ive a true picture of my grandfather
without referring to events which overshadowed his whole life, and
which were already partially known to the public, I decided to tell
the whole story as fully and as accurately as possible, in the firm
belief that the truth can damage neither the dead nor the living.
The steps which led to the final separation between my
grandparents, and the forces which brought about so disastrous a
conclusion of a marriage of love, apart from their biographical
interest, afford a study of human nature of the utmost value; and
so great are the moral lessons which this story contains, that I
venture to hope that the public may find in much that is tragic and
pitiful much also that is redeeming, and that the ultimate verdict
of posterity may be that these two unfortunate people did not
suffer entirely in vain."

His story, therefore, is not written with any partiality, and it seems
to be as full and as truthful as the ample materials at the author's
disposal permitted. The reader will conjecture that Lord Lytton could
have given many more details, but apart from the fact that they would
often have been wholly unfit for publication, it is difficult to see
that they would in any degree have altered the balance of the story, or
modified our judgment, which is quite sufficiently enlightened by the
copious letters on both sides which are now for the first time printed.

Voltaire has remarked of love that it is "de toutes les passions la plus
forte, parce qu'elle attaque, a la fois, la tete, le coeur, le corps."
It is a commonplace to say that Edward Bulwer's whole career might have
been altered if he had never met Rosina Wheeler, because this is true in
measure of every strong juvenile attachment: but it is rarely indeed so
copiously or so fatally true as it was in his case. His existence was
overwhelmed by this event; it was turned topsy-turvey, and it never
regained its equilibrium. In this adventure all was exaggerated; there
was excess of desire, excess of gratification, an intense weariness, a
consuming hatred.

On the first evening when the lovers met, in April 1826, an observer,
watching them as they talked, reflected that Bulwer's "bearing had that
aristocratic something bordering on _hauteur_" which reminded the
onlooker "of the passage, 'Stand back; I am holier than thou!'" The same
observer, dazzled, like the rest of the world,