Memorials of the Life of Amelia Opie
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Title: Memorials of the Life of Amelia Opie
Author: Amelia Opie
Editor: C. L. Brightwell
Release date: December 8, 2014 [eBook #47595]
Language: English
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[Illustration]
[Illustration: In loving fellowship farewel! A Opie. 3rd Mo 24th 1841.]
MEMORIALS
OF THE
LIFE OF AMELIA OPIE,
SELECTED AND ARRANGED
[Illustration]
BY
CECILIA LUCY BRIGHTWELL.
[Illustration]
NORWICH:
FLETCHER AND ALEXANDER;
LONDON: LONGMAN, BROWN, & Co.
* * * * *
MDCCCLIV.
PREFACE.
* * * * *
In the preparation of these Memoirs for publication, the principal part
of the labour has been undertaken by my daughter; the pressure of other
engagements having only permitted me to undertake the general direction
and supervision of the whole.
As the Executor of Mrs. Opie, her papers and letters came into my hands;
and it devolved on me to decide in what way to dispose of them. There
had been, (I believe,) a general impression among her friends, that she
would herself prepare an account of her Life; but although she seems to
have made some efforts at commencing the task, and the subject was often
affectionately recommended, and even urged upon her, she has left it a
matter of regret to her friends, (and especially so to the compilers of
these memoirs,) that no “Autobiography” was found among her papers. Nor
did Mrs. Opie ever distinctly give any directions as to the publication
of her MSS. or any Memoir of her Life; but we have, we think, strong
presumptive evidence, that she anticipated, if not desired, that it
should be done.
Not long before she died, she said, that her Executor would have no
light task with her papers; and a few days before she breathed her last,
when she could no longer hold a pen, she called her attendant to her,
and dictated a most touching and affectionate farewell address, to me
and my daughter, directing the delivery of various small articles as
remembrances to a few most intimate friends, and requesting us to
complete what she had left undone; adding, that she had confidence in
our judgment, and believed that we should “do everything for the best.”
It has been with an earnest desire to justify this trust, and to
perfect, as far as in our power, that which she had, in fact commenced,
but left incomplete, that these pages have been put to the press.
It will be seen, in the course of these Memoirs, that the materials from
which they are compiled, are principally Papers, Letters, and Diaries,
of Mrs. Opie’s own writing; a few Letters preserved by her, and judged
to be of general interest, and bearing upon her history, we have thought
it well to give. It would have been no difficult task, to have greatly
extended these Memoirs, had it been deemed expedient to make a free use
of the Letters received by her, and of which a very large number were
found among her papers; but we have not felt ourselves at liberty to
adopt such a course, and we trust there will be found in this Volume few
(may we say we hope _no_) violations of private and confidential
communications.
My acquaintance with the subject of these Memoirs, commenced nearly
forty years ago; and well do I remember the first impressions made on me
by her frank and open manner, the charm of her fine and animated
countenance, her artless cheerfulness and benevolence, and the
extraordinary powers of her conversation. But it was not till the time
of Dr. Alderson’s last illness, that my acquaintance with Mrs. Opie
ripened into confidential friendship. From that period to the time of
her decease, I had the happiness to enjoy much of her society, and to
hear her recollections of her earlier days, and her graphic descriptions
of the scenes and characters, which had been subjects of interest to her
during the course of her long life; and she subsequently often read me a
large portion of the correspondence she continued to maintain.
Gifted with an extraordinary memory, a reverence for truth, extending
even to the minutest details, a disposition to look at the best side of
everything and everybody, and with almost dramatic power in the
exhibition of character and manners; Mrs. Opie when she entered into any
details of her former life, painted the whole scene with such
truthfulness and power, as to make it live before her hearers, and fix
it in their memory.
As an Author, her works have undergone the ordeal of public criticism,
and some additional testimony is afforded by these Memoirs, to the
favourable impression they made. It will be seen that Sir Walter Scott,
Dr. Chalmers, Southey, and other men of note, alike agreed in paying
their tribute of admiration to her power of touching the heart, and
awakening the softer passions.
The great leading feature of Mrs. Opie’s character was pure, christian
benevolence; charity in its highest sense. None that knew her could fail
to observe this. Unwearied in her efforts to relieve the distresses of
others, and limited in her own means, she was almost ingenious in some
of the methods she devised for doing so, and made it matter of duty to
avail herself of her influence with her wealthier friends to induce them
to assist her endeavours. Her patience in dealing with the incessant
importunities of persons who applied for her aid, was almost _more_ than
exemplary: but she found a blessing in doing good; and, in her parting
address, before alluded to, she has not failed to urge “the remembrance
of the poor, so as to be blessed by them.”
Of her religion, the latter part of this Memoir will best speak, and
especially the short extracts from her private Journals. These, speaking
from the depths of her own heart, shew how holily and humbly she walked
before her God; how strictly she called herself to account day by day;
and how firmly she relied on the atonement of the Lord Jesus Christ as
her hope in life and support in death.
Mrs. Opie had no liking for religious controversy, and seemed to me
always desirous of avoiding it. I believe she disliked dogmatic theology
altogether. Her religion was the “shewing out of a good conversation her
works, with meekness of wisdom.”
She ever deemed her union with “the Friends” the happiest event of her
life; and she did honour to her profession of their principles, by
shewing that they were not incompatible with good manners and refined
taste. She met with some among them who have always appeared to me to
come the nearest to the standard of christian perfection; _these_ were
her dearest friends on earth, and she is now, with them, numbered among
the blessed dead who have died in the Lord, who have ceased from their
labours, and whose works do follow them.
THOMAS BRIGHTWELL.
Norwich, May, 1854.
A SECOND EDITION _of this work having been speedily called for,
the Author has found but little opportunity for making additions
to it, and the present is, therefore, excepting some trifling
omissions, and the introduction of a few additional lines,
simply a reprint of the former volume._
C. L. BRIGHTWELL.
Norwich, July, 1854.
CONTENTS.
* * * * *
CHAPTER I.
Birth and Parentage; her Father; her Mother’s Family; her
Mother; Sonnet to her Mother’s Memory; Early Reminiscences;
Early Terrors and their Cure; the Black Man; Crazy Women;
Bedlam; Visits to the Inmates; Early Training; the Female
Sailor; Abrupt Conclusion 1
CHAPTER II.
First Sorrow; the Assizes; Sir Henry Gould; the Usury Cause;
“Christian;” Mr. Bruckner; Girlish Days; her Friendship with
Mrs. Taylor; Mrs. T.’s Memoir of her 22
CHAPTER III.
Norfolk and Norwich, and their Inhabitants; Young Love; the
Drama; Song writing and Cromer; Politics; Visit to London;
Letters from thence; the Old Bailey Trials 34
CHAPTER IV.
French Emigrants; Letter to Mrs. Taylor; Letter of the Duke
d’Aiguillon; Visit to London and Letter from thence; London
again; Letter from Mrs. Wollstonecroft; First introduction to
Mr. Opie; Mr. Opie’s early history; Return to Norwich;
Preparations for Marriage 51
CHAPTER V.
Marriage; Early Ménage; Authorship; Lay on portrait of Mrs.
Twiss; Letter to Mrs. Taylor; Visit to Norwich; Letter from Mr.
Opie; Mrs. Opie to Mrs. Taylor; Mr. Opie’s Mother 68
CHAPTER VI.
“The Father and Daughter;” Critique in the Edinburgh; three
Letters to Mrs. Taylor; volume of “Poems;” “Go, youth beloved;”
Letter from Sir J. Mackintosh; S. Smith’s Lecture 79
CHAPTER VII.
The Trials of Genius; Domestic Troubles; Letters to Mrs. Taylor;
Journey to France; Arrival at Paris; the Louvre; the First
Consul; Charles James Fox; The Soirée; Kosciusko 91
CHAPTER VIII.
The Review and Buonaparte; “Fesch;” General Massena; Return to
England; Letter to Mrs. Colombine Visit to Norwich; “Adeline
Mowbray;” Letter to Mrs. Taylor; Mr. Erskine 108
CHAPTER IX.
Prosperity; “Simple Tales;” Visit to Southill; Lady Roslyn; Mr.
Opie’s “Lectures;” his Illness; his Death 125
CHAPTER X.
Return to Norwich; “Poems;” Memoir of her Husband; Letter from
Lady Charleville; from Mrs. Inchbald; Visit to London; Party at
Lady E. Whitbread’s; Visit to Cromer; “Temper;” “Tales of Real
Life;” Soirée at Madame de Staël’s 135
CHAPTER XI.
Letters of Mrs. Opie to Dr. Alderson, written during her visit
in London in the year 1814 146
CHAPTER XII.
Friendship with the Gurney family; two Letters from Mr. J. J.
Gurney; Death of his Brother; Mrs. Opie’s Return from London;
Early Religious Opinions; Mrs. Roberts; Recollections of Sir W.
Scott; Visit to Edinburgh; “Valentine’s Eve;” Visit to Mr.
Hayley; “Tales of the Heart;” Letter to Mr. Hayley; Letter from
Mrs. Inchbald; her death 167
CHAPTER XIII.
Illness of Dr. Alderson; His Daughter’s anxiety; Priscilla
Gurney; Bible and Anti-Slavery Meetings; “Madeline;” Letter from
Southey; “Lying;” Letters to Mrs. Fry; Mrs. Opie joins the
Society of Friends; Dr. Alderson’s Decline and Death 183
CHAPTER XIV.
Consolation in Sorrow; Letter to a Friend; Journal for the year
1827 197
CHAPTER XV.
Yearly Meetings; Letter from London; Letters from Ladies Cork
and Charleville; “Detraction Displayed;” Letter from Archdeacon
Wrangham; Cromer; Diary for 1829 212
CHAPTER XVI.
Visit to Paris; Journal during her Stay there; Letter from
thence; Return to England; Letter from Lafayette; Sonnet “on
seeing the Tricolor;” Southey's “Colloquies;” Letter from Mrs.
Fry; “Nursing Sisters” 229
CHAPTER XVII.
Revolution of “the Three Days;” Mrs. Opie goes to Paris again;
her Journal there 245
CHAPTER XVIII.
Letter on the Distribution of Prizes at the Catholic Schools;
Continuation of Journal; Letter giving an Account of her Visit
to the French Court 264
CHAPTER XIX.
Influence of Christian Fellowship; Mrs. Opie Returns to England;
gives up Housekeeping; Journey into Cornwall; Letters and
Journal during her Residence there 284
CHAPTER XX.
Return to Norwich; Extracts from her Diary; Dr. Chalmers and
Mrs. Opie at Earlham; Lines addressed by Mrs. Opie to Dr.
Chalmers; “Lays for the Dead;” Visit to London; Journey to
Scotland; her Journal there; The Highlands; her Visit to
Abbotsford 302
CHAPTER XXI.
Journey to Belgium; Visit to Ghent; Journal of her Travels;
Letter from the Rhine Falls; Homeward Journey; Arrival at Calais
317
CHAPTER XXII.
Mrs. Opie’s Removal to Lady’s Lane; Letters, Visitors, and
Writing; Spring Assizes of 1838; Memoirs of Sir W. Scott; Visits
to London and Northrepps; Death of Friends; Anti-Slavery
Convention; Winter and Spring of 1840-41; Visits to Town and
Letters from thence in 1842-43; Illness; Close of 1843; Letter
of Reminiscences of Thomas Hogg 333
CHAPTER XXIII.
Death of Mr. Briggs; Summer Assizes, 1844; “Reminiscences of
Judges Courts;” “Reminiscences of George Canning” 353
CHAPTER XXIV.
The Seventy-fifth year; Notes and Incidents in the years
1845-46; Deaths of Mr. J. J. Gurney and of Dr. Chalmers; Letter
from Cromer; Death of Mrs. E. Alderson; Mrs. Opie’s Visit to
London in the Spring of 1848; Letter from thence 366
CHAPTER XXV.
The Castle Meadow house; Indisposition; Increase of Crime;
Rush’s Trial; Summer Assizes of 1849; Death of Bishop Stanley;
Summer and Autumn of 1850; Farewell Visit to London; the Great
Exhibition; Summer of 1852; Rheumatic Gout; Notes; last Visit to
Cromer; the Spring and Summer of 1853; Sudden Illness, October
23rd; Patience and Cheerfulness; Increasing Sickness; Leave
Taking; Death 382
* * * * *
CONCLUSION 404
MEMORIALS
OF THE
LIFE OF AMELIA OPIE.
* * * * *
CHAPTER I.
BIRTH AND PARENTAGE; HER FATHER; HER MOTHER’S FAMILY; HER
MOTHER; SONNET TO HER MOTHER’S MEMORY; EARLY REMINISCENCES;
EARLY TERRORS AND THEIR CURE; THE BLACK MAN; CRAZY WOMEN;
BEDLAM; VISITS TO THE INMATES; EARLY TRAINING; THE FEMALE
SAILOR; ABRUPT CONCLUSION.
Amelia Opie, the only child of James Alderson, M.D., and of Amelia, his
wife, was born the 12th of November, 1769, in the parish of St. George,
Norwich; she was baptized by the Rev. Samuel Bourn, then the
Presbyterian Minister of the Octagon chapel, in that city. Her father
was one of a numerous family, the children of the Rev. Mr. Alderson, of
Lowestoft, of whom some account is given in Gillingwater’s History of
that “ancient town.” From this we gather that “Mr. Alderson was a very
worthy, well-disposed man, of an exceeding affable and peaceable
disposition, much esteemed by the whole circle of his acquaintance, and,
as he lived much respected, so he died universally lamented.” His death
happened in 1760. In a note the following account of his family is
added: “Four sons and two daughters survive him; the sons are all
distinguished for their industry and ability, and are eminent in their
several professions; James, an eminent surgeon, at Norwich; John, a
physician, at Hull, Thomas, a merchant, at Newcastle; and Robert, a
barrister, at Norwich. Of the two daughters, Judith is married to Mr.
Woodhouse, and Elizabeth unmarried.”
This was written in 1790. Were the historian now to add a supplementary
notice, with how much satisfaction would he record, that, in the third
generation, this family numbered among its descendants, Amelia Opie and
Sir E. H. Alderson; the former the child of the eldest brother, the
latter the son of the youngest.
The tender attachment borne by Mrs. Opie to her father was perhaps her
most prominent characteristic. They were companions and friends through
life; and when, at length, in a good old age, he was taken from her, she
wept with a sorrow which no time could obliterate, and for which there
was no solace but in the hope of rejoining him in a better world. Deeply
touching are the evidences of the love which prompted her pen in its
most successful efforts, influenced her in all the steps she took
throughout her career, and rendered her indefatigable in cheering and
soothing him through the long years of his declining age. Best of all,
she was enabled to direct his mind towards those great truths of the
gospel, which she had learned to love, and in which she found her
support, when the arm of her earthly friend was about to relax its hold,
and leave her alone to pursue in solitude the remainder of her
pilgrimage.
Probably the early loss of the wife and mother was one cause which drew
more close the bond of union between the “Father and Daughter.” It
naturally followed that when, at the age of fifteen, she took the head
of her father’s table, and the management of his domestic arrangements,
she should endeavour, as much as possible, to supply the place which had
been left vacant, and that her young affections should cling more fondly
around her remaining parent. There was also much in the father
calculated to draw to him the love of his child. He was of fine person
and attractive manners, and to these external advantages was joined
something better and more enduring—a kind-hearted and generous sympathy
for the sufferers whom his skill relieved, and a charity to the poor,
which induced him freely to give them his valuable advice and
assistance. His daughter says, “He prescribed for about four or five
hundred persons at his house every week. The forms in our large hall in
a morning were so full from half-past eight till eleven, that I could
scarcely pass; and this he did till the end of the year 1820, or rather
perhaps to the beginning of 1821, when, unable to go down-stairs, he
received the people, at my earnest desire, in my little drawing-room,
till he said he could receive no one again. Oh! it was the most bitter
trial he or I ever experienced, when he was forced to give up this truly
Christian duty; and I was obliged to tell the afflicted poor people that
their kind physician was no longer well enough to open his house to
receive them, and try to heal their diseases again. He wept, and so did
I; and they were bitter tears, for I feared he would not long survive
the loss of his usefulness.” Those acts of kindness are not yet
forgotten in his native city; an aged woman, being told the other day of
the death of Mrs. Opie, recalled to mind the days of her father, “the
doctor,” and the time when he was “very good to the poor folks, that is,
he gaw’n ’em his advice for nothing; and that was a true charity, lady.”
Mrs. Opie’s mother, Amelia, was the daughter of Joseph Briggs, of
Cossambaza, up the Ganges, (eldest son of Dr. Henry Briggs, rector of
Holt, Norfolk, and Grace, his wife,) and of Mary, daughter of Captain
Worrell, of St. Helena. In an old pocket book, Mrs. Opie has entered the
following memoranda concerning this branch of her maternal ancestors.
Account of my great, great, _great_ grandfather, Augustine
Briggs, M.P., for Norwich. (From the pedigree of the Briggs’ in
Blomefield’s “History of Norfolk.”) An ancient family of Salle,
in Norfolk, who before the reign of Edward the First assumed the
surname of De Ponte, or Pontibus, i.e. at Brigge or Brigges; as
the ancient family of the Fountaines of the same place assumed
theirs, of De Fonte or Fontibus, much about the same time, one
we presume dwelling by the bridge or bridges, the other by the
springs or fountains’ heads. The eldest branch of both families
continued in Salle till they united in one. William Atte Brigge,
of Salle, called in some deeds W. de Fonte de Salle, was living
at Salle in 1334. John Atte Brigge, his second son, was alive in
1385. Thomas Brigge, of Holt, the fourth brother, was alive in
1400; and, in 1392, went to the Holy Sepulchre of our Lord, an
account of which pilgrimage written by himself is still extant,
in a manuscript in Caius College Library. Augustine Briggs,
mayor, alderman, and member for Norwich in four Parliaments, was
turned out of the Corporation by the _rebels_, and restored at
the king’s restoration. He joined the Earl of Newcastle’s forces
at the siege of Lynn, in 1643. There is a long sword in the
family, with a label in Augustine Briggs’ own hand writing tied
to it. “This I wore at the siege of Linn, in the servis of the
royal martyr, K. Charles ye First, A. Briggs.” He lies buried in
a vault in the church of St. Peter’s Mancroft, built by himself,
but he alone of the family lies there. It has been since
appropriated by the Dean and Chapter to another family, as it
was supposed no one was alive to claim it; but I, A. Opie, am
the lineal descendant and representative of this excellent man,
and the vault was my property. The following is a translation of
part of the Latin inscription on his mural monument in St.
Peter’s church:—“He was indeed highly loyal to his king, and
yet a studious preserver of the ancient privileges of his
country; was also firm and resolute for upholding the Church of
England, and assiduous and punctual in all the important trusts
committed to him, whether in the august assembly of Parliament,
his honourable commands in the militia, or his justiciary
affairs on the bench: gaining the affections of the people by
his hospitality and repeated acts of kindness, which he
continued beyond his death, leaving the following charities by
his will, as a more certain remembrance to posterity, than this
perishing monument erected by his friends, which his posterity
endeavours by this plate to continue to further ages.” He died
in 1684, aged 67. He lived in the Briggs’ Lane, called after
him, which lane is now (1839) widening, and is to be called
D’Oyley Street, a proper tribute of respect to the public
spirited individual who subscribed £1600 to further this
improvement.[1]
Augustine Briggs was also a public benefactor to this, his
native city, for he left “estates and monies to increase the
revenue of the Boys’ and Girls’ Hospital, and for putting out
two poor boys to trades every year, as can read and write, and
have neither father nor mother to put them forth to such
trades.” My cousin, Henry Perronet Briggs, R.A.,[2] his male
representative, has a very fine picture of him, a half-length,
in his military dress, painted, he believes, by a pupil of
Vandyke. I have a tolerably good three-quarter picture of
him,[3]—Amelia Opie. I have also a portrait of his
daughter-in-law, Hannah Hobart, heiress of Edmund Hobart, son of
the Lord Chief Justice Hobart, afterwards ennobled, and wife of
Dr. W. Briggs, M.D., of the University of Cambridge, a man of
great science and learning, and an eminent physician.
