Lord Byron -English Poet

I was not lame, as has oft been told. My limp was not due to a malformation but an accident during my birth. Let that first be known and accepted. It was not an honor to be considered a lame poet. 

Also, I was not born a Lord. That distinguished honor came to me on the death of an uncle. I, being the only male heir, became Lord Bryon upon my uncle's death. I was christened George Gordon Byron. Let it be understood, I was not born into society nor raised among the more cultured class.

I was the son of an Army Captain, a rather vagabond person known to many as Black Jack Byron. My mother, whom I truly would prefer not to discuss, was his second wife and I am his second child. My stepsister, Augusta, was born two years before her mother, Baroness Conyers, died in France, after leaving her husband the Marquis of Carmarthen to live with my father. Nothing more needs to be said of this relationship except that I loved Augusta but was not in love with Augusta, as it has sometimes been mistakenly told.

I had a most unpleasant childhood. My father traveled with his regiment, most often squandering the pay before caring for his family. Augusta was more fortunate than I. After her mother died, she lived with her grandparents, who were quite well off financially and she was raised in a genteel environment. I, on the other hand, was often left to my own rearing. My mother was not skilled in parenting. She often taunted me, called me vile names, and then in bouts of remorse would embrace me until I felt I would suffocate. I both loved and hated her. The hate was because I wanted her to love me, but most of the time she chose to ignore me.

My schooling was intermittent. Sometimes I went, sometimes I didn't. It was my father's genes I believe I inherited that prompted me to act the role of a vagabond and live a life of pleasures of the flesh. Sometimes with drink, sometimes gambling, sometimes carousing.

About the time I turned sixteen I fell in love. It was far different than my youthful infatuation with Mary Duff. My love for her was the love I could not bear for my mother. She listened to my childish yearnings. She gave me respect rather than taunts, understanding rather than criticism, joy rather than sorrow. An unloved child needs someone like Mary Duff.

My first passionate love came about after my uncle's title and inheritance were bestowed upon me. My mother took us to Nottingham and Miss Chatsworth lived on a neighboring estate. I was smitten with affection as well as physical attraction though she was not what one would call a great beauty. I knew it not then, but she dallied with my attention, driving me to sublime pleasure with a glance, or deepest agony with a rebuff.

Never knowing what mood she would present in my presence, I took to expressing my feelings in little rhymes, which I thought she treasured and that she was beginning to return my heart's desire when I accidentally overheard her remarks to a servant. The words, "Don't imagine that I am such a fool as to love that lame boy," cut me deeply, wounded me, I thought, beyond healing.

Yes, yes, I will admit I had a sensitive nature. Lacking the guidance of a father or any male, I was not admonished to be a man and hide my feelings. I more often struggled with them, trying desperately not to weep upon a sorrowful occurrence in the company of peers

When I felt the need, I would retreat to my educational foundation at Harrow School, where I sauntered between studies and follies. Hoping to become manlier, for lack of another word, I studied the art of pugilism, along with perfecting the art of dalliance. It was a lackluster existence with no defined objective or a driven purpose.

Our funds dwindled and as the estate became too costly to maintain, we moved to Southwell, a small, rather dull village between Mansfield and Newark. By then I was attending Cambridge. Note, I stated, "I was attending," as I did not consider myself “studying” at Cambridge.

The one high point of living in Southwell was my association with John Pigot and his sister. They became dear friends and we spent many hours together taking long walks, idling much of our time. They were the catalysts to my becoming a writer of prose, or verse if you will, of poetry. Encouragement in any endeavor had never been placed upon me until they, dear, dear friends, delighted in my scribbling. Their glowing praise and obvious enjoyment of the words I wrote and read to them kindled my desire to do more. Eventually, they instilled in me a confidence to have my words printed, bound and titled, Juvenilia, which to my surprise sold for a sixpence.

Empowered by the success of Juvenilia, I proceeded to write and compile another printed book, which I called, Hours of Idleness. My vision of being hailed as a writer of worth was impaled by the scathing criticism of Lord Brougham in the Edinburgh Review. Crushed, daunted, exasperated beyond normal frustration, I became incensed and determined to destroy the assailant of my heartfelt words with the very weapon of his ridicule, the pen, and paper.

Anger seethed within, as I searched for vilifying words of contempt for all those critics who often destroyed the artistic endeavors of emerging talent. It was with an angry heart that I wrote and published, English Bards and Scotch Reviewers. When it was done, I retreated to my Newstead Estate, bringing along revelers who joined me in days and nights of partying and debauchery.

Leaving all that behind me, I decided it was time to take my rightful place in the House of Lords and become a gentleman. I was not welcome, unfortunately being assailed by Lord Carlisle, my guardian, with whom I had been at odds for quite some time. While not accepted by the peers, I presented myself as a member, as was my right.

In time, the life of a gentleman was not ordained for me. I soon found myself restless and anxious to be away from England. I am not ashamed to admit I was an admirer of Napoleon. Needless to say, my countrymen did not accept it.

Bored and restless, I borrowed a sum of money, recruited a friend, and my valet, Fletcher, to embark on a jolly adventure seeing other parts of the world. We toured Europe, enjoying the delights of the popular cities and the excitement of changing horizons, which encouraged my writing, Muse.

I diligently obeyed its command and wrote from city to city, from adventure to adventure, sometimes detailing encounters. One which I recall was in Athens. It was there I wrote, “Maid of Athens, ere we part, give, oh give me back my heart." As I look back upon that time, I wonder was it a fair lass of which I yearned, or was it Athens that had stolen my heart? I'm unsure.

Our two-year journey came to an end and, upon reaching the shores of England, I learned my mother had recently passed on. I was able to attend her funeral but did not remain for the burial. The pent-up emotions of our long-denied relationship burst to the surface and I could not bear to watch her interred into the ground, aware her mothering love would never be found.

I became settled and hoped to wed. In the meantime, I worked on a manuscript, a compilation of my writing during my travels. I presented it for publication. It was accepted and printed. Much to my surprise, and that of the publisher, John Murray, it became quite successful. Childe Harolds' Pilgrimage. It had a run of seven editions in four weeks.

I must here tell that I was never fond of it. I was however quite fond of the attention and social amenities it afforded me. It was quite inebriating to be a celebrity in the social strata of England.

Eventually, I wed, a young woman of some financial means. Our union lasted little beyond a year. When our babe Ada was but a few weeks old, her mother departed with her and moved back to live with her mother. This hasty, ill-thought decision aroused gossip, tales of abuse, and accusations of infidelity. I went from being a celebrity to a scourge on society. I was warned to watch where I ventured for a mob could assemble and become threatening.

I knew it would be of no use to defend myself against the scathing diatribes. It was time for me to again leave the country of my birth. With a heavy heart, I boarded a ship that would take me to Holland. I was twenty-eight, had lived a lifetime of dissatisfaction, and I was determined to be an author of merit.

My travels through Germany and Switzerland inspired me beyond anything I had anticipated. Words flowed effortlessly. I became enthused with each inspiring view. It was as if a sleeping appreciative soul had awakened. I wrote and the words were published, accepted in England, and I felt a satisfaction I had never known before.

Was it this awakened soul that led me to Greece and a quiet, caring relationship with a woman who filled my heart with the love I had never known? Our five years together were my most endearing years. Perhaps, had I known her kind of love in my youth, I would have never felt that man's greatest tragedy

 “is that he can conceive of a perfection which he cannot attain.”

 With her, I came close to that perfection.
                                        

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