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Updated: June 20, 2025
"Who wants to live?" he replied, "not I. The Byrons are a short-lived race on both sides, father and mother; longevity is hereditary: I am nearly at the end of my tether. I don't care for death a ; it is her sting! I can't bear pain." His habits and want of exercise damaged him, not drink. It must be borne in mind, moreover, that his brain was always working at high pressure.
It happened that my aunt was on a visit to the Byrons when the poet's body, which was consigned to the Admiral, was brought to London. The Admiral, who lived near Windsor, posted up to receive the barrel of spirits in which the remains were preserved.
A few months later, he made a tour through Italy, and wrote of meeting "a beautiful English girl, who seemed to have fallen in love, not so much with myself as my piano playing, for all English women love with the head I mean they love Brutuses, or Lord Byrons, or Mozart and Raphaels."
The artless Helicon I boast is youth should either not know, or should seem not to know, so much about his own ancestry. Besides a poem, above cited, on the family-seat of the Byrons, we have another of eleven pages on the selfsame subject, introduced with an apology, 'he certainly had no intention of inserting it, but really 'the particular request of some friends, etc. etc.
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