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 containsnumbers, I write to you instead of my father, and shall get my letter directed for me. Franks are now of no use, as evenPeerscan’t frank, being no longer Lords of parliament; therefore, were they sacred to theselicensedrogues, 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 subsequentménageas 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 willnotsay of the agreeable delinquent,“If to his share some manly errors fallHear 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 onMonday, 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!
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 containsnumbers, I write to you instead of my father, and shall get my letter directed for me. Franks are now of no use, as evenPeerscan’t frank, being no longer Lords of parliament; therefore, were they sacred to theselicensedrogues, 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 subsequentménageas 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 willnotsay of the agreeable delinquent,
“If to his share some manly errors fallHear him converse, and you’ll forget them all,”or, “Look in his eyes, and you’ll forget them all,”
“If to his share some manly errors fallHear him converse, and you’ll forget them all,”or, “Look in his eyes, and you’ll forget them all,”
“If to his share some manly errors fallHear him converse, and you’ll forget them all,”or, “Look in his eyes, and you’ll forget them all,”
“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 onMonday, 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 gloriouschefs d’œuvreof 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 excellenttable 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. * *
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 parchment-looking complexions.
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 parchment-looking complexions.
After many tedious delays on the road, occasioned by the voiturier’s “unreasonable care of his horses, as he would not allow them to move after seven o’clock,” and various little events of small interest, they reached Paris, and she thus describes her feelings on the occasion:—
At length we entered the suburbs of the metropolis, and saw written in chalk on the walls on both sides, and in giant letters, “L’Indivisibilité de la Republique;” but all traces of republicanism were so rapidly disappearing, that the word without the second syllable would have described it better; namely, “invisibility.” But to me every other consciousness was soon absorbed in the joyful one of being at last in Paris, that city which I had so long desired to see.
At length we entered the suburbs of the metropolis, and saw written in chalk on the walls on both sides, and in giant letters, “L’Indivisibilité de la Republique;” but all traces of republicanism were so rapidly disappearing, that the word without the second syllable would have described it better; namely, “invisibility.” But to me every other consciousness was soon absorbed in the joyful one of being at last in Paris, that city which I had so long desired to see.
Being advised to go to the Hôtel of the Rue des Etrangers, they repaired thither, and were soon installed in commodious apartments; the street, then the best in Paris, opening at one end, on the Place de la Concorde, where “the perpetual guillotine” stood, while at the other end was the Church de la Madeleine.
By this time my restless curiosity was at its height, and I was anticipating some days of great enjoyment, when my husband, who had run off to the Louvre long before the rest of us were ready, returned with a countenance of such vexation and suffering, that I could not help asking him what calamity had occurred? “Calamity indeed!” he replied, “the Louvre is shut to-day, but then it will be open to-morrow, so that it would not much signify; but I cannot stay here—the whiteness of everything—the houses—the ground we walk upon—all dazzle and blind me; and if I stay, I shall lose my eyesight, and then I shall be a lost man.” This was uttered in such evident suffering, that for a few minutes I was overwhelmed with consternation and disappointment. I knew that go we must, if staying endangered my husband’s sight; and I still recall, with exquisite pain, the trial of that hour.
By this time my restless curiosity was at its height, and I was anticipating some days of great enjoyment, when my husband, who had run off to the Louvre long before the rest of us were ready, returned with a countenance of such vexation and suffering, that I could not help asking him what calamity had occurred? “Calamity indeed!” he replied, “the Louvre is shut to-day, but then it will be open to-morrow, so that it would not much signify; but I cannot stay here—the whiteness of everything—the houses—the ground we walk upon—all dazzle and blind me; and if I stay, I shall lose my eyesight, and then I shall be a lost man.” This was uttered in such evident suffering, that for a few minutes I was overwhelmed with consternation and disappointment. I knew that go we must, if staying endangered my husband’s sight; and I still recall, with exquisite pain, the trial of that hour.
Happily they succeeded, by some means, in procuring admittance to the Louvre immediately, and she says:—
As the painter, while contemplating the wonders of the museum, ceased to feel the inconvenience which the man had thought unbearable, I had the joy of finding that we should not quit Paris that day. * * * * *Why should I dwell on emotions which every one probably has felt on entering the Louvre gallery? My own pleasure, my ignorant pleasure, was nothing to the more scientific delight of my husband; and I recall with melancholy satisfaction, the enjoyment which he derived from this visit to the French metropolis; an enjoyment purchased and deserved by many years of the most assiduous labours in his difficult profession; and which, with the single exception of a week spent in a visit to Flanders, a few years previously, was the only relaxation to his well principled industry, in which he ever allowed himself to indulge.
As the painter, while contemplating the wonders of the museum, ceased to feel the inconvenience which the man had thought unbearable, I had the joy of finding that we should not quit Paris that day. * * * * *
Why should I dwell on emotions which every one probably has felt on entering the Louvre gallery? My own pleasure, my ignorant pleasure, was nothing to the more scientific delight of my husband; and I recall with melancholy satisfaction, the enjoyment which he derived from this visit to the French metropolis; an enjoyment purchased and deserved by many years of the most assiduous labours in his difficult profession; and which, with the single exception of a week spent in a visit to Flanders, a few years previously, was the only relaxation to his well principled industry, in which he ever allowed himself to indulge.
On the second day after her arrival in Paris, she thus records an event which greatly delighted her.
