penholder, wrote a letter to Miss Milbanke, with whom he was only slightly
acquainted, proposing marriage. The lady very properly declined. To be
courted with a fresh-nibbed pen, and paper cut sonnet-size, instead of by
a live man, deserves rebuke. Men who propose by mail to a woman in the
next town are either insincere, self-deceived, or else are of the sort
whose pulse never goes above sixty-five, and therefore should be avoided.

Byron was both insincere and self-deceived. He had grown to distrust the
emotions of his heart, and so selected a wife with his head. He chose a
woman with income, one who was strong, cool-headed, safe and sensible.
Miss Milbanke was the antithesis of his mother.

The lady declined--but that is nothing.

They were married within a year.

In another year the wife left her husband and went back to her mother,
carrying in her arms a girl baby, only a few weeks old.

She never returned to her husband.

What the trouble was no one ever knew, although the gossips named a
hundred and one reasons--running from drunkenness to homicide. But Byron,
the world now knows, was no drunkard--he was at times convivial, but he
had no fixed taste for strong drink. He was, however, peevish, impulsive,
impetuous and often very unreasonable.

Byron, be it said to his credit, brought no recriminating charges against
his wife. He only said their differences were inexplicable and
unexplainable.