ut 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, according to the
account of this same attendant, bordered on distraction, and her
shrieks were so loud as to be heard in the street. She was, indeed, a
woman full of the most passionate extremes, and her grief and
affection were bursts as much of temper as of feeling. To mourn at
all, however, for such a husband was, it must be allowed, a most
gratuitous stretch of generosity. Ha