She had no sister for confidante; no father and mother to whom to go in her sorrows--sorrows so much deeper and darker to her than they could be to any other human being.

She had neither son nor brother to uphold and protect her.

On all hands it was acknowledged that, so far, there was no fault to be found in her but her utter silence.

Her life was confessed to be pure, useful, charitable; and yet, in this time of her sorrow, the writers of England issued article upon article not only devoid of delicacy, but apparently injurious and insulting towards her, with a blind unconsciousness which seems astonishing.
One of the greatest literary powers of that time was the 'Blackwood:' the reigning monarch on that literary throne was Wilson, the lion-hearted, the brave, generous, tender poet, and, with some sad exceptions, the noble man.

But Wilson had believed the story of Byron, and, by his very generosity and tenderness and pity, was betrayed into injustice.
In 'The Noctes' of November 1824 there is a conversation of the Noctes Club, in which North says, 'Byron and I knew each other pretty well; and I suppose there's no harm in adding, that we appreciated each other pretty tolerably.