lingering expectation, than I do to my escape from this maternal
bondage, and this accursed place, which is the region of dullness
itself, and more stupid than the banks of Lethe, though it possesses
contrary qualities to the river of oblivion, as the detested scenes I
now witness, make me regret the happier ones already passed, and wish
their restoration.

Such Augusta is the happy life I now lead, such my _amusements_. I
wander about hating everything I behold, and if I remained here a few
months longer, I should become, what with _envy, spleen and all
uncharitableness_, a complete _misanthrope_, but notwithstanding this,

Believe me, Dearest Augusta, ever yours, etc., etc.,

BYRON.





12.--To Elizabeth Bridget Pigot. [1]

Burgage Manor, August 29, 1804.


I received the arms, my dear Miss Pigot, and am very much obliged to
you for the trouble you have taken. It is impossible I should have any
fault to find with them. The sight of the drawings gives me great
pleasure for a double reason,--in the first place, they will ornament
my books, in the next, they convince me that _you_ have not entirely