January 30.—Received this morning a letter from
the Honourable William Ponsonby,
announcing the death of his sister, my poor dear friend, Lady Caroline Lamb. She expired on the evening
of the 26th. She was tall and slight in her figure, her countenance was grave,
her eyes dark, large, bright; her complexion fair; her voice soft, low,
caressing, that was at once a beauty and a charm, and worked much of that
fascination that was peculiarly hers; it softened down her enemies the moment
they listened to her. She was eloquent, most eloquent, full of ideas, and of
graceful gracious expression; but her subject was always herself. She
confounded her dearest friends and direst foes, for her feelings were all
impulses, worked on by
| THE O’BRIENS AND O’FLAHERTIES—1827. | 255 |
I am sick of the jargon about the idleness of genius. All the greatest geniuses have worked hard at everything—energetic, persevering, and laborious. Who has worked so much and so well as Bacon, Kepler, Milton, Newton? it is the energy that gives what we call “genius;” that leaves its impression on all it touches. Nothing but mediocrity is slothful and idle.