I was in the Louvre gallery and standing alone before the picture of the Deluge, by N. Poussin, (my favourite station,) when I heard some one say that the First Consul was just going to enter his carriage, on his way to the Conservative Senate. “Oh that I could but see him!” exclaimed I aloud, and in French; on which, one of the guardians of the gallery said, “Eh bien! mademoiselle, suivez moi et vous le verrez.” Without daring to lose a moment in order to seek for my companions, I followed rapidly whither he led. He took me through a door at the extreme end of the gallery, opening into a room on the floor, and against the wall of which were several unframed pictures. Another door led us into an apartment, which looked immediately on the Place du Carousel. Ladies were sitting at the window, who, at my guide’s request that they would make room for an English stranger, kindly allowed me a seat beside them.I arrived just in time to see the procession form. The carriage of Buonaparte, drawn by eight bays, was already at the palace gate, and was soon followed by that of the other consuls, Cambaceres and Le Brun, drawn by six black horses. Soon after, thecorps d’élite, the body guard, and the troop of Mamelucs, made their appearance; and Rustan, the favourite Mameluc of Napoleon, was also at his post, awaiting his master. At length an increased noise at the door announced that he was coming, and I gazed to an almost painful degree of intensity, in order to catch one glimpse of this extraordinary man; but he sprang into his carriage with such rapidity that not one of us could see him! Rustan quickly jumped up behind, and the procession went forward. It was, I own, a striking sight; but I did not think equal in beauty and grandeur to the procession of our king to the House of Lords, when he goes to open or prorogue the Parliament.Who knows what views of royal splendour to come, were, even then, floating before the mind of Napoleon! He was going that morning to realize and enjoy the highest present object of his “vaulting ambition.” He was going, for the first time, to open the Conservative Senate, as First Consul for life. He had taken the first step on the path to despotic power; he had ascertained the extent of his own influence; he had succeeded in his endeavours to be voted a sort of Dictator for life; and he had proved that the self-denying and noble example of Washington had been thrown away on him. But even then, at this seeming height of his proud career, I do not remember to have heard him greeted by a single shout; the evidences of a people’s love did not hail his presence; and no eager and exulting crowd hung on his carriage wheels; and when I turned from the window, as thecortègedisappeared, I felt disappointed, not only because I had not seen Buonaparte, but because there was no expression heard of animating popular feeling.
I was in the Louvre gallery and standing alone before the picture of the Deluge, by N. Poussin, (my favourite station,) when I heard some one say that the First Consul was just going to enter his carriage, on his way to the Conservative Senate. “Oh that I could but see him!” exclaimed I aloud, and in French; on which, one of the guardians of the gallery said, “Eh bien! mademoiselle, suivez moi et vous le verrez.” Without daring to lose a moment in order to seek for my companions, I followed rapidly whither he led. He took me through a door at the extreme end of the gallery, opening into a room on the floor, and against the wall of which were several unframed pictures. Another door led us into an apartment, which looked immediately on the Place du Carousel. Ladies were sitting at the window, who, at my guide’s request that they would make room for an English stranger, kindly allowed me a seat beside them.
I arrived just in time to see the procession form. The carriage of Buonaparte, drawn by eight bays, was already at the palace gate, and was soon followed by that of the other consuls, Cambaceres and Le Brun, drawn by six black horses. Soon after, thecorps d’élite, the body guard, and the troop of Mamelucs, made their appearance; and Rustan, the favourite Mameluc of Napoleon, was also at his post, awaiting his master. At length an increased noise at the door announced that he was coming, and I gazed to an almost painful degree of intensity, in order to catch one glimpse of this extraordinary man; but he sprang into his carriage with such rapidity that not one of us could see him! Rustan quickly jumped up behind, and the procession went forward. It was, I own, a striking sight; but I did not think equal in beauty and grandeur to the procession of our king to the House of Lords, when he goes to open or prorogue the Parliament.
Who knows what views of royal splendour to come, were, even then, floating before the mind of Napoleon! He was going that morning to realize and enjoy the highest present object of his “vaulting ambition.” He was going, for the first time, to open the Conservative Senate, as First Consul for life. He had taken the first step on the path to despotic power; he had ascertained the extent of his own influence; he had succeeded in his endeavours to be voted a sort of Dictator for life; and he had proved that the self-denying and noble example of Washington had been thrown away on him. But even then, at this seeming height of his proud career, I do not remember to have heard him greeted by a single shout; the evidences of a people’s love did not hail his presence; and no eager and exulting crowd hung on his carriage wheels; and when I turned from the window, as thecortègedisappeared, I felt disappointed, not only because I had not seen Buonaparte, but because there was no expression heard of animating popular feeling.
Returning to join her party in the picture gallery after this adventure, Mrs. Opie found there an object of nearly equal interest to her; the “loved and distinguished patriot” of her own country, Charles James Fox, who, with his wife and party, had arrived in Paris the day before, from the Netherlands. Being introduced by a mutual acquaintance, Mr. Opie took the opportunity of presenting a letter of introduction from Mr. Coke, of Holkham, and they were presently engaged in conversation together. At this moment an officer of the court came to announce to Mr. Fox that he would be admitted, at all times, into the Louvre; adding that a room as yet closed to the public and containing some first-rate works of art, should be immediately opened to him and his party. Availing themselves of the courteous invitation given them to accompany him, the party gladly followed in his train;
But my husband, (says the proud delighted wife,) walked by his side; and as they walked along, the Jerome of Domenichino drew their attention, and they stopped before it. On some part of this celebrated picture they differed in opinion. Mr. Fox, however, instead of replying to the artist’s remarks, with proud superciliousness, as if he wondered that he should presume to disagree with him, said, “Well, to be sure, you must be a better judge of such points than I am.” And I saw by my husband’s pleased and animated countenance, as they proceeded, (though I did not hear their subsequent remarks,) that he felt conscious he was conversing with one, who was capable of appreciating the soundness of his opinions, and generous enough to respect his judgment.Having reached the promised room, I found to my surprise, that it was the one into which I had already been, and I was rather ashamed to see that I had passed, without noticing it, thechef d’œuvreof Raphael, the far famed Transfiguration! When, however, raised up as it was by the attendants, and placed to advantage, sideways to the light of the window on the left, I, as well as the rest of the party, stood before it, lost in admiration! Some of its admirers had seen it before, but to the painter—to him who was the most capable of appreciating all its various beauties, it imparted a new and intense delight, beyond the power of words to express. How he rejoiced that we had arrived before it was hung up, as its present situation enabled him to view it to perfection! While we were still gazing on this wonder of art, some one said the First Consul was returning in state from the Conservative Senate, and that the procession could be seen from the window near us. Accordingly, all the company, myself excepted, crowded to the window; but our greatest man, I own, turned away, and resumed his station before the picture, while his wife observed to me that, considering Buonaparte was a republican, he seemed very fond of state and show. Again her distinguished husband went to the window, and again turned away. It was the first time he had ever seen aught appertaining to the consular government, and it was natural that his curiosity should be excited; but there was evidently a feeling uppermost in his mind, which struggled with his wish to indulge in it, and before the procession was out of sight, it had ceased to appear an object of interest to him.
