“BYRON.”

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In consequence of this last letter, a proviso and declaration, in conformity with its instructions, were inserted in the will.  He also executed, on the 28th of this month, a codicil, by which he revoked the bequest of his “household goods and furniture, library, pictures, sabres, watches, plate, linen, trinkets, and other personal estate (except money and securities) situate within the walls of the mansion-house and premises at his decease—­and bequeathed the same (except his wine and spirituous liquors) to his friends, the said J.C.  Hobhouse, S.B.  Davies, and Francis Hodgson, their executors, &c., to be equally divided between them for their own use;—­and he bequeathed his wine and spirituous liquors, which should be in the cellars and premises at Newstead, unto his friend, the said J. Becher, for his own use, and requested the said J.C.  Hobhouse, S.B.  Davies, F. Hodgson, and J. Becher, respectively, to accept the bequest therein contained, to them respectively, as a token of his friendship.”

The following letters, written while his late losses were fresh in his mind, will be read with painful interest:—­

LETTER 59.  TO MR. DALLAS.

     “Newstead Abbey, Notts., August 12. 1811.

“Peace be with the dead!  Regret cannot wake them.  With a sigh to the departed, let us resume the dull business of life, in the certainty that we also shall have our repose.  Besides her who gave me being, I have lost more than one who made that being tolerable—­The best friend of my friend Hobhouse, Matthews, a man of the first talents, and also not the worst of my narrow circle, has perished miserably in the muddy waves of the Cam, always fatal to genius:—­my poor school-fellow, Wingfield, at Coimbra—­within a month; and whilst I had heard from all three, but not seen one.  Matthews wrote to me the very day before his death; and though I feel for his fate, I am still more anxious for Hobhouse, who, I very much fear, will hardly retain his senses:  his letters to me since the event have been most incoherent.  But let this pass; we shall all one day pass along with the rest—­the world is too full of such things, and our very sorrow is selfish.

“I received a letter from you, which my late occupations prevented me from duly noticing.—­I hope your friends and family will long hold together.  I shall be glad to hear from you, on business, on common-place, or any thing, or nothing—­but death—­I am already too familiar with the dead.  It is strange that I look on the skulls which stand beside me (I have always had four in my study) without emotion, but I cannot strip the features of those I have known of their fleshy covering, even in idea, without a hideous sensation; but the worms are less ceremonious.—­Surely, the Romans did well when they burned the dead.—­I shall be happy to hear from you, and am yours,” &c.

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