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.
Returning from London on the 14th of July, 1848, Mrs. Opie took
possession of her new house, on the Castle Meadow. She looked back with
pleasure upon the time she had passed in town, and said, “never indeed,
did I have a more gratifying reception, than I met with from all my
friends, of different ranks, this time of my being there.” Fortunately
her choice of an abode proved satisfactory, she thoroughly liked it from
the first, and conceived the happy idea that Dr. Alderson would have
been pleased with it, “for (she said) he would have enjoyed this lively
scene, and he often wished to have a house in this locality.” When she
had become quite settled in it, she wrote:—
* * * * I am every day more charmed with my new house and home.
I feel it a very desirable house to die in, that is to be ill
in; a “pleasant cradle for reposing age;” and I do so love to
look at my noble trees and my castle turrets rising above them;
and when the leaves fall off, I shall still have the pleasure of
seeing the green and grassy mound of the Castle. From one of my
drawing room windows I see the woods and rising grounds of
Thorpe. I neither hear nor see the cattle on market days, and I
am quite happy in my choice, and deeply thankful that “the lines
have fallen to me in pleasant places.” Indeed I have no
_désagrémens_ at all, that I am conscious of, in my new abode.
In the month of October, Mrs. Opie made a short stay at Lowestoft; but
the fatigue brought on a return of her malady, and in one of her notes
she says:—
I came from Lowestoft apparently well, but soon became ill, and
was obliged to send for Dr. Hull, who was, at first, alarmed at
my symptoms; but I was not, as he kept his fears to himself. My
sufferings were great indeed, and I never was so conscious of
his judgment, as while observing the truly efficacious manner in
which he treated me. I rallied directly, and was able, with his
leave, to go to Sir J. Boileau’s to stay two days and nights. I
was charmed with M. Guizot, who was one of the guests; his
manners are very simple, and he played at “_jeux de societé_”
with us _young_ people, at night, and enjoyed it as much as we
did! It is, indeed, a great favour to be permitted to enjoy life
still, so much as I do, in company; but it is a far greater one
to be able to enjoy equally my lonely hours. * * * How fearful
is the state of things on the Continent, and who knows what the
result will be? but I read the 46th psalm, and remember who
reigneth, and I trust in Him, and am at peace.
At Michaelmas, of this year, Mrs. J. J. Gurney left Earlham Hall for the
Grove, and before she removed, Mrs. Opie went over to take a last look
at the place which was endeared to her by the recollections of so many
bygone years. During the two years longer that Mrs. Gurney remained in
England, Mrs. Opie had the comfort of her society, and it was with
sorrow that she bade her farewell when she departed for America, in the
summer of 1850.
A note, written shortly after this time, refers to the fearful crimes
which were committed during that autumn. She says:—
I heard, at that _blessed_ City Mission meeting, which I
attended the other evening, that our county is reckoned one of
the worst for crime and ignorance. Now comes that murder, by
wholesale, at Stanfield, and every week I read of two or three
murders. Still, as Dean Swift sarcastically wrote,
“And hell, to be sure, is at Paris or Rome,
What a blessing for us, that it is not at home.”
France and Ireland do not, I think, much suffer in comparison
with us. Truly, we English improve rapidly in virtue!
Mrs. Opie, latterly, took a somewhat morbid view of the existing state
of things, supposing that instead of improving they became worse. She
read the daily papers, in which the same crime is repeatedly brought to
notice, week after week; and became possessed with the idea that murders
and horrors were multiplied in proportion to the publicity given them.
In the month of March she went to visit Miss Gurney, and returned from
Northrepps on the morning of the Lent assizes, when Rush’s trial came
on. She did not attend on that occasion, adhering to her constant
determination, never to be present in the Criminal Court in a capital
case. But in one of her notes she gives a lively picture of her feelings
while the trial was going on:—
I know not what to do to-day except look at the castle and watch
the crowds on the plain, and the people continually passing, few
walking, but most running, as if too much excited to do
otherwise. Rush is on his defence! * * I dread to hear the
verdict, and yet I wish all was over. (The evening of the second
day.) On my castle turrets, to the west, the sun set
gloriously this evening, converting it into a mass of red
granite; and while I write the moon is shining into my room,
“looking tranquillity.” But what is passing within those castle
walls? A man, fierce as a tiger, is struggling for life at the
awful bar of justice. * * * *
What hundreds are passing to and fro; and what various sounds I
hear! now children and boys laughing and shouting; then men,
congregated under my windows, and talking: but always, within
those walls, _I_ see that wretched man, writhing in mental
agony, and against what, I fancy, he now _believes_ inevitable
doom!
In the Summer Assize Mrs. Opie was in her usual place in court, and with
how much lively interest she watched the proceedings, is evident in the
following letter:—
Castle Meadow, 8th mo., 4th, 1849.