But my husband, (says the proud delighted wife,) walked by his side; and as they walked along, the Jerome of Domenichino drew their attention, and they stopped before it. On some part of this celebrated picture they differed in opinion. Mr. Fox, however, instead of replying to the artist’s remarks, with proud superciliousness, as if he wondered that he should presume to disagree with him, said, “Well, to be sure, you must be a better judge of such points than I am.” And I saw by my husband’s pleased and animated countenance, as they proceeded, (though I did not hear their subsequent remarks,) that he felt conscious he was conversing with one, who was capable of appreciating the soundness of his opinions, and generous enough to respect his judgment.
Having reached the promised room, I found to my surprise, that it was the one into which I had already been, and I was rather ashamed to see that I had passed, without noticing it, thechef d’œuvreof Raphael, the far famed Transfiguration! When, however, raised up as it was by the attendants, and placed to advantage, sideways to the light of the window on the left, I, as well as the rest of the party, stood before it, lost in admiration! Some of its admirers had seen it before, but to the painter—to him who was the most capable of appreciating all its various beauties, it imparted a new and intense delight, beyond the power of words to express. How he rejoiced that we had arrived before it was hung up, as its present situation enabled him to view it to perfection! While we were still gazing on this wonder of art, some one said the First Consul was returning in state from the Conservative Senate, and that the procession could be seen from the window near us. Accordingly, all the company, myself excepted, crowded to the window; but our greatest man, I own, turned away, and resumed his station before the picture, while his wife observed to me that, considering Buonaparte was a republican, he seemed very fond of state and show. Again her distinguished husband went to the window, and again turned away. It was the first time he had ever seen aught appertaining to the consular government, and it was natural that his curiosity should be excited; but there was evidently a feeling uppermost in his mind, which struggled with his wish to indulge in it, and before the procession was out of sight, it had ceased to appear an object of interest to him.
The day after the events just mentioned, Mr. and Mrs. Opie called at the Rue Richlieu, to pay their respects to Mr. Fox, and accepted his invitation to dine with him there on an early day. The company they met on that occasion, was too numerous to admit of general conversation, and she only records one fact mentioned by their host, as illustrating the strange changes in times of revolution.—He said, “that nine-and-twenty years before, he had supped in the room in which they were then dining, with the celebrated and witty Maréchal Richlieu, whose residence the hotel then was.”
Mrs. Opie mentions,en passant, that this was the only time they saw Mr. Fox, until he came to sit to her husband, for the whole length picture which Opie painted of him, for Mr. Coke. This far-famed picture cost the painter much anxiety; and, during the progress of the work, he was greatly distracted by the conflicting opinions of friends, who crowded to watch the work; and interrupted by the impatience of the sitter, who was eager to be released from the annoyance of sitting. Mr. Fox perceived and felt for the uneasiness of Opie, and kindly whispered him, “Don’t mind what these people say, you must know better than they do.”
The picture, when completed, gave general satisfaction, and Mrs. Opie says, “I think I may without partiality say, it is worthy of the artist, the owner, and the original.”[10]
The last time she ever saw Mr. Fox was when he was chaired on his return to Parliament, after he had accepted office, and alarming was the change in his appearance:—
With a heavy heart (she says) I plucked a laurel leaf from that car of triumph, which I feared that he filled for the last time; and I, indeed, saw him no more; but on his decease, I went to the house of Nollekens, to see the cast taken from his face immediately after death. It was lying on the table, by the side of that of his dear friend Georgiana Duchess of Devonshire, and of William Pitt, his powerful opponent. The two latter masks I could look at, and did look at with painful interest and serious meditation: but when I took up the other, I laid it down, and ran out of the room; I could not bear to survey the ravages which disease and death had made in that benevolent countenance; indeed the features were not recognizable, and though I often returned to gaze on the others, onthatI could never look again.
With a heavy heart (she says) I plucked a laurel leaf from that car of triumph, which I feared that he filled for the last time; and I, indeed, saw him no more; but on his decease, I went to the house of Nollekens, to see the cast taken from his face immediately after death. It was lying on the table, by the side of that of his dear friend Georgiana Duchess of Devonshire, and of William Pitt, his powerful opponent. The two latter masks I could look at, and did look at with painful interest and serious meditation: but when I took up the other, I laid it down, and ran out of the room; I could not bear to survey the ravages which disease and death had made in that benevolent countenance; indeed the features were not recognizable, and though I often returned to gaze on the others, onthatI could never look again.
Mrs. Opie next gives some pleasant recollections of the evenings she spent in the society of the most distinguished persons then in Paris, and especially in the house of Helen Maria Williams, and a beautiful Irish Countess, the friend of that lady. We select the account of her interview with Kosciusko.
