"The Pilgrim of Eternity, whose fame

Over his living head, like heaven, is bent,

An early but enduring monument,

Came veiling all the lightning of his song in sorrow,'

on the 18th of April, 1824, was drawing to the end of life at Missolonghi. In the latter part of that day few of his words could be distinguished, and these were names-" Ada," "Hobhouse,' ""Kinnaird." Later, in an interval of reason, he was heard to say, "Poor Greece !" "Poor town!" "My poor servants!" "My hour is come; I do not care for death, but why did I not go home before I came here?" At another time he said, "There are things which make this world dear to me; for the rest, I am content to die." He spoke again of Greece, saying, "I have given her my time, my means, my health, and now I have given her my life what could I do more?" It was about six o'clock on the evening of Thursday when he said, "Now I shall go to sleep ;" and then turning round, fell into that slumber from which he never awoke.†

At half past six the following day, the 19th, after lying nearly twenty-four hours almost bereft of sense or motion, he breathed his last. A great intelligence passed away into the world of spirits.

It remained for a clerical corporation to determine that world into which his spirit had passed was one of wrath and woe. They would not suffer the place in which the ashes of Castlereagh of hundreds of impious, profane, and many unprincipled persons, many mercenary, some sanguinary, and several very vile and worthless minions of power, were laid, to be contaminated with the remains of Byron; but then Byron was a Liberal, and for the punishment of adverse politics, hypocrisy put on a garb of piety on this as well as many other occasions, and party had its revenge, while religion had the name of a vindication of her cause.

Johnson speaks of a Dean of Westminster whose abhorrence of Milton was so intensely orthodox, that the name of the bard,

* Elegy on the death of Keats, by Shelley.

+ Moore's Notices, &c., vol. vi., p. 212.

in his opinion, was too detestable to be read on the walls of a building dedicated to devotion.*

On the arrival in England of the remains of Byron from Greece, application was made by the executors, in their individual capacity, to the dean and chapter of Westminster, for permission to have his remains interred in the Abbey; "but such an answer was received as left little doubt of any more regular application."

It was then decided on having his remains interred in the family vault at Hucknall, near Newstead. But some of "the nearest friends" of the deceased poet were not content that his imperfections should be buried with his ashes.

The remains of Byron were removed from the house of Sir George Knatchbull, in Great George Street, on the 12th of July, 1824, and on the 16th the last duties were paid to them in the small village church of Hucknall. They were laid in the family vault, close to those of his mother.

On a tablet of white marble, in the chancel of the church, there is the following inscription:

where

In the vault beneath,

many of his ancestors, and his mother, are buried,
lie the remains of

GEORGE GORDON NOEL BYRON,

Lord Byron of Rochdale,

in the County of Lancaster,

the Author of "Childe Harolde's Pilgrimage."
He was born in London, on the

22d of JANUARY, 1788,

and died at Missolonghi, in Western Greece, on the
19th of APRIL, 1824,

engaged in the glorious attempt to restore that country to her
ancient freedom and renown.

His sister, the Honorable Augusta Maria Leigh, placed this
tribute to his memory.

About eight years ago Madame Guiccioli married an elderly French noble, the Marquis de Boissy. One would have thought the first experiment of this kind might have sufficed.

* Life of Milton.

+ Notices of Life of Lord Byron, vol. vi., p. 222.

Wycherly, the comedian, married a girl of eighteen when he was verging on eighty. Shortly after, Providence was pleased, in its mercy to the young woman, to call the old man to another and a better world. But, ere he took his final departure from this, he summoned his young wife to his bedside, and announced to her that he was dying; whereupon she wept bitterly. Wycherly lifted himself up in the bed, and gazing with tender emotions on his young, weeping wife, said, "My dearest love, I have a solemn promise to exact from you before I quit you forever here below. Will you assure me my wishes will be attended to by you, however great the sacrifice you may be called on to make?" Horrid ideas of Suttees, of poor Indian widows being called on to expire on funereal pyres, with the bodies of their deceased lords and masters, flashed across the brain of the poor

woman.

With a convulsive effort and desperate resolution, old Wycherly's young wife gasped out an assurance that his commands, however dreadful they might be, should be obeyed. Then Wycherly, with a ghastly smile, said, in a low and solemn voice," My beloved wife, the parting request I have to make of you is that when I am gone-(here the poor young woman sobbed and cried most vehemently)-when I am in my cold grave-(Mrs. Wycherly tore her hair)—when I am laid low-(the disconsolate wife roared with grief)-when I am no longer a heavy burden and a tie on you— (Oh, for Heaven's sake!' exclaimed Mrs. Wycherly,' what am I to do ?')-I command you, my dear young wife -(said the old, dying comedian)-on pain of incurring my malediction, never to marry an old man again." Mrs. Wycherly dried her eyes, and, in the most fervent manner, promised that she never would; and that faithful woman kept her word for life.

