Life of Lord Byron, Vol. I | Page 5

and his lady removed to their estate in Scotland; and it was not long
before the prognostics of this ballad-maker began to be realised. The
extent of that chasm of debt, in which her fortune was to be swallowed
up, now opened upon the eyes of the ill-fated heiress. The creditors of
Mr. Byron lost no time in pressing their demands; and not only was the
whole of her ready money, bank shares, fisheries, &c., sacrificed to
satisfy them, but a large sum raised by mortgage on the estate for the
same purpose. In the summer of 1786, she and her husband left
Scotland, to proceed to France; and in the following year the estate of
Gight itself was sold, and the whole of the purchase money applied to
the further payment of debts,--with the exception of a small sum vested
in trustees for the use of Mrs. Byron, who thus found herself, within the
short space of two years, reduced from competence to a pittance of 150l.
per annum.[10]
From France Mrs. Byron returned to England at the close of the year
1787; and on the 22d of January, 1788, gave birth, in Holles Street,
London, to her first and only child, George Gordon Byron. The name
of Gordon was added in compliance with a condition imposed by will
on whoever should become husband of the heiress of Gight; and at the
baptism of the child, the Duke of Gordon, and Colonel Duff of
Fetteresso, stood godfathers.
In reference to the circumstance of his being an only child, Lord Byron,
in one of his journals, mentions some curious coincidences in his
family, which, to a mind disposed as his was to regard every thing
connected with himself as out of the ordinary course of events, would

naturally appear even more strange and singular than they are. "I have
been thinking," he says, "of an odd circumstance. My daughter (1), my
wife (2), my half-sister (3), my mother (4), my sister's mother (5), my
natural daughter (6), and myself (7), are, or were, all only children. My
sister's mother (Lady Conyers) had only my half-sister by that second
marriage, (herself, too, an only child,) and my father had only me, an
only child, by his second marriage with my mother, an only child too.
Such a complication of only children, all tending to one family, is
singular enough, and looks like fatality almost." He then adds,
characteristically, "But the fiercest animals have the fewest numbers in
their litters, as lions, tigers, and even elephants, which are mild in
comparison."
From London, Mrs. Byron proceeded with her infant to Scotland; and,
in the year 1790, took up her residence in Aberdeen, where she was
soon after joined by Captain Byron. Here for a short time they lived
together in lodgings at the house of a person named Anderson, in
Queen Street. But their union being by no means happy, a separation
took place between them, and Mrs. Byron removed to lodgings at the
other end of the street.[11] Notwithstanding this schism, they for some
time continued to visit, and even to drink tea with each other; but the
elements of discord were strong on both sides, and their separation was,
at last, complete and final. He would frequently, however, accost the
nurse and his son in their walks, and expressed a strong wish to have
the child for a day or two, on a visit with him. To this request Mrs.
Byron was, at first, not very willing to accede, but, on the
representation of the nurse, that "if he kept the boy one night, he would
not do so another," she consented. The event proved as the nurse had
predicted; on enquiring next morning after the child, she was told by
Captain Byron that he had had quite enough of his young visitor, and
she might take him home again.
It should be observed, however, that Mrs. Byron, at this period, was
unable to keep more than one servant, and that, sent as the boy was on
this occasion to encounter the trial of a visit, without the accustomed
superintendence of his nurse, it is not so wonderful that he should have
been found, under such circumstances, rather an unmanageable guest.

That as a child, his temper was violent, or rather sullenly passionate, is
certain. Even when in petticoats, he showed the same uncontrollable
spirit with his nurse, which he afterwards exhibited when an author,
with his critics. Being angrily reprimanded by her, one day, for having
soiled or torn a new frock in which he had been just dressed, he got into
one of his "silent rages" (as he himself has described them), seized the
frock with both his hands, rent it from top to bottom, and stood in
sullen stillness,