By Jovan Stipić

For most of you reading, it must have taken you no more than a minute or two to switch from part 3 to part 4 of this Byron epoch. But for me, dear reader, it has been months. I will not go into why it has taken me so long to renew this humble series, but I am sure that the most interesting tales of decadence, poetry, and everything else in vogue back in the early 19th century were ahead of their time.

And yes, I am still talking about Lord Byron and not myself.

When we last left Mr. Byron, he happily sailed the Greek Islands on the back of his first famous poems. If you want to refresh your memory, with just a little bit of scrolling, you can find the first three parts of our journey, and for those whose finger is sore from scrolling, here’s a quick link.

Once Byron had returned to England from his long voyage, he found his mother terminally ill. Though we have described how cruel she was to him, she is still a parent that he had lost. He did not manage to even see her before she passed away. Either because of his love for her or because of the cruel codependency that people harbor toward those who torment them. The loss of his mother nearly broke him. He went into isolation, desperately flirting with serving women and even cloister sisters as he tried to bring himself from the brink. His friends, on the other hand, tried pushing him into writing.

I don't really know when the cliché came about that we writers do the best writing when unhappy or in pain. For some psychological reason, that Froyd would connect to our mothers with Lord Byron was actually true. Not only is it connected to him being in pain, but to it being connected to his mother as well. If my writing never becomes world-renowned, know that it was because I was happy, too happy for fame, and that my mother was a lovely woman.

Right before Byron returned to England, he began writing his first masterpiece. A poem so ahead of its time, yet equally romantic and decadent that he was afraid of finishing it because of the scandal it would make. Now, when you have the original bad boy poet, fearing the scandal he would make, you know he is onto something brilliant. That poem, the titan of 19th-century British poetry, was none other than "Child Harold's Pilgrimage".

Finally, thankfully, prophetically, he put his debaucherous lifestyle on hold for just long enough to finish the first two cantos of this epic poem.

Published in 1812, it became the biggest literary event of the Regency Era. I don't think there is a single "hot single" or whatever kids call them these days that could really explain just how explosive this poem was throughout its publication from 1812 to 1818. The first printing sold out in less than three days, with even Byron saying, "I woke up one day to find myself famous."

Suddenly, the whole of London had become his playground. Every club wanted him as a member, all hostesses (not to be confused with the hostesses of today who ask if you have a table reserved before calling security either way, but glamourous, influential women who threw the most lavish parties of the time with only the most important people as guests) wanted him to entertain at their parties. His dashing good looks only helped to increase his popularity, and the fact that the poem's narrator was clearly styled after himself made him something that no other author was.

He was a character. A book character made flesh and real in our own realm of reality. You weren't just inviting a poet, an author, who has had the biggest success of the century thus far. No, you were inviting a fantastical person that stepped out of a poem.

And he was nothing if not a character. We've already mentioned that he was pretty, but his quick tongue, even quicker wit, and that hint of the devil made him even more irresistible. For those with enough history on their side, you would know that, after the slog which was the reign of George III, who had a stick up his a** who was as much of a prude as you can imagine a monarch being, British society was ready for something new and exciting. Byron was that… and more!

But alas, dear reader, we must stop here. I don't want you to get winded from the excitement. We've finally come into "Byron Proper" (the golden years of his life). In the next part, we'll dive into more of his personal life, but before you leave, I shall leave you but not empty-handed. Below, I have left a single paragraph from his poem of Child Harold (public domain put that phone down) titled "To Ianthe." Who was Ianthe? Well, the most romantic questions never have an answer.

Adieu.

Such is thy name with this my verse entwin'd;
And long as kinder eyes a look shall cast
On Harold's page, Ianthe's here enshrin'd
Shall thus be first beheld, forgotten last:
My days once number'd, should this homage past
Attract thy fairy fingers near the lyre
Of him who hail'd thee, loveliest as thou wast,
Such is the most my memory may desire;
Though more than Hope can claim, could Friendship less require?