One evening, at Lady ——’s, we met a party, consisting chiefly of ambassadors from different nations, and other strangers. I had not long entered the room, when our hostess led me up to the Turkish ambassador, and desired me to “make the agreeable to him.” “Can he speak French?” said I. “No, but here is a gentleman who will interpret between you.” At the same time she introduced to me a gentleman in Asiatic costume, and I readily seated myself by the Turk. He was a little elderly man, splendidly attired in the dress of his country; and I prepared to answer his questions. One of them was, “how long I had been in Paris?” and when my reply, “a few days only,” was repeated to him, he said, not very gallantly, “that he concluded so, from my complexion,” which, I was very conscious, was tanned, by the broiling heat of the sun on the recent journey, to a red brown. At last we ceased to converse through our interpreter, and substituted signs for words. For instance, he took my fan, and made me understand that he wanted to know what I called it; and I tried to make him comprehend that it was fan in English, andéventailin French. He then pronounced its name in Turkish; and I was learning to speak it after him, when I was interrupted by my husband, who, with a glowing cheek and sparkling eye, exclaimed, “Come hither, look, there is General Kosciusko!” Yes, we did see Kosciusko; “Warsaw’s last Champion!” he who had been wounded almost to death in defending his country against her merciless invaders; while (to borrow the strong expressive figure of the poet)—“While Freedom shriek’d as Kosciusko fell!”Instantly forgetting the ambassador, and, I fear, the proper restraints of politeness, I took my husband’s arm, and accompanied him to get a nearer view of the Polish patriot, so long the object to me of interest and admiration. I had so often contemplated a print of him in his Polish dress, which hung in my own room, that I thought I should have known him again anywhere; but whether it was owing to the difference of dress, I know not, but I saw little or no resemblance in him to the picture. He was not much above the middle height, had high cheek bones, and his features were not of a distinguished cast; with the exception of his eyes, which were fine and expressive, and he had a high healthy colour. His forehead was covered by a curled auburn wig, much to my vexation, as I should have liked to have seen its honourable scar. But his appearance was pleasing, his countenance intellectual, his carriage dignified; and we were very glad, when our obliging hostess, by introducing us, gave us an opportunity of entering into conversation with him. He spoke English as well as we did, and with an English accent. On our expressing our surprise at this unusual circumstance, he said he had learned English in America. The tone of his voice was peculiar, and not pleasing; however, it was Kosciusko who spoke, and we listened with interest and pleasure; though, at this distance of time, I am unable to say on what subject we conversed. What I am going to relate, however, it was not likely that I should forget—During the course of the evening, while I was standing at some distance, but looking earnestly at him, and speaking to some one in his praise, contrasting, as I believe, his unspotted patriotism with the then suspected integrity of Buonaparte, he suddenly crossed the room, and coming up to me, said, “I am sure you were speaking of me, and I wish to know what you were saying.” “I dare not tell you,” replied I. “Was it so severe then?” I bade him ask my companion. And on hearing her answer he thanked me, in a tone of deep feeling. “I have a favour to beg of you,” said he, “I am told that you are a writer, pray do write some verses on me; a quatrain will be sufficient, will you oblige me?” I told him I could rarely write extempore verses, and certainly not on such a subject, as I should wish to do it all the justice possible. “Well then,” said he, “I will await your pleasure.” I saw him again only once before I returned to England; but the next time that his birthday was commemorated at Paris, I wrote some verses on the occasion, and sent them to him by a private hand.During the rest of that memorable evening, when we had the gratification of seeing the Polish patriot and of conversing with him, I did not venture to resume the seat next the Turkish ambassador which I had so unceremoniously quitted; but I contrived to enter into conversation with the interpreter, whose handsome figure and features, added to the gracefulness of his costume, made him, next to our hostess, the most striking looking person in the assembly. He spoke French fluently, and his manner was particularly pleasing.
One evening, at Lady ——’s, we met a party, consisting chiefly of ambassadors from different nations, and other strangers. I had not long entered the room, when our hostess led me up to the Turkish ambassador, and desired me to “make the agreeable to him.” “Can he speak French?” said I. “No, but here is a gentleman who will interpret between you.” At the same time she introduced to me a gentleman in Asiatic costume, and I readily seated myself by the Turk. He was a little elderly man, splendidly attired in the dress of his country; and I prepared to answer his questions. One of them was, “how long I had been in Paris?” and when my reply, “a few days only,” was repeated to him, he said, not very gallantly, “that he concluded so, from my complexion,” which, I was very conscious, was tanned, by the broiling heat of the sun on the recent journey, to a red brown. At last we ceased to converse through our interpreter, and substituted signs for words. For instance, he took my fan, and made me understand that he wanted to know what I called it; and I tried to make him comprehend that it was fan in English, andéventailin French. He then pronounced its name in Turkish; and I was learning to speak it after him, when I was interrupted by my husband, who, with a glowing cheek and sparkling eye, exclaimed, “Come hither, look, there is General Kosciusko!” Yes, we did see Kosciusko; “Warsaw’s last Champion!” he who had been wounded almost to death in defending his country against her merciless invaders; while (to borrow the strong expressive figure of the poet)—
“While Freedom shriek’d as Kosciusko fell!”
