161 — To Scrope Berdmore Davies
Newstead Abbey, August 7, 1811.
My Dearest Davies
, —
Some
curse hangs over me and mine. My mother lies a corpse in this house; one of my best friends is drowned in a ditch
. What can I say, or think, or do? I received a letter from him the day before yesterday. My dear Scrope, if you can spare a moment, do come down to me — I want a friend. Matthews's last letter was written on
Friday
. — on Saturday he was not. In ability, who was like Matthews? How did we all shrink before him? You do me but justice in saying, I would have risked my paltry existence to have preserved his. This very evening did I mean to write, inviting him, as I invite you, my very dear friend, to visit me. God forgive — — for his apathy! What will our poor Hobhouse feel? His letters breathe but of Matthews.
Come
to me, Scrope, I am almost desolate — left almost alone in the world
— I had but you, and H., and M., and let me enjoy the survivors whilst I can. Poor M., in his letter of Friday, speaks of his intended contest for Cambridge, and a speedy journey to London. Write or come, but come if you can, or one or both.
Yours ever.
Footnote 1:
Charles Skinner Matthews (see page 150,
3).
Footnote 2:
In 1811 Byron had lost, besides his mother and Matthews (August), his Harrow friend Wingfield (see page 180,
1), Hargreaves Hanson (see page 54,
1), and Edleston (see page 130,
3).
