Where my distinguished countryman, Mr. Maclise, obtained the original of this portrait, I cannot tell; but it brought to my mind an incident that occurred to me a few summers ago, when visiting Honfleur. It is impossible to conceive anything more beautiful, either in situation or interior, than the simple chapel of our “Lady of Grace,” that crowns the cliffs, where sailors and their wives offer their prayers, and pay their vows. I found a number of my countrymen and women at Honfleur; and was much struck with the appearance of one in particular, who climbed the hill leading to the chapel, every morning, and remained there during the day. The servant who accompanied, or, rather, followed her, never revealed her surname; she spoke of her, and to her, as “Miss Geraldine,” and threw into this name of lofty sound as great a quantity of Irish unsophisticated brogue, as the three syllables could express. It was very pleasant to me to hear the tones of my own country in a foreign land, and still more pleasing to observe the attention, amounting to positive devotion, which the good-tempered, broad-featured woman bestowed upon the fair devotee.

“Devotee!” – I do not know exactly why I should call her so, except from the fact of her perpetually climbing that most picturesque and winding road, leading to the chapel, and kneeling before the pretty shrine of the Madonna, for hours together: her attitude was one of perfect devotion; one small hand held the rosary, the other shaded her face; the cloak appeared abandoned to its own drapery – her hair fell, as you see, in the most dégagé undress; and it was not until you approached the fair saint that you perceived her eyes were anything but quiet – they rambled from corner to corner of their fringed pent houses, with an observant, rather than coquetish, expression; certainly, with anything but the devoted one which her attitude would lead you to expect. She appeared thinking of, and expecting, some one who did not come.