nce and in his determination of one
day making the whole truth known. And he did so in effect, a year later,
while he was in Italy, and when all hope of reunion was over. Then it
was that he wrote his memoirs.

Here perhaps I ought to speak of one of England's greatest crimes, or
rather, of the crime committed by a few Englishmen: I mean _the
destruction of his memoirs_, a deed perpetrated for the sake of
screening the self-love and the follies, if not the crimes, of a whole
host of insignificant beings. But, having already spoken of that in
another chapter, I will content myself with repeating here that these
memoirs were all the more precious, as their principal object was to
make known the truth; that the impression they left on the mind was a
perfect conviction of the writer's sincerity; that Lord Byron possessed
the most generous of souls, and that the separation had no other cause
but incompatibility of disposition between the two parties. Had he not
given irrefragable proof of the truth of these memoirs, by sending them
to be read and _commented on_ by Lady Byron? We know with what cruel
disdain she met this generous proceeding. As to their morality, I will
content myself with quoting the exact expressions used by Lady B----,
wife of the then ambassador in Italy, to whom Moore gave them to read,
and who had copied them out entirely:--

"_I read these memoirs at Florence_," said she to Countess G----, "_and
I assure you that I might have given them to my daughter of fifteen to
read, so perfectly free are they from any stain of immorality._"

Let us then repeat once more, that they, as well as the last cantos of
"Don Juan," and the journal he kept in Greece, were sacrificed for the
sole purpose of destroying all memento of the guilty weakness of persons
calling themselves his friends, and also of hiding the opinions, not
always very flattering, entertained by Lord Byron about a number of
living persons, who had unfortunately survived him. It is difficult to
conceive in any case, how these memoirs written at Venice, when his
heart was torn with grief and bitterness, could possibly have been
silent as to the injustice and calumny overwhelming him, or even as to
the pusillanimous behavior of so-called friends; while even writers
generally hostile no longer took part against him.

For example, this is how Macaulay speaks of him,--Macaulay who was not
over-lenient toward Lord Byron, whom he never personally knew, and