"In solitude, where we are least alone." Lord Byron
Lord Byron, the Romantic Anglo Scottish poet, was born this day in 1788. He was the public "bad boy" of his time. His treatment and his life shows us that celebrities in the early 18th century endured much of the same torture from fame as those of today, even without modern media.
Byron had a deformed foot from birth which caused a limp and lifelong misery. "The Morning Post in particular has found out that I am a sort of Richard the third--deformed in mind and body--the last piece of information is not very new to the man who passed five years at a public school." He also constantly worried about his inclination to plumpness and was a vigorous dieter, feasting for days on soda water and crackers. He was tortured because of who he loved, regardless of who was the rumored object of his affection: hundreds of women, men, boys, or his half-sister. He wrote beautiful poems to the men he loved using deceptive female names in them to avoid attacks. He loved animals, and began collecting exotic pets, including monkeys, a bear cub, badgers, foxes, an eagle, crocodiles and of course, his beloved Newfoundland dog, Boatswain. Boatswain contracted rabies and Byron nursed him for days until his death, without concern for his own safety. "Epitaph to a Dog" was for Boatswain.
Byron would be treated with so much hostility on the streets of England that he would only venture out in disguise. He was experiencing the lonliness of being recognized everywhere you go. Finally, it all got to be too much so he left for Greece in hopes of finding more acceptance of his lifestyle. The Greeks welcomed and worshipped him, and when he died there at age 36, they buried his heart under a tree before embalming his body and sending it back to England. His body was delivered to Westminster Abbey, but he was turned away. Unexpectedly, there was a public outcry for the dead poet and viewing of the body was in such demand that he was publicly displayed for days. Tickets had to be sold for the viewing and a wooden frame built around the coffin to prevent trampling by the crowds of newly devoted fans, mostly hordes of tearful ladies. He was buried next to Ada, his child that he never knew. Later, his body was exhumed and moved to Westminster Abbey to the Poet's Corner.
His contemporary Englishmen were never really able to prevent his provocative lifestyle from overshadowing his beautiful work. Sounds a little familiar.
I became especially interested in Byron when I was in my 20's after my friend, Ron, saw where Byron had etched his name in the castle wall of Chateau Chillon while traveling in Switzerland. Byron wrote the epic poem "The Prisoner of Chillon" after visiting the castle with his buddy, Percy Shelley in 1816. Byron was fascinated by the legend of Francois Bonivard, who was allegedly kept prisoner in the castle's dungeon. I'm not sure if he was channeling Byron or Bonivard, but my friend, the voice of strength in suffering, unexpectedly recited a long section of the poem in the backseat of my car once when drunk. It was inspiring. The first line of the sonnet version, "Eternal Spirit of the chainless mind" reinvents "Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind" from Pope's "Eloisa to Abelard."
Byron was also one of the five writers present for that locked-up wet and spooky weekend in June when Mary Shelley wrote Frankenstein.
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