BYRON. GEORGE GORDON, afterwards Lord Byron, was born in London, 22d January, 1788. He was of an ancient and renowned family, but his father, a captain in the British navy, was poor, considering the notions and habits of the English aristocracy, to which he belonged. Owing to an accident attending his birth, one of Byron's feet was distorted,―a defect which was never removed, and which rendered him, to some extent, a cripple for life. This was a source of pain and mortification to him as long as he lived. It is curious that Sir Walter Scott, who was the cotemporary of Byron, a rival poet, and holding the public admiration divided between them, had also a lame foot, and was, though in a greater degree, a cripple. In 1790, Byron's mother, who had separated from her husband, retired, with her son George, to Scotland, and established herself in humble lodgings in the fine old town of Aberdeen. She was a proud woman, hasty, violent and unreasonable; she had neither sense nor principle sufficient to restrain her temper. It burst forth on a great many occasions, and the youthful Byron was often its victim. Un happily he inherited his mother's inflammable temper; and, instead of being subdued and softened by the harshness with which he was treated, he was rendered by it more passionate. What was only natural infirmity, and which kind, gentle treatment, applied in his childhood, might have cured, was therefore cultivated, increased, and confirmed. Thus his mother, in indulging her own evil passions, trained up her child for a life of misery; for an abuse of his splendid abilities, and an early termination of his career. Alas! for those who are so unfortunate in early life, as to be deprived of the kind and gentle guardianship of a sensible and virtuous mother! Byron's father took no care of him; being greatly in debt, he retired to France, where he died in 1791. When Byron was five years old, he was sent to a day-school, his mother paying five shillings sterling, a quarter, for his tuition. Having learned his letters, in about a year, he was placed under the instruction of a clergyman, named Ross, who taught him to read. He afterwards had other means of instruction at Aberdeen, till he was about ten years old; when his grand uncle, Lord Byron, died, leaving the vast estate of Newstead Abbey, in Yorkshire, with the family title, to him. Though but ten years of age, he was now a lord, and his weak mother lost no opportunity of seeking to puff him up with pride, by reminding him of his rank. Byron now enjoyed the best means of instruction, and after a time, he was sent to a famous school at Harrow, ten miles northwest of London. The chief object of this school is to fit young men for the Uni versity; it was founded in the time of Elizabeth, by a man named Lyon, who made it a principle that archery should be one of the amusements of the scholars. It was formerly the custom to have an annual trial of skill in this art, and the best marksman was rewarded with a silver bow. This practice is now disused. Many celebrated men have received their preparatory education at Harrow. At this school, Byron was wild and irregular in his habits, but he gave signs of a frank and generous nature, and endeared himself to many of his companions. He made considerable advances in his studies, but he lacked patience, and was inferior to many others in scholarship. He exerted himself by fits and starts, allowing weeks to pass in idleness; then, by a powerful effort, he made some amends. He read a great deal, but wholly for amusement, though he laid up some stores of miscellaneous knowledge. During the vacations, his mother treated him with alternate harshness and kindness; now abusing him in the fiercest manner, and now pampering him with excessive indulgence. Even before he was fifteen years old, she introduced him to masquerades and other fashionable fooleries. If it had been her design to ruin her son, she could hardly have taken a more sure course to accomplish her object. About this time, Byron became acquainted with Mary Chaworth, a pretty girl, two years his senior, and heiress to the estate of Annesley, which lay contiguous to Newstead. There was a romance in this, aside from that which always dwells in the fancy of a young lover. Byron's great uncle had killed Mr. Chaworth, an ancestor of Mary, in a duel. He was tried for it by the house of lords, and acquitted; but his own conscience and public opinion still lay heavy upon him. He was reduced to a state of gloom, verging on insanity, and shutting himself up in the abbey, lived the life of a recluse. It was natural, from these circumstances, that a barrier to the intimacy of the two families should exist, and it was, perhaps, the feeling of this that quickened the fancy of Byron for the youthful heiress of Annesley. What so calculated to arouse the affection of a lover, as a romantic difficulty, founded on some bloody quarrel of high and haughty ancestors? Here, indeed, were the essential elements of many a thrilling tale of love. But, however Byron's sentiments were inspired, he often met Mary Chaworth in his walks, and, for a time, his whole soul seems to have been absorbed in the hopes of these interviews, and the bliss they afforded, when realized. It was in these scenes he spent his first vacations at the Harrow school. It appears that Byron's affection was by no means reciprocated. At this time he was a fat, shy, awkward school-boy, and made no very favorable impression on the young lady. He, indeed, never told her his feelings, and as time advanced, she was engaged, and married to Mr. John Musters. This event was to Byron a severe blow, and the disappointment he suffered constituted one of the rooted sorrows of his life. The depth of his feelings may be inferred from the following lines, which he wrote in reference to this period: STANZAS TO ON LEAVING ENGLAND. 'Tis done, and shivering in the gale, As some lone bird without a mate, I look around and cannot trace And I will cross the whitening foam, I ne'er shall find a resting place; My own dark thoughts I cannot shun, I go, but wheresoe'er I flee, To think of every early scene, Of what we are, and what we've been, And never truly loves but one. 'T would soothe to take one lingering view, |