With Byron we seem rather to be in the
close air of a theater. His poems do not tell of a rough and
vigorous life, but of luxury and softness; of tyrants and slaves,
of beautiful houris and dreadful villains. And in the villains
we always seem to see Byron himself, who tries to impress us with
the fact that he is indeed a very "bold, bad man." In his poetry
there is something artificial, which takes us backward to the
time of Pope, rather than forward with the nature poets.
The boyhood of George Gordon Byron was a sad one. He came of an
ancient and noble family, but one which in its later generations
had become feeble almost to madness. His father, who was called
Mad Jack, was wild and worthless, his mother was a wealthy woman,
but weak and passionate, and in a short time after her marriage
her husband spent nearly all her money. Mrs. Byron then took her
little baby and went to live quietly in Aberdeen on what was left
of her fortune.
She was a weak and passionate woman, and sometimes she petted and
spoiled her little boy, sometimes she treated him cruelly,
calling him "a lame brat," than which nothing could hurt him
more, for poor little George was born lame, and all his life long
he felt sore and angry about it.
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