Instantly forgetting the ambassador, and, I fear, the proper restraints of politeness, I took my husband’s arm, and accompanied him to get a nearer view of the Polish patriot, so long the object to me of interest and admiration. I had so often contemplated a print of him in his Polish dress, which hung in my own room, that I thought I should have known him again anywhere; but whether it was owing to the difference of dress, I know not, but I saw little or no resemblance in him to the picture. He was not much above the middle height, had high cheek bones, and his features were not of a distinguished cast; with the exception of his eyes, which were fine and expressive, and he had a high healthy colour. His forehead was covered by a curled auburn wig, much to my vexation, as I should have liked to have seen its honourable scar. But his appearance was pleasing, his countenance intellectual, his carriage dignified; and we were very glad, when our obliging hostess, by introducing us, gave us an opportunity of entering into conversation with him. He spoke English as well as we did, and with an English accent. On our expressing our surprise at this unusual circumstance, he said he had learned English in America. The tone of his voice was peculiar, and not pleasing; however, it was Kosciusko who spoke, and we listened with interest and pleasure; though, at this distance of time, I am unable to say on what subject we conversed. What I am going to relate, however, it was not likely that I should forget—
During the course of the evening, while I was standing at some distance, but looking earnestly at him, and speaking to some one in his praise, contrasting, as I believe, his unspotted patriotism with the then suspected integrity of Buonaparte, he suddenly crossed the room, and coming up to me, said, “I am sure you were speaking of me, and I wish to know what you were saying.” “I dare not tell you,” replied I. “Was it so severe then?” I bade him ask my companion. And on hearing her answer he thanked me, in a tone of deep feeling. “I have a favour to beg of you,” said he, “I am told that you are a writer, pray do write some verses on me; a quatrain will be sufficient, will you oblige me?” I told him I could rarely write extempore verses, and certainly not on such a subject, as I should wish to do it all the justice possible. “Well then,” said he, “I will await your pleasure.” I saw him again only once before I returned to England; but the next time that his birthday was commemorated at Paris, I wrote some verses on the occasion, and sent them to him by a private hand.
During the rest of that memorable evening, when we had the gratification of seeing the Polish patriot and of conversing with him, I did not venture to resume the seat next the Turkish ambassador which I had so unceremoniously quitted; but I contrived to enter into conversation with the interpreter, whose handsome figure and features, added to the gracefulness of his costume, made him, next to our hostess, the most striking looking person in the assembly. He spoke French fluently, and his manner was particularly pleasing.
[9]
Mrs. Opie published an account of this journey in Tait’s Magazine, vol. iv., 1831. From this account we have extracted several of the most interesting passages. She says, in a few prefatory remarks, that it had originally been her intention to give an account of her visit to Paris in 1829, but that, while endeavouring to do this, so many recollections of her first journey recurred to her mind, that she was induced to alter her purpose, and prefer relating the events of the earlier visit. Probably in doing this she made use of the original letters which she is known to have written home to Dr. Alderson at the time; and having done so, no longer preserved them.
[10]
This picture is now at Holkham.
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.
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.
At length the long desired object (a sight of Buonaparte) was attained; she thus relates her impressions of the scene:—
We had now been several days in Paris, and yet we had not seen the First Consul! I own that my impatience to see him had been abated, by the growing conviction which I felt of the possible hollowness of the idol so long exalted.But still we were desirous of beholding him; and I was glad when we received a letter from our obliging acquaintance, Count de Lasteyrie, informing us that Buonaparte would review the troops on such a day, on the Place du Carousel, and that he had procured a window for us, whence we should be able to see it to advantage. But, on account of my short-sightedness, I was still more glad when our friend De Masquerier, (a very successful young English painter,) informed us that he had the promise of a window for my husband and myself, in an apartment on the ground-floor of the Tuilleries, whence we should be able to have a near view of Buonaparte:—our friends, therefore, profited by M. de Lasteyrie’s kindness, and we went to the palace.As the time of seeing the First Consul drew nigh, I was pleased to feel all my original impressions in his favour return. This might be a weakness in me, but it was, I hope, excuseable; and our sense of his greatness and importance was, as my husband observed, heightened by seeing the great man of our own country,—he who was there a sight himself to many,—cross the Place du Carousel, with his wife on his arm, going, as we believed, to gaze like us, on, at least, a more fortunate man than himself—for, at that time, Charles James Fox had not seen Napoleon Buonaparte.The door which opened into the hall of the palace was shut, but, after some persuasion, I prevailed on the attendant to open it; and he said he would keep it open till the First Consul had mounted his horse, if I would engage that we would all of us stand upon the threshold, and not once venture beyond it.With these conditions we promised to comply; and, full of eager expectation, I stationed myself where I could command the white marble stairs of the palace; those steps once stained with the blood of the faithful Swiss guards, and on which I now expected to behold the “Pacificator,” as he was called by the people and his friends—the hero of Lodi.Just before the review was expected to begin, we saw several officers in gorgeous uniforms ascend the stairs, one of whom, whose helmet seemed entirely of gold, was, as I was told, Eugène de Beauharnois. A few minutes afterwards there was a rush of officers down the stairs, and amongst them I saw a short pale man, with his hat in his hand, who, as I thought, resembled Lord Erskine in profile; but, though my friend said in a whisper, “C’est lui,” I did not comprehend that I beheld Buonaparte, till I saw him stand alone at the gate. In another moment he was on his horse, and rode slowly past the window; while I, with every nerve trembling with strong emotion, gazed on him intently; endeavouring to commit each expressive, sharply chiselled feature to memory; contrasting also with admiring observation, his small simple hat, adorned with nothing but a little tri-coloured cockade, and his blue coat, guiltless of gold embroidery, with the splendid head adornings and dresses of the officers who followed him.A second time he slowly passed the window; then, setting spurs to his horse, he rode amongst the ranks, where some faint huzzas greeted him from the crowd on the opposite side of the Place du Carousel.At length he took his station before the palace, and as we looked at him out of the window, we had a very perfect view of him for nearly three quarters of an hour. I thought, but perhaps it was fancy, that the countenance of Buonaparte was