But he found time to write a book called Hours of Idleness in the midst of all these revels and athletic exercises. He had just published this book when Lady Morgan, with whom I was to become acquainted thirty years afterwards, met him for the first time.
This is her description of the meeting:—
"Suddenly my dazzled looks were arrested by an exceedingly beautiful young man. His expression was taciturn, and yet there seemed as much shyness as scorn in it. He was alone, and stood in a corner near a door, with his arms folded across his breast, and one felt that although he was in the middle of an animated and brilliant crowd, yet he did not belong to it.
"'How do you do, Lord Byron?' a pretty young creature, dressed in the height of the fashion, asked him.
"Lord Byron! At that word all the brave Byrons that had belonged to English and French chivalry rose before my mind; but I did not know that the handsome youth who was their descendant was destined to give an even greater right to the name for the admiration of posterity than the most valiant knight of France, or than the most loyal cavalier of England who had ever borne the same name. Fame spread very slowly in our province of Tirerag; and although Lord Byron had already taken the first step in that career which was to end in the triumphant acknowledgment of his wonderful genius, and the injustice and ingratitude of his fellow-countrymen, I knew nothing of this future fame then, when I heard the name of Byron, save what prompted me to say to myself, the 'Go, hang thyself, Byron,' of Henry IV."
Poor Lady Morgan! she was not happy in her historical quotations! but what matters it? she did not look too closely into them. It was Biron without the y whose head Henry cut off; and it was of Crillon that he wrote, "Go, hang thyself!"
But the literary fame Byron lacked was soon to be given him by the critics. The Edinburgh Review, in an article written by Mr. Brougham, who afterwards became Lord Brougham, attacked the young poet violently.
Lord Byron's life was destined to be one continuous fight. Born lame, he persevered until he became the finest swimmer, the best shot and the most dauntless horse-rider of his time. The world denied his genius, so he made up his mind he would become the first poet of his age.
His response to the article in the Edinburgh Review was that terrible satire hurled at his critics under the title of English Bards and Scotch Reviewers, at the head of which appeared these two epigrams from Shakespeare and Pope:—
"I had rather be a kitten, and cry mew!
Than one of these same metre ballad-mongers!"—Shakespeare.
"Such shameless bards we have; and yet 'tis true,
There are as mad, abandon'd critics too."—Pope.