I have sent for, and I know not if I shall receive, the portrait you wished to see. I am afraid you have seen me under great irritation, and under circumstances that might try any one. I am too miserable. You have not yet advised me what to do—I know not, care not. Oh, God, it is a punishment severe enough; I never can recover it; it is fair by William Lamb to mention, that since I saw you he has written a kinder letter; but if I am sent to live by myself, let them dread the violence of my despair—better far go away. Every tree, every flower, will awaken bitter reflection. Pity me, for I am too unhappy; I cannot bear it. I would give all I possessed on earth to be again what I once was, and I would now be obedient and gentle; but I shall die of grief.
Think about Ireland—if only for a few
months—yet what shall I do at Bessborough alone? God bless you; thanks
for your portrait; hearing this, is a sad ending to a too frivolous and far too
happy a life. Farewell; if you receive the portrait, return it, and send the
letter; it is his parting one when I went to Ireland with mamma (I
mean Lord
Byron’s). She was near dying because she thought
I was going to leave her. William, at that time, loved me
so much
| 204 | LADY MORGAN'S MEMOIR. |
