The Greatest Crime in Literary History

George Gordon Byron, more famously known as Lord Byron, was a prolific English romantic poet, though he is mostly known for Don Juan, a 17-cantos poem whose scandalous subject matter (in it, he openly expresses his disgust of fellow poets William Wordsworth and Samuel Taylor Coleridge) only lends to its popularity among scholars of English works today. His messy personal life and penchant for fame only added to his popularity (a commotion his wife Annabella called “Byromania”) that did not abate after his death in 1824. His insatiable fans (and critics) wanted more.

And Byron, ever the shrewd businessman, had made plans to give it to them.

As early as 1809, while traveling in Albania with his friend John Cam Hobhouse, Byron began writing an account of his life and thoughts, though he didn’t really begin pursuing the idea of a memoir fully until 1818. In July, he wrote a letter to his publisher, John Murray, letting him know he was writing them and, by October of that same year, revealed that he had finished the project. He stated that he had given the memoirs to his friend Thomas Moore, an Irish writer and poet, for safekeeping. He reiterated to both Moore and Murray that the memoirs were “[not] for publication during my life – but when I am cold – you may do what you please.” Between 1820 and 1821 Byron added a second portion, bringing the manuscript to a length of 120,000 words. In July 1821, with Byron’s blessing, Moore sold the manuscript to Murray for the enormous sum of £2100, but then Byron had second thoughts and the deal was renegotiated to give Moore and himself the power to buy back the Memoirs during Byron’s lifetime. They remained in Murray’s possession when Byron died on 19 April 1824 in Greece.

With Bryon’s own assent, the memoirs were now free to be used for publication, an act which would more than likely have brought in a fortune for both the publishing house and the Bryon estate. Instead, in an act that is sometimes referred to as the “greatest crime in literary history,” on the 17th of May, 1824, two hundred years ago today, the manuscript was destroyed in the fireplace of 50 Albemarle Street, the offices of Byron’s publisher, by a group of his friends and family, including Byron’s widow; his half-sister, Augusta Leigh; his publisher, John Murray II (his young son, John Murray III, was also present); and his friends John Cam Hobhouse and Thomas Moore. Though history remains murky about who exactly was the driving force behind the decision (some point the blame at Moore, others at Hobhouse), the question of culpability is second to discerning the nature of WHY such an act took place.

Byron, after all, had told Moore the manuscript was free to be published after his death and had not balked at Moore showing it to certain trusted friends (so much so, in fact, that the pages became worn from over-use and Moore had to make a copy to ensure the manuscript’s preservation–which was also burned in the fire that consumed the original). Comments on the memoir’s contents varied: Byron’s former lover, Lady Caroline Lamb, said in a letter that they were “of no value – a mere copy-book.” However, Byron himself told Thomas Medwin that “when you read my Memoirs you will learn the evils, moral and physical, of true dissipation. I can assure you my life is very entertaining and very instructive”. William Gifford, an editor working for Murray, considered that “the whole Memoirs were fit only for a brothel and would damn Lord B. to everlasting infamy if published”. (To be fair, however, it must be noted that Gifford had held the same opinion of Don Juan). For his part, Moore drew a distinction between the two parts, saying first part contained “little unfit for publication”, but as for the second part, “some of its details could never have been published at all.”

The men (and women) who participated in the burning remained mum, aside from public sniping and finger pointing after knowledge of the destruction became known. But, whoever is ultimately responsible, the burning of Byron’s memoirs – and the loss of whatever they revealed about one of the first modern celebrities – has haunted literal scholars ever since.

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