So pure was she, so childlike, so artless, so loving, that those who knew her best, feel, to this day, that a memorial of her is like the relic of a saint.

And could not all this preserve her grave from insult?
O England, England! I speak in sorrow of heart to those who must have known, loved, and revered Lady Byron, and ask them, Of what were you thinking when you allowed a paper of so established literary rank as the 'Blackwood,' to present and earnestly recommend to our New World such a compendium of lies as the Guiccioli book?
Is the great English-speaking community, whose waves toss from Maine to California, and whose literature is yet to come back in a thousand voices to you, a thing to be so despised?
If, as the solicitors of the Wentworth family observe, you might be entitled to treat with silent contempt the slanders of a mistress against a wife, was it safe to treat with equal contempt the indorsement and recommendation of those slanders by one of your oldest and most powerful literary authorities?
No European magazine has ever had the weight and circulation in America that the 'Blackwood' has held.

In the days of my youth, when New England was a comparatively secluded section of the earth, the wit and genius of the 'Noctes Ambrosianae' were in the mouths of men and maidens, even in our most quiet mountain-towns.

There, years ago, we saw all Lady Byron's private affairs discussed, and felt the weight of Christopher North's decisions against her.

Shelton Mackenzie, in his American edition, speaks of the American circulation of 'Blackwood' being greater than that in England.