirge is his own last lay, written on the day he completed his thirty-sixth year, soon after his arrival at Missolonghi, when his hopes of obtaining distinction in the Greek cause were, perhaps, brightest; and yet it breathes of dejection almost to boding.

But 't is not here-it is not here

Such thoughts should shake my soul; nor now
Where glory seals the hero's bier,

Ör binds his brow.

The funeral Preparations and final Obsequies.

THE death of Lord Byron was felt by all Greece as a national misfortune. From the moment it was known that fears were entertained for his life, the progress of the disease was watched with the deepest anxiety and sorrow. On Easter Sunday, the day on which he expired, thousands of the inhabitants of Missolonghi had assembled on the spacious plain on the outside of the city, according to an ancient custom, to exchange the salutations of the morning; but on this occasion it was remarked, that instead of the wonted congratulation," Christ is risen," they inquired first "How is Lord Byron?"

On the event being made known, the Provisional