The honeymoon was spent at Sir Ralph Milbanke's house; after that, the young couple went to their house in Piccadilly. But here the worries of housekeeping overtook them. Miss Milbanke's £10,000 dowry had only served to irritate Lord Byron's creditors. Creditors only rest quietly whilst nothing at all is given them, for then they are in despair; but partial payment rouses them to fury. Urged on by the £10,000 they had secured, the duns did not give the young couple a moment's peace; in proportion as these annoyances increased, the relations between the husband and wife grew colder and more distant. Then, when her husband was at his unhappiest, and only saved from imprisonment through being a peer of the realm, Lady Byron left London under cover of a visit to her father. Their farewell parting was, conventionally speaking, quite affectionate, and they agreed to meet in a month's time. During her journey, Lady Byron wrote quite a tender letter to her husband; then, one morning, Lord Byron learnt from his father-in-law, Sir Ralph Milbanke, that he must not expect ever to see his wife and his daughter again.
What was the reason for this sudden separation, which, in spite of all Byron's protests, ended in a divorce? The poet put it down to the influence of an old governess of Lady Byron, Mrs. Clermont, against whom he launched that terrible satire entitled "A Sketch," and this epigram and apostrophe from the the Moor to Iago:
"Honest, honest Iago!
If that thou be'st a devil, I cannot kill thee."
which begins with these lines:—
"Born in the garret, in the kitchen bred,
Promoted thence to deck her mistress' head;
Next—for some gracions service unexpress'd,
And from its wages only to be guess'd—
Raised from the toilette to the table,—where
Her wondering betters wait behind her chair.
With eye unmoved, and forehead unabash'd,
She dines from off the plate she lately wash'd."
Immediately a tremendous clamour arose in the papers and in society against the poet who, by force of genius, had already overcome those of his opposers who might be termed the first coalition against him.
It is ever the case with men in high places who are before the eye of the public: tempests arise unexpectedly, the existence of which is not suspected by the victim till they burst over his head. They may be compared with waterspouts, and they pour down on the poet, be he a Schiller or a Dante, an Ovid or a Byron, utterly overwhelming him, rending his heart and body, tearing down his fame, overturning his reputation, uprooting his honour. These storms come from the enmities, hatred and jealousies roused by his genius; they are the hyenas that dog his steps through the darkness, who dare not attack him while he can stand firm and upright, but which spring on him directly he totters, and devour him as soon as he falls.
Byron realised he would have to give way before his enemies; so he left England, meaning to rally his forces amidst the undisturbing surroundings of foreign lands, for some means of revenging himself upon them. He left England on 25 April 1816. He had published during his six years in London, the first two cantos of Childe Harold, The Giaour, The Bride of Abydos, The Siege of Corinth, Lara and The Corsair.
He departed, and his saddest regrets were for the wife who had exiled him, and for the daughter whom he had hardly seen, and whom he was never to look upon again.