Nottingham is a strange old city, at once fierce and reactionary. This is the place where King Charles I raised his standard against Parliament, starting the English Civil War. The entire city center is lined with statues of Robin Hood. It is a Labor Party stronghold, although it is surrounded by working-class Englanders who voted for Brexit in nearby Mansfield and Chesterfield. Almost next door, in Lincolnshire, Margaret Thatcher was born—and is still reviled today. This is where I completed my PhD, at the University of Nottingham, a Russell Group university. Close to where Lord Byron lived at Newstead Abbey.
George Gordon, 6th Baron Byron, died 200 years ago in Greece on April 19, fighting for Greek independence against the Ottoman Empire, when hereditary aristocrats were convinced to go to war in person because of their beliefs rather than tweeting and sending. Their hapless fellow-class citizens die for no reason in distant lands.
Byron hated conservative-realists. He was fascinated by Bonapartism. He hated Castlereagh and Metternich for what we would now call their liberalism. In his first speech in the House of Lords, however, he defended the Luddites against the onslaught of science and the technological revolution that ultimately changed the world.
In the museum at Newstead Abbey, Byron’s books and harps are alongside incredible knick-knacks, such as his wedding ring with inscriptions. Byron thoughtA coin damaged by a bullet, dueling pistols, cutlass and sabers and a of cuirassiers Helmet that he used during a cavalry charge in Greece.
Byron was notoriously handsome, and even more notoriously a womanizer, once described by one of his many mistresses as “mad, bad, and dangerous to know.”
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He remains the greatest romantic of the era that gave birth to the term, and perhaps the greatest poetic virtuoso of the English language.
My favorite work, however, is his epitaph dedication to his dog, words written with no emotion other than genuine sadness and loneliness.
Oh man! You poor tenant of an hour,
Devas enslaved, or corrupted by power,
He who knows you well, must give up disgust,
Decaying mass of animated dust!
Your love is lust, your friendship is all deceit,
The hypocrisy of your tongue, the deceit of your heart!
Mean by nature, learned but in name,
Every relative can shame you for brutal shame.
Yay! Those who have probably seen this simple pitcher,
Go ahead, it doesn’t respect someone you want to mourn.
These stones come up to mark the remains of a friend;
I never knew but one—and here he lies.