* * * * * *
Of the mother of Mrs. Opie but few memorials remain. She was of a
delicate constitution, and appears to have cherished the habits of
retirement, so naturally preferred by an invalid. Her early death
bereaved her daughter of a mother’s care and guidance at the most
critical period of woman’s life; and we may perhaps trace some features
of Mrs. Opie’s character to this event. From the occasional glimpses we
catch of the mother in her daughter’s short record of her own early
days, it is evident that she was possessed of firm purpose and high
principle; a true-hearted woman, and somewhat of a disciplinarian. Her
steady hand would have curbed the high spirit of her child, and softened
those ebullitions of youthful glee, which made the young Amelia such an
impetuous, mirthful creature: she would have been more demure and
decorous had her mother lived, but perhaps less charming and attractive.
Speedily as the mother’s influence was withdrawn, it left,
notwithstanding, some indelible traces in the memory of her daughter,
who frequently referred to her, even in her latter days, and usually
with reference to some bad habit from which she had warned her, or some
good one which she had inculcated. Mrs. Alderson died on the 31st of
December, 1784, in the 39th year of her age.
A series of Letters referring to the death of Mr. Joseph Briggs and his
wife, and the transfer of their little orphan daughter to England, still
exist. They are principally written by Mr. William Briggs, the second
son of Dr. Henry Briggs, who having died in 1748, (just about the time
of his eldest son’s decease in India,) the family affairs were committed
to the care of his next surviving son. He writes thus:—
Several years ago my elder brother, Joseph Briggs, went over to
Bengal as a writer in the Company’s service; he married Miss
Mary Worrell; he died in May, 1747, and his widow in the
December following; leaving behind one child, Amelia. Captain
James Irwin, out of friendship to my brother, took care of his
little daughter after the death of her mamma. The latter end of
May, 1749, the child arrived here in England, and is now in
perfect health.
To this kind friend of the orphan, Captain Irwin, the grateful uncle
writes:—
London, August 23rd, 1749.
Worthy sir, your letter of December 24th, 1748, and my very dear
niece, Amelia Briggs, came safe to England the latter end of May
last, praised be God! My honoured father dying in May 1748,
yours to him came to me with one directed for myself, in both
which you give very uncommon proofs of real friendship.
Friendship in prosperity is common; but in adversity none are
true friends but the pious.
Your great care of my niece has given very sensible pleasure to
all her relations, and all unite with me to return you sincere
and hearty thanks; at present we can only express our gratitude
in words, but should you ever be pleased to give us an
opportunity, I doubt not but you will find us ready to testify
our thanks by useful deeds. I believe you will meet with a
reward more substantial and durable from our gracious God.
My very great affection for my dear brother Joseph naturally
leads me to love and care for the little orphan as if it was my
own. She will never want whilst I have it in my power to assist
her. She will be a burden to none of her relations; for, before
she will have any occasion for it, she will be in possession of
a very handsome annuity. At present she is with my mother in
Norfolk, one hundred miles from London. She is a charming child,
and the country agrees very well with her. The black girl, her
nurse, is not reconciled to England; and, thinking she never
shall be so, she is determined to return to Bengal by the
Christmas ships. As my mother will give her entire liberty to be
at her own disposal, I believe her design is to enter into
service, as other free women do. If it be in your power, you are
very much desired by all my niece’s friends to prevent
Savannah’s being bought or sold as a negro.
May the God of all grace and consolation keep and bless you,
dear sir, and all your family, with everything necessary to make
your short passage easy and agreeable through time into a happy
eternity, is the sincere wish and prayer of,
Dear Sir,
Your most obliged humble servant,
W. B.
Seven years after her mother’s death, (1791,) she addressed to her
memory the following sonnet.
ON VISITING CROMER FOR THE FIRST TIME SINCE THE DEATH
OF MY MOTHER, WITH WHOM I USED FREQUENTLY TO VISIT IT.
Scenes of my childhood, where, to grief unknown,
And, led by Gaiety, I joy’d to rove,
’Ere in my breast Care fix’d her ebon throne,
And her pale rue, with Fancy’s roses wove.
No more, alas! your wonted charms I view,
Ye speak of comforts I can know no more;
The faded tints of Memory ye renew,
And wake of fond regret the tearful power.
But would ye bid me still the beauties prize
That on your cliff-crowned shores in state abide,
Bid, aim’d in awful pomp, yon billows rise
And seek the realms where Night and Death reside;
Unusual empire bid them there assume,
And force departed goodness from the tomb!
Many years after, among her “Lays for the Dead,” appeared some further
lines dedicated to her mother, and, as they have several references to
the recollections she retained of her, and are in themselves very sweet
and full of earnest tenderness of regret, they are reprinted here:—
IN MEMORY OF MY MOTHER.
An orphan’d babe, from India’s plain
She came, a faithful slave her guide!
Then, after years of patient pain,
That tender wife and mother _died_.
Where gothic windows dimly throw
O’er the long aisles a dubious day,
Within the time-worn vaults below
Her relics join their kindred clay—
And I, in long departed days,
Those dear though solemn precincts sought,
When evening shed her parting rays,
And twilight lengthening shadows brought—
There long I knelt beside the stone
Which veils thy clay, lamented shade!
While memory, years for ever gone,
And all the distant past pourtray’d!
I saw thy glance of tender love!
Thy check of suffering’s sickly hue!
Thine eye, where gentle sweetness strove
To look the ease it rarely knew.
I heard thee speak in accents kind,
And promptly praise, or firmly chide;
Again admir’d that vigorous mind
Of power to charm, reprove, and guide.
Hark! clearer still thy voice I hear!
Again reproof, in accents mild,
Seems whispering in my conscious ear,
And pains, yet soothes, thy kneeling child!
Then, while my eyes I weeping raise,
Again thy shadowy form appears;
I see the smile of other days,
The frown that melted soon in tears!
Again I’m exiled from thy sight,
Alone my rebel will to mourn;
Again I feel the dear delight
When told I may to thee return!
But oh! too soon the vision fled,
With all of grief and joy it brought;
And as I slowly left the dead,
And gayer scenes, still musing sought,
Oh! how I mourn’d my heedless youth
Thy watchful care repaid so ill,
Yet joy’d to think some words of truth
Sunk in my soul, and teach me still;
Like lamps along life’s fearful way
To me, at times, those truths have shone,
And oft, when snares around me lay,
That light has made the danger known.
Then, how thy grateful child has blest
Each wise reproof thy accents bore!
And now she longs, in worlds of rest,
To dwell with thee for evermore!
* * * * * *
Mrs. Opie evidently designed, at one time, to write a record of the most
interesting events of her life; she commenced the task, but abruptly
broke off when she reached the age of early youth. This interesting
fragment was clearly written at a late period of her life, it commences
thus:—
“_Ce n’est que le premier pas qui coûte_,” says the proverb, and
when I have once begun to put down my recollections of days that
are gone, with a view to their meeting other eyes besides my
own, the difficulty of the task will, I trust, gradually
disappear.
But I should be afraid that my garrulities, as I may call them,
would not be so interesting to others as I have thought they
might be, had I not observed such a hunger and thirst in the
world in general for anecdotes, whether biographical or
otherwise, and had I not experienced, and seen others evince,
such interest and amusement while reading of persons and things;
and I am thus encouraged to record my recollections of those
distinguished persons with whom I have had the privilege of
associating, from my youth upwards, to the present day.
Therefore, without further delay or apology, I mean to relate a
few “passages” in my very early days, in order to make my
readers acquainted with the preparation for my future life and
occupations, which these days so evidently afforded.
One of my earliest recollections is of gazing on the bright blue
sky as I lay in my little bed, before my hour of rising came,
and listening with delighted attention to the ringing of a peal
of bells. I had heard that heaven was beyond those blue skies,
and I had been taught that _there_ was the home of the good, and
I fancied that those sweet bells were ringing in heaven. What a
happy error! Neither illusion nor reality, at any subsequent
period of my life, ever gave me such a sensation of pure,
heartfelt delight, as I experienced when morning after morning I
looked on that blue sky, and listened to those bells, and
fancied that I heard the music of the home of the blest, pealing
from the dwelling of the most high. Well do I remember the
excessive mortification I felt when I was told the truth, and
had the nature of bells explained to me; and, though I have
since had to awake often from illusions that were dear to my
heart, I am sure that I never woke from one with more pain than
I experienced when forced to forego this sweet illusion of my
imaginative childhood.
I believe I was naturally a fearful child, perhaps more so than
other children; but I was not allowed to remain so. Well do I
remember the fears, which I used to indulge and prove by tears
and screams, whenever I saw the objects that called forth my
alarm. The first was terror of black beetles, the second of
frogs, the third of skeletons, the fourth of a black man, and
the fifth of madmen.
My mother, who was as firm from principle, as she was gentle in
disposition, in order to cure me of my first fear, made me take
a beetle in my hand, and so convince myself it would not hurt
me. As her word was law, I obeyed her, though with a shrinking
frame; but the point was carried, and when, as frequently
happened, I was told to take up a beetle and put it out of the
way of being trodden upon, I learnt to forget even my former
fear.
She pursued the same course in order to cure me of screaming at
sight of a frog; I was forced to hold one in my hand, and thence
I became, perhaps, proud of my courage to handle what my
playfellows dared not touch.
The skeleton of which I was afraid was that of a girl, black,
probably, from the preparation it had undergone; be that as it
may, I was induced to take it on my lap and examine it, and at
last, calling it my black doll, I used to exhibit it to my
wondering and alarmed companions. Here was vanity again perhaps.
The African of whom I was so terribly afraid was the footman of
a rich merchant from Rotterdam, who lived opposite our house;
and, as he was fond of children, Aboar (as he was called) used
to come up to speak to little missey as I stood at the door in
my nurse’s arms, a civility which I received with screams, and
tears, and kicks. But as soon as my parents heard of this ill
behaviour, they resolved to put a stop to it, and missey was
forced to shake hands with the black the next time he approached
her, and thenceforward we were very good friends. Nor did they
fail to make me acquainted with negro history; as soon as I was
able to understand, I was shewn on the map where their native
country was situated; I was told the sad tale of negro wrongs
and negro slavery; and I believe that my early and
ever-increasing zeal in the cause of emancipation was founded
and fostered by the kindly emotions which I was encouraged to
feel for my friend Aboar and all his race.
The fifth terror was excited by two poor women who lived near
us, and were both deranged though _in different degree_. The one
was called Cousin Betty, a common name for female lunatics; the
other, who had been dismissed from bedlam as incurable, called
herself “Old Happiness,” and went by that name. These poor women
lived near us, and passed by our door every day; consequently I
often saw them when I went out with my nurse, and whether it was
that I had been told by her, when naughty, that the mad woman
should get me, I know not; but certain it is, that these poor
visited creatures were to me objects of such terror, that when I
saw them coming (followed usually by hooting boys) I used to run
away to hide myself. But as soon as my mother was aware of this
terror she resolved to conquer it, and I was led by her to the
door the next time one of these women was in sight; nor was I
allowed to stir till I had heard her kindly converse with the
poor afflicted one, and then I was commissioned to put a piece
of money into her hand. I had to undergo the same process with
the other woman; but she tried my nerves more than the preceding
one, for she insisted on shaking hands with me, a contact not
very pleasing to me: however, the fear was in a measure
conquered, and a feeling of deep interest, not unmixed with awe,
was excited in my mind, not only towards these women, but
towards insane persons in general; a feeling that has never left
me, and which, in very early life, I gratified in the following
manner:—
When able to walk in the street with my beloved parents, they
sometimes passed the city asylum for lunatics, called the
bedlam, and we used to stop before the iron gates, and see the
inmates very often at the windows, who would occasionally ask us
to throw halfpence over the wall to buy snuff. Not long after I
had discovered the existence of this interesting receptacle, I
found my way to it alone, and took care to shew a penny in my
fingers, that I might be asked for it, and told where to throw
it. A customer soon appeared at one of the windows, in the
person of a man named Goodings, and he begged me to throw it
over the door of the wall of the ground in which they walked,
and he would come to catch it. Eagerly did I run to that door,
but never can I forget the terror and the trembling which seized
my whole frame, when, as I stood listening for my mad friend at
the door, I heard the clanking of his chain! nay, such was my
alarm, that, though a strong door was between us, I felt
inclined to run away; but better feelings got the mastery, and I
threw the money over the door, scarcely staying to hear him say
he had found the penny, and that he blessed the giver. I fully
believe that I felt myself raised in the scale of existence by
this action, and some of my happiest moments were those when I
visited the gates of bedlam; and so often did I go, that I
became well known to its inmates, and I have heard them say,
“Oh! there is the little girl from St. George’s” (the parish in
which I then lived.) At this time my mother used to send me to
shops to purchase trifling articles, and chiefly at a shop at
some distance from the bedlam, which was as far again from my
home. But, when my mother used to ask me where I had been, that
I had been gone so long, the reply was, “I only went round by
bedlam, mamma.”
But I did not confine my gifts to pence. Much of my weekly
allowance was spent in buying pinks and other flowers for my
friend Goodings, who happened to admire a nosegay which he saw
me wear; and as my parents were not inclined to rebuke me for
spending my money on others, rather than on myself, I was
allowed for some time to indulge in this way the interests which
early circumstances, those circumstances which always give the
bias to the character through life, had led me to feel in beings
whom it had pleased the Almighty to deprive of their reason. At
this period, and when my attachment to this species of human woe
was at its height, a friend of ours hired a house which looked
into the ground named before, and my father asked the gentleman
to allow me to stand at one of the windows, and see the lunatics
walk. Leave was granted and I hastened to my post, and as the
window was open I could talk with Goodings and the others; but
my feelings were soon more forcibly interested by an unseen
lunatic, who had, they told me, been crossed in love, and who,
in the cell opposite my window, sang song after song in a voice
which I thought very charming.
But I do not remember to have been allowed the indulgence of
standing at this window more than twice. I believe my parents
thought the excitement was an unsafe one, as I was constantly
talking of what I had said to the mad folks, and they to me; and
it was so evident that I was proud of their acquaintance, and of
my own attachment to them, that I was admonished not to go so
often to the gates of the bedlam; and dancing and French school
soon gave another turn to my thoughts, and excited in me other
views and feelings. Still, the sight of a lunatic gave me a
fearful pleasure, which nothing else excited; and when, as youth
advanced, I knew that loss of reason accompanied distressed
circumstances, I know that I was doubly eager to administer to
the pecuniary wants of those who were awaiting their appointed
time in madness as well as poverty. Yet, notwithstanding, I
could not divest myself entirely of fear of these objects of my
pity; and it was with a beating heart that, after some
hesitation, I consented to accompany two gentlemen, dear friends
of mine, on a visit to the _interior_ of the bedlam. One of my
companions was a man of warm feelings and lively fancy, and he
had pictured to himself the unfortunate beings, whom we were
going to visit, as victims of their sensibility, and as likely
to express by their countenances and words the fatal sorrows of
their hearts; and I was young enough to share in his
anticipations, having, as yet, considered madness not as
occasioned by some physical derangement, but as the result, in
most cases, of moral causes. But our romance was sadly
disappointed, for we beheld no “eye in a fine phrensy rolling,”
no interesting expression of sentimental woe, sufficient to
raise its victims above the lowly walk of life in which they had
always moved; and I, though I knew that the servant of a friend
of mine was in the bedlam who had been “crazed by hopeless
love,” yet could not find out, amongst the many figures that
glided by me, or bent over the winter fire, a single woman who
looked like the victim of the tender passion.
The only woman, who had aught interesting about her, was a poor
girl, just arrived, whose hair was not yet cut off, and who,
seated on the bed in her new cell, had torn off her cap, and had
let the dark tresses fall over her shoulders in picturesque
confusion! This pleased me; and I was still more convinced I had
found what I sought, when, on being told to lie down and sleep,
she put her hand to her evidently aching head, as she exclaimed,
in a mournful voice, “Sleep! oh, I cannot sleep!” The wish to
question this poor sufferer being repressed by respectful pity,
we hastened away to other cells, in which were patients confined
in their beds; with one of these women I conversed a little
while, and then continued our mournful visits. “But where (said
I to the keeper) is the servant of a friend of mine (naming the
patient) who is here because she was deserted by her lover?”
“You have just left her,” said the man. “Indeed,” replied I, and
hastened eagerly back to the cell I had quitted. I immediately
began to talk to her of her mistress and the children, and
called her by her name, but she would not reply. I then asked
her if she would like money to buy snuff? “Thank you,” she
replied. “Then give me your hand.” “No, you must lay the money
on my pillow.” Accordingly I drew near, when, just as I reached
her, she uttered a screaming laugh, so loud, so horrible, so
unearthly, that I dropped the pence, and rushing from the cell,
never stopped till I found myself with my friends, who had
themselves been startled by the noise, and were coming in search
of me. I was now eager to leave the place; but I had seen, and
lingered behind still, to gaze upon a man whom I had observed
from the open door at which I stood, pacing up and down the
wintry walk, but who at length saw me earnestly beholding him!
He started, fixed his eyes on me with a look full of mournful
expression, and never removed them till I, reluctantly I own,
had followed my companions. What a world of woe was, as I
fancied, in that look! Perhaps I resembled some one dear to him!
Perhaps—but it were idle to give all the perhapses of romantic
sixteen—resolved to find in bedlam what she thought _ought_ to
be there of the sentimental, if it were not. However, that poor
man and his expression never left my memory; and I thought of
him when, at a later period, I attempted to paint the feelings I
imputed to him in the “Father and Daughter.”
On the whole, we came away disappointed, from having formed
false ideas of the nature of the infliction which we had gone to
contemplate. I have since then seen madness in many different
asylums, but I was _never disappointed_ again.
Faithful to the views with which I began this little sketch of
my childhood and my early youth, I will here relate a
circumstance which was romantic enough to add fresh fuel to
whatever I had already of romance in my composition; and
therefore is another proof that, from the earliest circumstances
with which human beings are surrounded, the character takes its
colouring through life. Phrenologists watch certain bumps on the
head, indicative, they say, of certain propensities, and assert
that parents have a power to counteract, by cultivation, the bad
propensities, and to increase the good. This may be a surer way
of going to work; but, as yet, the truth of their theory is not
generally acknowledged. In the meanwhile, I would impress on
others what I am fully sensible of myself; namely, that the
attention of parents and instructors should be incessantly
directed to watching over the very earliest dispositions and
tastes of their children or pupils, because, as far as depends
on mere human teaching, whatever they are in disposition and
pursuit in the earliest dawn of existence, they will probably be
in its meridian and its decline.
When I was scarcely yet in my teens, a highly respected friend
of mine, a member of the Society of Friends, informed me that
she had a curious story to relate to me and her niece, my
favourite friend and companion; she told us that her husband had
received a letter from a friend at Lynn, recommending to his
kindness a young man, named William Henry Renny, who was a
sailor, just come on shore from a distant part, and wanted some
assistance on his way (I think) to London. My friend, who was
ever ready to lend his aid when needed, and was sure his
correspondent would not have required it for one unworthy,
received the young man kindly, and ordered him refreshments in
the servants’ hall; and, as I believe, prepared for him a bed in
his own house. But before the evening came, my friend had
observed something in the young man’s manner which he did not
like; he was too familiar towards the servants, and certainly
did not seem a proper inmate for the family of a Friend. At
length, in consequence of hints given him by some one in the
family, he called the stranger into his study, and expressed his
vexation at learning that his conduct had not been quite
correct. The young man listened respectfully to the deserved
rebuke, but with great agitation and considerable excitement,
occasioned perhaps, as my candid friend thought, by better meals
than he had been used to, and which was therefore a sort of
excuse for his behaviour; but little was my friend prepared for
the disclosure that awaited him. Falling on his knees, the young
man, with clasped hands, conjured his hearer to forgive him the
imposition he had practised. “Oh, sir,” cried he, “I am an
impostor, my name is not William Henry R. but Anna Maria Real, I
am not a man, but a woman!” Such a confession would have
astounded any one; judge then how it must have affected the
correct man whom she addressed! who certainly did not let the
woman remain in her abject position, but desired immediately to
hear a true account of who and what she was. She said, that her
lover, when very young, had left her to go to sea, and that she
resolved to follow him to Russia, whither he was bound; that she
did follow him, disguised as a sailor, and had worked out her
passage undetected. She found her lover dead, but she liked a
sailor’s life so well, that she had continued in the service up
to that time, when (for some reason which I have forgotten) she
left the ship, and came ashore at Lynn, not meaning to return to
it, but to resume the garb of her sex. On this latter condition,
my friend and his wife were willing to assist her, and endeavour
to effect a reformation in her. The first step was to procure
her a lodging that evening, and to prevent her being seen, as
much as they could, before she had put on woman’s clothes.
Accordingly, she was sent to lodgings, and inquiries into the
truth of her story were instituted at Lynn and elsewhere.
But what an interesting tale was this for me, a Miss just
entered into her teens! Of a female soldier’s adventures I had
some years previously heard, and once had seen Hannah Snelling,
a native of Norfolk, who had followed her lover to the wars.
Here was a female sailor added to my experience. Every
opportunity of hearing any subsequent detail was eagerly seized.
What a romantic incident! The romance of real life too! How I
wanted to see the heroine; and I was rather mortified that my
sober-minded friend would not describe her features to me. Might
I (I asked) be at last allowed to see her? and as my parents
gave leave, I, accompanied by a young friend, called at the
adventurer’s lodgings, who was at home! Yes,—she was at home,
and to our great consternation we found her in men’s clothes
still, and working at a trade which she had acquired on board
ship, the trade of a tailor! Nor did she leave off though we
were her guests, but went on stitching and pulling with most
ugly diligence, though ever and anon casting her large, dark,
and really beautiful, though fierce eyes, over our disturbed and
wondering countenances, silently awaiting to hear why we came.
We found it difficult to give a reason, as her appearance and
employment so totally extinguished any thing like sentiment in
our young hearts, upon this occasion. However, we broke the ice
at last, and she told us something of her story: which, however
touching in the beginning, as that of a disguise and an
enterprize prompted by youthful love, became utterly offensive
when persisted in after the original motives for it had ceased.
Her manner too was not pleasant: I wore a gold watch in my
girdle, with a smart chain and seals, and the coveting eye with
which she gazed, and at length clapped her hand upon them,
begging to see them near, gave me a feeling of distaste; and, as
I watched her almost terrible eyes, I fancied that they
indicated a deranged mind; therefore, hastening to give her the
money which I had brought for her, I took my leave, with my
friend, resolving not to visit her again. Out of respect to our
friends, she went to the Friends’ meeting with them, and they
were pleased to see her there in her woman’s attire; but when
she walked away, with the long strides and bold seeming of a
man, it was anything rather than satisfactory, to observe her.
I once saw her walk, and though this romance of real life
occupied the minds of my young friend and myself, and was
afterwards discussed by us, still the actress in it was
becoming, justly, an object with whom we should have loathed any
intercourse.
I do not recollect how long she remained under the care of my
excellent friends, but I think much of her story was
authenticated by the answers to the inquiries made. All that I
know with certainty is, that a collection of wild beasts came to
town, the showman of which turned out to be Maria Real’s
husband, and with him she left Norwich!
* * * * * *
Thus abruptly does Mrs. Opie’s narrative of her early days break off.
Had she turned the next leaf in that history it must have been to record
her first sorrow.
-----
[1] For all that it is Briggs’ Street still!—Ed.
[2] Since deceased.
[3] This portrait is the first of those which she apostrophizes in her
“Lays for the Dead,” and begins—
“There hangs a Soldier in a distant age,
Call’d to his doom—my honour’d ancestor.”
CHAPTER II.
FIRST SORROW; THE ASSIZES; SIR HENRY GOULD; THE USURY CAUSE;
“CHRISTIAN;” MR. BRUCKNER; GIRLISH DAYS; HER FRIENDSHIP WITH
MRS. TAYLOR; MRS. T.’s MEMOIR OF HER.
In one of his letters to a friend, Southey remarks:—
“Few autobiographies proceed much beyond the stage of boyhood.
So far all our recollections of childhood and adolescence,
though they call up tender thoughts, excite none of the deeper
feeling with which we look back upon the time of life when
wounds heal slowly, and losses are irreparable. This is, no
doubt, the reason why so many persons who have begun to write
their own lives have stopped short when they got through the
chapter of their youth.”
The poet elsewhere observes, that the wounded spirit, which shrinks from
such a record of past griefs, finds solace in breathing out its regret
in the tender strains of verse. And so it was in the present instance.
The loss of her mother was deplored in pathetic numbers; and no other
record of this event is given.
Another passage in the history of her earlier days is found in her note
book, a few pages after the former, shewing how early she manifested a
predilection, in the gratification of which she found so much enjoyment
in after life. It should be mentioned before we proceed further, that
the house in which Mrs. Opie was born was situated in Calvert Street,
immediately opposite a handsome mansion, once the residence of an
individual of note in his day, and after whom the street was named. This
house Dr. Alderson afterwards inhabited for some years; but in the
interim, he removed from the one in which his daughter was born, to
another, opposite St. George’s church, and in which they were living at
the time referred to in the following pages:—
To a girl fond of excitement it will easily be believed that the
time of Assizes was one of great interest. As soon as I was old
enough to enjoy a procession, I was taken to see the judges come
in; and, as youthful pages in pretty dresses ran, at that time
of day, by the side of the high sheriff’s carriage in which the
judges sat, while the coaches drove slowly, and with a solemnity
becoming the high and awful office of those whom they contained,
it was a sight which I, the older I grew, delighted more and
more to witness: with reverence ever did I behold the judges’
wigs, the scarlet robes they wore, and even the white wand of
the sheriff had an imposing effect on me.
As years advanced, I began to wish to enter the assize court;
and as soon as I found that ladies were allowed to attend
trials, or causes, I was not satisfied till I had obtained leave
to enjoy this indulgence. Accordingly some one kindly undertook
to go with me, and I set off for court: it was to the _nisi
prius_ court that I bent my way, for I could not bear the
thoughts of hearing prisoners tried, as the punishment of death
was then in all its force; but I was glad to find myself hearing
counsel plead and judges speak where I had no reason to
apprehend any fearful consequences to the defendants. By some
lucky chance I also soon found myself on the bench, by the side
of the judge. Although I could not divest myself of a degree of
awful respect when I had reached such a vicinity, it was so
advantageous a position for hearing and seeing, that I was soon
reconciled to it, especially as the good old man, who sat then
as judge, seemed to regard my fixed attention to what was going
forward with some complacency.
Sir Henry Gould was the judge then presiding, and he was already
on the verge of eighty; but the fire of his fine eye was not
quenched by age, nor had his intellect as yet bowed before it;
on the contrary, he is said while in Norwich to have delivered a
charge to the jury, after a trial that had lasted far into the
night, in a manner that would have done credit to the youngest
judge on the bench.
This handsome and venerable old man, surprised probably at
seeing so young a listener by his side, was so kind at last as
to enter into conversation with me. Never, I think, had my
vanity been so gratified, and when, on my being forced to leave
the court, by the arrival of my dinner hour, he said he hoped I
was sufficiently pleased to come again, I went home much raised
in my own estimation, and fully resolved to go into court again
next day. As I was obliged to go alone, I took care to wear the
same dress as I wore the preceding day, in hopes that if the
judge saw me he would cause way to be made for me. But being
obliged to go in at a door where the crowd was very great, I had
little hopes of being seen, though the door fronted the judge;
at last I was pushed forward by the crowd, and gradually got
nearer to the table. While thus struggling with obstacles, a
man, not quite in the grade of a gentleman, pushed me back
rather rudely, and said, “there miss, go home—you had better go
away, what business have you here? this is no place for you; be
advised—there go, I tell you!” But miss was obstinate and stood
her ground, turning as she did so towards the judge, who now
perceived and recognized her, and instantly ordered one of the
servants of the court to make way for that young lady;
accordingly way was made, and at his desire I took my place
again by the judge’s side. It was not in nature, at least not in
my weak nature, to resist casting a triumphant glance on my
impertinent reprover, and I had the satisfaction of seeing that
he looked rather foolish. I do not remember that on either of
these days I heard any very interesting causes tried, but I had
acquaintances amongst the barristers, and I liked to hear them
plead, and I also liked to hear the judge sum up: in short, all
was new, exciting, and interesting. But I disliked to hear the
witnesses sworn. I was shocked at the very irreverent manner in
which the oath was administered and repeated; and evidently the
Great Name was spoken with as much levity as if it had been
merely that of a brother mortal, not the name of the great King
of kings. This was the drawback to my pleasure, but not a
sufficient one to keep me from my now accustomed post, and a
third time, but early enough to have my choice of places, I
repaired to court, and seated myself near the extremity of the
bench, hoping to be called to my accustomed seat when my
venerable friend arrived. It was expected that the court would
be that day crowded to excess, for the cause coming on was one
of the deepest interest. One of our richest and oldest aldermen
was going to be proceeded against for usury, and the principal
witness against him was a gentleman who owed him considerable
obligation. The prosecutor was unknown to me; the witness named
above I knew sufficiently to bow to him as he passed our house,
which he did every day; and he was reckoned a worthy and
honourable man. These circumstances gave me an eager desire to
be a witness of the proceedings, and I was gratified at being
able to answer some questions which the judge asked me when, as
before, he had beckoned me to sit by him.
The cause at length began, and it was so interesting that I
listened with almost breathless attention, feeling, for the
first time, what deep and agitating interest a court of justice
can sometimes excite, and what a fearful picture it can hold up
to the young of human depravity; for, as this cause went on, the
witness for the accused, and the witness for the accuser, both
swore in direct opposition to each other! One of them therefore
was undoubtedly perjured! and I had witnessed the commission of
this awful crime!
Never shall I forget that moment; as it seemed very soon to be
the general conclusion, that my acquaintance was the person
perjured. I felt a pain wholly unknown before, and though I
rejoiced that my friend, the accused, was declared wholly
innocent of the charge brought against him, I was indeed sorry
that I should never be able to salute my old acquaintance with
such cordiality in future, when he passed my window, as this
stain rested on his reputation; but that window he was never to
pass again!
The next morning before I was up, (for beginning influenza
confined me to my bed,) the servant ran into the room to inform
me that poor —— had been found dead in his bed, with strong
suspicions of suicide by poison!
Instantly I dressed myself, forgetting my illness, and went in
search of more information. Well do I remember the ghastly
expression of the wretched man’s countenance as he left the
court. I saw his bright grey eye lifted up in a sort of agony to
heaven, with, as I supposed, the conviction that he was retiring
in disgrace, and I had been told what his lips uttered, while
his eyes so spoke. “What! are you going,” said a friend to him.
“Yes; why not? What should I stay for now?” and his tone and
manner bore such strong evidence of a desponding mind, that
these words were repeated as confirming the belief that he had
destroyed himself.
I never can forget with what painful feelings I went back to my
chamber, the sensation of illness forgotten, by the sufferings
of my mind!
What would I not have given to hear that the poor man who had
thus rushed unbidden into the presence of his heavenly judge,
urged by the convictions of having been condemned in the
presence of an earthly one, was innocent of this second crime!
It had been terrible to believe him guilty of the first.
My mind was so painfully full of this subject, that it was
always uppermost with me; and, to increase my suffering, the
unhappy man’s grave was dug immediately opposite our windows;
and although I drew down the blinds all day long, I heard the
murmuring voices of the people talking over the event, some
saying he was an injured man, and venting curses on the heads of
those who had brought him to that pass. The verdict having been
that “he was found dead in his bed,” the interment took place in
the usual manner; and it did so early in the morning. I took
care to avoid the front of the house till all was over; and when
the hour in the following morning arrived, at which I used to go
to the window, and receive the bow and smile of our neighbour, I
remembered with bitter regret that I should see him no more, as
he lay beneath the wall before me.
Even while I am writing, the whole scene in the court, and the
frightful results, live before me with all the vividness of
early impressions; and I can scarcely assert, that, at any
future stage of life, I ever experienced emotions more keen or
more enduring.
Judge Gould came to Norwich again the next year, and as I heard
he had inquired for me, I was not long in going to court. One of
his first questions was concerning the result of the Usury
cause, which he had found so interesting, and he heard with much
feeling what I had to impart. I thought my kind friend seemed
full a year older; and when I took leave of him I did not expect
to see him again. Perhaps the invitation which he gave me, was a
proof of a decay of faculties; for he said that if ever I came
to London, he lived in such a square, (I forget the place,) and
should be pleased to introduce me to his daughter Lady Cavan. I
did go to London before he died, but I had not courage enough to
call on Sir Henry Gould; I felt it was likely that he had
forgotten me, and that he was unlikely to exclaim, like my
friends at the bedlam, “Oh! here’s the young girl from St.
George’s!”
It may be remembered that in the short memorial of her earlier days,
given in the preceding chapter, Mrs. Opie says that her attention was
drawn away from an interest that was becoming too absorbing in the
unhappy inmates of the bedlam, by new sources of occupation and
interest. “Dancing and French school,” she says, “soon gave another turn
to my thoughts, and excited in me other views and feelings.” The master
who first instructed her to thread the gay mazes of the dance was one,
“Christian,” a man well skilled in his art, and who attained such
celebrity in it, that the room in which he taught is still called after
him, “Christian’s room.” Here the young Amelia received her first
lessons in dancing; and in after years she was wont to refer to those
days, and would close her recollections of the worthy Christian, by
telling how on one occasion, when she and her husband were in Norwich,
they accompanied a friend to see the Dutch Church. “The two gentlemen
were engaged in looking around and making their observations; and I,
finding myself somewhat cold, began to hop and dance upon the spot where
I stood. Suddenly, my eyes chanced to fall upon the pavement below, and
I started at beholding the well-known name of ‘Christian,’ graved upon
the slab; I stopped in dismay, shocked to find that I had actually been
dancing upon the grave of my old master—he who first taught me to
dance!”
The gentleman who gave her instruction in the French language was a
remarkable man, and one for whom she entertained an affectionate respect
which continued during the remainder of his life. As he is frequently
referred to in her letters and elsewhere, it may not be irrelevant here
to give some particulars respecting him, which are principally gathered
from an article in “the Monthly Magazine,” written by the late Mr. Wm.
Taylor. It appears that in 1752, Mr. Colombine, one of a French refugee
family, then residing in Norwich, was entrusted by the members of the
Walloon church, in that city, on occasion of his going over to Holland,
to seek out for them a suitable pastor. In the execution of this
commission, he applied to Mr. Bruckner, then holding a pastorship at
Leyden. This gentleman, who had been educated for the theological
profession, was of eminent literary acquirements; he read the Hebrew and
the Greek, composed correctly, and was able to preach in four languages:
Latin, Dutch, French, and English. He listened favourably to the
invitation of the Norwich church; and in 1753 settled amongst them, and
continued to officiate during 51 years with increasing satisfaction:
about the year 1766, Mr. B. also undertook the charge of the Dutch
church, of which the duties had become almost nominal, in consequence of
the diminished numbers of Dutch families, and the gradual disuse of that
language.
The French was Mr. Bruckner’s favourite tongue; and in it he gave
lessons, both public and private, to the young people of his adopted
city, for many years: he also cultivated music, and delighted in
practising upon the organ. He was, besides, an author, and published a
work entitled “Théorie du Systême Animal,” and, under an assumed name, a
pamphlet entitled “Criticisms on the Diversions of Purley.” His death
took place in the month of May, 1804; at his house in St. Benedict’s
street. Mr. Opie painted an admirable likeness of him, which appeared in
the London Exhibition of 1800. This picture was in the possession of
Mrs. Opie at the time of her death, and is the subject of one of her
“Lays.” There was a very singular expression in the eyes, and on one
occasion a visitor who was calling upon her, gazing on the picture,
remarked, that he was painfully affected by this look, as he remembered
to have seen the same strange appearance in the countenance of a person
who committed suicide. This remark forcibly struck Mrs. Opie, and no
wonder, as it was the fact that her poor master died by his own hands! A
gradual failure of spirits overtook him in his old age; sleep forsook
his eyelids, and the fatal stroke terminated his existence, to the
regret of all who had known him; for he was much beloved for his
kindliness and affability, and his society was courted to the last, as
his conversation shewed good sense, humour, and information. A small
piece of paper, written in her delicate and minute characters, and found
among her letters, proves that his friend and pupil continued to think
of him after the lapse of more than half a century.
Lines, addressed to me by my dear friend and French master, John
Bruckner, a Flemish Clergyman, on my requesting him to let my
husband paint a portrait of him for me.
Pourquoi me demander, aimable Amélie
De ce front tout ridé, le lugubre portrait?
Pour être contemplé jamais il ne fut fait,
Assez il a déplu—Permettez qu’ on l’oublie!
_John Bruckner, 1800._
Translation in prose:—
Why do you ask of me, amiable Amelia, the gloomy portrait of
this wrinkled brow? It was never meant to be contemplated. It
has enough displeased—Let it now be forgotten.—_A. O. 1852._
To this amiable man and accomplished scholar Mrs. Opie was indebted, not
only for instruction in French, but for much general information, which
he was well qualified to impart.
The premature death of Mrs. Alderson occasioned (as we have seen) the
introduction of her daughter into society at a very early age. Her
father delighted to make her his constant companion, and introduced her
to the company of the friends with whom he visited, and whom he welcomed
to his house. Hence, at a time when girls are usually confined to the
school room, she was presiding as mistress of his household, and
mingling in the very gay society of the Norwich circles of that day. The
period of which we write was shortly before the breaking out of the
French revolution, and was one of great commercial prosperity, in which
the merchant-manufacturers of the old town shared, in an extraordinary
degree. This state of things lasted until the troubles consequent upon
that event disturbed the commercial relations of the continent; when the
trade declined, and a season of unparelleled depression ensued. But at
the time of which we speak, it was a thriving and prosperous city, and
abounded in gaiety and amusements of various sorts.
A young girl placed in such circumstances must have greatly needed the
counsel and friendship of a wise female friend; and such an one Miss
Alderson happily found in Mrs. John Taylor, a lady distinguished for her
extensive knowledge and many excellencies. She was living at that time
in Norwich, not far from Mr. Alderson’s, and an intimacy was early
formed between the two ladies, which appears to have lasted
uninterruptedly through life. After Mrs. Opie’s marriage, she continued
to correspond with this friend of her early days, and happily many of
her letters to Mrs. T. have been preserved.
Frequent mention is made of Mrs. Taylor in Sir James Mackintosh’s life,
and she is spoken of as one of the principal attractions amid the circle
of friends whose society he sought, when carried by his professional
duties to Norwich. Mr. Montague, his companion on some of these
occasions, says:—
“N. was always a haven of rest to us, from the literary society
with which that city abounded. Dr. Sayers we used to visit, and
the high-minded and intelligent Wm. Taylor; but our chief
delight was in the society of Mrs. John Taylor, a most
intelligent and excellent woman, mild and unassuming, quiet and
meek, sitting amidst her large family, occupied with her needle
and domestic occupations, but always assisting, by her great
knowledge, the advancement of kind and dignified sentiment and
conduct.
Manly wisdom and feminine gentleness were in her united with
such attractive manners, that she was universally loved and
respected. In ‘high thoughts and gentle deeds’ she greatly
resembled the admirable Lucy Hutchinson, and in troubled times
would have been equally distinguished for firmness in what she
thought right. In her society we passed every moment we could
rescue from the court.”[4]
How dear must such a friend have been to one whom she so tenderly loved!
When some years later a portrait of Mrs. Opie was brought out in “The
Cabinet,” a periodical of the day, Mrs. Taylor drew up a short notice of
her friend, to accompany this likeness. This paper was written about the
time of Mr. Opie’s death, but it principally refers to the early part of
Mrs. Opie’s life. After speaking of the circumstances of her birth, of
the early death of her mother, and of the proofs she gave, even in
childhood, of poetical genius and taste, the writer continues:—
“Mrs. Opie’s musical talents were early cultivated. Her first
master was Mr. Michael Sharp, of Norwich, who possessed a degree
of love for his profession which comparatively few, employed in
the drudgery of teaching, evince. Mrs. O. never arrived at
superiority as a player, but she may be said to have been
unrivalled in that kind of singing in which she more
particularly delighted. Those only who have heard her can
conceive the effect she produced in the performance of her own
ballads; of these, ‘The poor Hindoo’ was one of her chief
favourites, and the expression of plaintive misery and
affectionate supplication which she threw into it, we may safely
say has very seldom been equalled. She may fairly be said to
have created a style of singing of her own, which, though
polished and improved by art and cultivation, was founded in
that power, which she appears so pre-eminently to possess, of
awakening the tender sympathies and pathetic feelings of the
mind.”
After enumerating some further accomplishments possessed by her friend,
Mrs. Taylor closes her tribute of affectionate regard, by speaking of
the excellencies of a heart and mind “distinguished by frankness,
probity, and the most diffusive kindness;” and appeals to the many who
could bear witness from experience, to those sympathies which “made the
happiness of her friends her own, and to the unremitting ardour with
which she laboured to remove the miseries that came within her knowledge
and influence.”
-----
[4] See Life of Sir James Mackintosh.
CHAPTER III.
NORFOLK AND NORWICH, AND THEIR INHABITANTS; YOUNG LOVE; THE
DRAMA; SONG WRITING AND CROMER; POLITICS; VISIT TO LONDON;
LETTERS FROM THENCE; THE OLD BAILEY TRIALS.
Mr. Holcroft, in his Autobiography, writes thus of East Anglia:—
“I have seen more of the county of Norfolk than of its
inhabitants; of which county I remark, that, to the best of my
recollection, it contains more churches, more flints, more
turkeys, more turnips, more wheat, more cultivation, more
commons, more cross roads, and from that token probably more
inhabitants, than any county I ever visited. It has another
distinguishing and paradoxical feature, if what I hear be true;
it is said to be more illiterate than any other part of England,
and yet, I doubt, if any county of like extent have produced an
equal number of famous men.”
The praises of Norwich were written thus, in old monkish rhymes in days
of yore;
“Urbs speciosa situ, nitidis pulcherrima tectis,
Grata peregrinis, deliciosa suis.”
If common fame speak true, the Inhabitants of the old City have been
noted for three peculiarities—the resolute purpose and strongly marked
character of her men; the fair looks of her women; and the deep-rooted
attachment which is entertained for her by those born and bred within
her walls. The subject of this memoir certainly shared largely in this
love for the city of her birth. During the eight and twenty years of her
life which preceded her marriage, with the exception of occasional
visits to London and elsewhere, she remained in her native town and in
her father’s house; and when, at the expiration of nine years, she
became a widow, she returned to live under her father’s roof again; nor
at his death did she manifest a desire to quit the place endeared to her
by the recollections of so many long and happy years.
At the period to which we have arrived in her history, she possessed the
advantages of a pleasing personal appearance. Her friend, Mrs. Taylor,
delicately alludes to the graces of “person, mind, and manner,” so
happily united in her; and Mr. Opie’s portraits fully bear testimony to
the truth of these friendly representations. Her countenance was
animated, bright, and beaming; her eyes soft and expressive, yet full of
ardour; her hair was abundant and beautiful, of auburn hue, and waving
in long tresses; her figure was well formed; her carriage fine; her
hands, arms, and feet, well shaped;—and all around and about her was
the spirit of youth, and joy, and love. What wonder if she early loved,
and was beloved! She used to own that she had been guilty of the
“girlish imprudence” of love at sixteen. From the following lines in one
of her poems, it should seem that this fancy of her youth was but a
day-dream destined to pass away like the rest!
I’ve gazed on the handsome, have talked with the wise,
With the witty have laugh’d, untouched by love’s power,
And tho’ long assailed by young Corydon’s eyes,
They charmed for a day, and were thought of no more!
But once, I confess, (t’was at tender sixteen,)
Love’s agents were busy indeed round my heart,
And nought but good fortune’s assistance I ween,
Could ere from my bosom have warded the dart.
Numerous admirers, indeed, seem to have paid her homage, and courted her
favour in those days. Some perhaps enjoyed a short season of hope, and
there were two or three, whose rapturous effusions were committed to
some secret receptacle, there to await a season of leisure when their
claims might be considered. But alas! none such came; they lay
forgotten; and only came to light when she, whose bright young charms
they told of, had closed a long life.
High spirits, uninterrupted health, a lively fancy, and poetic talent,
were hers; and she fully enjoyed and exercised these natural advantages.
One of her earliest tastes was a love of the drama, and Mr. Capel Lofft,
writing to her in 1808, observes, “Your uncle, the barrister, was saying
yesterday evening, how struck he was, almost in your childhood, with
your power of dramatic diction and recitation, and that he had never
thought it equalled by any one.” This taste she cultivated; and, when
not more than eighteen years of age, wrote a tragedy, entitled
“Adelaide,” which is still extant. It was acted for the amusement of her
friends; she herself performing the heroine’s part, while Mr. Robert
Harvey played the rôle of “the old father.”
It should seem from an expression in one of her letters, that this was
not a solitary effort in theatrical composition, and that she even
aspired to see some of her plays performed in public. It was probably
this taste which early introduced her to an acquaintance with the Kemble
family; as she says, in a very early letter to her father, signing
herself ‘Euridice,’ “My claim to this name was revived in my mind the
other day, by Mr. Kemble coming up to me, saying, ‘Euridice, the woods,
Euridice, the floods,’ &c.” She ever entertained an ardent admiration
for the illustrious Mrs. Siddons; an admiration mingled with a warm
sentiment of personal regard. This was manifested in a touching and
natural manner after the death of that lady, when, as she was one day
visiting the Soanian museum, (in company with the friend who now records
the fact,) happening unexpectedly to see a cast of Mrs. Siddons’ face,
taken after death, and unable to control her emotion, she burst into a
passionate flood of tears!
Mrs. Taylor was probably right in her judgment when she said to Mrs.
Opie, “You ought to rest your fame upon song writing.” Many of the most
popular songs she published after her marriage had been early
productions of her pen; and were, perhaps, not excelled by any efforts
of that kind in her later years. Some of them first appeared separately
in newspapers and magazines, and a few in a periodical miscellany called
“The Cabinet.”
The Lay to the memory of her mother was written (as we have said) at
Cromer, in the year 1791; and is the first in an old manuscript book
containing her earlier poems, many of which she afterwards published.
They were produced in this and the following year, and are inscribed
“Verses written at Cromer.” This place seems to have been, throughout
life, very dear to her; owing no doubt, in part, to the fact that she
had frequently spent the summer season there with her mother in her
childhood; hence it became associated in her mind with these earliest
recollections.
There she indulged in fond memories and fancies, spending the long
summer days roving along the shore, and weaving her thoughts into verse,
grave or gay. She deplores her fate when compelled to leave
These scenes belov’d upon whose tranquil shores,
Thoughtless of ill, I breathed my earliest songs,
While childish sports and hopes—a joyous throng—
In soft enchantment bound the guiltless hours.
And concludes,
Here I would wander, from day’s earliest dawn,
Till o’er the western summit steals dark night;
And from the rugged cliff or dewy lawn,
Reluctant fades the last pale gleam of light.
Visits among her numerous friends, and excursions on business and
pleasure, in which she not unfrequently accompanied her father,
occasionally afforded themes for her pen, and her wanderings may often
be tracked by the titles she gave to these effusions. “A sonnet written
in Cumberland,” bears date 1790. Another “in a bower in Wroxham
Churchyard,” August, 1792. A serio-comic poem written at Windermere, in
a letter to her father, gives an account of the merry antics played by
herself and a gay party of young folks with whom she made the trip, and
one, which we give to the reader, was
“WRITTEN ON SEEING A BUST OF MINERVA AT FELBRIGG
HALL, THROWN INTO A CORNER AMONGST RUBBISH.”
Who should have thought in Windham’s breast
Ingratitude to find!
Who should have thought that _he_ could prove
To his best friend unkind!
Yet sure I am, my eyes beheld
In Felbrigg hall this morn,
Unmeaning heads exalted high,
And Wisdom left forlorn!
* * * * * *
From these tranquil scenes we must make a somewhat abrupt transition,
and carry the reader to the busy world of London, where we find her in
1794, and writing to her friend, Mrs. T., from thence. The allusions to
political events, contained in these letters, render it necessary to say
a few words respecting the opinions entertained by Dr. Alderson, and the
friends with whom he associated on these subjects; as his daughter’s
views were naturally to a great degree formed after those of her father
and his companions.
During the later years of the last century, at the time when this
country was so vehemently excited by the great changes then occurring in
France, and which were regarded by many as the commencement of a new and
happier era for the nations of Europe generally; party strife ran to a
fearful height, and scarcely any, even of the weaker sex, remained
passive spectators of the struggle.
Dr. Alderson was among those who hailed the dawn of the French
revolution with pleasure; and, though he afterwards saw cause to
moderate his expectations as to the results of that movement, he seems
(in common with many sincere patriots) to have held his allegiance true
to the original revolutionary cause. It is well known that at this time
various societies were organized, in different parts of the kingdom, for
the purpose of discussing the political questions then agitating the
public mind, and Norwich was among the foremost in these associations. A
local society was instituted, in which were canvassed reforms and
changes, many of which, advocated by the most influential statesmen of
our day, have since been safely yielded to the irresistible force of
public opinion. Three of the leading measures contended for were the
Abolition of Negro Slavery, the repeal of the Corporation and Test Acts,
and the reform of the House of Commons.
The policy of the government was, however, (not without reason,) hostile
to associations such as these, and severe measures were adopted to put
them down, and to bring their leaders under the fearful ban of high
treason.
During Miss Alderson’s stay in London, in 1794, she attended the famous
trials of Horne Tooke, Holcroft, and others, for treason, at the Old
Bailey; and in her letters home she gave her father a lively account of
the events which transpired. It is known that Dr. Alderson, after
reading these letters to his confidential friends, thought it prudent to
destroy them. A few letters, to Mrs. Taylor, written previous to her
marriage, have been preserved; but as that lady was in the habit of
reading those addressed to Dr. Alderson by his daughter, they contain no
account of the events which she described to him. The three which follow
were written in 1794, during her visit to some friends who lived near
London, but her letters being mostly without date, cannot always be
arranged with certainty. It is evident that a fellowship in political
opinions was the only bond which united her to many with whom, at this
time, she associated. Her own good sense and firm rectitude of
principle, happily preserved her from the follies and errors into which
not a few around her were led, by their extravagant zeal for a liberty
which speedily degenerated into license. She too, was enthusiastic,
ardent, perhaps imprudent, at least so she seems to have judged in
cooler moments; but there was too much of the pure womanly character in
her, to suffer her ever to sympathize with the assertors of “woman’s
rights,” (so called;) and she was not to be spoiled even though exposed
to the influence of Horace Walpole’s “philosophising serpents, the
Paines, the Tookes, and the Wollstonecrofts.”
Tuesday, 1794.
MY DEAR MRS. T.
At length I have found an opportunity of writing to you at my
leisure, but now, though I have begun with the resolution of
being very grave and very sentimental, I feel such an
inclination to run into plain matters of fact and narration,
that I shall beg leave to content myself with a recital of the
events of my journey to town yesterday, requesting at the same
time a recital of the events of your life, since I saw you, in
return. We will leave gravity and sentiment to be the order of
the evening when we resume our Wednesday _tête à têtes_, and
rejoice in the absence of husband and father.
Mr. J. Boddington and I set off for town yesterday by way of
Islington, that we might pay our first visit to Godwin, at
Somers’ Town. After a most delightful ride through some of the
richest country I ever beheld, we arrived at about one o’clock
at the philosopher’s house, whom we found with his hair _bien
poudré_, and in a pair of new, sharp-toed, red morocco slippers,
not to mention his green coat and crimson under-waistcoat. He
received me very kindly, but wondered I should think of being
out of London;—could I be either amused or _instructed_ at
Southgate? How did I pass my time? What were my pursuits? and a
great deal more, which frightened my protector, and tired me,
till at last I told him I had not yet outlived my affections,
and that they bound me to the family at Southgate. But was I to
acknowledge any other dominion than that of reason?—“but are
you sure that my affections in this case are not the result of
reason?” He shrugged disbelief, and after debating some time, he
told me I was more of the _woman_ than when he saw me last.
Rarely did we agree, and little did he gain on me by his mode of
attack; but he seemed alarmed lest he should have offended me,
and apologised several times, with much feeling, for the
harshness of his expressions. In short, he convinced me that his
theory has not yet gotten entire ascendancy over his practice.
He has promised to come over to spend a day at Southgate, when I
shall pit rational belief in Mr. M., against atheism in Mr.
Godwin. Mr. B. was disgusted with his manner; though charmed
with that of Barry, whom we called on last week. Godwin told me
he had talked of me to Mrs. Inchbald, that she recollected me,
and wished to see me; so I determined to call on her after I had
paid my visit to Mrs. Siddons. From Godwin’s, we went to Ives
Hurry’s in the City, where we left our chair and horses, and
proceeded in a coach to Mrs. Betham’s, to have my profile taken,
and thence we drove to Marlborough Street. I found Mrs. Siddons
engaged in nursing her little baby, and as handsome and charming
as ever. She played last Wednesday before her month was up, and
is now confined to her room with the cold she caught behind the
scenes. There too, I saw Charles Kemble, as I passed through his
sister’s dressing room, and thought him so like Kemble, Mrs.
Twiss, and Mrs. Siddons, that it was some time before I could
recollect myself enough to know whether he was a man or a woman.
Sally and Maria, tell my father, are quite well, and inquired
much concerning him. The baby is all a baby can be, but Mrs. S.
laughs, and says it is a wit and a beauty already in her eyes;
she leaves town to-day, or she would have invited me for a
longer visit. From Marlborough Street, we drove to Mrs.
Inchbald’s, who is as pretty as ever, and much more easy and
unreserved in her manner, than when I last saw her. With her we
passed an hour, and when I took my leave, she begged I would
call on her again. She is in charming lodgings, and has just
received two hundred pounds from Sheridan, for a farce
containing sixty pages only. From her house we drove into the
city. You will wonder, perhaps, where we dined. Be it known unto
you, that we never dine when we visit London. Ives Hurry, as
soon as we arrive at his house, always treats us with as much
ice and biscuits as we can eat; we then sally forth, and eat ice
again when we want it; so we did yesterday, and Mrs. Siddons’
roast beef had no temptations for us. As we returned to I. H.’s,
we went to Daniel Isaac Eaton’s shop; we had scarcely entered
it, when a very genteel-looking young man came in. He examined
us, and we him; and suspicion being the order of the day, I
dared not talk to Mrs. Eaton till the stranger was engaged in
conversation with Boddington. I then told her that curiosity led
me to her shop, and that I came from that city of sedition,
Norwich. Her eyes sparkled, and she asked me if I knew Charles
Marsh? “You come from Norwich, (cried the stranger,) allow me to
ask you some questions,” &c., &c. He put questions, I answered
them, and in a short time Mr. J. B. and myself were both so
charmed with his manners and conversation, that we almost
fancied we had known him before. We saw that he was intimate
with Mrs. E. and her sweet girl, and seemed to be as much at
home in the shop as the counter itself. So we had no fears of
him; at last we became so fraternized, that Mrs. E. shut the
shop door and gave us chairs. I will not relate the information
I heard, but I could have talked with him all night. “Well, but
who was he?” Have patience and you shall hear. Finding that he
was just returned from Scotland, and was _au fait_ of all the
proceedings there, and that his connexions were those of high
life; I asked where Lord Daer was, and lamented that he was not
one of the _arrested members_. He smiled, and said that Lord D.
wanted nerve then, and fortitude to resist the anxieties of his
mother, and sisters, the most accomplished women in England;
that the very day of the arrest he had received a letter from
Lord Daer, promising to be with them if possible; and in the
evening another note to say Lady Selkirk was ill, and that he
could not leave her. “Indeed! I thought he _bailed_ you,” said
Mrs. Eaton. “Oh! no,” replied the other. Mr. B. and I looked at
each other, wondering who “you,” was; but I began to suspect,
and went on questioning him. He said they dared not hurt Lord
D.; that they dared not attack any man of connexions and estate
in Scotland: that had he himself been condemned, or sent to
Botany Bay, his connexions would have _risen to a man_. I
ventured to say, that however amiable Lord D.’s family might be,
he ought to have disregarded their influence. He replied that I
was quite right, and that he himself had disregarded them;—that
democratic women were rare, and that he heartily wished he could
introduce me to two charming patriots at Edinburgh, who were,
though women, up to circumstances—and a great deal more, that
raised my curiosity to a most painful height; at last, having
said that he had laid it down as a rule for his conduct, that a
patriot should be without the _hope of living_, or the _fear of
dying_, he took his leave, leaving our minds elevated and
delighted. Mrs. E. told us it was Mr. Sinclair, Sir John’s
nephew, he who was tried, and acquitted. He says Lord D. is
supposed to be dying, and he himself looks in bad health, but
his countenance is fine, and his manners elegant.—“What think
you of Mr. Windham?” said I, “Oh! the poor creature is out of
his element; he might have done very well for a college
disputant or a Greek professor, perhaps, but that’s all.” “Why
do the Norwich patriots espouse Mingay? what can they expect?
(said he,) he might be a very good implement of resentment
against Windham, but, though the friend of their necessity, not
of their choice.” Is he not right? * * * *
The following letter begins quite abruptly, and is without date.
* * * How strange it is, my dear friend, that I should have
suffered your kind letter to remain so long unanswered, but, as
I am certain that you will not impute my silence to any
diminution of affection towards you, I will not fret about my
oddity, but endeavour to make amends for it, by writing as good
a letter as I _can_, and that will be, alas! very stupid; for
the state of the times and other things press upon my mind
continually, and unfit me for everything but conversation. My
father will have told you a great deal; he will have told you
too how much we are interested and agitated by the probable
event of the approaching trials. Would to God, you and your
husband were equally so, for then would one of my cares be
removed; as you would, like us, perhaps turn a longing eye
towards America as a place of refuge; and one of the strongest
ties that binds me to Norwich would be converted into an
attraction to lure me to the new world. On this, at least, I
hope we are at all events resolved; to emigrate, if the event of
the trial be fatal; that is, provided the Morgans do not give up
their present resolution, and that we can carry a little society
along with us, in which we can be happy, should Philadelphia
disappoint our expectations. I write to you on this subject in
confidence; as we do not wish our intention to be much known at
present. How changed I am! How I sicken at the recollection of
past follies and past connexions, and wish from the bottom of my
soul, that I had never associated but with you and others like
you. But it is folly to dwell on the past; it only incapacitates
one for enjoying the present; it shall now be my care to anchor
on the future, and I trust in God that it will not disappoint
me.
You see I am not in high spirits; but then I am the more
natural; and my flighty hours are long gone by, and my time for
serious exertion is, I hope, arrived; but why should I write
thus? I shall perhaps infect you with this _seeming_ gloom; for,
after all, if I carefully examine my heart, it will tell me,
that I am happy. My usual spirits have been lowered this
morning, by hearing Mr. Boddington and Mr. Morgan mark the
printed list of the jury. Every one almost is marked by them as
unfit to be trusted; for almost every man is a rascal, and a
contractor, and in the pay of government some way or another.
What hope is there then for these objects of ministerial
rancour? Mr. B. objects even to his own uncle, whom he thinks
_honest_, because he is so prejudiced an aristocrat, that he
looks upon rigour, in such cases, to be justice only. What a
pass are things come to, when even dissenters lick the hand that
oppresses them! Hang these politics! how they haunt me. Would it
not be better, think you, to hang the _framers_ of them?
What is a woman made of, think you, that can _sue_ a man for
inconstancy? Truly of very coarse materials; yet I really
believe Miss Mann’s trial would have attracted me more than that
for sedition. It would have given me so many new ideas. * * * *
I wish my father could have remained with us, but he was very
good to stay so long as he did; and I have the satisfaction of
knowing he was happy while he did stay. He will tell you enough
about Mrs. Inchbald, for he is quite smitten with her. Nay, I
rather suspect he paid her a farewell visit. Pray tell him to
write to me soon.
What a pity it is that The Cabinet is dangerous. I should have
enjoyed it else so much. I admire what is already written. We
are going to-night, as usual, to W. Morgan’s, where I shall sing
as usual, your husband’s song. How I wish he was here to sing it
instead of me. Farewell. Pray write to me soon.
A. A.
Although, as we have said, the letters describing what she saw at the
Old Bailey were destroyed, she has fortunately preserved an anecdote of
much interest relative to them, which was recalled to her recollection
many years subsequently, on occasion of a visit she paid to Madame de
Staël; she says:—
With this woman of excelling genius and winning manners, I had
the pleasure of being acquainted in the year 1813; when, with
her daughter, then of the age of sixteen, who afterwards became
Duchess de Broglie, and Mr. Rocca, to whom she was then
privately married, she was residing for some months in London,
when exiled by Napoleon from France. One morning I went to call
on her by appointment, accompanied by a friend of mine whom she
wished to see, on some particular business. Scarcely had that
business been concluded, when the servant announced Lord
Erskine, who came in with books in his hands, and when he saw me
he cried, “I am glad to see you here, for I want you to read
something for me.” He then gracefully bowed to Madame de Staël
and presented the two books to her, containing, he said, his
most celebrated speeches; and opening the first volume he turned
to the first page, on which he had written a dedication to la
Baronne de Staël in English, which he begged me to read to her.
“No, no, not so,” she exclaimed eagerly, taking the book from
me, “I can read it myself.” Accordingly she began; while I,
myself an author, soon felt painful sympathy with poor Lord E.’s
feelings; for the writing was, I dare say, difficult for her, a
foreigner, to read; and the poor writer’s smooth and elegant
periods were, in a great measure, deprived of their charm, by
their meaning being sometimes stammered out, and, possibly, not
entirely understood. However, the lady was flattered with what
she did understand, and Lord E. soon recovered the steadiness of
his nerves: and taking up the second volume, which contained his
speeches at the Old Bailey trials in the year 1794, he read some
favourite passages to her, and finished by alluding to the
evident dislike which the Lord Chief Baron Eyre, who presided at
them, entertained for him, and how strongly he proved it during
the trial of Horne Tooke, who was the second person tried for
his life, and was (like the first person, Thomas Hardy) entirely
acquitted. He then related what had passed between himself and
the Chief Justice, after the trial was over and the crowd
dispersed, and which I, who was present, well remembered having,
by accident, overheard. Liking to be near the eloquent man and
to hear him speak, I had contrived to get so near as to overhear
what passed, and which I thought was too loud, not to be
intended to be heard. The judge had, I saw, to repeat what he
said; but at length he was answered in a manner which he little
expected; for the indignant speaker replied, “My lord, I am
willing to give your lordship such an answer as an aggrieved man
of honour like myself is willing to give to the man who has
repeatedly insulted him, and I am willing and ready to meet your
lordship, at any time and place that you may choose to appoint.”
At this point of his story our hostess cried, “What! my lord,
that was a challenge, _n’est ce pas_?” “Yes, ma’am.” “Well, what
did he say?” “Oh! nothing to the purpose; but I assure you I was
irritated into saying what I did.” “Yes, indeed,—I was behind
you, Lord E. (said I,) and heard all that passed; and though
such things were quite new to me, I felt sure what was said by
you amounted to a challenge; but when I told the friends with
whom I went home what had passed, they said I was a silly girl
and that I was mistaken.” He looked at me with some surprise,
and, I fear, with a doubt of my veracity; but I could affirm to
the truth of my assertion. I do not wonder, however, as he did
not then know me personally, and was not conscious of my
proximity, or that of any one else perhaps, that he was inclined
to distrust my truthfulness; but it was a fact, that the
circumstance and the words he related, were, I believe,
witnessed and overheard by me alone; and a curious fact or
coincidence it was, that this conversation, overheard by me in
the year 1794, I should be present to hear related to the
Baronne de Staël by Lord E. himself in the year 1813. The
circumstance and the words he has published at the end of the
trial of Horne Tooke; and I could, with a safe conscience,
_underwrite_ all that he there relates. I fear that he really
believed I was romancing, or he would have named this odd
corroboration of his conduct, which no doubt he thought the
noble daring of a man of worldly honour.
Among Mrs. Opie’s loose papers was one written within a short time of
her death, containing some introductory remarks to a reminiscence she
purposed to write of this eventful period. It begins—
“‘Tis pleasant from the loophole of retreat
To look on such a world,”
wrote Cowper: but these words do not exactly express my present
feelings; for from my loophole of retreat I am looking with
pleasure, _not_ on the world as it is, but on the world as it
was.
The occurrences of the year 1794 have lately been pressing with
such power on my remembrance, demanding from me a decided
confession that it was the most interesting period of my long
life, (or nearly such,) that I am inclined to give an account of
what made it so, and acknowledge that it was the opportunity
unexpectedly afforded me of attending the trials of Hardy, Horne
Tooke, and Thelwall, at the Old Bailey, for High Treason. What a
prospect of entertainment was opening before me when (while on a
visit at Southgate, near London) I heard that at these
approaching trials, to which I hoped to obtain admission, I
should not only hear the first pleaders at the bar, but behold,
and probably hear examined, the first magnates of the land; and
on the event depended, not a _nisi prius_ cause, or one of petty
larceny, but interests of a public nature, and most nearly
affecting the safety and prosperity of the nation; aye, and much
personally interesting to myself; as I knew, in the secret of my
heart, that my own prospects for life might probably be changed
and darkened by the result. To such a height had party-spirit
reached on both sides, in my native city and elsewhere, that
even innocent men were accused of treasonable intentions and
practices, who _talked_, when excited by contradiction, the
fearful things they would never have thought of acting; and I
had reason to believe that if the “felons” about to be tried
should not be “acquitted felons,” certain friends of mine would
have emigrated to America, and my beloved father would have been
induced to accompany them!
This was, indeed, an alarming idea to me, who was only beginning
to taste the pleasures of London society, and who could still
say, in spite of the excitement of party feeling, and my unity
of opinion with the liberals of that day, “England! with all thy
faults I love thee still;” and when, on the 28th of the 10th
mo., the trial of Thomas Hardy began at the Sessions-house in
the Old Bailey, existence acquired, in my eyes, a new but
painful interest; and, with the pleasing anticipations of the
unexpected enjoyment awaiting me, were mingled some apparently
well-founded fears of evil to come. How vividly do I often now,
in my lone and lonely portion, live over the excitements of
those far distant days, in the many, many evening hours, which I
pass not unwillingly alone.
“Alone! if ’tis to be alone, when mem’ry’s spells are cast
To summon phantoms from the dead, and voices from the past,
Long woven in the tangled web of the mysterious brain,
Till time and space are things of naught, and all is ours
again.”[5]
Yes! how often (as I said) do I recall with all these alternate
emotions of pain and pleasure, of disappointment and fruition,
the last days of October, and the first five days of November,
1794! * * *
Here the manuscript breaks off.
-----
[5] From a charming Poem called the Desert Dream, written by Anna
Savage, and published in the Monthly Magazine for April, 1847.—A. O.
CHAPTER IV.
FRENCH EMIGRANTS; LETTER TO MRS. TAYLOR; LETTER OF THE DUKE
D’AIGUILLON; VISIT TO LONDON, AND LETTER FROM THENCE; LONDON
AGAIN; LETTER FROM MRS. WOLLSTONECROFT; FIRST INTRODUCTION TO
MR. OPIE; MR. OPIE’S EARLY HISTORY; RETURN TO NORWICH;
PREPARATIONS FOR MARRIAGE.
The sufferings endured by the upper and proscribed classes in France
during the time of the French Revolution, obliged (as is well known)
multitudes of them to take refuge in this country; and, in the year
1797, London and its suburbs alone were found, by an official return, to
contain seven thousand and forty-one _Aliens_. Many of these were
subjected to the extremes of want and misery; their condition exciting
the compassion, as well as the indignation, of the humane. Amongst them
were not a few men of high standing and repute, who were received into
society, and found friends among the wealthier classes of the community.
It was just at this period, that the celebrated Count de Lally Tolendal,
published his “Defence of the French Emigrants;” a work well known all
over Europe, as soon as it was published. To this gentleman Mrs. Opie
addressed a “Quatrain,” on reading his “Defence of his Father,” which
subsequently appeared among her published poems. This favour he
acknowledged, in a letter dated from Cossey, (near Norwich,) accompanied
by a French poem of one hundred lines, which she preserved among her
papers. It was very natural that she, whose sympathies were ever so
keenly alive to the sorrows of others, should become warmly interested
on behalf of these unhappy exiles; and she appears to have formed many
acquaintances among them, during the time she spent in London. The
following letter to Mrs. Taylor gives a lively narrative of one of the
_soirées_, at which she met a party of the emigrants, among whom was the
Duc d’Aiguillon; and we have added a letter from him, received by her
the following year, on the cover of which she has written, “From the
Duke d’Aiguillon, the ex-minister; one of the second importation of
emigrants.”
TO MRS. TAYLOR.
Sunday Morning, 1795.
It is so long, my dear friend, since I conversed with you, even
through the imperfect medium of a letter, that I joyfully take
advantage of the first favourable opportunity for writing you a
long epistle, in hopes that I may rouse you to pay me in coin.
Besides you are in a state of widowhood and require all the
attention possible to console you for so forlorn a condition!
What shall I tell you by way of anecdote? My father has read
you, perhaps, my account of Charles Lameth; take some more
particulars respecting that extraordinary man. You may suppose
that I felt a new and pleasing sensation while contemplating
him, as I knew him to be one of the actors in the first
revolution; and as soon as my silence yielded to my curiosity, I
began questioning him concerning some of the patriotic leaders.
Amongst others I inquired what he thought of Legendre? He says
Legendre, though misled, has some good points in his character,
and is not a bad man; he then gave us the following instance of
his determined spirit and resolution; “I was, at the time I
mention,” said Lameth, “president of the National Convention,
and had been supping at your house, (turning to the Duc
d’Aiguillon,) when, at midnight, my servant came to me, and
said, ‘A man muffled up is in a hackney coach at the door, and
wants to see you.’ ‘Tell him to come in.’ ‘He refuses.’ ‘Go and
ask his name.’ He did so, and returned saying, ‘His name is
Legendre.’ Hearing this, I went into the coach to him, and
demanded his business. ‘I come to you,’ replied he, ‘as
president of the National Convention; I hear that an accusation
is bringing forward against me, and as I shrink not from the
charge, I came to surrender myself, and save you the
trouble—here I am, guillotine me, if you will, I am firm and
steady.’ I endeavoured to convince him the decree of accusation
might be repealed, and that all that was necessary was his
concealment till the danger was gone by. ‘Conceal me then in
your house, my own is not safe,’ cried he; but I convinced him
that mine was too public. However, I sent to a friend in whom I
could confide, who concealed Legendre in his, till the decree
was annulled.”
“Oh!” said Sam. Rogers to me, some time after, “I do not like
the fellow’s looks, I would not have gone muffled up to his
house, at midnight, and have given him leave to kill me, for
fear he should have taken me at my word!” This led Mr. Rogers to
give his opinion of the three _émigrés_ then with us, and of
Duport, another of considerable talents, who was prevented
coming; and he defined them thus:—“Though I have often
entertained Lameth at my house, I should expect he would treat
me insolently, and make me feel the distance between us, even if
he admitted me to his table. The Marquis would grin at me, and
pass on; the Duc would be glad to see me, and do me immediately
all the service and civility in his power; but Duport would open
his arms to me!” Lameth entertained the _gentlemen_ very much,
by his account of the fascinating Madame de Condorcet, and of
her method of acquiring votes for the members whom she wished
returned. These favoured men were called “the majority of Madame
de Condorcet;” and, on my innocently asking what it meant, I saw
enough, from the laugh I excited, and L’s mysterious manner of
answering, to know that the majority of Madame de Condorcet
meant no good. “Does she live still?” said I; “Oh, yes,” cried
the Duc, “she is in no danger; all parties will be her friend;
she is so pretty and so accommodating; and I’m sure she’ll be
the _friend of all parties_.” The Marquis, who was the intimate
friend of the Duc de Rouchefoucault, says, though he brought
Condorcet forward, fed him, lodged him, and married him,
Condorcet was _justly_ suspected of being privy to his
assassination. When Lameth was forced to fly, as he was
denounced in the Jacobin Club, and orders given for his
detention, he sent to desire such a portmanteau to be forwarded
directly to him; having received it, and wanting some of the
money and papers which it contained, he opened it as soon as he
was out of France, and found, to his utter surprise and dismay,
that the wrong portmanteau had been sent, and instead of money,
that it contained his wife’s child-bed linen! “Et les voilà
encore, mesdames! (continua-t-il) car, en vérité, je n’ai pas eu
_encore_ occasion d’en faire usage.” * *
à Hambourg, chez Mr. Fortune de la Vigne,
Negociant, ce 6 février, 1796.
TO MISS AMELIA ALDERSON, MR. ALDERSON’S, NORWICH.
MADEMOISELLE,
Daignez agréer l’assurance bien sincère, de la vive
reconnaissance que m’inspire le marque aimable, de souvenir et
d’intérêt, que vous avez bien voulu me donner. Je vous dois
mille remerciemens, et de la lettre donc vous avez chargé Mr. le
Chevalier de Bercley, et de m’avoir procuré le plaisir de le
connaitre. Je l’ai vu assez pour que le peu de séjour qu’il a
fait ici, m’ai laissé beaucoup de regrets. J’ai mille excuses à
vous faire d’avoir autant tardé à vous répondre; mais j’ai été,
pendant plus de quinze jours, tellement malade d’un rhume mêlé
de fievre, et de goutte (ma constante ennemie) que j’étois dans
l’impossibilité absolue d’écrire un seul mot. Croyez, je vous
prie, Mademoiselle, qu’il a fallu une raison aussi forte, pour
m’empêcher de vous exprimer plutot toute ma gratitude, et le
plaisir que j’ai, d’être assuré par vous, que je ne partage pas
le sort ordinaire aux absens.
Recevez mes remerciemens des jolis airs que vous m’avez envoyés.
Je les conserverai avec soin, et ne les donnerai quoique vous en
disiez, à personne. Ils ont renouvellé mes regrets, en me
rappellant ces tendres et jolies romances que vous chantiez avec
l’expression de la musique et toute celle du sentiment, ce qui
vaut bien mieux.
Je vous rends graces, Mademoiselle, des souhaits, vraiment
pleins de bonté que vous faites en ma faveur. Je crains qu’ils
ne soyent encore longtems à s’accomplir; cependant, je n’en suis
pas moins sensible à vôtre obligeance. Mais vous! que desirer
pour vôtre bonheur? La nature n’a-t-elle pas pourvu à tout, en
vous donnant les qualités du cœur, celles de l’esprit, des
graces, des talents? Je me bornerai donc à souhaiter que vous
soyez toujours aussi heureuse que vous méritez de l’être, et
c’est tout dire.
Il me paroit que vous avez à Norwich une Societé de Français
assez agréable. Je ne connois point ceux que vous me nommez;
mais j’envie leur sort, d’être aupres de vous, et de vous
plaire,—à propos!—que peut fonder ce reproche d’aristocratie
fait à mon ami, M. de L.? Voilà, vraisemblablement, la première
fois qu’il en est accusé. Cela est assez plaisant, et le
singularité du fait, l’empêche, en verité, d’être aussi affligé
qu’il le seroit, d’être jugé par vous aussi sévèrement.
Adieu, Mademoiselle. Adieu! Croyez que je regarderois comme un
vrai bonheur d’être instruit quelquefois de ce qui peut vous
intéresser. Veuillez bien agréer l’hommage du tendre respect et
de l’attachement sincère, que je vous ai voué.
D’AIGUILLON.
Miss Alderson’s visit in London seems to have been protracted to a
period of some months; a season full of constant occupation and variety,
passed amidst a gay round of visits and amusements, which, however, did
not merely serve the end of the fleeting hour’s enjoyment, but in which
she studied human nature, and became acquainted with the world and its
ways, to good practical purpose. There are two other letters to her
friend, of this period, from which we make the following extracts:—
* * * Yesterday morning I had the unexpected pleasure of a visit
from Mr. Wrangham. He did not stay long, but he has promised to
call again, and is as gentle, elegant, and interesting as ever;
he gained the Seatonian prize for a poem this year, which is
published, and he has promised to send me one. I am much pleased
with Mr. W. Taylor’s Ode to the ship that conveys Gerald. Though
he would not favour me with a copy of the elegant sonnet he sent
me on the morning of my departure, my memory retains every word
of it; and I catch myself repeating the first and last line,
whenever home and its varied associations crowd on my mind.
Month follows month in this _wilderness_ of pleasure, if I may
call it so, where fruits and flowers dispute pre-eminence with
weeds; and yet I cannot say, “I’ll stay here no longer,” till,
as I said before, my natal soil and its comforts press on my
mind, and I exclaim, “Ah! not for ever quaff at pleasure’s
distant fount!” To-morrow I am going to enjoy “the feast of
reason and the flow of soul,” with Mrs. Barbauld and Dr. Geddes,
at Mrs. Howard’s. I wish I could _wish_ you there. Godwin drank
tea and supt here last night; a leave-taking visit, as he goes
to-morrow to spend a fortnight at Dr. Parr’s. It would have
entertained you highly to have seen him bid me farewell. He
wished to salute me, but his courage failed him. “While oft he
looked back, and was loth to depart.” “Will you give me nothing
to keep for your sake, and console me during my absence,”
murmured out the philosopher, “not even your slipper? I had it
in my possession once, and need not have returned it!” This was
true; my shoe had come off, and he had put it in his pocket for
some time. You have no idea how gallant he is become; but indeed
he is much more amiable than ever he was. Mrs. Inchbald says,
the report of the world is, that Mr. Holcroft is in love with
her, _she_ with Mr. Godwin, Mr. Godwin with _me_, and I am in
love with Mr. Holcroft! A pretty story indeed! This report
Godwin brings to me, and he says Mrs. I. always tells him that
when she praises _him_, I praise Holcroft. This is not fair in
Mrs. I. She appears to me jealous of G.’s attention to me, so
she makes him believe I prefer H. to him. She often says to me,
“Now you are come, Mr. Godwin does not come near me.” Is not
this very womanish? We had a most delightful conversation last
night. A dispute on the merits of different poets,—Mr. G.
abusing Collins, I defending him,—G. setting Gray above him,
and I putting him below him; but we agreed about Churchill, who
was one of my _flames_. How idle I am! I cannot write, and I
read but little, but I shall mend. Farewell! Mr. Batty and I
both wear you “in our heart’s core,” and so would Mrs. B., if
she knew you. I love and admire them more every day. Love to the
Barnards; my love to the Smiths. Dear love and good wishes to
the boys and girls.
Yours, ——
Thursday.
MY DEAR MRS. TAYLOR,
* * * * I flatter myself with the idea that you hear most of my
letters to my father; consequently that you know my movements,
and can judge of the probable quantity of enjoyment I
experience. I am now about to enjoy pleasant society in a
pleasant country, one of the first luxuries at this season of
the year; but still I sigh for home, that is, I sigh for a day
or two of confidential intercourse with you and others, and to
wash off the dirt of London in the sea of Cromer; to write
poetry on the shore, to live over again every scene there that
memory loves (and never did she love them so dearly as now;)
and, having rioted in all that my awakened fancy can give,
return to Norwich, and endeavour to make one of my plays, at
least, fit to be offered to one of the managers of the winter
theatres. Such is my plan; and in it I live, move, and have my
being.
Bless me! what a busy place Norwich has been, and I not in it!
but then I heard H. Tooke and Fox speak, and that’s something.
To be sure I had rather have heard Buonaparte address his
soldiers; but as pleasure _delayed_ is not pleasure _lost_, I
may still hope to hear _him_ when the _bonnet rouge_ has taken
place of the tiara, and a switch from the tree of liberty
dangles from that hand which formerly wielded the crozier. But
alas! this is no laughing matter,—or rather let us laugh while
we can, for I believe an hour to be approaching when _salut et
fraternité_ will be the watchwords for civil slaughter
throughout Europe; and the meridian glory of the sun of Liberty,
in France, will light us to courting the past dangers and
horrors of the republic, in hopes of obtaining her present power
and greatness. It will be an awful time; may I meet it with
fortitude! But I shrink, and shrink _only_, from the idea of
ties dear to my heart, which it will for ever break; of the
friendships I must forego; of the dangers of those I love; and
of friends equally dear to me, meeting in the field of strife
opposed in mortal combat! I feel heart-sick at such
possibilities; yet which amongst us dare assert that such
possibilities may not, ere long, be probable?
Mrs. Imlay tells me, no words can describe the feelings which
the scenes she witnessed in France gave birth to continually—it
was a sort of indefinite terror. She was sitting alone, when
Imlay came in and said, “I suppose you have not heard the sad
news of to-day?” “What is it? is Brissot guillotined?” “Not only
Brissot, but the _one-and-twenty_ are.” Amongst them she
immediately could conjure up the faces of some lately endeared
acquaintances, and before she was conscious of the effect of the
picture, she sunk lifeless on the floor: and Mrs. Imlay is not a
fine lady—if any mind could be unmoved at such things hers
would; but a series of horrors must have a very weakening
tendency. When we meet I shall have much to tell you. Yesterday
I had a letter from Catherine; she is well and happy, she says;
but we’ll read her letter together.
Farewell! Mrs. Barbauld is more charming than ever; both he and
she speak of you as you deserve. Love to Mrs. Beecroft, and
Fanny Smith, and all the circle of home. * * *
In the spring of 1797 we find her again in town, accompanying her friend
Mrs. Inchbald on the 17th April, to Westminster, to hear a sermon from
Bishop Horsley. Again she extended her visit to several months; and a
most eventful time it proved to be in her history, as will be gathered
from her communications to Mrs. Taylor. Some unexpected changes too had
occurred amongst her acquaintances, since she left them, twelve or
fourteen months before. The philosophic Godwin had justified her opinion
of him, and proved that his heart was not so wise as his head; he had
married Mrs. Wollstonecroft, a strange incomprehensible woman, whose
unhappy existence terminated shortly after this marriage. A letter from
her to Miss Alderson, seems to have been written at this time, and as it
is of painful interest, and curious in more respects than one, we
subjoin it:—
MY DEAR GIRL,
Endeavouring, through embarrassment, to turn the conversation
from myself last night, I insensibly became too severe in my
strictures on the vanity of a certain lady, and my heart smote
me when I raised a laugh at her expense. Pray forget it. I have
now to tell you that I am very sorry I prevented you from
engaging a box for Mrs. Inchbald, whose conduct, I think, has
been very rude. She wrote to Mr. Godwin to-day, saying, that,
taking it for granted he had forgotten it, she had spoken to
another person. “She would not do so the next time he was
married.” Nonsense! I have now to request you to set the matter
right. Mrs. Inchbald may still get a box; I beg her pardon for
misunderstanding the business, but Mr. G. led me into the error,
or I will go to the pit. To have done with disagreeable subjects
at once, let me allude to another. I shall be sorry to resign
the acquaintance of Mrs. and Mr. F. Twiss, because I respect
their characters, and feel grateful for their attention; but my
conduct in life must be directed by my own judgment and moral
principles: it is my wish that Mr. Godwin should visit and dine
out as formerly, and I shall do the same; in short, I still mean
to be independent, even to the cultivating sentiments and
principles in my children’s minds, (should I have more,) which
he disavows. The wound my unsuspecting heart formerly received
is not healed. I found my evenings solitary; and I wished, while
fulfilling the duty of a mother, to have some person with
similar pursuits, bound to me by affection; and beside, I
earnestly desired to resign a name which seemed to disgrace me.
Since I have been unfortunately the object of observation, I
have had it in my power, more than once, to marry very
advantageously; and of course, should have been courted by
those, who at least cannot accuse me of acting an interested
part, though I have not, by dazzling their eyes, rendered them
blind to my faults. I am proud perhaps, conscious of my own
purity and integrity; and many circumstances in my life have
contributed to excite in my bosom an indignant contempt for the
forms of a world I should have bade a long good night to, had I
not been a mother. Condemned then, to toil my hour out, I wish
to live as rationally as I can; had fortune or splendor been my
aim in life, they have been within my reach, would I have paid
the price. Well, enough of the subject; I do not wish to resume
it. Good night! God bless you.
MARY WOLLSTONECROFT,
femme GODWIN.
Tuesday Night.
From this letter, it is cheering to turn to the bright joyous spirit,
evinced in the following, which contains the first announcement of the
important event to which we alluded just now.
TO MRS. TAYLOR.
Tuesday, 1797.
Why have I not written to you? it is a question I cannot answer;
you must answer it yourself, but attribute my silence, _not_ to
any diminution of affection for you * * * * Believe me, I still
hear the kind fears you expressed for me when we parted, and
still see the flattering tears that you shed when you bade me
adieu. Indeed, I shall never forget them. I had resolved to
write to you as soon as ever I had seen Richard, but it was a
resolution made to be broken; like many others in this busy
scene. Had I written to you as soon as I left, of all those whom
I have heard talk of and praise you as you deserve, I should
have ruined you in postage. Poor Mr. C. is desperately in love
with you, by his own confession, and his wife admires his taste.
Mr. Godwin was much gratified by your letter, and he avowed that
it made him love you better than he did before, and Mrs. Godwin
was not surprised at it; by the bye, he never told me whether
you congratulated him on his marriage or not; but now I
remember, it was written before that wonder-creating event was
known. Heigho! what charming things would sublime theories be,
if one could make one’s practice keep up with them; but I am
convinced it is impossible, and am resolved to make the best of
every-day nature.
I shall have much to tell you in a _tête à tête_, of the
Godwins, &c.—so much that a letter could not contain or do it
justice; but this will be _entre nous_; I love to make
observations on extraordinary characters; but not to mention
those observations if they be not favourable.
“Well! a whole page, and not a word yet of the state of her
heart; the subject most interesting to me”—methinks I hear you
exclaim; patience, friend, it will come soon, but not go away
soon, were I to analyze it, and give it you in detail. Suffice,
that it is in the most comical state possible; but I am not
unhappy, on the contrary, I enjoy everything; and if my head be
not turned by the large draughts which my vanity is daily
quaffing, I shall return to Norwich much happier than I left it.
Mr. Opie, has (but _mum_) been my declared lover, almost ever
since I came. I was ingenuous with him upon principle, and I
told him my situation, and the state of my heart. He said he
should still persist, and would risk all consequences to his own
peace, and so he did and does; and I have not resolution to
forbid his visits. Is not this abominable? Nay more, were I not
certain my father would disapprove such, or indeed _any_
connexion for me, there are moments, when, ambitious of being a
wife and mother, and of securing to myself a companion for life,
capable of entering into all my pursuits, and of amusing me by
his,—I could almost resolve to break all fetters, and
relinquish too, the wide, and often aristocratic circle, in
which I now move, and become the wife of a man, whose genius has
raised him from obscurity, into fame and comparative affluence;
but indeed my mind is on the pinnacle of its health when I thus
feel; and on a pinnacle one can’t remain long! But I had
forgotten to tell you the attraction Mr. O. held out, that
staggered me beyond anything else; it was that, if I were averse
to leaving my father, he would joyfully consent to his living
with us. What a temptation to me, who am every moment sensible,
that the claims of my father will always be, with me, superior
to any charms that a lover can hold out! Often do I rationally
and soberly state to Opie the reasons that might urge me to
marry him, in time, and the reasons why I never could be happy
with him, nor he with me; but it always ends in his persisting
in his suit, and protesting his willingness to wait for my
decision; even while I am seriously rejecting him, and telling
him I _have_ decided. * * * Mr. Holcroft too, has had a mind to
me, but he has no chance. May I trouble you to tell my father
that, while I was out yesterday, Hamilton called, and left a
note, simply saying, “Richardson says he means to _call_ on you,
I have seen him this morning.” Before I seal this letter I hope
to receive my farce from him; I will put my letter by till the
boy returns from R. I have been capering about the room for joy,
at having gotten my farce back! now idleness adieu, when Dicky
and I have held sweet converse together! * * *
The first time Mr. Opie saw his future wife, was at an evening party, at
the house of one of her early friends; among the guests assembled, were
Mr. Opie, and a family, personally known to the writer of these Memoirs.
Some of those present were rather eagerly expecting the arrival of Miss
Alderson; but the evening was wearing away, and still she did not
appear; at length the door was flung open, and she entered, bright and
smiling, dressed in a robe of blue, her neck and arms bare; and on her
head a small bonnet, placed in somewhat coquettish style, sideways, and
surmounted by a plume of three white feathers. Her beautiful hair hung
in rich waving tresses over her shoulders; her face was kindling with
pleasure at sight of her old friends; and her whole appearance was
animated and glowing. At the time she came in, Opie was sitting on a
sofa, beside Mr. F., who had been saying, from time to time, “Amelia is
coming; Amelia will surely come: why is she not here?” and whose eyes
were turned in her direction. He was interrupted by his companion
eagerly exclaiming “Who is that? Who is that?” and hastily rising, he
pressed forward, to be introduced to the fair object whose sudden
appearance had so impressed him. He was evidently smitten; charmed, at
first sight, and, as she says, “almost from my first arrival Mr. Opie
became my avowed lover.”
It will not be necessary for us to give more than a short reference to
Mr. Opie’s career before he became acquainted with Amelia Alderson. He
was born of poor and respectable parents, and early showed a remarkable
strength of understanding and indomitable perseverance. His father would
fain have brought him up to his own business, (that of a carpenter,) but
to this the boy evinced a most decided disinclination, and even so early
as his 10th year the bent of his talents was determined. In vain his
father endeavoured to discourage his attempts at drawing; he persisted
in covering the walls of their house with pictures of his family, his
companions, and favourite animals. Accident brought him to the knowledge
of Dr. Walcot, (the Peter Pindar of well-known celebrity,) who assisted
and recommended him, and eventually introduced him, in his 20th year, to
the notice of the artistic world in London; there he was hailed as a
wonder and a genius, and immediately surrounded and employed by amateurs
and many of the nobility. The street in which he lived was so crowded
with carriages that, as he jokingly observed, he thought he should have
to plant a cannon at his door to keep the multitude off! This
popularity, however, did not last long; although he was really improving
by diligent practice, and advancing towards excellence, the world began
to cool upon him when he ceased to be a novelty; and soon neglected one
it had perhaps at first somewhat overvalued. By a wise economy he had,
even at this time, secured a considerable sum of money; and with
praiseworthy diligence cultivated his mind, and in some degree supplied
his early want of education.
About this time, he unhappily married a woman, wholly unworthy of him,
who is reported to have possessed some property. Before long he found
himself compelled to procure a divorce from her. Probably this domestic
trouble had a serious effect upon his temper and manners. His address
was naturally somewhat rugged and unpolished, especially before his
second marriage; but those who knew him well, found that his disposition
was the very reverse of unfeeling or vindictive. Mrs. Inchbald says,
“the total absence of artificial manners was the most remarkable
characteristic, and at the same time the adornment and the deformity of
Mr. Opie.” At the time when he paid his addresses to Miss Alderson he
was in his 36th year. Mr. Allen Cunningham, in the pleasing biography he
has given of him in his “Lives of the Painters,” says, “in person Opie
looked like an inspired peasant.”
We have no further record, reporting how he fared in his courtship; she
vowed that his chances of success were but one to a thousand! But the
indomitable one persevered. He knew _his_ mind, and persuaded her at
length, that he had read her heart. So she went home again to Norwich,
to think of the future, and prepare for it; one last short note heralded
her approach; probably the last she ever addressed to her friend,
bearing the signature, “A. Alderson.”[6]
Englefield Green,
Friday, August 12th, 1797.
MY VERY DEAR FRIEND,
I cannot meet even the kindest glance of your eye, without
having written a few lines, before our reunion. I must tell you,
that of all the letters I have received from my friends, yours
gave me the most pleasure, though I had not the grace to say so
till now: when we meet I will tell you _why_; indeed I must put
off a great many communications till that time. Suffice, that
whatever you hear about me, you must disbelieve!
Here I am, on a high hill, wishing most fervently, though not
warmly, for a fire, and in the middle of August too! Shall we,
(I fear not,) have some hot evening walks? I shall want them by
way of relaxation from my studies, (do not laugh.) Positively, I
must set hard to work, as the theatre opens in September.
Farewell! I must conclude, I have been writing a long time; with
love to your spouse and children, believe me most affectionately
yours,
A. ALDERSON.
The time was approaching when she was to leave her father’s house, and
the home and friends of her youth, to become the wife of Mr. Opie. An
ardent love letter, still in existence, tells with what intense desire
he was awaiting her arrival; for it was arranged that she should go,
accompanied by her father, to the house of one of their friends in
London, and be married from thence; towards the close of this epistle he
enters into some details respecting the preparations he was making, in
his domestic arrangements, for the reception of his bride; and
concludes:—
I am puzzled, dearest, to know whether you expect to hear from
me to-morrow. If I think of anything particular I’ll write; else
not. To love thee much better than I did, is, I think,
impossible; but my heart springs forward at the thought of thy
near approach. God bless thee ever, my dearest love, and guard
thee up safe to thy fond, anxious, devoted,
J. O.
-----
[6] For the benefit of our fair readers we subjoin a list found among
her old letters, of what probably formed a part of the contents of her
Trousseau.
Blue satin bonnet russe with eight blue feathers; nine small feathers
and a feather edge; three blue round feathers and two blue Scotch caps;
one striped gold gauze bonnet russe; four scollop’d edged caps, à la
Marie Stuart; one bead cap; one tiara; two spencers, one white, one
black.
2nd Box, No. 1. Two yards broad figured lace, for neck and wrists; buff
satin slip; buff net gown; three muslin gowns and one skirt; three
frilled handkerchiefs; one lace cap and two bands; a set of scarlet
ribbon for the gown lined with blue; three lace frills; worked cambric
gown and flounces; seven flat feathers and three curled ones, &c., &c.,
&c.
CHAPTER V.
MARRIAGE; EARLY MÉNAGE; AUTHORSHIP; LAY ON PORTRAIT OF MRS.
TWISS; LETTER TO MRS. TAYLOR; VISIT TO NORWICH; LETTER FROM MR.
OPIE; MRS. OPIE TO MRS. TAYLOR; MR. OPIE’S MOTHER.
Mr. and Mrs. Opie were married in Marylebone church on the 8th of May,
1798.
In the Memoir prefixed to her husband’s life she speaks with touching
naiveté and feeling of the earlier years of their married life; “great
economy and self denial were necessary,” she says, “and were strictly
observed by us at that time.” The habits and tastes of Mr. Opie were,
happily, very inexpensive, and so domestic in their nature, that he
preferred spending his evenings at home to joining in society abroad;
and liked nothing better, by way of relaxation after the labours of the
day, than to spend the evening hours in converse with his wife, in
reading with her books of amusement or instruction, in studying prints
from the best ancient and modern masters, or in sketching designs for
his pictures. His love of his profession was intense, and his
unremitting industry in the pursuance of it drew from Mr. Northcote the
observation, that while other artists painted to live, _he_ lived to
paint. He was incessantly engaged in his painting-room during the hours
of day-light, and no society, however pleasant, could long detain him
from it. It was indeed a passion to which the whole energies of his
being were devoted. In one branch of his art he appears to have been
much indebted to his wife, and in what way this was shewn will be best
told in her own words:—
When Mr. Opie became again a husband, (she says,) he found it
necessary, in order to procure indulgences for a wife whom he
loved, to make himself popular as a portrait-painter, and in
that productive and difficult branch of the art, female
portraiture. He therefore turned his attention to those points
he had long been in the habit of neglecting, and his pictures
soon acquired a degree of grace and softness to which they had
of late years been strangers. At the second exhibition after our
marriage one of his fellow artists came up to him and
complimented him on his female portraits, adding, “we never saw
any thing like this in you before, Opie; this must be owing to
your wife.”
Her husband related with evident delight this pleasing compliment to her
who had inspired his efforts. Her modesty did not permit her to speak of
another mode in which she assisted to promote his interests; but her
friend Mrs. Taylor has mentioned that “in her own house, where Mr.
Opie’s talents drew a constant succession of the learned, the gay, and
the fashionable, she delighted all by the sweetness of her manners, and
the unstudied and benevolent politeness with which she adapted herself
to the taste of each individual.”
Happy it was for them both, that Mr. Opie was disposed to aid and
encourage his wife in her favourite tastes, and the exercise of her
literary talent. She observes:—
Knowing at the time of our marriage that my most favourite
amusement was writing, he did not check my ambition to become an
author; on the contrary he encouraged it, and our only quarrel
on the subject was not that I wrote so much, but that I did not
write more and better. Idleness was the fault that he was most
violent against in both sexes; and I shall ever regret those
habits of indolence which made me neglect to write while it was
in my power to profit by his criticisms and advice, and when, by
employing myself more regularly in that manner, I should have
been sure to receive the proudest and dearest reward of woman,
the approbation of a husband, at once the object of her respect
and of her love.
Mr. Opie entertained a partiality for works of fiction, and not
unfrequently indulged himself in reading a novel, even if it were not of
the first class; and his wife remarks in defence of this taste:—
He was above the petty, yet common affectation of considering
that sort of reading as beneath any persons but fools and women;
and if his fondness for works of that description was a
weakness, it was one which he had in common with Mr. Burke and
Mr. Porson.
Encouraged by the sympathy and approval of the man to whom she had
united her fortunes, she soon began to exert her powers with diligence,
and ere long became (as she expresses it) “a candidate for the
pleasures, the pangs, the rewards, and the penalties, of authorship.”
In one respect, indeed, they were not congenial in their tastes; she
ardently loved society, to which she had been so much accustomed, and in
which her talents so peculiarly fitted her to appear to advantage. On
the contrary, it was with difficulty that Mr. Opie could be induced to
join a numerous and mixed assemblage. He preferred to spend an evening
occasionally at the theatre, or rather at the opera; for he loved music,
and had so quick an ear that he would remember accurately a tune that
pleased him, after having heard it once. When he sought society, he
preferred select dinner parties, where he could meet persons whose
friendship he valued, and from whom he might hope to learn. With
honourable pride his wife observes:—
He was conscious that he aimed at no competition with the
learned; while, with a manly simplicity, which neither feared
contempt nor scorned applause, he has often, even in such
company, made observations, originating in the native treasures
of his own mind, which learning could not teach, and which
learning alone could not enable the possessor to appreciate.
In the year after her marriage Mrs. Opie wrote a Lay “addressed to Mr.
Opie on his having painted for me the picture of Mrs. Twiss;” it was
published the same year, in the 1st volume of “The Annual Anthology,”
and was (she tells us) one of her earliest; the concluding lines contain
a pleasing tribute of affection to her husband:—
Within my breast contending feelings rise,
While this lov’d semblance fascinates my eyes;
Now pleas’d, I mark the painter’s skilful line,
Now joy, because the skill I mark, was thine;
And while I prize the gift by thee bestow’d,
My heart proclaims I’m of the giver proud,
Thus pride and friendship war with equal strife,
And now the friend exults, and now the wife.
A. O. 1799.
This picture was in her possession at the time of her death; it is
“Portrait the Second” in her “Lays for the Dead,” which commences:—
The gift of love
That speaking picture was—of bridal love,
Now both the painter and his subject are
Where pictures come not. * * *
Mr. Opie’s ardour in the pursuit of his profession made him also
unwilling to leave his home, even for a short change of scene and
relaxation. In the frequent visits paid to Norwich by his wife, it was
with difficulty she could prevail on him to accompany her; and whenever
he was induced to do so, she says she had no chance of detaining him
there, unless he found business awaiting him. In the autumn after their
marriage, she turned her steps towards her early home, and rejoiced in
greeting once more her father and the friends of her youth. After her
return to London, we find her again resuming her pen to write to Mrs.
Taylor: this letter bears date—
27th of January, 1800.
MY DEAR FRIEND,
* * * * John, I suppose, informed you he called on us; he
promised to come and dine with us, but has not been since; and
as I have been tied by the foot ever since the day after
Christmas day, from having worn a tight bound shoe, which made a
hole in my heel, I do not regret his false-heartedness, as when
he does come we are to go church and meeting hunting. * * * * *
_Àpropôs_, I was very sorry to hear of your husband’s severe
return of gout, but as he had a long respite before, I hope he
will again. Severe illness has (I often think) on the frame, the
same effect that a severe storm has on the atmosphere. I myself
am much better in every respect, since my late indisposition,
than I was before; and the mind is never perhaps so serene and
tranquil, as when one is recovering from sickness. I enjoyed my
confinement, as I was not, like your good man, in pain. My
husband was so kind as to sit with me every evening, and even to
introduce his company to my bedside. No less than three beaux
had the honour of a _sitting_ in my chamber. Quite Parisian you
see, but I dare not own this to some women. I have led a most
happy and delightful life since my return, and in the whole two
months have not been out more than four times; so spouse and I
had no squabbles about visiting, and that is the only thing we
ever quarrel about. If I would stay at home for ever, I believe
he would be merry from morning to night; and be a lover more
than a husband! He had a mind to accompany me to an assembly in
Nottingham place, but Mrs. Sharpe (a most amiable woman)
frightened him, by declaring he should dance with her, if he
did.
What the friendships of dissipated women are, Mrs. —— going to
a ball, while poor H. T. was dying, sufficiently proves. I
remember with satisfaction that I saw her, and shook hands with
her at the November ball. Indeed she had a _heart_; and I can’t
help recollecting that when I had the scarlet fever she called
on me every day, regardless of danger, and sat at the foot of my
bed. Besides, she was the friend of twenty years, and the
companion of my childhood, and I feel the older I grow, the more
tenderly I cling to the scenes, and recollections, and
companions, of my early hours. When I now look at Mr. Bruckner’s
black cap, my memory gets astride on the tassel of it, and off
she gallops at a very pleasant rate; wooden desks, green bags,
blotted books, inked hands, faces, and gowns, rise in array
before me. I see Mrs. Beecroft (Miss Dixon I should say) with
her plump good-humoured face, laughing till she loses her eyes,
and shakes the whole form; but I must own, the most welcome
objects that the hoofs of memory’s hobby-horse kick up, are the
great B.’s, or bons, on my exercises! I do not choose to
remember how often I was marked for being _idle_. * * So you
have had riots. I am glad they are over. Mrs. Adair called on me
this morning, and she tells me that Charles Harvey was terribly
alarmed after he had committed Col. Montgomery. A fine idea this
gives one of the state of a town, where a man is alarmed at
having done his duty!
I am very much afraid my spouse will not live long; he has
gotten a fit of tidyness on him; and yesterday evening and this
evening, he has employed himself in putting his painting-room to
rights. This confirms what I said to him the other day; that
almost every man was _beau_ and sloven, at some time of his
life. Charles Fox once wore _pink heels_; now he has an
unpowdered crop. And I expect that as my husband has been a
sloven hitherto, he will be a _beau_ in future; for he is so
pleased with his handyworks, and capers about, and says, “look
there! how neat! and how prettily I have disposed the things!
Did you ever see the like?” Certainly I never did, where he was,
before. Oh! he will certainly be a _beau_ in time. Past ten
o’clock! I must now say farewell; but let me own that I missed
you terribly when I was ill. I have no _female_ friend and
neighbour; and men are not the thing on such occasions. Besides,
you, on _all_ occasions, would be the female neighbour I should
choose. Love to your spouse. Write soon, and God bless you.
In the autumn of 1800 she again visited Norwich, accompanied by her
husband; and on this occasion Mr. Opie painted the portrait of Dr.
Sayers, an engraving from which is prefixed to the Life of that
gentleman by Mr. W. Taylor; who says, “Dr. Sayers conversed much with
Mr. O. on art, and listened to his native strength of talent and
originality of judgment, and has happily applied to him a Greek distich
in his Essay on Beauty.”
Mr. Opie seems to have returned to London after completing this picture,
leaving his wife to spend some longer period with her father. His
patience, however, became exhausted before she felt disposed to return
to him, and he remonstrated with her in a half lover-like strain of
complaint.
My dearest life, (he writes,) I cannot be sorry that you do not
stay longer; though, as I said, on your father’s account, I
would consent to it. Pray love forgive me, and make yourself
easy, for I did not suspect, till my last letter was gone, that
it might be too strong; I had been counting almost the hours
till your arrival for some time, and have been unwell and unable
to sleep these last three weeks, so that I could not make up my
mind to the disappointment. As to coming down again, I cannot
think of it; for though I could, perhaps, better spare the time
at present from painting, than I could at any part of last
month, I find I must now go hard to work to finish my lectures,
as the law says they must be delivered the second year after the
election, and though they have never acted on this law, yet
there are many, perhaps, who would be glad to put it in force in
the present instance. I had almost given way to the suggestions
of idleness, and determined to put them off till another year;
but since I have been acquainted with the above-mentioned
regulation, I have shut myself up in the evenings, and, I doubt
not, shall be ready with three or four of them at least. We had
a thin general meeting on Monday last, and elected Calcot an
associate of the R.A. Lawrence and Hoppner attended. Thompson
was also there, and we were very sociable; but he has not
called, nor was there any notice taken, on either side, of our
long separation. Pray, love, be easy, and as (I suppose) you
will not stay; come up as soon as possible, for I long to see
you as much as ever I did in my life.
A very short time elapsed after her return before we find her writing
again to Mrs. Taylor.
12th December, 1800.
* * * * Are you not very much obliged to me, my dear friend? I
am good for nothing to-day, so I am going to write to you! But
one ventures to show one’s person in _dishabille_ at a friend’s
fireside, and why not one’s mind? and so I’m resolved, though my
mind is not just now smart enough for Parnassus, to exhibit it
at St. George’s. Here’s weather! But you Norwich people can’t,
even from recollection, I think, conceive half the horror of a
London fog. At present my husband’s mind is more affected by it
than my health (for it is a terrible time for a painter). I hope
I shall not suffer this winter as I did last; on the contrary, I
continue to grow fat, and have an excellent appetite for
everything but breakfast; and alas! I still “sigh and lament me
in vain” for Mrs. Lessy’s hot half-baked cakes. Fye upon her!
she has made me so dainty. My visit to Harleston was a very
satisfactory one; it seemed the burial of unpleasant feelings,
and the resurrection of amiable ones. I left Eliza Merrick a
_plump_ image of health and content, and I found Betsey Fry
yester-evening at her own house a _lean_ image of the same. How
women vary! I am surprised to see the leanness of the one, and
the fatness of the other; formerly the lean one was fat, and now
the fat one is lean; but now she is so very comfortably settled,
no doubt she will soon grow fat again. In all Quaker houses
there is a most comfortable appearance of neatness, comfort, and
affluence. Betsey Fry is settled down with everything requisite
to domestic happiness. Mr. Fry pleases me very much.
Richard and I have frequent meetings now. On Sunday he is to
breakfast with me, squire me to the Catholic chapel in King
Street, where French Bishops (and sometimes the Archbishop of
Narbonne) officiate, and then eat his beef with us.
To-morrow, if Anne Plumptre returns, I shall go with her into
the pit of Drury lane to see a new tragedy, the author nameless
to me, (though known to others I find,) and so I wish him to
continue; for I should like to form of the piece, for the first
time in my life, an unprejudiced judgment. Mrs. Siddons, indeed,
told me not to go, because the play was stupid; but I have since
recollected, to counteract her influence, that Kemble says she
knows nothing about a play. So I flatter myself I am still
unprejudiced.
I shall have left Norwich a month only next Sunday, and it seems
to me three, at least, so much have I done and seen since my
return. Mr. Opie, too, has been constantly employed. The T.s
will be here in a month; that is a great joy to me. I purposely
avoid saying anything of my evening at Mrs. Siddons’ on Tuesday
evening last, as I expect to fill my letter to my father with it
to-morrow.
I am uneasy about Mr. Opie’s mother. She has again taken to her
bed; and I fear the long struggle she had with death last
winter, though she overcame him, will have weakened her too much
to make it possible for her to endure another—and I did so
ardently wish to see her! A committee of Academicians is to meet
every Saturday till means are found to execute Mr. Opie’s plan
for a Naval Pantheon; and this looks well. Just room for love to
your circle, and my name,
A. OPIE.
The fear expressed in this letter was, happily, not realized; Mr. Opie’s
mother survived till the spring of 1805, when she died at the advanced
age of ninety-two. To this parent he was most tenderly attached, and
neither time nor the pressure of business, diminished his filial
devotion to her. He delighted to dwell upon her early tenderness, her
careful attention to his childish wants, and the encouragement which she
afforded to his first attempts in the art he loved; his eye would
glisten and his face kindle with affection when he spoke of her; and no
sooner was it in his power to assist her, than he rejoiced in affording
her the means of comfort and independence.
How cordially could his wife sympathize with him in this fervent
attachment; she, who was, throughout life, so sensitively alive to the
claims of relationship, even in the remotest degrees, and whose whole
being was devoted with tenderest love to her parents while living, and
to their memory when dead! She appears to have been permitted the
gratification of her wish to see her husband’s mother, and “I believe
(she says) that scarcely any one who knew her would have thought this
description of her an exaggerated one.”
CHAPTER VI.
“THE FATHER AND DAUGHTER;” CRITIQUE IN THE EDINBURGH; THREE
LETTERS TO MRS. TAYLOR; VOLUME OF “POEMS;” “GO, YOUTH BELOVED;”
LETTER FROM SIR J. MACKINTOSH; S. SMITH’S LECTURE.
In the year 1801, Mrs. Opie gave to the world the “Father and Daughter;”
her first acknowledged publication. She had, before her marriage,
published an anonymous novel, entitled “the Dangers of Coquetry,” which
does not appear to have attracted any attention. It will presently be
seen that she refers to it in a letter to Mrs. Taylor, and it is
included in the list of her works given in Watt’s Bibliotheca
Britannica, although without date, and placed in order after her earlier
publications. The “Father and Daughter,” in the first edition, was
accompanied by a poem called “The Maid of Corinth,” and some smaller
pieces. It is unnecessary to do more than remind the reader of the
warmth of approval with which this tale was received by the public.[7]
In the preface to it Mrs. Opie modestly confesses her diffidence in
appearing as an _avowed_ author at the bar of public opinion, and
disclaiming for her little book the ambitious title of a novel, says,
“Its highest pretensions are to be a simple moral tale.”
In the first volume of “The Edinburgh,” there is a review of her
poems,[8] in which the writer thus criticises the “Father and Daughter.”
* * * “Mrs. Opie’s mind is evidently more adapted to seize
situation than to combine incidents. It can represent, with
powerful expression, the solitary portrait, in every attitude of
gentler grief; but it cannot bring together a connected
assemblage of figures, and represent each in its most striking
situation, so as to give, as it were, to the glance of a moment,
the feelings and events of many years. When a series of
reflections is to be brought by her to our view, they must all
be of that immediate relation which allows them to be introduced
at any part of the poem; or we shall probably see before us a
multitude, rather than a group. * * * * She has, indeed, written
a novel; and it is one which excites a very high interest: but
the merit of that novel does not consist in its action, nor in
any varied exhibition of character. Agnes, in all the sad
changes of fortune, is still the same; and the action, if we
except a very few _situations_ of the highest excitement, is the
common history of every seduction in romance. Indeed, we are
almost tempted to believe that the scene in the wood occurred
first to the casual conception of the author; and that, in the
design of fully displaying it, all the other events of the novel
were afterwards imagined.”
The three following letters to Mrs. Taylor admit us behind the scenes,
and allow us to see the palpitations of her heart.
Sunday Evening, 1801.
MY DEAR FRIEND,
The only paper I can find consists of two half sheets, _comme
vous voyez_. But no matter. I will not, for appearance’ sake,
baulk my inclination to write to you.
* * I am very sorry that Mrs. Jordan and the Duke of Clarence
have hitherto managed their matters so ill, as always to
disappoint you; but the lady is now about again, though, from
pecuniary disputes with the manager, probably, she is, as yet,
invisible to the public. However, by the time you come, I hope
she will be on the boards again. I believe you were very right
in what you said to me, about the good arising from my having
delayed publishing my juvenile pieces; but some of those things
which have now gained me reputation _are_ juvenile pieces,
written years ago; however, I am contented that I have, till
now, lived unconscious of the anxieties of an author. I wish I
were launched! As usual, all the _good_ I saw in my work, before
it was printed, is now vanished from my sight, and I remember
only its faults. All the authors, of both sexes, and artists
too, that are not too ignorant or full of conceit to be capable
of alarm, tell me they have had the same feeling when about to
receive judgment from the public. Besides, whatever I read
appears to me so superior to my own productions, that I am in a
state of most unenviable humility. Mr. Opie has no patience with
me; but he consoles me by averring that fear makes me overrate
others, and underrate myself. Be so good as to tell my father
that, as a subscriber to Dyer’s book, he has half a guinea to
pay for the volume I have received for him, and when the other
two volumes are done, he will have to pay half a guinea more!
Poor man; but tell him, as some little consolation, that there
are three pretty stanzas addressed to me in the first volume,
the old verses lengthened and improved, but they are “To a
Lady,” not to Mrs. Opie. Viganoni was with me from twelve to
three to-day, alternately singing with me and talking; he has,
with all his genius, a great deal of what the French call
_bonhommie_, which makes him talkative and confiding, when he is
with those he thinks his friends. I was pleased, for his sake,
to hear him say he should sing only two or three years longer,
as he had saved money enough to live quite at his ease in his
native country. He says music is now so cultivated and courted
in England, that it is at its height, and must soon fall “_en
décadence_;” but he thinks the present taste a vicious one. “_Le
monde Anglais_;” he says, “like nothing equal to bravura
singing,” which he thinks no singing at all, and which never
goes to the heart like simple sentimental singing. Indeed he
never puts in a grace, but what tends to illustrate the
sentiment of the words, and the style of the air; his singing is
conversation, put into sweet sounds. My plaudit is of no weight,
perhaps; but Viganoni has, unrivalled, that of all the oldest,
most experienced, and able professors of music—men who unite
theory with practice, and are the _only good_ judges, from
having, from their situations, an opportunity of comparing
singers and styles—men who have _learnt_ to _hear_, an art,
nothing but hearing constantly the first music and performers,
can teach. I long to hear Mara again. V. says she sings better
than ever, though her voice is on the wane. How strange it is
that Bante retains her _unequalled_ voice, though she gets drunk
every day. This extraordinary creature can’t even write her
name, and knows not a note of music. V. is sometimes forced to
pinch her to keep her in time, and make her leave off her vile
shake, or rather no shake, at the proper point. A gentleman
declared to me he saw this; but I did not believe it, till I
asked V., who told me it was true. Adieu! Love to all.
1801.
MY DEAR FRIEND,
I began a letter to you full a fortnight ago, but I know not
what is become of the precious scrawl; it is “wasting its
sweetness on the desert air,” somewhere or other, so I must
begin a new one. All I remember of it is, that it began with
very sensible reproaches for your having thought it necessary
and becoming in you to _thank_ me for what you were pleased to
call kindnesses, from me, to you and yours; as if such words and
such ceremonies were proper between you and me, and as if, in
showing attention to you and Richard, I did not do myself honour
by proving the sense I entertain of superior merit. Tol de rol
lol!
So you are coming to the great city! but let me advise you to
come in mourning, for there seems to be a rot amongst royalty,
and one court mourning succeeds to another; the present one will
scarcely be over before you arrive. One of our great
grandmothers is dead, but which I do not know. I shall have a
great deal to tell you about new people and new characters when
I see you, which a letter could neither contain nor do justice
to. It is a world to see! I dearly love to get a peep at it now
and then; and what I do see of it only serves to endear the
safety and quiet of my own home. You will be up just time enough
for one of my pleasantest parties, and I expect you and I shall
be two merry wives when we get together again. You will see the
exhibition too; and I hope _que vous y verrez briller mon Mari_.
I am glad on reperusing “The Dangers of Coquetry,” that you
think so highly of it. I read it at Seething soon after I
married, and felt a great respect for it; and if I ever write a
collection of tales, I shall correct and re-publish that, as _I
originally wrote it_, not as it now is, in the shape of a novel,
in chapters. I believe I told you that Mr. Hoare was so struck
with it, as to intend writing a play from it. I wish he would.
Heigho, I am very stupid to-night, so my ideas do not come
_coulamment_; so for want of something better to say, I will
tell you a characteristic anecdote of Mr. Northcote. Mr. Opie,
and he, and Sir Francis Bourgeois (the landscape painter) dined
at Sir William Elford’s the other day, and met there a Colonel
Elford. After dinner some disputatious conversation took place,
in which my husband and Mr. N. took a principal part; after some
time, the Colonel said, in a low voice to Sir Francis, “Painters
are queer fellows; how oddly they converse. One knows not what
to make of them; how oddly these men run on!” Sir Francis
assented, and consoled himself as well as he could, for being so
little eminent as not to be known to be a painter himself. After
tea, he took an opportunity of telling this story to Northcote;
who, starting back with a face of horror, exclaimed, “Gude G—!
then he took _you_ for a gentleman!” I dare say he did not sleep
that night. My husband says very truly and admirably of this
queer little being, that his mind resembles an old family
mansion, in which some of the apartments are furnished and in
good repair, while the major part are empty or full of rubbish.
* * * (Enter Mr. Northcote!) (Sunday.) I have nothing to tell
you in consequence of the little man’s visit, except a fresh
proof of the care he takes of his little health. I had some
cheese toasted and brought up. “Gude G—! how unwholesome, one
piece if you please, and no more.” Presently after, he says,
“Bless me, Mrs. Opie! eating still? how much have you ventured
to eat?” “Two pieces.” “Oh, then so will I, I’ll venture to eat
two pieces too.” As a proof of his _politeness_, I will tell you
that on my saying Sir Roger L’Estrange was a Norfolk man, he
exclaimed, “A Norfolk man! could anything good or great come out
of Norfolk?”
I am told my father certainly means to visit us this spring, but
I am resolved not to expect him, as I was so disappointed last
year. I am sorry you will come up too late for the Oratorios. I
am going to-day to carry Mrs. Inchbald my book to read. She has
promised me her opinion of it; and I long to receive it. She is
a judge of the tale only; poetry is to her an undiscovered
country. The ballads she already admires very highly. As this
letter will not go till to-morrow, I shall leave it
open.—(Sunday eve.)—I had written thus far, when your kind
letter came. I repeat my advice to you to come in a black
muslin; a white gown and black ribbons, or even a coloured gown,
will do occasionally in a morning, to spare the other, and then
you will always be either dressed or undressed; for black suits
all companies; black stockings and a black petticoat you would
find so useful too. All black continues fashionable, and is
economical too. I am very glad you like my tale. The Hoares
called to-day, and expressed themselves much pleased and
affected by it, Mr. H. could not sleep all night after it, it
made him so wretched. You will undoubtedly see both Coome and
Mrs. Jordan. Adieu, just room to send kind love. Yours, &c.,
A. O.
Monday, 1801.
