n,
then in his eleventh year, left Scotland with his mother and nurse, to
take possession of the ancient seat of his ancestors. In one of his
latest letters, referring to this journey, he says, "I recollect Loch
Leven as it were but yesterday--I saw it in my way to England in
1798." They had already arrived at the Newstead toll-bar, and saw the
woods of the Abbey stretching out to receive them, when Mrs. Byron,
affecting to be ignorant of the place, asked the woman of the
toll-house--to whom that seat belonged? She was told that the owner of
it, Lord Byron, had been some months dead. "And who is the next heir?"
asked the proud and happy mother. "They say," answered the woman, "it
is a little boy who lives at Aberdeen."--"And this is he, bless him!"
exclaimed the nurse, no longer able to contain herself, and turning to
kiss with delight the young lord who was seated on her lap.

Even under the most favourable circumstances, such an early elevation
to rank would be but too likely to have a dangerous influence on the
character; and the guidance under which young Byron entered upon his
new station was, of all others, the least likely to lead him safely
through its perils and temptations. His mother, without judgment or
self-command, alternately spoiled him by indulgence, and irritated,
or--what was still worse--amused him by her violence. That strong
sense of the ridiculous, for which he was afterwards so remarkable,
and which showed itself thus early, got the better even of his fear of
her; and when Mrs. Byron, who was a short and corpulent person, and
rolled considerably in her gait, would, in a rage, endeavour to catch
him, for the purpose of inflicting punishment, the young urchin, proud
of being able to out-strip her, notwithstanding his lameness, would
run round the room, laughing like a little Puck, and mocking at all
her menaces. In a few anecdotes of his early life which he related in
his "Memoranda," though the name of his mother was never mentioned but
with respect, it was not difficult to perceive that the recollections
she had left behind--at least, those that had made the deepest
impression--were of a painful nature. One of the most striking
passages, indeed, in the few pages of that Memoir which related to his
early days, was where, in speaking of his own sensitiveness, on the
subject of his deformed foot, he described the feeling of horror and
humiliation that came over him, when his mother, in one of her fi