Well C. L. how art thou? * * * * and so thou hast trodden where
Robin Hood did! He was one of my heroes when I was young; and at
sixteen, when driving through Sherwood Forest, I insisted on
getting out, to walk through it, and tread where he and his
merry men had trodden. Thy papa has been very kind to me; he
gave me his arm, and saw me safe home, when I walked, two
evenings together, from the Shirehall, where I, the poor,
limping invalid, (no _appropriate_ name that,) was, from nine to
six, on the sixth day, and from nine to nine the following day;
that is, twelve hours on Saturday, and without refreshment of
any kind save two gingerbread cakes; but I wanted nothing, so
completely did mind conquer matter. It was _one_ cause only
which lasted from twelve on Friday, to six that evening, and the
next day from nine to nine; and so interesting it was to me, my
attention never flagged a minute, and when I got home I was
quite as able and bright as when I went into court. It was Lord
W. Poulett’s action against our Railway Company for damage done
to his property and his tenants’, by the fire emitted from the
train. I never saw a clearer case proved. I had no bias either
way; if I had any leaning it was to the Norwich persons, the
defendants; but I felt sure the verdict was a just one. It was
for the plaintiff. The fire may be kept in, but they must take
more trouble and go to more expense; and I believe this action
will save property if not _lives_. Byles spoke admirably, and
the judge was excellent also. I assure thee this calling up of
all my energies has done me great good. Except in my lameness, I
am as well as ever I was in my life; and at the Palace, the
other evening, (last Wednesday,) I walked across that room, and
to my fly, hold of Arthur Stanley, and did not limp. I heard thy
father’s voice last evening, but did not see him; for I was just
getting into bed at nine o’clock: but the last time I saw him,
he walked off, at half-past ten o’clock, from my house, with a
pretty young lady hanging on either arm, to their hotel. I was
at Paris when the sister of these ladies was married, and was
present at the wedding, and a pleasant sight it was. The
marriage took place at the ambassador’s chapel, and the bride
and her husband were a sight to see, as they knelt before Bishop
Luscombe, picturesque from his fine face and large sleeves!
It is, to my feelings, so cold a day, that I am sitting by a
large fire in my smaller drawing room * * * * There, my letter
is longer than thine, and I have written four besides this, so
hasten to conclude.
Thine faithfully and affectionately,
A. OPIE.
In August Mrs. Opie spent a week in Cambridgeshire, visiting some kind
friends at Melbourne-Bury, and returning home shortly before the
lamented death of Bishop Stanley. This was a grief which, (as she
herself expressed it,) cast a shadow over the remainder of her days, and
to which she could never refer without deep emotion. How many hearts
grieved when the solemn sound of the bell announced to the inhabitants
of the city this melancholy event! Every one felt that it told of a
general loss, and that a good and holy man had been taken from amongst
them. And when, in compliance with the wish of the honoured and beloved
prelate, his remains were brought to rest in that cathedral where his
voice had so often been heard, there was a mournful satisfaction in the
conviction that his heart had loved the people for whom he had laboured,
with an unfailing charity, and with a ceaseless zeal.
Several references are made in Mrs. Opie’s notes to this event. At the
time it happened she was surrounded by a large circle of her relatives,
and while they remained with her she said—“I was taken from myself; but
now regret is uppermost again. How I feel for the dear bereaved ones!”
Again she says:—
(9th mo., 20th.) * * I cannot reconcile myself to this great
loss to me; and as yet can scarcely believe I am awake and not
in a delirium. I can’t believe he can be gone for ever! he came
to take leave of me, and I am recalling all his looks and words.
I followed him to the top of the stairs; he said he was to be
gone a month, and that he wanted _rest_—and I would not call
him back if I could; he was weary, and is gone to his rest—the
rest of the people of God.
In the course of this autumn Mrs. Opie paid several short visits to her
friends in the neighbourhood of Norwich; the last of which was to
Keswick Hall. On her return home she was attacked with a severe
inflammation of the right eye, which caused her much pain, and compelled
her to sit in a darkened room. During this confinement, (and indeed
during the latter period of her life,) she was much indebted to the kind
offices of her friend, Miss Brownson, who was indefatigable in reading
to her, and otherwise ministering to her comfort.
On the 6th of April, (1850,) Mrs. Opie went to Lowestoft to spend a few
days with her young relatives, the children of Mr. Briggs; and this
visit she spoke of with much satisfaction. On the 25th she proceeded to
Northrepps, where she remained until the 16th of May.
At the Midsummer assizes, Baron Alderson and Mr. Justice Patteson being
on the Norfolk circuit, Mrs. Opie went into court, accompanied by some
of her relatives; and, not being able to walk, (from her increased
lameness,) was carried in a sedan chair. It was her last visit to that
court in which for so many years she had been present! She did not
neglect on this occasion to make her usual offering of a bouquet to the
judge.
In September she attended the Annual Meeting of the Bible Society in St.
Andrew’s Hall; and in November she was present at the meeting of the
City Mission. These meetings cheered her spirit, and she “closed another
year very happily.”
In 1851, after a visit at Keswick, Mrs. Opie, on the 7th of May,
travelled to London, and took up her residence with her friends in
Russell Square. During her stay she attended several meetings at
Devonshire House and Westminster Meeting, and paid numerous visits to
her friends and acquaintances. She felt that it was her _last_ visit,
and seemed desirous to take a farewell look at all her old haunts; she
would go to the various shops she had been wont to frequent, and at
every turn was met by some one who recognised and welcomed her. (At
Swann and Edgar’s she saw the Duchess of Orléans.)
Her visit to the Great Exhibition was quite a delight to her. She was
among the few privileged persons who, from age or infirmity, requiring
chairs, were admitted an hour before the usual time. She saw there many
whom she knew; among others, her very old acquaintance, Miss Berry, also
in a wheelchair. Mrs. Opie’s carriage attracted the notice of her
friends, by its superiority. The wheels had a coating of Indian-rubber,
and sprang forward at a touch. At length Miss B. exclaimed, “where did
you get that chair Mrs. Opie? I quite envy it;” on which Mrs. O.
playfully proposed a chair race! After the public were admitted, she
remained sitting in the Transept an hour, enjoying the sight of the many
hundreds who rushed in; among whom were several of the Society of
Friends, and others known to her, who gathered around her chair and
cordially greeted her.