The Marquis de Boissy (Hilaire E. O. Rouillé) is one of the new nobility of France, who owe their coronets to their own merits and successes in military, political, stock-jobbing, or mercantile speculations. The marquis is a large landed proprietor, who recommended himself to the notice of the late Marshal Soult by his industrial efforts, and long-continued endeavors to improve the condition of the humbler classes in the district of

Viezzon à Lignières, in which his property is situated-the chateau and territory of Castelnau, near Charost, six leagues from Bourges.

The marquis se montre assez souvent à la tribune de la chambre de Paris. He was wont to appear there a little—trop souvent, for the tranquillity of his friend and patron, Marshal Soult.

His merits have been fortunate enough to be appreciated by the present ruler of France; he has been honored with the title and functions of a senator.

Madame la Marquise is still a most fascinating woman, conscious of her power to please, and calculated to succeed in her efforts, as well as by the external attraits of appearance and deportment. Brilliant talents she has no claim to; but she has considerable conversational talents, and a large share of keen observation and insight into character, and of cleverness and naïveté, mingled with simplicity. She is well versed in Italian and French literature, has read much, and to some purpose. She writes fluently, and though not very correctly in English and French, expresses herself fully and forcibly, gracefully, and with facility.

When reference is made to Byron, and her intimate relations with him, she seems half proud, half ashamed of her liaison, and the conflicting feelings come strangely into contact in her conversation. But one feeling predominates over every other in relation to her former friend and admirer-one of unalterable fidelity and unchangeable constancy in her attachment to him, and devotion to his memory.

LETTERS FROM LADY BLESSINGTON TO LA CONTESSA GUICCIOLI.

To Madame Guiccioli, in Italy:

"Seamore Place, London, Aug. 19, 1833. "MY DEAR MADAME GUICCIOLI,-I have learned with deep regret the af fliction that has fallen on your domestic circle—an affliction which few are so calculated to feel in all its bitterness as yourself. While I was accusing you of forgetting your friends in England, which would be indeed ungrateful, as they do not cease to remember you with affection, you were in grief, and absorbed too much by the recollection of what you had lost to be blamed for forgetting the friends who still remain. Alas! chère amie, it is not until we have lost those we loved that we feel all their value. Memory feeds on grief, and

calls up looks and voices that we can see or hear no more on earth, but that, brought back by memory, have power to make us forget for a few moments the painful present in the happier past.

"I do not seek to offer you vain consolation because I too well know its inefficiency, and you have been too highly tried in affliction not to have learned its bitter lesson-submission.

"I hope we shall see you in England next year; you have left behind you too agreeable an impression for those who have had the pleasure of knowing you not to desire to see you here again; and among your friends, no one more anxiously desires it than myself. London has been very full, but not very gay this season. Our Opera has been brilliant, and offered a galaxy of talent such as we never had before. Pasta, Malibran, Tamburini, Rubini, Donzelli, and a host of minor stars, with a corps de ballet, with Taglioni at their head, who more than redeemed their want of excellency. I did not miss a single night, and was amply repaid by the pleasure I received.

You are so kind as to wish me to tell you of myself, and therefore I must play the egotist. My health has been good, and I have written a political novel, which appeared in June, with the reception of which I have had every reason to be satisfied, and for which I got a good sum.

"I am now coming forth with a very beautiful work, called 'The Book of Beauty;' I say beautiful, as it is to be embellished with fine engravings from beautiful female portraits, illustrated by tales in prose and verse, to which many of my literary friends have kindly contributed. You see, my dear countess, that I have not been idle since I saw you; but the truth is, I like occupation, and find it the best cure for banishing painful retrospections.

"Mr. Bulwer set off yesterday for Italy, and will visit Rome and Naples. I saw Mr. Moore three days ago, and he inquired very kindly for you; and I saw Campbell lately, who does not forget you. I wish you would send me a little Italian tale, in prose or verse, for my book. I know you could if you would, but I fear you are too idle. I trust you go on with the Memoirs you promised to write. It would amuse and instruct you, and would be highly gratifying to the world. Pray write to me often, and your letters shall be punctually answered.

"Believe me, my dear Countess Guiccioli, your sincere and affectionate friend, M. BLESSINGTON."

To Madame Guiccioli, in London:

"Seamore Place, July, 1835.

"As I have neither seen nor heard from you since Wednesday, I conclude that you have abandoned the project of accompanying me to Anglesea Villa. I regret this very much, as you would have liked the country, which is very beautiful, and the air and sea breezes would have prepared you for the longer journey you intend taking. M. BLESSINGTON."

To Madame Guiccioli, in London: