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.
On the death of her husband Mrs. Opie returned to the home of her youth,
and to her father, for whom she now felt the more concentrated and
entire affection, as he was the only object united to her by the dearest
ties of nature. For, unhappily, her marriage was a childless one; the
desire she cherished had been denied her, and no son was given her, to
inherit the talents of his father, and be the joy of his mother’s heart.
Providence, however, had preserved to her the parent whom she had left
with regret, and whose love she still so dearly prized. It was now her
duty and delight to devote herself to render him happy, and she left her
sad abode, where all reminded her of the loss she had sustained, and
came back to her father, and like a sunbeam her presence gladdened his
home; and as a guardian angel she blessed him, the delight and the
ornament of his declining years.
Of the seven years that followed the death of Mr. Opie not many traces
remain among her papers; some there are, and we proceed to record them.
That she left London very shortly after that event, is evident from a
letter written by one of her friends dated July the 11th, 1807, and
addressed to her at Norwich; as well as from a note, short enough to be
given at length, signed Comtesse d’Oyenhausen.[17]
“Parmi les noms qui vous marquent autant d’estime que
d’attachement, veuillez bien Mme. ajouter le mien, comme une
preuve de n’être point oubliée. Vôtre départ trop prompt, laissé
ici un vuide que tout le monde aperçoit, et très
particulièrement vôtre,” &c., &c.
In 1808 she published a second volume of poetry, entitled “The Warrior’s
Return, and other Poems;” in the preface to which she says, “The poems
which compose this little volume were written, with two or three
exceptions, several years ago, and to arrange and fit them for
publication has been the amusement of many hours of retirement.”
In the spring of 1809 were published her husband’s “Lectures on
Painting,” to which was prefixed the “Memoir,” from which we have so
frequently quoted. This book was published by subscription, and some of
her friends interested themselves in procuring names; one or two letters
on the subject were found among her papers, and among them one from Lady
Charleville, from which, as it contains some allusions to Mrs. Opie’s
writings, and shews the impression her manners produced upon those with
whom she associated, we venture to select a few passages.
Charleville Forest, August 23rd, 1809.
MY DEAR MADAM,
I did not expect that you could find leisure to write to me
before your return to Norwich, and I feel more obliged by your
not delaying it long after, than I can easily express. Your
amiable, modest manners, joined to talents far beyond the
pretensions of most women, attracted me immediately; and all I
have seen of you, permit me to say, has so confirmed this first
bias, that I do feel a sincere wish to continue to cultivate the
acquaintance I have so happily begun. * * * I believe you enjoy
gay scenes, and what is called pleasure, with somewhat yet of
pristine vivacity. May it fulfil your hopes or wishes whatever
they are! * *
Poor dear Lady Cork’s activity in pursuit of amusement is a
pleasant proof of vivacity and spirit surviving youth. I think,
however, small plays seldom succeed with an English audience;
“_la vache qui trotte_,” is Rousseau’s simile for French music,
and may be applied to John Bull’s facetious and playful humours
quite as well; but he does very well at a concert, where some
must be quiet, and I envied you that evening you described so
well. * * *
Our best bookseller here has fallen into a state of epilepsy;
his shop is closed, and we shall await the arrival of your last
publication with impatience, through the common channel; but I
think you should not have awaited Lady C.’s interference to
mention its being published by subscription; as I should be
happy to be considered as your friend. Neglect me so no more, I
request, in this way; begin a good, long, Clarissa-like novel;
you have principles and fancy to compose an elevating and
interesting work, and a knowledge of the manners of the world,
which Richardson wanted. Write now all the summer, and let there
be no episodes, no under plot, but give me a character, acting
and developing itself under a variety of circumstances, to
interest my feelings and exert my understanding; and set her
feet on English ground, and let us not have mystic notions, or
Asiatic refinements, to perplex our intellects, too well braced
by this northern temperature to sympathize with mysteries,
embroideries, and odours, or start at every creaking hinge in an
old castle. Miss Owenson, whom I saw in Dublin, tells me she is
writing a Hindostan tale. Let’s keep plain English for yours;
and believe me, in its full sincerity, your faithful servant,
C. L. CHARLEVILLE.
The following letter from Mrs. Inchbald appears to have been written in
the winter of this year (1809.) Its only date is Wednesday, 7th
December.
MY DEAR MRS. OPIE,
I thank you much for your letter, and especially for your
consideration in telling me the secret of Mr. Barbauld’s death;
for contemplation is my great source of entertainment, and the
events of the day kindly afford me almost as much as I require.
I certainly think Buonaparte has acted, in the affairs of Spain,
with less honour to his name than upon all former occasions; yet
he was compelled to protect his firm ally, Charles IV., and to
punish the criminal Prince who drove his parents from their
throne, and imprisoned them. Still, you will say, why did he not
replace Charles? The people of Spain would not have suffered his
return; and, no doubt, many of the first importance invited
Buonaparte to take the government. That he did so by artifice, I
can only excuse, upon the supposition that he meant thus to
spare the people all that calamity, which open violence must now
draw upon them. No doubt his reign would have been a blessing to
them, would they at first have submitted. But now the avenger is
the character he must take, and we shall have to lament another
nation, added to the number of those, on whom we have forced him
to draw his sword.
I have not been from London yet, and I purposely did not date my
letter, because I wished to have no presents this year, and had
not time to explain why. My sister has been very ill again, and
is in that kind of weak state, that she now never comes to see
me, and I fear much that the winter may prove fatal to her. She
always partook of your presents, and I had rather not be
reminded of the loss I feel from the want of her occasional
visits, by having any feasts during her absence.
Poor Godwin is a terrific example for all conjugal biography;
but he has marked that path which may be avoided, and so is
himself a sacrifice for the good of others. His name I now see
added to his library advertisements. The title of Miss Owenson’s
new work has something very charming in it. “Ida of Athens.”—I
have not yet been able to read any of her novels. I am now
reading Leo the X., by Roscoe. War, religion, laws, and elevated
mankind are my delight, for among them I increase my love for
politics of the present day, and find that our great enemy is
less wicked than most heroes and politicians have been; at the
same time a vast deal wiser than them all.
With my best respects to Dr. Alderson,
Dear Madam,
E. INCHBALD.
In the spring of the following year Mrs. Opie was in London, and it
seems to have been from this time her established custom to pay an
annual visit to the metropolis. The spring of 1810 was a stirring one,
and she, who so dearly loved (as she says) to have a peep at the busy
world, has given in one of her reminiscences of this period, a short
account of a dinner party at Lady Elizabeth Whitbread’s, the day after
the removal of Sir F. Burdett to the Tower. The Government had been
obliged to have recourse to the Speaker’s warrant, to obtain legal
entrance into Sir F.’s house, which he had purposely barricaded, being
determined to resist what he thought an unjust sentence.
I went (she says) to the dinner in Dover Street, full of hope
that I should hear at that table some interesting conversation
relative to these peculiar circumstances, for it was a time of
no common excitement, as great fears of a popular tumult had
gone forth, and I had myself seen, with a sensation difficult to
describe, cannon planted in Hanover Square at this period, as I
returned late from a party to my lodgings in Prince’s Street;
and soldiers were watching by their guns. (I think I am correct
in speaking in the plural number.) My expectation of hearing the
subject of Sir F. B.’s arrest discussed, was increased, when I
saw of whom the party assembled round the dinner table
consisted; there were no ladies present but our hostess, the
Countess G., her venerable mother, and myself; the gentlemen
were Lord King, and I think two whig M.P.’s, members of the
Lower House, and also some gentlemen not in public life.
I was, however, disappointed, and learned to believe that
Members of Parliament hear too much of state matters when there,
to wish to discuss them in their hours of relaxation, as the
only allusion made to the event of the preceding day, was this.
The master of the house found it a difficult, and, for some
time, an impossible task, to open the hard rind of an immense
shaddock which stood before him, and said he must give it up in
despair. “He had better send for the Speaker’s warrant,” said
one of the guests; but this observation was not heard, therefore
it led to nothing. Amongst the evening guests came Lady Roslyn;
and soon, engaged in the bloodless, but not pointless, strife of
tongues, were lady R., J. W. Ward, the late Lord Dudley, W.
Lyttleton, Sheridan, and the ever welcome Sydney Smith.
Sheridan did not arrive till late, and when some of the company,
who yet remained, were seated at the supper tables, to which he
immediately repaired. Soon after, my attention was forcibly
arrested by his deep sonorous voice, exerted in questioning, as
if with a view to cross-examination, a very handsome youth in a
Greek dress, and who was by birth also a Greek, according to his
own shewing. This young man was much in request in certain
circles; and his right to be there, and to be acknowledged as
what he declared himself to be, would probably not have been
questioned, had he not chosen to wear this very peculiar and
becoming dress. As soon as I found what was going on, I went and
stood by Sheridan’s elbow, and was amused by the extraordinary
questions by which he sought to discover the reality of the
youth’s pretensions. I could not but feel for a youthful
foreigner, exposed to such an ordeal, inflicted by such a man,
but he seemed to bear it unmoved. At last Sheridan turned round
to us who stood behind him, and said, “A quack, nothing but a
quack.”
Two years afterwards, I saw a young Greek of the same name at
another party, with whom I overheard Lord Byron talking with
great fluency, in what I was told was modern Greek. The tones of
Lord B.’s voice were always so fascinating, that I could not
help attending to them; and when I turned round to see with whom
he was conversing, I thought I saw the same face and person in
an English garb, whom I had seen in 1810, set off by a beautiful
turban and a crimson robe; but I was told this was a brother of
that youth, and I never afterwards had an opportunity of
ascertaining, with accuracy, whether it was the same person or
not; yet I wished to do so, in order to establish the truth or
falsehood of the charge of quackery which I had heard. If these
youths were brothers, it was very unlikely that either of them
was a quack; and surely the harmless vanity of wishing to appear
in his own native costume, was not sufficient to authorize so
severe an appellation.
Be that as it may, of all the merry combatants in the strife of
tongues at the party to which I allude, Sydney Smith is the sole
survivor! he is merry still, and the provoker of mirth in
others; but perhaps, like me, when he feels his memory crowded
with the names of departed friends and associates, an
involuntary sadness comes over his mind, as it does over mine,
and I weep as I remember the exquisite and incomparable lines of
Moore—
“When I remember all
Once linked in love together,” &c.
Lady Roslyn expressed a wish that when I visited Edinburgh I
would go to Roslyn, and that she might have the opportunity of
shewing me its beauties. Alas! when I went there in 1816, she
was in her grave, and I stood within the chapel on the stone
which covered her remains!
The autumn of this year found Mrs. Opie once more at her favourite
Cromer; and her stay appears to have been prolonged to an unusual
extent; so that one of her friends, writing to her in the month of
December, speaks of sending a second Ulysses in search of the truant.
There is an allusion in this letter which seems to intimate that it was
not _faute de solicitations_ that she remained a widow; and it is
evident that at subsequent periods she received similar addresses.
Turning, however, a deaf ear to such proposals, she continued diligently
to use her pen; and in the spring of 1812 published “Temper,” a tale, in
which she diverged from the pathetic style of writing she had hitherto
most affected, and evidently aimed more, in the character of a moralist,
at practical usefulness; and happily with pleasing evidence of success.
In the third volume of this work, Mrs. Opie carries her heroine to
Paris, and introduces the very scenes which she records in her journal
of her own Parisian trip—the visit to the Louvre—her own words on
being told the First Consul was expected to pass—the scene that
followed, &c.
The following extract from a letter she received after the publication
of this work, affords a pleasing evidence of its beneficial influence.
November 14th, 1812.
You have, my dear Mrs. Opie, shown such clear discernment of
what is good and virtuous, and exhibited reason and conscience,
as triumphant over the passions, with so masterly a pen, in your
late publication, that it has carried with it the suffrage of
many a young and amiable mind.
My daughter may perhaps have told you what effect your book had,
upon a young married lady whom she chanced to meet. “I have
read,” said she, “Mrs. Opie’s ‘Temper,’ I hope to my lasting
improvement; certain I am that it has shewn me many of my
faults, and, I trust, has taught me to overcome them.” By the
pleasure this gave me, I can judge, in some degree, my dear
Madam, of the pleasure it must afford you; for I think there
cannot be a greater, than to fortify the young in habits of
virtue; and when you consider these volumes, you may exclaim,
with more propriety than Sheridan did, “that on the review of
his publications, nothing gave him such great, such
inexpressible pleasure, as the thought that he had never written
one word derogatory to the cause of virtue.” * * *
In the following year (1813) appeared the “Tales of Real Life;” they
were published (unlike her former works) without a paragraph,
introductory or dedicatory. There is, as usual, much inequality in the
merits of the various stories composing the series; “Lady Anne and Lady
Jane” occupies the whole of the first volume, and is, perhaps, on the
whole, equal, or superior, to any tale she wrote. The one entitled,
“Love and Duty,” was a favourite with herself.
In a former chapter, reference has been made to an interview Mrs. Opie
had with Lord Erskine, at the house of Madame de Staël during this year;
she has given another short account of an evening visit to that
celebrated woman, which we subjoin:—
I had been spending the evening at a soirée, given by Madame de
Staël, during the year 1813, which was particularly interesting,
from its having been composed chiefly of the _élite_ of London
society. That admirable man, W. Wilberforce, had been among the
dinner guests, but was gone before I arrived; there were,
however, many still left, some of whom threw over the circle the
spell of beauty, and others that of their high talents. Lady
Crewe, Lord Dudley, William Spencer, the Mackintoshes, the
Romillys, were among the brilliant group, who, witty themselves,
were the cause of wit in others; and, while they grouped around
her, called forth the ever-ready repartees, and almost
unrivalled eloquence, of our hostess. She had recently left the
court of Bernadotte, and from time to time indulged herself in
descanting in his praise. At length she produced a portrait in
miniature of her favourite, painted in profile; and, when it had
gone round the greater part of the circle, she put it into the
hand of Sir Henry Englefield, well known as a man of virtu,
science, and taste for the fine arts; and, while she stood by
the side of the chair on which he was indolently lounging, she
evidently awaited, with much anxiety, the result of his
examination. Carefully and long did he examine the painting, and
then, holding it up to the light which hung near him, he
observed with a slow distinct utterance, and in rather loud
voice, “he is like a ferocious sheep!” on which, uttering an
exclamation of justly indignant surprise, Madame de Staël
snatched the miniature from him, and turned hastily away. I
turned away also, for I could not help smiling because, though
displeased at Sir Henry’s want of courtesy I felt the truth of
the remark; for _I_ had examined the picture, and seen, with no
admiring eye, the long projecting nose, and the receding chin,
so truly the profile of a sheep; the eye, too, was black, but it
did not, like a sheep’s eye, resemble a blockhead when seen
sideways; on the contrary, it was bright and _piercing_, as a
friend would have said, but it was easy for an enemy of the
Swedish Prince (and such I concluded Sir H. was) to have called
the expression _ferocious_. But the incident and its effects
were soon forgotten; and the circle had not lost its charm,
when, reminded by a pendule of the lateness of the hour, I had
placed myself near the door, and was watching an opportunity to
retire unseen, as the door opened; and unannounced, and
unattended, a shortish, middle-sized, and middle-aged man
entered the room, and, finding himself unobserved, did not
advance further than where I was. I was struck by the plainness
of his dress and his unpretending appearance, altogether, yet
his manner was dignified rather than otherwise; and I was
wondering who he could be, when our hostess saw him, and ran up
to him with a degree of delighted yet respectful welcome, which
instantly proclaimed him to be somebody. In a short time he was
seen by others, and he had soon a little court around him; but
who he was I could not yet discover; however, I delayed my
departure, and joining the circle, heard him converse with a
simplicity consonant to his manner and appearance.
At length I heard him addressed “vôtre Majesté,” and I could not
forbear to ask who this royal stranger was, and learned that it
was the king of the Netherlands, who was awaiting, in our
country, a change of things in his favour in his own. Little,
probably, did he, or any of those present, imagine that change
was so near; but, before the year came round, Buonaparte was at
Elba! His changes of fortune, however, were not yet over: when I
saw him he was King of the Netherlands; and, soon after, became
their _restored_ king; but had I seen him again in the year
1835, I should have beheld him deprived of half his dominions,
and only King of Holland!
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[17] This lady’s name is among the subscribers to the “Lectures.”