Mrs. Opie left Russell Square on the 19th June for Ham House, (Mr. S.
Gurney’s,) where she staid two days. Her homeward journey was rendered
uncomfortable by some derangement of the railway engine; so that they
were twice stopped on the road, and had to change carriages. On arriving
safely at home, she expressed her gratitude for journeying mercies; and
added, “these alarms have been warnings to me, that in my infirm state I
must not venture on the line again. So, railway, farewell!”
In the course of the autumn Mrs. Opie paid short visits to her friends
in the neighbourhood of Norwich, (at Berghapton, Ketteringham, Brooke,
and Keswick,) and, though almost constantly in pain, was bright and
cheerful. The death of Lady Charleville, which happened about this time,
much affected her; this event was probably hastened by a severe domestic
calamity, which occurred early in the same year, on which occasion Mrs.
Opie wrote:—
My dear old friend of forty-one years, Lady C., has lost her son
by her first husband, and she has written me a _touching_ note
indeed, and as well composed as in her young days, pious too,
and satisfactory; and the day after this beloved son’s death,
was that of her 89th birthday! She is a wonder, and yet, as her
amiable daughter wrote to me, “there she is, still well and
intellectual, and even capable of business!”
She said on one of these occasions, “it is a heavy trial to be called on
to survive so many dear ones, some younger than myself; it has been my
fate to do so, and seems likely to continue to be so; but still I think
and feel, that He doeth all things well, and I hope to be always able to
say with the Patriarch, ‘though He slay me yet will I trust in Him.’”
Mrs. Opie attended (for the last time) the Annual Meeting of the Bible
Society, in St. Andrew’s Hall, in the month of September, and says:—
I had been nursing for it two days, and was so glad to be able
to go. I did so enjoy it, in spite of certain reminiscences of
auld lang syne! The Bishop’s speech was charming and judicious,
and to me, so affecting, that it brought me to tears. He paid a
just and touching tribute to the memory of Andrew Brandram. Last
year he (A. B.) came to me, while I waited for my chair, and I
congratulated him on his good looks: he looked ten years younger
than when I saw him last: and there was I, yesterday, years
older than himself, sitting there, in health, (though not with
my once active limbs,) and _he_ was in his grave!
In November her last visit to Northrepps Cottage was paid. On the 2nd of
January following, (1852,) she was attacked with rheumatic gout in her
feet, which confined her to her bed two months, and never afterwards
entirely left her.
The following note to Miss Gurney, written shortly after this time,
shows her happy resignation and cheerful spirit amid increasing
infirmities.
Castle Meadow, 3rd mo., 5th, 1852.
MY DEAREST A.,
I was very sorry not to be able to see R. yesterday; but I was
denied to every one while Mrs. F. Kemble was with me, as I had
much to say to her. The cold of this day has kept me in bed, and
one of my feet has been very painful. I much enjoyed F. K.’s
conversation. She is gone to-day on her way to London. How many
things I want to say to thee, but can’t say them! but I am very
thankful for what I _can_ do, and I do not repine at what I
can’t do; and life flies only too fast. I do not see, at
present, any chance for my speedy recovery; but life has still
its charms. I am so glad to have an excuse for lying in bed all
day: it is so troublesome to move from bed to chair, and thence
to sofa.
Thine ever, most affectionately,
A. OPIE.
A few passages from her notes will be read with pleasure.
(4th mo. 18th.) My prisms are, to-day, quite in their glory.
The atmosphere must be very clear, for the radiance is brighter
than ever I saw it before. Surely the mansions in heaven must be
draped with such unparalleled colours! (5th mo. 4th.) Oh!
Captain Gardener and his crew! how I have cried over their
death; and yet how enviable was the state of their minds; how
meek and entire their resignation how blessed their entrance
into the Redeemer’s kingdom, and their awaiting welcome there! I
have read it through three times, as though fascinated.—Poor
John Dalrymple, cut off when he had _attained_ the height of his
profession! (5th mo. 18th.) No one surely ever had so many
kind friends as I have! I can truly say that I have every
alleviation of my suffering that I can have, and have every
comfort that I desire, and I do not want any nursing but what I
have. Mine has been a lonely lot through life; but I have never
felt it painfully so; and I believe the happiest persons are
those who have the fewest wants. The great I AM, is more
even-handed than we think Him.
In the month of September, Mrs. Opie made her last visit to Cromer. She
remained there for a fortnight, and had two rooms on a ground floor of
the house in which she lodged, where she could lie in bed, and watch the
billows as they rolled. Numerous friends flocked around her; amongst
them her very old and valued ones, Mrs. and Miss Hoare, whose daily
visits cheered her; and many were the little kindnesses she received,
which, small in themselves, were yet valued as tokens of love; and they
were mentioned with grateful remembrance. On reaching home she was
carried upstairs in her basket-chair, never to go down again!
Shortly after her return she wrote to Miss Gurney,
9th mo., 26th, 1852.
DEAREST ANNA,
I had a pleasant journey home, arriving safely at my own door;
but not quite so pleasant an one as I went upstairs. * * It
grieves my heart to think that I am not any nearer at present
than I was to get to the Bible Meeting, and my _Quarterly_
Meeting! but I find I am not up to the exertions necessary. It
is heart-breaking to me, almost, to miss a Bible Meeting; this
is the _first_ I ever omitted, and I did not with any certainty
look forward to another; I can truly say that I give it up most
unwillingly, but “His will be done!”