lighted up with peculiar pleasure as thecorps d’élite, wearing some mark of distinction, defiled before him, bringing up the rear—that fine gallant corps, which, as we are told, he had so often led on to victory; but this might be my fancy. Once we saw him speak, as he took off his hat to remove the hair from his heated forehead, and this gave us an opportunity of seeing his front face, and his features in action. Soon after, we saw him give a sword of honour to one of the soldiers; and he received a petition which an old woman presented to him; but he gave it, unread, to some one near him. At length the review ended; too soon for me. The Consul sprang from his horse—we threw open our door again, and, as he slowly re-ascended the stairs, we saw him very near us, and in full face again, while his bright, restless, expressive, and, as we fancied, dark blue eyes, beaming from under long black eyelashes, glanced over us with a scrutinising but complacent look; and thus ended, and was completed, the pleasure of the spectacle.I could not speak; I had worked myself up to all my former enthusiasm for Buonaparte; and my frame still shook with the excitement I had undergone.The next day sobered me again, however, but not much, as will be soon seen.The day after the review, our accomplished countrywoman Maria Cosway, took the president of the Royal Academy, Benjamin West, and ourselves, on a round of picture-seeing; and at length we proceeded to the residence of a gentleman, who was, I concluded, only a picture dealer, or one of the manynouveaux riches, who had fine collections; because, whenever she spoke of him, Maria Cosway called him nothing but “Fesch.” We stopped at the door of a very splendid hotel in the Chaussée d’Antin, and were met at the top of a magnificent flight of stairs, by a gentleman in the garb of an ecclesiastic. His hair was powdered, and he wore it in a full round curl behind, after the fashion of anabbé; his coat was black, but his stockings were of a bright purple; his shoe and knee buckles were of gold; round his neck he wore a glossy white silk handkerchief, from under which peeped forth a costly gold crucifix. His countenance was pleasing; his complexion uncommonly blooming; his manners courteous; and his age (as I afterwards learned) was thirty-nine.This gentleman was the “Fesch” we came to visit, but I soon discovered that though he lived in the house, it was not his own; for Maria Cosway was summoned into an adjoining room, where I overheard her conversing with a female; and when she returned, she told us that Madame Buonaparte Mère, (as she was called to distinguish her from her daughter-in-law,) the mistress of the hotel, was very sorry that she could not see us, but that she was so unwell, she was obliged to keep her bed, and could not receive strangers. So then! we were in the house of Letitia Buonaparte, and the mother of Napoleon! and in the next room to her, but could not see her! how unfortunate! however, I was sure I had heard her voice. I now supposed that “Fesch” was her spiritual director, and believed his well studied dress,si bien soignée, was a necessary distinction, as he belonged to the mother of the First Consul.He seemed a merry, as well as a courteous man; and once he took Maria Cosway aside, and showed her a letter that he had only just received, which, to judge from the hearty laugh of “Fesch,” and the answering smiles of the lady, gave them excessive pleasure.By and by, however, I heard and observed many things which made me think that “Fesch” was more than I apprehended him to be. I therefore watched for an opportunity to ask the President who this obliging person was.—“What!” cried he, “do you not know that he is the Archbishop of Lyons, the uncle of Buonaparte?” I was astonished! What the person so familiarly spoken of as “Fesch,” could he be indeed “du sang” of the Buonapartes, and the First Consul’s uncle! How my respect for him increased when I heard this! How interesting became his every look and word; and how grateful I felt for his obliging attention to us!While we were looking at the pictures, his niece, the wife of Murat, drove to the door; and I saw the top of her cap as she alighted, but no more, as she went immediately to her mother’s bedside.After devoting to us at least two hours, the Archbishop conducted us down the noble staircase, to the beautiful hall of entrance, and courteously dismissed us. My companions instantly went away, but I lingered behind; for I had caught a view of a colossal bust of Buonaparte in a helmet, which stood on a table, and I remained gazing on it, forgetful of all but itself. Yes! there were those finely cut features, that “coupe de menton à l’Apollon!” and, though I thought the likeness a flattered one, I contemplated it with great pleasure, and was passing my hand admiringly over the salient chin, when I heard a sort of suppressed laugh, and, turning round, saw the Archbishop observing me, and instantly, covered with confusion, I ran out of the house. I found Maria Cosway explaining what the letter was which had given “Fesch” and her such evident satisfaction. It was nothing less than a letter from Rome, informing him that he would probably be put in nomination for the next cardinal’s hat.How soon he was nominated I cannot remember, but it is now many years since the blooming ecclesiastic of 1802, exchanged his purple for scarlet stockings, his mitre for a red hat, and his title of Archbishop of Lyons, for that of Cardinal Fesch.
We had now been several days in Paris, and yet we had not seen the First Consul! I own that my impatience to see him had been abated, by the growing conviction which I felt of the possible hollowness of the idol so long exalted.
But still we were desirous of beholding him; and I was glad when we received a letter from our obliging acquaintance, Count de Lasteyrie, informing us that Buonaparte would review the troops on such a day, on the Place du Carousel, and that he had procured a window for us, whence we should be able to see it to advantage. But, on account of my short-sightedness, I was still more glad when our friend De Masquerier, (a very successful young English painter,) informed us that he had the promise of a window for my husband and myself, in an apartment on the ground-floor of the Tuilleries, whence we should be able to have a near view of Buonaparte:—our friends, therefore, profited by M. de Lasteyrie’s kindness, and we went to the palace.
As the time of seeing the First Consul drew nigh, I was pleased to feel all my original impressions in his favour return. This might be a weakness in me, but it was, I hope, excuseable; and our sense of his greatness and importance was, as my husband observed, heightened by seeing the great man of our own country,—he who was there a sight himself to many,—cross the Place du Carousel, with his wife on his arm, going, as we believed, to gaze like us, on, at least, a more fortunate man than himself—for, at that time, Charles James Fox had not seen Napoleon Buonaparte.
The door which opened into the hall of the palace was shut, but, after some persuasion, I prevailed on the attendant to open it; and he said he would keep it open till the First Consul had mounted his horse, if I would engage that we would all of us stand upon the threshold, and not once venture beyond it.
With these conditions we promised to comply; and, full of eager expectation, I stationed myself where I could command the white marble stairs of the palace; those steps once stained with the blood of the faithful Swiss guards, and on which I now expected to behold the “Pacificator,” as he was called by the people and his friends—the hero of Lodi.
