Alas! Miss Chaworth was not, as Mrs. Musters, to be happier in her marriage than the man she had forsaken. She married John Musters, Esq., in the August of 1805, and lived miserably until 1832, when she died in as melancholy a way as she had lived. A band of insurgents from Nottingham came and set fire to Colwick Hall, where she lived. She and her daughter took refuge in a potting-shed, and, being already in poor health, she took cold and fell ill, and died practically of the same complaint that Byron had died of eight years before. As Byron says in the second verse of his poem to Mrs. Musters, it was in consequence of the rupture of his friendship with Miss Chaworth that he flung himself exclusively into the pursuit of pleasure. He flirted, rode, gambled, kept dogs, took up swimming, fencing and pistol-shooting. But he found time to write a book called _Hours of Idleness_ in the midst of all these revels and athletic exercises. He had just published this book when Lady Morgan, with whom I was to become acquainted thirty years afterwards, met him for the first time. This is her description of the meeting:-- "Suddenly my dazzled looks were arrested by an exceedingly beautiful young man. His expression was taciturn, and yet there seemed as much shyness as scorn in it. He was alone, and stood in a corner near a door, with his arms folded across his breast, and one felt that although he was in the middle of an animated and brilliant crowd, yet he did not belong to it. "'How do you do, Lord Byron?' a pretty young creature, dressed in the height of the fashion, asked him. "Lord Byron! At that word all the brave Byrons that had belonged to English and French chivalry rose before my mind; but I did not know that the handsome youth who was their descendant was destined to give an even greater right to the name for the admiration of posterity than the most valiant knight of France, or than the most loyal cavalier of England who had ever borne the same name. Fame spread very slowly in our province of Tirerag; and although Lord Byron had already _taken the first step_ in that career which was to end in the triumphant acknowledgment of his wonderful genius, and the injustice and ingratitude of his fellow-countrymen, I knew nothing of this future fame then, when I heard the name of Byron, save what prompted me to say to myself, the 'Go, hang thyself, Byron,' of Henry IV." Poor Lady Morgan! she was not happy in her historical quotations! but what matters it? she did not look too closely into them. It was Biron without the _y_ whose head Henry cut off; and it was of Crillon that he wrote, "Go, hang thyself!" But the literary fame Byron lacked was soon to be given him by the critics. The _Edinburgh Review_, in an article written by Mr. Brougham, who afterwards became Lord Brougham, attacked the young poet violently.