I am come home with a cold, but nothing to make me regret one
hour spent at Cromer; so many dear friends to see, some new ones
to welcome, and more enamoured of Cromer than ever. Farewell! I
must lie down and hope to sleep.
Thy ever affectionate,
A. OPIE.
Three months later she wrote:—
I shall probably never be able to go out again; and the idea of
being confined to my bed is anything but disagreeable, what a
mercy this is! but thankfully as well as reverently, I can
repeat, “His mercies are new every morning.” I must, however,
own, that being unable to go to meeting is a continually
recurring trial; but I hope by spring, if I live so long, I may
have contrived a way to get there again. All I ask is to be made
more and more resigned to the Divine will, whatever it may be.
In January, 1853, her long-loved and honoured friend, Lucy Aggs, died;
she writes of this event in one of her notes:—
(1st mo. 23rd, 1853.) She is indeed _gone home_; this morning
she slept her last, like a wearied child; how sudden her
removal! This day month she was with me, and at meeting twice!
how trying to me and to others is this event; but how blest to
her. I am grieved more than I can express; and am almost selfish
enough to forget that our great loss is her abundant gain.
During the course of the summer many of Mrs. Opie’s relatives visited
her; their presence seemed greatly to cheer and comfort her; and she
frequently spoke of the pleasure it gave her to see them all; on one
occasion particularly, she remarked, “I know not how it is, but my
cousins and friends seem as though they felt their leave-taking were the
last. My cousin R. W. came back twice to shake hands with me. Would that
the Baron had been with them!”
The strong feeling of family attachment which characterized Mrs. Opie
through life, was retained to the last. She evinced the deepest sympathy
with her beloved cousin, Lady Milman, whom she knew to be dying, (and
who, in fact, survived her but a very short time,) constantly inquiring
for her, and suggesting anything which occurred to her mind as likely to
contribute to her comfort, expressing her joy that the confidence of
this dear relative was like her own, placed in the blessed promises of
the gospel, and thus secure for eternity.
We add a few closing passages from her notes.
(5th mo. 30th.) Again I am forced to feel the pain of not
being able to go to Yearly Meeting, a great loss to me; and I
have lost an opportunity of seeing H. B. Stowe; but I heartily
rejoice in the reception she has met with: well has it been
deserved, in my opinion; and well has she performed the work
delegated to her from above. I am very glad dear H. Birkbeck has
a son; and very glad also, that dear L. B. will soon be home;
for I had feared I should not live to see her again. I rejoice,
too, to hear such good accounts of the dear Cunninghams.
Another note, dated 7th mo. 18th, records the visit of her cousin, Mrs.
Vincent Thompson, with warm affection, and expresses the happiness she
had experienced in her society, concluding, “I am indeed delighted to
have seen her once more.” Shortly after this time she mentions the
expected departure to America of the lamented William Forster; he had
been her friend and counsellor; one to whom she looked for help and
support; and from whose lips she had drunk in truth and wisdom. It did
indeed cost her heart a severe pang to part from him; and the more so,
as she felt she “should see his face no more.” She writes:—
(7th mo. 28th.) How very much I feel the return of this
season, this year. The dead have been more present with me than
the living; but that is very natural. I am writing in bed, the
place I love best. Alas! to the house of the Lord I _cannot_ go,
and that is an evil. Dearest W. Forster! going away, not to
return again, I fear, till I am no more; but I shall not own
that to him.[46]
On the 21st of October Mrs. Opie appeared much as usual; during that
morning she received several friends, and was highly interested by a
visit from Lieutenant Cresswell, who had recently returned to England
with dispatches from the Investigator, to tell of the discovery of the
north-west passage, though not, alas! of the finding of Sir John
Franklin. His communications excited her lively sympathy; and, as the
grandson of Mrs. Fry, his presence alone awakened the slumbering
remembrances of the past.
The following day she was evidently somewhat fatigued, but was able to
write several notes. In one, addressed to Miss Gurney, after expressing
her joy at hearing a good account of her dear friend Mrs. Hoare, she
mentions the pleasure she had enjoyed in seeing Mrs. Cunningham and Mr.
John Gurney, who had dined at her house, and attended the Bible Meeting;
she says:—
I could not accompany them, nor can I perhaps expect to go out
again. Well! all good and all _evil_ here will soon be over with
me now. I am abundantly thankful for everything; for I feel that
“His mercies are new every morning.” How I wish thou and dear
Lady Buxton could have been my guests yesterday. It was really a
very enjoyable time, and the only drawback was my being unable
to go to the meetings, and to dine below stairs.
The next day was Sunday; early in the morning she was taken ill; and her
maid, S. Nixon, observing symptoms unusual with her mistress, sent
immediately for Dr. Hull, who desired she might be kept perfectly quiet.
The writer of these memoirs had been in the habit, since Mrs. Opie’s
confinement to the house, of spending an hour with her, on Sunday
morning. On that day there was not the usual influx of visitors, and she
seemed to enjoy having a quiet chat. The usual call was made that
morning, but the mandate of the doctor was communicated, and, of course,
obeyed. It was with a strange feeling of alarm, that turning away from
the door-step, the writer began to think over the past few months. Yes,
there had certainly been some tokens of enfeebled powers—a partial
failure of memory—an occasional loss in the thread of her conversation;
and at times an inability to express clearly her meaning. For the last
few weeks the newspapers had been neglected; and, once or twice, an
ominous sentence had been dropped, that startled her friends. “When I am
gone.”—“I feel I shall not be here long.” To her faithful friend of
many years’ standing, the Rev. H. Tacy, she had said, shortly before,
“Do not be long before you come again; for I am on the wing!”—But, her
aunt had lived more than ninety years, and Mrs. Opie was so cheerful and
bright, her carriage so erect, and she looked so much as she had long
done, that, after all, these occasional symptoms were probably merely
the inevitable results of advancing age, and her foreboding expressions
the effects of confinement and seclusion!
So whispered Hope; and the writer, for one, did not realize the idea
that the end was at hand. On the evening of that Sunday, a message from
Dr. Hull was sent to her friend and professional adviser, Thos.
Brightwell. Mrs. Opie was very ill—might not, perhaps, survive many
hours; and, as she had desired, in case of any sudden attack of illness,
that “Thomas Brightwell and Mary Brown” should be sent for, he had felt
it his duty to inform them of her condition.
In a few hours, however, the alarming symptoms subsided, and the gout
appeared externally, and fixed itself in the right heel.
Mrs. Opie survived nearly six weeks from that day, being unable to leave
her bed, and suffering greatly. At first, there was much of her usual
cheerfulness and buoyancy of spirit about her; and she evidently
entertained no apprehension of the fatal nature of the attack. She took
an interest in the events occurring around her, and frequently made
inquiries and remarks that shewed her sympathies were lively, and her
recollection unimpaired. Her constant patience and endurance under
suffering, were truly exemplary. To one friend who asked her, after she
had been talking with great vivacity, whether she suffered much pain;
she replied, “Oh! yes, I am scarcely ever free from it, and it is often
severe; but I am so used to pain, I have learned not to mind it;” and,
on another occasion, when her sufferings were spoken of, she said, she
thought “more of her mercies than of her trials.” During the last three
or four weeks of her life, she became greatly worse; her weakness
increased; she took little nourishment, and suffered much distressing
pain in the hip and in the heel. Throughout this trying season, her
kind, gentle, and watchful friend, Mary Brown, remained in constant and
unwearying attendance beside her, ministering to her wants, and
answering the numerous inquiries, personal, and epistolary, of her
friends. Having, like herself, joined the Society of Friends, she was
the more able to sympathize with her feelings; and to _her_ it was, that
she expressed her constant adherence to the religious tenets of Friends,
and the satisfaction she experienced in looking back upon the time when
she joined their communion.
The frequent presence and devoted attention of her cousin, the Rev. R.
Alderson, was another great comfort to Mrs. Opie; happily, he was able
to give much of his time to her; and she missed him if he left her, and
anxiously inquired when he would return. It was doubtless, a great
satisfaction to him to render these last and important services to his
honoured relative.
Mrs. Opie had expressed, on more than one occasion, the hope that her
friend William Forster, would be with her during her last hours. But
this wish was not granted her. His sisters, who were then in Norfolk,
assiduously visited her, as did also Mrs. Birkbeck; and John Shewell, a
Minister of the Society, paid her a religious visit, shortly after the
commencement of her illness, and was enabled to speak to her comfort and
satisfaction; and her kind and highly esteemed friend, the Rev. J.
Alexander, saw her, and his spiritual aid was “refreshing” to her. But,
soothing as are the offices of friendship, and precious the prayers of
the righteous under such circumstances, how unavailing is all human
ministry when heart and flesh are failing! _Then_ the soul realizes her
independence, and the inefficiency of earthly help, and feels with whom
she has to do; and knows that for herself, and alone, she must stand in
the presence of the Holy One. And so it was, in this instance. Alone, in
the night season, her voice was heard in supplication, pouring out the
desires of her soul to her Redeemer. The pathetic utterances of
resignation, amid pain and anguish, were heard, by those who watched
beside her couch; “what am I (she said, thinking aloud) that I should
expect to escape suffering? this, also, is meant for my good.” Often
too, she was heard repeating to herself texts of Scripture, and hymns;
and on more than one occasion, she called for her Bible, and for
Wesley’s Hymn Book, (her much used copy of which is full of her marks,
and turned down at her favourite hymns,) and, sitting up in her bed,
read aloud to her maids, as it had been her constant habit to do.
Mrs. Opie often spoke of the kindness of her friends, and evinced the
most tender interest in them; weeping as she mentioned the proofs of
their affectionate remembrance, and sending touching messages in reply
to their inquiries. “Tell them (she said) I have suffered great pain;
but I think on Him who suffered for me.”—“Say that I am trusting in my
Saviour, and ask them to pray for me.” And when told by one of those who
visited her, that many prayers were offered for her, she said (and a
tear glistened in her eye) “it were worth while to be ill, to have the
prayers of our friends.”
Latterly there was a striking change in her personal appearance. So
completely was her countenance altered, that it would have been
impossible for any one, even of those who knew her best, to recognize
her. The only vestige remaining of her former looks, was a peculiar
uplifting of the eye, accompanied by a slight shake of the head. Her
articulation also became so imperfect, that it was very difficult to
distinguish what she said; and for very weakness, her head lay, bent
sideways, apparently powerless, on the cushion.
Her debility prevented her seeing more than two or three most intimate
friends; and one of the last visitors she received, and the sight of
whom evidently afforded her the most heartfelt satisfaction, was the
friend of her early days, Mrs. Gurney, of Keswick; who, herself an
invalid, made a considerable effort to reach her bedside and bid her
farewell. “How much she loved me!” was her whispered expression, when
she afterwards mentioned this interview. Shortly before her death, the
Rev. H. Tacy called to see her, not knowing of her illness; and little
thinking that the words she had spoken when they last parted, were so
soon to be fulfilled. His visit, painful as it was, was opportune, and
appeared to comfort her much. On another day, she desired that parts of
the Litany and the other prayers should be read to her, which was done;
Mrs. Opie, with clasped hands, repeating all the responses.
Her debility now visibly and rapidly increased. She refused almost all
nourishment, and seemed to crave no other refreshment than “cold water,”
for which she frequently called. It was evident that her end was
approaching.
On the last Sunday of Mrs. Opie’s life, (the 27th November,) the writer
of these lines accompanied her father to pay a farewell visit to the
bedside of their dying friend. She lay propped up on pillows and
cushions, extremely feeble, but perfectly clear in her intellect, calm,
and composed. She had become conscious of her danger, and anticipated
her approaching departure. This she intimated by saying “the last few
days I have been preparing to go.”[47] In reply to the inquiry, what she
meant to convey by these words, she said, “why, to die, child, to be
sure!” “You have long been prepared to die, we hope.” “I hope so
indeed,” she replied, “there is only _one_ way.”
There she lay! helpless, dying, alone. Could all those whom she had
loved and served been permitted to gather around her couch, what a cloud
of witnesses, circle within circle, had thronged that small chamber with
looks of tender sympathy! Impelled by some such thought, the writer bent
over her and said, “it is a great thing to be loved as you are loved.
How many ask anxiously for tidings of you.” She raised her eyes to those
of the speaker, and seemed as though awaiting confirmation of the
assurance, and looked satisfied on receiving it. She responded too, with
evident earnestness of feeling, to the expression of the hope that she
was soon about to rejoin those dear ones whom she had loved so well, and
who were gone before.
From time to time she uttered a few broken words; and once, with a
piteous look, said, “I am very thirsty; but her weakness was too great
to allow of more than an occasional sentence. It was truly distressing
to gaze upon her entirely changed countenance, and exhausted frame, and
to feel the sad conviction that one was looking on her for the last
time!
At the former part of her illness, Mrs. Opie’s natural warmth of
affection, and lively interest in those whom she loved, seemed to induce
her still to cling to life; and while she said that on looking back and
contemplating the past, the time seemed long in the review, yet she
intimated it would be sweet to live a little longer, if permitted to do
so, “were it not still better to depart.” But, as the end approached,
there appeared to be a gradual giving up her hold on the present life,
and the few words she uttered shewed that her thoughts were on heavenly
things.
On the night of the 30th she said to her cousin “all is peace;” and
afterwards, when Mr. S. Gurney was present, she gave it as her dying
testimony “all is mercy.”
During the last five days of her life her sufferings were protracted and
severe. Hers were “the groans and pains and dying strife” of a mortal
conflict. But her faith and patience failed not; and at length the Angel
messenger came, and she was released!
At midnight, on Friday the 2nd of December, 1853, Amelia Opie breathed
her last.
-----
[46] He died soon after in Tennessee, while on a mission on behalf of
the slave.
[47] The preparation to which she referred had reference to some small
directions she had dictated to her maid a few evenings before, to be
communicated to her executor; at the close of which she said, “I should
have liked to give little remembrances to all my friends, and have taken
leave of them, but I have done the best I can.”
CONCLUSION.
“Death is something so strange, that, notwithstanding all experience,
one thinks it impossible for it to seize a beloved object; it always
presents itself as an incredible and unexpected event; and this
transition, from an existence we know, to one of which we know nothing,
is something so violent that it cannot take place without the greatest
shock to survivors.”
Who has not experienced, to some extent, the feelings thus expressed by
Goethe? The immediate results of death, no less than the actual event,
excite the most perplexing and distressing ideas. All is unwonted and
unnatural. One’s thoughts are compelled to take a new and strange turn.
They are occupied henceforth, about that which _was_, and is not; it is
the “history of a life,” not a living, sentient, beloved being, that
occupies them now. Fancy, having tried in vain to “paint the moment
after death,” gives place to Memory and Love, which busily go o’er the
past, and trace, again and again, each step.
One glance at the forsaken “tabernacle,” lately the dwelling-place of
that soul beloved, renews the sad conviction, that what you once had,
you have no more, and ne’er can have again. Then, after a time, the
sarcophagus—the chest, that shuts in and confines what loved to be
free, and _would_ not be held in durance;—it is all unnatural! the
result of some infringement of the original intent.
So felt the writer when next she entered the house on the Castle Meadow;
now no longer Mrs. Opie’s house; for she lay dead therein. Yes! she lay
dead; placed in her coffin, in the lower chamber, beneath the one in
which she had breathed her last; surrounded by the portraits of her
friends, which, hanging upon the walls of the room, used so often to
attract her notice, and win from her some expression of remembrance and
regard. Men of all views, political and religious, were there; all
known, and having earned a niche there, by some superiority of natural
or acquired excellences. There Lafayette, Cooper, David, Madame de
Staël, and others, of her foreign friends, hung side by side. There J.
J. Gurney and his brother, Elizabeth Fry and Lucy Aggs, and close by
them the Bishops of Norwich and Durham, and Professors Sedgwick and
Whewell; there the poets and statesmen, whose genius had charmed her;
and last, though not the least, Mrs. Siddons, in her glory, as Queen
Catherine.
It was an affecting and instructive sight to look upon—very sad; and
yet, after a time, reason and faith suggested soothing and happy
reflections. She, who lay there, had died in a good old age, full of
years and honour; had finished her earthly course in peace, and now, the
end was known, and all was “well.” She had died in the faith and hope of
the gospel; her feet had not fallen, for God had held up her goings; and
her spirit, though no longer permitted to sojourn among the living, had
joined the “great crowd of witnesses,” which is ever multiplying its
hosts, and securely awaiting its ultimate completion and triumph.
