he attained a far earlier and more intimate acquaintance with the Sacred Writings than falls to the lot of most young people.  In a letter which he wrote to Mr. Murray, from Italy, in 1821 after requesting of that gentleman to send him, by the first opportunity, a Bible, he adds—­“Don’t forget this, for I am a great reader and admirer of those books, and had read them through and through before I was eight years old,—­that is to say, the Old Testament, for the New struck me as a task, but the other as a pleasure.  I speak as a boy, from the recollected impression of that period at Aberdeen, in 1796.”

The malformation of his foot was, even at this childish age, a subject on which he showed peculiar sensitiveness.  I have been told by a gentleman of Glasgow, that the person who nursed his wife, and who still lives in his family, used often to join the nurse of Byron when they were out with their respective charges, and one day said to her, as they walked together, “What a pretty boy Byron is! what a pity he has such a leg!” On hearing this allusion to his infirmity, the child’s eyes flashed with anger, and striking at her with a little whip which he held in his hand, he exclaimed impatiently, “Dinna speak of it!” Sometimes, however, as in after life, he could talk indifferently and even jestingly of this lameness; and there being another little boy in the neighbourhood, who had a similar defect in one of his feet, Byron would say, laughingly, “Come and see the twa laddies with the twa club feet going up the Broad Street.”

Among many instances of his quickness and energy at this age, his nurse mentioned a little incident that one night occurred, on her taking him to the theatre to see the “Taming of the Shrew.”  He had attended to the performance, for some time, with silent interest; but, in the scene between Catherine and Petruchio, where the following dialogue takes place,—­

     Cath. I know it is the moon.
     Pet. Nay, then, you lie,—­it is the blessed sun,—­

little Geordie (as they called the child), starting from his seat, cried out boldly, “But I say it is the moon, sir.”

The short visit of Captain Byron to Aberdeen has already been mentioned, and he again passed two or three months in that city, before his last departure for France.  On both occasions, his chief object was to extract still more money, if possible, from the unfortunate woman whom he had beggared; and so far was he successful, that, during his last visit, narrow as were her means, she contrived to furnish him with the money necessary for his journey to Valenciennes,[12] where, in the following year, 1791, he died.  Though latterly Mrs. Byron would not see her husband, she entertained, it is said, a strong affection for him to the last; and on those occasions, when the nurse used to meet him in her walks, would enquire of her with the tenderest anxiety as to his health and looks.  When the intelligence of his death, too, arrived, her grief,