Just before the review was expected to begin, we saw several officers in gorgeous uniforms ascend the stairs, one of whom, whose helmet seemed entirely of gold, was, as I was told, Eugène de Beauharnois. A few minutes afterwards there was a rush of officers down the stairs, and amongst them I saw a short pale man, with his hat in his hand, who, as I thought, resembled Lord Erskine in profile; but, though my friend said in a whisper, “C’est lui,” I did not comprehend that I beheld Buonaparte, till I saw him stand alone at the gate. In another moment he was on his horse, and rode slowly past the window; while I, with every nerve trembling with strong emotion, gazed on him intently; endeavouring to commit each expressive, sharply chiselled feature to memory; contrasting also with admiring observation, his small simple hat, adorned with nothing but a little tri-coloured cockade, and his blue coat, guiltless of gold embroidery, with the splendid head adornings and dresses of the officers who followed him.
A second time he slowly passed the window; then, setting spurs to his horse, he rode amongst the ranks, where some faint huzzas greeted him from the crowd on the opposite side of the Place du Carousel.
At length he took his station before the palace, and as we looked at him out of the window, we had a very perfect view of him for nearly three quarters of an hour. I thought, but perhaps it was fancy, that the countenance of Buonaparte was lighted up with peculiar pleasure as thecorps d’élite, wearing some mark of distinction, defiled before him, bringing up the rear—that fine gallant corps, which, as we are told, he had so often led on to victory; but this might be my fancy. Once we saw him speak, as he took off his hat to remove the hair from his heated forehead, and this gave us an opportunity of seeing his front face, and his features in action. Soon after, we saw him give a sword of honour to one of the soldiers; and he received a petition which an old woman presented to him; but he gave it, unread, to some one near him. At length the review ended; too soon for me. The Consul sprang from his horse—we threw open our door again, and, as he slowly re-ascended the stairs, we saw him very near us, and in full face again, while his bright, restless, expressive, and, as we fancied, dark blue eyes, beaming from under long black eyelashes, glanced over us with a scrutinising but complacent look; and thus ended, and was completed, the pleasure of the spectacle.
I could not speak; I had worked myself up to all my former enthusiasm for Buonaparte; and my frame still shook with the excitement I had undergone.
The next day sobered me again, however, but not much, as will be soon seen.
The day after the review, our accomplished countrywoman Maria Cosway, took the president of the Royal Academy, Benjamin West, and ourselves, on a round of picture-seeing; and at length we proceeded to the residence of a gentleman, who was, I concluded, only a picture dealer, or one of the manynouveaux riches, who had fine collections; because, whenever she spoke of him, Maria Cosway called him nothing but “Fesch.” We stopped at the door of a very splendid hotel in the Chaussée d’Antin, and were met at the top of a magnificent flight of stairs, by a gentleman in the garb of an ecclesiastic. His hair was powdered, and he wore it in a full round curl behind, after the fashion of anabbé; his coat was black, but his stockings were of a bright purple; his shoe and knee buckles were of gold; round his neck he wore a glossy white silk handkerchief, from under which peeped forth a costly gold crucifix. His countenance was pleasing; his complexion uncommonly blooming; his manners courteous; and his age (as I afterwards learned) was thirty-nine.
This gentleman was the “Fesch” we came to visit, but I soon discovered that though he lived in the house, it was not his own; for Maria Cosway was summoned into an adjoining room, where I overheard her conversing with a female; and when she returned, she told us that Madame Buonaparte Mère, (as she was called to distinguish her from her daughter-in-law,) the mistress of the hotel, was very sorry that she could not see us, but that she was so unwell, she was obliged to keep her bed, and could not receive strangers. So then! we were in the house of Letitia Buonaparte, and the mother of Napoleon! and in the next room to her, but could not see her! how unfortunate! however, I was sure I had heard her voice. I now supposed that “Fesch” was her spiritual director, and believed his well studied dress,si bien soignée, was a necessary distinction, as he belonged to the mother of the First Consul.
He seemed a merry, as well as a courteous man; and once he took Maria Cosway aside, and showed her a letter that he had only just received, which, to judge from the hearty laugh of “Fesch,” and the answering smiles of the lady, gave them excessive pleasure.
By and by, however, I heard and observed many things which made me think that “Fesch” was more than I apprehended him to be. I therefore watched for an opportunity to ask the President who this obliging person was.—“What!” cried he, “do you not know that he is the Archbishop of Lyons, the uncle of Buonaparte?” I was astonished! What the person so familiarly spoken of as “Fesch,” could he be indeed “du sang” of the Buonapartes, and the First Consul’s uncle! How my respect for him increased when I heard this! How interesting became his every look and word; and how grateful I felt for his obliging attention to us!
While we were looking at the pictures, his niece, the wife of Murat, drove to the door; and I saw the top of her cap as she alighted, but no more, as she went immediately to her mother’s bedside.
After devoting to us at least two hours, the Archbishop conducted us down the noble staircase, to the beautiful hall of entrance, and courteously dismissed us. My companions instantly went away, but I lingered behind; for I had caught a view of a colossal bust of Buonaparte in a helmet, which stood on a table, and I remained gazing on it, forgetful of all but itself. Yes! there were those finely cut features, that “coupe de menton à l’Apollon!” and, though I thought the likeness a flattered one, I contemplated it with great pleasure, and was passing my hand admiringly over the salient chin, when I heard a sort of suppressed laugh, and, turning round, saw the Archbishop observing me, and instantly, covered with confusion, I ran out of the house. I found Maria Cosway explaining what the letter was which had given “Fesch” and her such evident satisfaction. It was nothing less than a letter from Rome, informing him that he would probably be put in nomination for the next cardinal’s hat.
How soon he was nominated I cannot remember, but it is now many years since the blooming ecclesiastic of 1802, exchanged his purple for scarlet stockings, his mitre for a red hat, and his title of Archbishop of Lyons, for that of Cardinal Fesch.
