When the boy was ten, the wicked lord who had killed the Chaworth died; and the Newstead inheritance fell to the young poet. We can imagine with what touch of the pride that shivers through so many of his poems, this lad--just lame enough to make him curse that unlucky fate--paced first down the hall at Newstead--thenceforth master there--a Peer of England. But the estate was left in sorry condition; the mother could not hold it as a residence; so they went to Nottingham--whereabout the boy seems to have had his first schooling. Not long afterward we find him at Harrow, not far out of London, where he makes one or two of the few friendships which abide; there, too, he gives first evidence of his power over language. It is at about this epoch, also, that on his visits to Nottingham--which is not far from the Chaworth home of Annesley--comes about the spinning of those little webs of romance which are twisted afterward into the beautiful Chaworth “Dream.” It is an old story to tell, yet how everlastingly fresh it keeps! “The maid was on the eve of womanhood; The boy had fewer summers, but his heart Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye There was but one beloved face on earth, And that was shining on him; he had looked Upon it till it could not pass away; He had no breath, nor being, but in hers, She was his voice … upon a tone, A touch of hers, his blood would ebb and flow, And his cheek change tempestuously--his heart Unknowing of its cause of agony.” As a matter of fact, Miss Chaworth was two years older, and far more mature than he; she was gentle too, and possessed of a lady-like calm, which tortured him--since he could not break it down. Indeed, through all the time when he was sighing, she was looking over his head at Mr. Musters--who was bluff and hearty, and who rode to the hounds, and was an excellent type of the rollicking, self-satisfied, and beef-eating English squire--whom she married. _Early Verse and Marriage._ After this episode came Cambridge, and those _Hours of Idleness_ which broke out into verse, and caught the scathing lash of Henry Brougham--then a young, but well-known, advocate, who was conspiring with Sydney Smith and Jeffrey (as I have told you) to renovate the world through the pages of the _Edinburgh Review_. But this lashing brought a stinging reply; and the clever, shrewd, witty couplets of Byron’s satire upon the Scottish Reviewers (1809), convinced all scholarly readers that a new and very piquant pen had come to the making of English verse. Nor were Byron’s sentimentalisms of that day all so crude and ill-shapen as Brougham would have led the public to suppose. I quote a fragment from a little poem under date of 1808--he just twenty: