The Brooklyn Daily Eagle from Brooklyn, New York • Page 82

Tage Tout Had Too Much eorgie fove Lord Byron, as a Sheik, Was It Is Claimed, Of More Sympathy Than Ordinary Men We will now, dear children, skip a few years, during which his lordsTiip struggled, practically constantly, to get himself out of the successive entanglements that were, alas, so easy to acquire yet so hard to remove. There was Margarita, the Venetian baker's wife. Without any urging, with scarcely any encouragement even on Byron's part, she left her husband and settled herself in the Byronic palace. He knew he should do something, but what? Margarita had a dreadful temper; she burned all the letters he got in feminine handwriting; she was apt to back up her arguments with a table knife. After a while Byron did get up the courage to ask her to go.

She went to the front door and dropped into the canal. Much against his better judgment, Byron had her fished out. Oh, well, he did get rid of her finally. The Countess Teresa Guiccioli was a very different sort of girl, but even more troublesome in her way. She was sixteen when Byron first saw her and had been married six months to a wealthy man older than her father.

Golden haired, with that charming dark look of the Italian blonde, she interested him somewhat. It was. enough for Teresa. Eleven days after they first met the Count carried his wife off to the country, but he was just eleven days too late; Byron was a fast worker. Teresa felt the separation keenly.

She fainted three times on the first day's journey, reviving only to write to Byron at every stage. But in spite of these 'proofs of her regard Byron remained behind in Venice for a month after her departure. "I should brood over her or any other dame," he might have written, although he didn't, in one of the numerous letters he wrote his friends during the period; they were just as flippant, in the Byronic way. Finally he visited Ravenna, where she was staying, and no sooner had he arrived than Teresa's husband called to invite him to visit his palace. "It may distract the Countess, who is ill," he explained.

It distracted not only the Countess but the neighbors as well. Byron stuck around for two months, in which time Teresa convalesced, but was in no hurry about it. Neither she nor Byron was pleased when the Count suddenly announced that he was going to Bologna and added, so was The Countess expected Byron to follow; made it plain. Byron didn't want to tag along "like the family puppy; in his desperation he invited Teresa to beat it with him alone. But the Countess turned high hat.

"Ar Italian lady never beats it," she reproved him; "nobody cares how many boy friends she has, if she stays with her husband, but if she leave him goodnight!" In a letter she tactfully suggested that Byron could get her some dope that would make her look dead. Then she could be buried, like Juliet, and escape to his arms wjfhout outraging the proprieties. The rapidly cooling recipient of this remarkable plan read it, dear boys and girls, with considerable annoyance. He remarked to himself (we regret to record this, dear children, but he did say it), "If I don't never see you again, that'll be too soon." Then, with a sigh, he packed his bag and prepared to follow the noble pair in their peregrinations around Italy. Byron was fast losing his romantic mood when business called the Count away, and he departed, leaving the Countess to the tender care of the poet.

Teresa wote to her husband asking if Byron might escort her to Venice; her husband telegraphed back, "Go to it." Byron was slightly alarmed and extremely bored. When Venetian doctors advised country air for the Countess he offered her a villa of his own. As the Countess quaintly expressed it, "He gave it up to me and came there to reside with me." Anything for a little rest. But the whole thing was a dreadful bore, dear children. The unfortunate poet seems to have put in his time writing letters to amused friends.

"Urn how do you pass your evenings? It is a devil of a question," he wrote. He considered seriously patching up his differences with his own ball and chain, as he called his wife, in his vivid poetic style. To add to his troubles, the Count asked him to lend him money he returned the Countess instead. But it was hard to make her stay put, kiddies. He broke away at last by sailing away, but time alone could have proven the effectiveness of that gesture.

And there was no time after that, for Byron; he died within the following year. So this, dear children, concludes the story of the handsome literary gent who had more love than he knew what to do with, and the moral, of course, is this a sheik is to be pitied even more than ordinary men. lord in one of his unpublished, because unwritten, letters. It concerned one of the wildest women with whom a Great Lover has ever had to contend Lady Caroline Lamb. The only gentle thing about Carrie was her name, and that, of course, was her husband's, William Lamb, who later, as Lord Melbourne, became Prirhe Minister of England.

The picture of My Lady which we have before us shows an extremely modern-looking flapper, with very short hair, arranged in what those in the know refer to as a "wind-blown" bob. It may be, dear boys and girls, that the bob was then in fashion; it is muchMnore likely that it was not and that Lady Caroline was sketched shortly after she had torn out her hair, for one reason or another. She had had no trouble in finding an excuse to make a scene before she met Lord Byron; sh certainly never lacked one thereafter. A girl who could change her mind about marrying directly after the ceremony, when it was too late, but who insisted on expressing her feelings by tearing her wedding dress to tatters and having to be carried, fainting.Vrom the church to the carriage, as Caroline did, might well be expected to fall for the exquisite Byron. Anyway, she did and he did and for nine months he practically lived at Melbourne House, the fold pf the Lambs.

Caroline blamed the whole affair on her husband. That, of course, was sheer injustice on her part. As a matter of fact, Byron himself could scarcely be blamed. He had hardly met Caroline when she offered to dine tete-a-tete with him; she followed up her lead by opening a warm correspondence, beginning with the announcement that her jewels were at his disposal if he needed money. Before many weeks had passed all England was watching the Lady Caroline-Lord Byron affair.

They got an eyeful as far as My Lady was concerned; she quarreled with Byron in public and waited, in other people's gardens, to waylay his carriage when it passed. She insisted whenever she met him at a party on returning from it with him and in his carriage, regardless of his plans. If he was invited to. a party and she was not she would wait in the street outside till it was over! Lady Caroline's mother-in-law yanked her over to Ireland, by way of restoring the proprieties. Byron wrote letters letters expressive of his fixed determination to give his late sweetie the air.

As they grew increasingly expressive Lady Caroline started back to England, only to receive en route a message that knocked her cold. She was ill a month, but when able to travel she lost no. time in making tracks for Byron's apartments. She disguised herself as a taxi driver, followed her fare (Byron's new Girl Friend) to his rooms and spoiled the whole evening for everybody. There was another row shortly, after, at a ball.

Lady Caroline the mean thing asked Byron to waltz with her. He couldn't, of course, with his club foot. "I cannot, and you nor any other woman ought not," he remarked, making it a moral issue, in his annoyance. Lady Caroline, crushed, dashed for the window and dived through. Some one not Byron grabbed her skirt as she disappeared and hauled her back into the room.

She was offered a glass of water; took it, bit a piece out of the glass and tried to stab herself with it she made Byron sick. It took all Caroline's relatives combined to pry her loose from the object of her affections, and it took ever so many other cuties to get Byron's mind off the troubles she made for him. By Jane Corby ONCE upon a time, dear boys and girls the early Nineteenth Century, if you insist on dates there lived (in the broadest sense of the word) a slightly literary, slightly lame and decidedly handsome young sheik, who was called Lord Byron. He was called that, dear children, because Byron was his name and because the direct heirs to the barony had, while this particular Byron was still young, been called to a better, or at least another, world. Lord Byron, or George, to give him his intimate name, was a mad, bad and dangerous sheik, as one of his girl friends remarked.

What was he mad about? Himself, of course; now don't interrupt aga.n. We are going to tell all at least as much as boys and girls ought to know. Mad and bad Lord Byron was, and therefore dangerous to women. There is, in fact, a little song, familiar to our younger readers, which describes him rather nearly: "Ceorgie, Porgie, pudding and pie, Kissed the girls and made them cry!" Georgie Byron was only just saved from being a porgie by strict attention to diet. When he grew reckless with the dessert spoon he very promptly lost the interesting outline which constituted his chief danger to women so he had to be careful, very careful.

It is, of course, a terrible inconvenience to be perfectly irresistible to flappers, but it is the sort of inconvenience a man can bring himself to endure. It often saddens his whole outlook on life, but, dear children, if he is the right sort of man he will not attempt to evade his responsibility. George Byron was, emphatically, the right sort. It was he felt, his duty to give the girls a treat "he seen his duty and he done it." Probably no one will ever know liow many pangs it cost him to pass up the candied sweets and the lemon meringue pie; no one will ever be able to count the hours that he sacrificed. In the kindness of his heart, before the mirror getting just the right droop to his mouth and the proper lift to his collar.

The amount of effort that went, silently and uncomplainingly, into the makeup of the Byronic personality, can be estimated, dear children, only by the result. It was a knockout! Flarpers, ex-flappers, flapper emerituses! He had them eating out of his hand, jumping through hoops. But his sense of responsibility did not stop there. As THE sheik of his generation, he realized that he owed it to the weaker sex to have always one particular Girl Friend, who, from the elevation on which his preference would naturally place her, might bestow encouraging miles on her less favored sisters. It was no part of the amiable Byron's plan to allow one lady to monopolize the pedestal he provided, but, dear children, you know what is paved with good intentions! Poor Georgie paved himself a neat little private hell-on-earth with his.

When he wanted his Girl Friend to move on so as to make room for the next sweetie, would she do it with the gracious complaisance that one naturally expects in a lady? She would not. She wouldn't move, with or without complaisance. She stayed and kicked up a row. "I've been trying to give her the old balloon juice, tut I can't get her to take it," wrote the unfortunate i.