The 9th of December was the day appointed for the funeral of Mrs. Opie;
she was interred in the Friends’ burying ground, at the Gildencroft; in
the same grave with her father. About two hundred persons, assembled in
solemn silence, stood there to meditate: one voice alone was heard; that
of a venerable Friend, who uttered a few simple scriptural words. It
seemed strange to miss from among the sorrowing group around, so many
who had loved and honoured her. But the eye had only to glance over that
green enclosure, and one was reminded that they lay _there_, beside and
around her. Rich, indeed, is that small plot of ground. The good, the
honoured, the lovely, and beloved, lie there;—some of the best of men
and saints, whose prayers drew blessings down from heaven,—awaiting the
day when “the secrets of all hearts shall be made known.” It is a
hallowed spot; consecrated to holy memories.
Should any wanderer, at some future day, desire to visit the grave of
Amelia Opie, he will find, at the extreme left side of the ground,
beneath an elm tree that overshadows the wall, a small slab, bearing the
names of James Alderson and Amelia Opie, with the dates of their births
and deaths.
Among those present on this occasion, was one, long and well-known to
Mrs. Opie, and of whom she has spoken in terms of warm praise, in one of
her notes; Mr. Hodgkin, a minister of the Friends, who, addressing those
around, invited them to accompany him to the Meeting House; where, after
a short time spent in silence and in prayer, he rose, and spoke, in
words very pleasant and judicious, of the dear departed friend, whom
they had lost. He had known her, he said, from his own earlier days, and
when she was very different from what she afterwards became. He believed
that the ruling principle in her mind, and that which, being implanted
there by Divine grace, had remained the dominant one in her soul, was
the love of Christ; constrained by the sweet influence of which, she had
been enabled to maintain much consistent Christian deportment, amid
snares and temptations of peculiar fascination for one, endowed by
nature, and trained by early habit, as she had been.
Much more he added, of a nature to impress his hearers with a deep sense
of thankfulness for the Divine goodness, and to urge them to pursue,
with humble and pious zeal, the path of Christian devotedness and
obedience.
It may seem natural and desirable that a few words should be said
touching the personal appearance of the subject of these memoirs, during
the latter period of her life.—How difficult, and indeed _impossible_
it is, to satisfy yourself, when attempting to portray the form and
features of those you know most intimately, and have been constantly in
the habit of seeing! This you feel in trying to describe the members of
your own family; in the mind’s eye their image lives, ’tis true; but it
is rather as a _consciousness_; something, as it were, that is
interwoven with the secret and hidden ideas of your soul. In a degree,
this is the case with all those most familiar to you; and perhaps the
reason is, that the whole idea of their personality has been formed by
degrees—shade after shade, as the events of passing years have left
their impress upon them.
Be that as it may; the difficulty is known, and will be acknowledged.
Yet, for the sake of strangers, rather than to assist the recollections
of the friends of Mrs. Opie, the following slight sketch may be
permitted.
She was of about the standard height of woman; her hair was worn in
waving folds in front, and behind, it was seen through the cap, gathered
into a braid; its colour was peculiar—’twixt flaxen and gray; it was
unusually fine and delicate, and had a natural bend or wave. Her Quaker
cap was of beautiful lawn, and fastened beneath the chin with whimpers,
which had small crimped frills: her dress was usually of rich silk or
satin, often of a fawn or grey colour; and over the bust was drawn a
muslin or net handkerchief, in thick folds, fastening into the waist,
round which was worn a band of the same material as the dress; an apron,
usually of net or muslin, protected (or _adorned_) the front of the
gown. Her feet, which were small and well formed, peeped out beneath the
dress. On her hands she wore small, black, netted muffatees, (she
sometimes repaired them while talking to her friends,) and the cuffs of
her gown were secured by a small loop at one corner, which she wore
passed over the thumb, so as to prevent them from turning back or
rucking upon the arm; her figure was stout, the throat short; her
carriage was invariably erect, and she bore her head rather thrown back,
and with an air of dignity. Her countenance, in her later years, lost
much of that fire which once irradiated it; but the expression was more
pleasing; softer, more tender, and loving. Her eyes were especially
charming; there was in them an ardour mingled with gentleness, that
bespoke her true nature, and occasionally they were raised upwards with
a look most peculiar and expressive, when her sympathy was more than
usually excited. Her complexion was fair, and the kindling blush mantled
in her cheek, betraying any passing emotion; for, like her friend
Lafayette, she “blushed like a girl to hear her own praises.” Altogether
she attracted you, and you drew near to her, and liked to look into her
face, and felt that old age, in her, was beautiful and comely.
Often, very often, has the writer, while listening to her lively
anecdotes, and watching her animated countenance, drawn her chair closer
and yet closer, and at length, slipping down, rested on one knee, in
order the better to see her; and after bidding her farewell again and
again, returned to the same position and “staid a little longer.”
How lively were her narratives; and with what minute touches she gave
the details of the scene she was describing. What spirit and life did
she breathe into the portraits of those whom she admired! Certainly her
conversation was superior to her writing; perhaps the charms of manner
and voice aided to enhance the effect of her words.
The peculiar virtues and excellencies of Mrs. Opie’s character have been
manifested (as it were unconsciously) in the notes and diaries given in
these pages; and it would be unbecoming, and is unnecessary, for the
writer to enumerate them. Her foibles, too, are shewn by her own hand;
and happy they who have so few; happier still, they, who exercise the
same watchfulness against their easily besetting faults. In one of her
earlier notes, she says, “My practice every night is to examine all my
actions, and sift all my motives during the day, for all that I have
said or done. I make sad discoveries, by that means, of my own
sinfulness; but I am truly thankful that this power has been given me,
and lay my head on my pillow with much gratitude.”
Seneca accounted the remembrance of his departed friends amongst his
solemn delights; not looking upon them as lost, for, he said, “the
thought of them is sweet and soothing to me; while I had them I expected
to lose them; and having lost them, I still feel that I have them;” and
if it were so with the pious heathen, with how much more confidence may
the Christian cherish delightful thoughts of the friends he has lost;
and, indeed, it is the will of God, and part of the favour which He has
promised to His servants, that “the memory of the just shall be
blessed.”
To many the remembrance of Amelia Opie will long be dear. Would that
these memorials of her life, (imperfect alas! and unsatisfactory as they
are,) might be the means of animating some by her example, to pursue the
things “which are true and lovely and of good report.”
THE END.
FLETCHER AND ALEXANDER, PRINTERS, NORWICH.
[Illustration]
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things of time and sense to those which are more
enduring.”—_Bell’s Weekly Messenger._
=_May Dundas; or Passages in Young Life._=
By Mrs. THOS. GELDART. Price 2s. 6d. cloth, 3s. gilt.
“A book much above the average in the class to which it belongs.
The writing is marked by a very considerable degree both of
grace and power. The first page bespeaks an author who knows how
to describe. The pervading religious tone is satisfactory. Mrs.
Geldart possesses the power of natural and refined pathos,
especially in connexion with childish feelings. The prettiest
thing in the book is the episode of the little girl, with her
deep unspoken associations of feeling with her city home, in
Finsbury Square, with the stool by the nursery fire, and with
the three cornered glazed cupboard, and the china images within,
which she remembered her lost mother placing there, and which
she herself carried with her when she went away to
die.”—_Christian Witness._
=_Footmarks of Charity._=
Containing _The Man in Earnest_—(Sir Thomas Fowell Buxton)
_Reminiscences of a Good Man’s Life_—(Joseph John Gurney) _The Pathway
of Love_—(Mrs. Fry) By MRS. THOMAS GELDART. Price 1s.
“The Sketches are beautiful delineations, of beautiful
characters.”
“The fame of Buxton filled the world. His praise was on every
lip, and respect for his character nestled in every bosom.
Those, however, to whom he was only a great man, may, from this
pretty 18mo, glean the principal facts of his admirable and
philanthropic career.”
“This little book, which is a perfect gem of its kind, is from
the pen of Mrs. Thos. Geldart. Under the respective titles of
“The Man in Earnest,” “The Pathway of Love,” “Reminiscences of a
Good Man’s Life.” It contains some brief but beautiful sketches
of Sir Fowell Buxton, Elizabeth Fry, and Joseph John Gurney.
They are written with the simplicity, easy elegance, and truth
to nature, which distinguish Mrs. Geldart’s style, and will be
read with delight in every circle where virtue is reverenced,
and active goodness and world-wide philanthropy are admired and
appreciated.”—_Norfolk News._
=_Thoughts for Home; in Prose and Verse._=
By Mrs. THOS. GELDART. Elegantly boarded, cloth gilt, 2s. 6d.
=_Kate Hall; or, One of the Graces._=
By Mrs. THOS. GELDART. 18mo. Price 3d.
=_Brief Memoir of Edward Stanley_,=
D.D., late Lord Bishop of Norwich. By =John Alexander=,
Minister of Prince’s Street Chapel, Norwich. Cloth, 1s.
=_The Fisherman’s Friendly Visitor._=
Published quarterly. Price 2d. Copies of vols. 2 to 6, Price 10d. each.
=_Fear Not_;=
(A Selection of Consolatory Texts.) Price 3d.
=_Heart Discipline._=
By JAMES COOPER, of Norwich, with a recommendatory Preface by the Rev.
John Angell James, of Birmingham. 12mo. Price 4s. 6d.
“A volume commended in a preface by John Angell James. It is a
book of quiet thoughtfulness—a little too introspective, but
adapted to check the tendency now prevalent towards the opposite
extreme.”—_The British Quarterly Review._
A treatise on “Heart Discipline,” by James Cooper of Norwich, a
venerable and successful minister of the Gospel, contains
practical advice of great value on Spiritual Culture and the
Health of the Soul. A recommendatory preface by the Rev. J. A.
James, of Birmingham, is prefixed to the volume, which deserves
the high eulogies which it receives from that eminent
Nonconformist Divine. Scriptural truth and pious counsel are
conveyed in simple language and earnest tone, and come with
authority from an author who has passed his threescore years and
ten, and who, by his pen, now testifies on subjects which he has
preached for nearly half a century from the pulpit.—_Literary
Gazette._
“Mr. Cooper, between forty and fifty years ago, was a member of
Mr. James’s church, as also were his parents. Since his
retirement from the pastorate, Mr. Cooper has employed his
leisure in the preparation of this volume; “in which,” to use
Mr. James’s words, “he has compressed the spiritual and
practical wisdom attained by the reading, reflection, and
experience of threescore years and ten.” Such a work, so
commended, needs no recommendation of ours.”—_Patriot._
TRANSCRIBER NOTES
All spellings and punctuation maintained as written.
Cover created for this ebook edition.
[The end of "Memorials of the Life of Amelia Opie", by Cecilia Lucy
Brightwell.]