* * * I did not expect, my dear friend, that my asking one
favour of you should procure me _two_; viz., fowls for Viganoni,
and a letter for myself; but I like to take all heaven
sends—and the more the better. Your question to me “what is
this indescribable charm which attends the overflowings of one
mind into another when it finds itself understood?”—I can’t
answer; though, as you observe, the enjoyment is known to me.
But this pleasure is not confined to the contemplation of well
assorted minds; in everything we delight to see things _fit_, as
we call it; even a scissors-sheath delights us when, on buying
it, we find it sits _flush_—as the phrase is. No wonder then
that, when mind fits mind, the pleasure should be so great.
Yes!—as you say, July is coming; and I am coming, but late in
July I doubt. I have not made out the author of the anonymous
letter—I wish I had; yet, there I lie; mountains look largest
and most sublime when they are shrouded partly in mist. The
“British Critic” is something _awful_; but what is Parson Beloc?
Pray tell my father that 750 are to be printed of the _Tale_; it
will be time enough to settle the number of the other volume
when it is ready for the press. At present I am so incapable of
writing!
I have been giving myself a great deal of trouble to-day, and I
doubt at last I shall be disappointed. Viganoni, with great
readiness and great humility, granted my request that he would
set the little song I wrote the other day; but to enable him to
do this, I have just written it out, leaving a space between
each line wide enough for him to write the cadence of the words,
as if they were Italian, underneath; then at the bottom, in
French prose, I have translated the song, that he may comprehend
the sentiment; and I have also written it again with a literal
translation of each word by a _French_ one under it, regardless
of French construction, that he may catch the proper emphasis;
thus:—
New friends, new hopes, new joys, to find—
De nouveaux amis, de nouvelles espérances, de nouveaux plaisirs, à
trouver.
And, after all, if he should not do it well! he says he will do
_son possible_, but I have my fears; if he succeeds I shall be
so pleased! * * What a labour it is to laugh for a continuance!
I am quite sore to-day with immoderate laughter yesterday! I was
irritable, and then anything sets me off. Not but what my uncle
and aunt, at whose house I dined, and Mr. Biggs who dined there
also, were very agreeable; but had I been quite well, and my
husband not gone to Chatham I should not have been so noisy. Yet
I declare I laugh now at some of the fun. I expect my husband
home in half an hour. He went to please me, and after he was
gone I repented of my persuading him to go, but I thought the
air and exercise would do him good. Do not laugh, but though
only two days absent, the house seems so strange without its
master, that I have learned to excuse, nay to commend, women for
marrying again! How dreadfully forlorn must be the situation of
a widow! I think I shall write an essay recommending second
marriages, and dedicate it to Mrs. Merrick. Well, God bless you!
I think I have written nonsense enough. Love to your spouse and
bairns; and believe me, ever yours,
A. OPIE
“The other Volume” was the “Poems,” which appeared early in 1802, and
for a critique upon which we must again refer the reader to the article
in the Edinburgh Review for October, 1802. After some rather severe
criticism of her deficiencies and faults, the writer observes, “It is in
the smaller verse of eight syllables, which requires no pomp of sound,
and in the simple tenderness, or simple grief, to which, the artlessness
of such numbers is best suited, the power of Mrs. O.’s poetry consists.
* * * The verses of feeling, on which she must rely for the
establishment of her fame, are certainly among the best in our opuscular
poetry. As a specimen we select the following song, which is scarcely
surpassed by any in our language:—
Go, youth beloved, in distant glades,
New friends, new hopes, new joys to find!
Yet sometimes deign, ’midst fairer maids,
To think on her thou leav’st behind.
Thy love, thy fate, dear youth, to share,
Must never be my happy lot;
But thou may’st grant this humble prayer
Forget me not! forget me not!
Yet should the thought of my distress
Too painful to thy feelings be,
Heed not the wish I now express,
Nor ever deign to think of me!
But oh! if grief thy steps attend,
If want, if sickness be thy lot,
And thou require a soothing friend,
Forgot me not! forget me not!
Sir James Mackintosh, in a letter written to Mr. Sharpe, from India,
refers to these lines in the following manner: “Tell the fair Opie that
if she would address such pretty verses to me as she did to Ashburner, I
think she might almost bring me back from Bombay, though she could not
prevent his going thither. I beg that she will have the goodness to
convey Lady M.’s kindest compliments and mine, to her friend Madame
Roland, of Norwich.” (By this playful epithet Mrs. Taylor was
designated, in consequence of a fancied resemblance to her portrait.) It
was probably, the delivery of this message which produced the impromptu
by Mrs. Opie, on being asked if she had written verses on the absence of
Sir James Mackintosh, in India:—
No! think not in verse
I his absence deplore:
Who a sorrow can sing
Till that sorrow is o’er?
And when shall his loss
With such sorrow be classed?
Oh! when shall his absence
Be _pain that is past_?
Sir James acknowledged the compliment thus paid him by the following
letter, dated,
Bombay, 30th September, 1805.
MY DEAR MRS. OPIE,
Many thanks for all your late presents, your good cousin, your
most affecting novel, and your elegant verses. Your cousin will
do well, and return to you, I hope, in a few years, with a
reasonable fortune, and an unbroken constitution. At present I
think he looks fresher than I ever saw him in Norfolk. Of
Adeline, I cannot speak with quite so much unmixed complacency;
she has occasioned many painful moments, and even cost us some
tears. The verses I am sure I should admire, even if they had
not bribed me to do so. The first four lines in particular are
so ingenious and so natural, so lively and so easy, that they
resemble the light poetry of the French, in which they so much
surpass all nations. Standing by themselves, they would make an
admirable _impromptu_ answer to the question which is the
subject. Perhaps you will allow me to prove the sincerity of
this praise, by adding that the remaining lines though
excellent, are not perhaps of quite so high a cast as the first
four. I have some thought of publishing these four in our Bombay
Paper, in the form of which I have spoken; if I do, I bespeak
pardon by anticipation.
The character of the Hindu is, in your songs, and in most
European descriptions, beautiful and poetical; but on near
approach it is base and odious enough. Their fine forms and
graceful attitudes might indeed furnish subjects for Mr. Opie’s
pencil, but their minds will seldom be worthy of your verse or
your prose. I agree with you about the commencement of the third
volume of Godwin’s novel. It is most masterly. There are other
admirable parts; but, taken throughout, I think it the worst of
his three; though far indeed above the limits of a vulgar fate.
So unlettered and incurious is this place, that the copy of
Fleetwood which came here, was suffered to lie on the shop
counter with all the common trash of the Minerva press,
undistinguished by our novel readers, to whom Godwin has no
name; and might have so remained till it was devoured by the
white ants, if I had not heard of it by chance, and eagerly
snatched it from these animals, or from others of nobler shape,
but not much nobler nature. I need scarcely say that no
hostility was mixed with my eagerness; on the contrary, I
expected, and I found great pleasure. I hope you are in love
with Walter Scott’s “Lay of the Last Minstrel.” Nowhere else,
but in “Warwick Castle,” are antique character and dignity
reconciled with modern elegance and regularity. It has many
charming passages, and the narrative is full of warlike and
Homeric spirit; if the poem be sometimes tedious, so is Homer
himself, the prince of ballad-makers, and of border minstrels. I
presume that you have read Madame de Genlis’ “Duchesse de la
Valière;” which, though not precisely a novel, is surely a most
fascinating work. Have you ventured on the Abbé Delille’s
translation of “Paradise Lost?” I presume it is a capital crime
to praise it in England; and perhaps the importation of it may
be prohibited; I see it is most profusely panegyrized in the
_Moniteur_, and the only fault in the opinion of the French
critics, is that the Translator has _not altered Milton
sufficiently_. How would this sound on the banks of my beloved
Thames? It would be blasphemy in England, and would be very bad
taste anywhere, not to mention its glaring inconsistency with
the first idea of _translation_. The bearer of this letter is
Mrs. Stewart, a very amiable, and rather unfortunate woman, who
brought here beauty and understanding fit for happier spots, and
who is now going to England in search of long-lost health; any
attention that you may have the goodness to show her, Lady M.
and I shall consider as a great favour to us. I am confident,
that when your own ingenious delicacy has gently dispelled the
clouds that dejection and retirement have spread around her, you
will see in herself sufficient motives for kindness to her.
I am, my Dear Madam,
Truly and faithfully yours,
JAMES MACKINTOSH.
A triple crown was to be awarded to this song “Go, youth beloved.” It
was selected by the Rev. Sydney Smith, in one of his “Lectures on Moral
Philosophy,” delivered at the Royal Institution in 1804-5, as possessing
peculiar excellence in its style; he says, “If any man were to discover
the true language of nature and feeling in this little poem of Mrs.
Opie’s, he would gain no credit for his metaphorical taste, because the
beauties of it are _too_ striking for a moment’s hesitation.”
The authoress was present at the time when Mr. Smith pronounced this
eulogium upon her verses; and she used laughingly to tell how
unexpectedly the compliment came upon her, and how she shrunk down upon
her seat, in order to screen herself from the observation of those
around her.
-----
[7] It was afterwards taken as the groundwork for one of the most
popular Italian operas of the time, the “Agnese” of Paer.
[8] Written by Dr. Brown.
CHAPTER VII.
THE TRIALS OF GENIUS; DOMESTIC TROUBLES; LETTERS TO MRS. TAYLOR;
JOURNEY TO FRANCE; ARRIVAL AT PARIS; THE LOUVRE; THE FIRST
CONSUL; CHARLES JAMES FOX; THE SOIRÉE; KOSCIUSKO.
We have seen how diligently Mrs. Opie laboured during the year 1801, and
with what success her efforts had been crowned. Yet this was the
severest season of domestic anxiety and trouble, she was, as a wife,
destined to experience. She tells us, in her Memoir of her husband, that
although he had a picture in the Exhibition of 1801, which was
universally admired, and purchased as soon as beheld, yet “he saw
himself at the end of that year, and the beginning of the next, almost
wholly without employment; and even my sanguine temper yielding to the
trial, I began to fear that, small as our expenditure was, it must
become still smaller. Not that I allowed myself to own that I desponded;
on the contrary, I was forced to talk to him of hopes, and to bid him
look forward to brighter prospects, as his temper, naturally desponding,
required all the support possible. But gloomy and painful indeed were
those three alarming months, and I consider them as the severest trial
that I experienced during my married life. However, this despondency did
not make him indolent; he continued to paint regularly as usual; and no
doubt by that means increased his ability to do justice to the torrent
of business which soon after set in towards him, and never ceased to
flow till the day of his death.”
There is something very touching in these few and simple words. The
earnest hopeful nature of the wife supporting the desponding spirits of
her gifted husband. Like all men of true genius, he was subject to dark
shadows and melancholy broodings. He aspired high, studied much,
laboured hard, and was too painfully alive to his deficiencies, ever to
rest satisfied with the point to which he had attained; the voice within
cried ever, “higher!” and he must run until he fell. “During the nine
years that I was his wife, (she continues,) I never saw him satisfied
with any one of his productions, and often, very often, have I seen him
enter my sitting room, and throwing himself in an agony of despondence
on the sofa, exclaim, ‘I never, never shall be a painter, as long as I
live!’”
Happily for women they have, in the little domestic cares of every day
life, a source of employment and interest, which, compelling their
attention, diverts their thoughts into wholesome channels, and saves
them from uselessly brooding over evils they cannot avert. The domestic
_ménage_ of the painter’s household had to be governed, its mistress
tells us, with a strict and watchful economy, and an observant eye must
be kept upon all that went on there. But this was not all; as a
mistress, the conduct of her servants appears to have occasioned her no
small trouble, and to her faithful _confidante_ she reveals her
anxieties on more than one occasion; from two of these letters we find
that she learned by experience, what she afterwards described with her
pen; the first letter seems almost a comment upon one of her tales on
“Lying,” or rather to have furnished the text for it. Both must have
been written early in the year 1802, as in the month of August
following, the journey to Paris took place.
MY DEAR FRIEND,
Your most kind and gratifying letter, so wholly undeserved on my
part, and (considering your many avocations) so generous on
yours, demanded an earlier acknowledgment; but it is one of the
charms of our intimacy that it is proof against neglects like
mine. I know you will not cease to love me, nor think that I
have ceased to love you, though even months pass without my
assuring you of my unaltered regard. But at last I sit down to
write to you, and you might suppose I take up my pen
_conscience-urged_; no such matter; I write to crave your advice
on a subject that weighs heavy on my mind, and one on which at
present I cannot consult my husband; a difficult affair to act
properly in, as I want to reconcile pity and justice. You must
know, that, after having for some time past had some reason to
suspect the strict honesty, in trifles, of my maid Anne, I had,
last Friday, the mournful certainty of detecting her in a course
of most flagrant iniquity; and what is worse, when I brought my
charge against her, she was most firm in denial, and accused me
of the grossest cruelty and injustice in accusing her; while a
series of ready _lies_, abounding in contradictions, which left
no doubt of her guilt on my mind, sunk her still lower in my
opinion. I was easily prevailed on to keep the affair a secret
from my husband for a short time, in order to avoid an _éclat_,
which would blast the poor wretch’s character for ever; yet how,
my dear friend, can I any way act as I ought, without doing
this? Her cry is, “give me a character for God’s sake!” but how
can I? Even if I keep her till August, can I then, however
correct her future conduct, say “yes” to an enquiry concerning
her honesty? If she had a _heart_, (but I am certain she has
not,) I would keep her and conceal her fault, (for while
reputation is safe, there is hope of amendment,) but of her I
have no hope. Now, my dear friend, tell me how I can stand
between her and the punishment of her guilt, with honour and
justice to myself? A young maid-servant turned out, without the
chance of a character, is in so exposed and desperate a
situation, that I shudder to think of the consequences, and, as
my too great confidence and my carelessness _may_ have laid
temptation in her way, I feel a degree of responsibility for her
faults, which distresses me exceedingly.
I really should feel it incumbent on me to make an apology for
worrying your brains with my domestic concerns, did I not know
it is the honest pride of your life to be useful, and that you
are always glad of an opportunity of serving me.
The string that pulls me towards Norwich begins to grow tight.
To Cornwall, or even to France, we cannot afford to go; at least
so Mr. Opie thinks; and that is the same thing.
My next letter (and I shall certainly _answer_ your answer)
shall contain more amusing stuff. At present I have only time to
say, Kemble was arrested for a debt, kindness had made him
incur, (for £200,) as he came out of the theatre on Saturday
last. He is not yet in limbo, but to jail he is resolved to go
on Wednesday, unless Mr. Sheridan pays the money; and never will
he play again, till it is paid. Sheridan swears and protests
that he will pay the debt, and that he knew not of the
transaction; whereas, it is certain Sheridan went to the
bailiff, and for fear of a riot, prevailed on him to put off the
arrest till the play was over. We think Sheridan dares not let
him go to jail, and go he will. Adieu! anxiously hoping to hear
from you,
I remain,
Yours most affectionately,
A. OPIE.
How well this letter illustrates some of her most strongly marked
characteristics! that earnest desire “to reconcile pity with justice;”
that readiness to take to herself any blame she might possibly have
incurred, as an extenuation of the fault of another, and the lingering
hope that the delinquent might be reclaimed. These are traits which
those who knew her well will recognize as her very own.
Here is her promised answer to Mrs. T.—
Tuesday, 1802.
MY DEAR FRIEND,
As opening and detaining letters to and from active partizans is
the order of the day, and as the enclosed contains _numbers_, I
write to you instead of my father, and shall get my letter
directed for me. Franks are now of no use, as even _Peers_ can’t
frank, being no longer Lords of parliament; therefore, were they
sacred to these _licensed_ rogues, the one I have for to-morrow
is good for nothing. _Indefatigable_, alias your cousin Peter,
whom I saw just now at Mr. Smith’s, desired me to send Lord C.’s
letter; so I obey. Be so good also, as to tell my father that
his letter, franked by Mr. Smith, did not reach till Saturday;
and tell him I wrote to him yesterday, enclosing the peer’s
first letter.
Your kind answer to my statement of vexation gave me the
greatest satisfaction, and I hope by your excellent advice and
assistance to be able, with a very little trouble, to put such a
degree of order in my subsequent _ménage_ as shall prevent, in
future, any gross imposition. Anne’s conduct since the
detection, and what I have heard of it previously to it, takes
from me all idea of my carelessness having led her into
temptation. I believe her to be thoroughly bad.
Yesterday evening, at half-past five, we saw the balloon, from
the painting-room window, distinctly. Suddenly it was lost in a
cloud, and the feeling it gave me was a very strange one. Soon
after it emerged again, considerably higher than it was before;
then it entered another cloud and disappeared. It is past two,
and Mr. Garnerin is not returned, but I have been to the
Pantheon to inquire concerning him, and I find he landed at
Colchester in an hour and forty minutes!
Of election matters what can I say? Till I read the squibs, &c.
I could not, _con amore_, say, I wished Mr. Windham to be
ousted; but now indignation has assisted principle to conquer
feeling, and I will _not_ say of the agreeable delinquent,
“If to his share some manly errors fall
Hear him converse, and you’ll forget them all,”
or, “Look in his eyes, and you’ll forget them all,”
(which you please, Mrs. Taylor.)—I was to have gone to Mr.
Hiliar’s on Sunday or Monday; but, if the election is to be on
_Monday_, I can’t leave town to be out of the way of the news on
Tuesday, especially as I should not meet with sympathy in my
feelings there. Adieu! I must go to see again whether Garnerin
is returned. I wonder when your travellers come back.
Believe me, ever most affectionately yours,
A. O.
P. S. I want to come down to the election ball. What a shock
poor Garnham’s death was to me!
In the autumn of this year her long cherished desire to visit France,
and more especially Paris, was gratified.[9] Her husband needed
relaxation after the anxiety and labour of the last few months, and
there was now an unexpected opportunity afforded to the painter to study
those glorious _chefs d’œuvre_ of art which the conquering arms of
Napoleon had assembled at the Louvre.
They were joined in this excursion by a party of friends, of whom Mrs.
Opie mentions Samuel Favell, Esq. and Mrs. Favell, and her early
acquaintance, Miss Anne Plumptre. On the 14th of August, 1802, they
reached Calais, and for the first time she experienced “the strangely
interesting moment when one’s foot first touches a foreign land, and
when one hears on every side a foreign language spoken by men, women,
and children.” The first impression seems to have been one of
bewilderment, for which she was not at all prepared, occasioned by the
confusion of voices that greeted them. Having recovered from this
perplexing sensation, she was agreeably surprised to see a well known
face, that of Le Texier; he who for many years delighted the English
public by his admirable French readings. The recognition was mutual, and
she was welcomed by him to the land of his birth.
An amusing adventure befell our inexperienced traveller, as she seated
herself at the Hôtel de Grandsire, to enjoy the delicious fare of the
excellent _table d’hôte_, and be initiated at once into the mode of a
French dinner, “so contrary to our own;”—
Opposite to me (she says) sat a gentleman, wearing what I
conceived to be a foreign order; and as he was very alert in
rendering me the customary table-attentions, I ventured to
address him in French, but he did not reply. I therefore
concluded that he was of some nation in which French was not
very generally spoken; and so far I was not very wrong in my
conjecture, as my opposite neighbour turned out to be an English
messenger, just arrived with dispatches from our government! and
the order which gave him such distinction, in my curious eyes,
was nothing more than a silver greyhound, which messengers then
wore! My mistake exposed me to some good humoured banter; but,
perhaps, it was well for me that I made it, as it put me a
little on my guard against one of my infirmities, that of
forming hasty conclusions. * *
The next morning the travellers started for Paris, going a very long
stage before breakfast,
The tediousness of which, (she says,) as the country had no
charms to boast, was in a degree relieved to me by the
occasional beauty and picturesqueness of the costume of the
peasants, both men and women; but the whiteness of the caps and
full sleeves, of even the young women, sometimes formed an
unpleasing contrast with their dark, sunburnt, and almost
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