In one, "Grace Cassidy," she describes interestingly
scenes of her youth in Ireland. But interest in her work waned, and as
she seems not to have thought of retrenchment of her expenditure,
disaster rapidly descended. In 1849, she had perforce to sell out, and
then moved to Paris, where she died in the same year. She was buried
at Chambourcy, near St. Germain-en-Laye, the residence of the Duc and
Duchesse de Grammont, the sister and brother-in-law of Count D'Orsay.
She was a woman of great tact, of a sweet delicacy of manner, and of a
chivalrous devotedness to friendship. Her friends were carefully
chosen, and never deserted. Perhaps no woman of the century has had so
many men of mark as her friends and admirers. She had charity towards
others' failings. She gave pleasure where she could. She was elegant
and dignified in her bearing, though possessed of Irish wit withal.
She was very beautiful.
Lord Byron was induced to sing the praise of her picture here
given:--
"Were I now as I was, I had sung
What Lawrence has painted so well;
But the strain would expire on my tongue,
And the theme is too soft for my shell.
"I am ashes where once I was fire,
And the bard in my bosom is dead:
What I loved I now merely admire,
And my heart is as gray as my head.
"Let the young and the brilliant aspire
To sing what I gaze on in vain,
For sorrow has torn from my lyre
The string which was worthy the strain.
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