I have alluded to the triumphs of Byron on the publication of “Childe Harold,”—­but his joys were more than balanced by his sorrows.  His mother died suddenly without seeing him.  His dearest friend Mathews was drowned.  He was hampered by creditors.  He made no mark in the House of Lords, and was sick of what he called “parliamentary mummeries.”  His habits became more and more dissipated among the boon companions who courted his society.  His reputation after a while began to wane, for people became ashamed of their enthusiasm.  Some critics disparaged his poetry, and conventional circles were shocked by his morals.  Three years of London life told on his constitution, and he was completely disenchanted.  He sought retirement and solitude, for not even the most brilliant society satisfied him.  He wearied of such a woman and admirer as Madame de Stael.  He went to Holland House—­that resort of all the eminent ones of the time—­as seldom as he could.  He buried himself with a few intimate friends, chiefly poets, among whom were Moore and Rogers.  He saw and liked Sir Walter Scott, but did not push his acquaintance to intimacy.  The larger part of his letters were written to Murray, the publisher, who treated him generously; but Byron gave away his literary gains to personal friends in need.  He seemed to scorn copyrights for support.  He would write only for fame.

At the age of twenty-seven, in January, 1815, Byron married Miss Milbanke,—­a lady whom he did not love, but to whom he was attracted by her supposed wealth, which would patch up his own fortunes.  He had great respect for this lady and some friendship; but with all her virtues and attainments she was cold, conventional, and exacting.  A mystery shrouds this unfortunate affair, which has never been fully revealed.  The upshot was that, to Byron’s inexpressible humiliation, in less than a year she left him, never to return.  No reasons were given.  It was enough that both parties were unhappy, and had cause to be; and both kept silence.

But the voice of rumor and scandal was not silent.  All the failings of Byron were now exaggerated and dwelt upon by those who envied him, and by those who hated him,—­for his enemies were more numerous than his friends.  Those whom he had snubbed or ridiculed or insulted now openly turned against him.  The conventional public had a rare subject for their abuse or indignation.  Proper people, religious people, and commonplace people, joined in the cry against a man with whom a virtuous woman could not live.  Indeed, no woman could have lived happily with Byron; and very few were the women with whom he could have lived happily, by reason of that irritability and unrest which is so common with genius.  The habits of abstraction and contemplation which absorbed much of his time at home were not easily understood by an ordinary woman, to whom social life is necessary.