As the time drew near when she must bid farewell to Paris, Mrs. Opie evidently longed for an extension of a season so full of enjoyment to her; but since her wish could not be gratified, she determined to make the most of every hour that remained; and she relates several anecdotes, relative to what she saw at the places she visited; among others theatelierof David, whither she accompanied her husband, and where she was forcibly struck with one of that artist’s pictures, “Brutus returning from the tribunal after adjudging his sons to death.” The emotion of compassion awakened in her mind by this picture was so strong, that she was unable to gaze on it without pain, so real was the illusion. Another visit the party made was to the Hotel of Murat, which, being furnished in the most elegant style of French luxury, was thought worth seeing: and splendid indeed it was.
The bed of the lady of the house was too elegant, and then, too uncommon, to be forgotten; it stood in a recess which was lined with looking-glass, and at the foot of the bed were, as I think, two finely chiselled marble cupids. The draperies were of the clearest muslin, lined with rose-coloured satin; and the counterpane as well as the valance was flounced with deep point lace. The panels of the room were painted in drab and rose colour; and all the decorations of the apartment were in the most costly but tasteful style. But what pleased me most in this hotel, was a picture of General Moreau, which, unframed, stood against one of the walls. It was a whole-length, as large as life, from the pencil of Gérard, and was one of those real portraits, which resemble life so much, that we are apt to fancy, when we recall the features, that we have seen, not the portrait, but the original.
The bed of the lady of the house was too elegant, and then, too uncommon, to be forgotten; it stood in a recess which was lined with looking-glass, and at the foot of the bed were, as I think, two finely chiselled marble cupids. The draperies were of the clearest muslin, lined with rose-coloured satin; and the counterpane as well as the valance was flounced with deep point lace. The panels of the room were painted in drab and rose colour; and all the decorations of the apartment were in the most costly but tasteful style. But what pleased me most in this hotel, was a picture of General Moreau, which, unframed, stood against one of the walls. It was a whole-length, as large as life, from the pencil of Gérard, and was one of those real portraits, which resemble life so much, that we are apt to fancy, when we recall the features, that we have seen, not the portrait, but the original.
Just as they were leaving the hotel, their attention was directed to a gentleman who was talking energetically to the porter, and whom their guide informed them was General Massena. Pleased indeed, to see one of whom she had read and heard so much, she scanned him attentively, and thus describes his appearance:—
His head was one of the largest I had ever seen, his hair long and thick and curled,à la Brutus, and his features large and not fine. His eyes, however, were bright; in his ears he wore gold rings of large dimensions, (then commonly worn by French officers,) and his person was large, his height apparently nearly six feet. On the whole, however, his appearance was not prepossessing, and there was a look of coarse brutal daring, which contrasted unfavourably with the pleasing expression in the countenance of his rival in military fame, General Moreau.
His head was one of the largest I had ever seen, his hair long and thick and curled,à la Brutus, and his features large and not fine. His eyes, however, were bright; in his ears he wore gold rings of large dimensions, (then commonly worn by French officers,) and his person was large, his height apparently nearly six feet. On the whole, however, his appearance was not prepossessing, and there was a look of coarse brutal daring, which contrasted unfavourably with the pleasing expression in the countenance of his rival in military fame, General Moreau.
Sorry as our enthusiastic traveller felt, when the hour of departure from Paris arrived, she yet greeted (she tells us) with heartfelt delight the white cliffs of her own dear native land. On the homeward journey she mentions a somewhat amusing incident; a little dog, purchased by Mr. Opie, was entrusted to her care, and made so many claims upon her time and attention, that she owns it was no matter of regret to her, that the poor brute shortly died, “which saved me (she adds) from the danger I seemed likely to incur, of becoming the slave of a pet animal.”
Some of those who accompanied Mr. and Mrs. Opie on this tour used afterwards to relate, what ardour and intense delight she manifested in all the objects of interest she beheld; and how she sat on the Boulevards and sang, with heart and voice, “Fall, tyrants fall!” At the theatre they heard Talma, as “Cain,” in the “Death of Abel;” and so deep an impression did this wonderful actor produce on her memory, that within a few years, she has been heard to refer to that occasion, dwelling on his look and manner, and the preternatural tone with which he answered the voice, “Où es tu Cain?”—“Ici, Seigneur;” the sounds, deep and sepulchral, appearing to issue from the ground beneath him.
Of the ensuing winter, and spring of the year following, we have no record from her hand; one letter alone remains, dated 25th February, 1803, addressed to her old and esteemed friend Mrs. Colombine. It is too long to be inserted entire, although of much interest, illustrating as it does her benevolence, and that kindliness of heart which was throughout life one of her most distinguishing characteristics. After expressing her friendly sympathy in the troubles that had befallen those to whom in early life she had been attached, she says:—
* * I assure you I cannot enough express how much I admire and honour the fortitude you have throughout displayed. Not to feel would be downright insensibility; but to feel so acutely as I know you do, and still to bear up so well, is a proof of strength of mind which I amproudto see in one whom I so sincerely love and esteem. But you would not, I know, exchange your feelings, for the insensibility of some mothers; for instance, of Mrs. B——, whom I almost hated for your sake, for daring so to intrude on the sacredness of recent sorrow. Do not scold me for speaking thus of her, because she is dead. I think “speak only good of the dead,” is a silly and pernicious maxim; I had rather speak ill of the dead than of the living. * * * Give my kind love to Mr. C. and tell him that he must, and ought to be, cheerful, because he has reason to be proud. Respect and esteem attend him into retirement and misfortune, and though he may be allowed to blush for others, he must respect himself. I think we Norwich people have reason to be proud of our native city! such liberality, and so well directed, makes it an honour to belong to it.[11]It gives me great pleasure to see, both in you and Mrs. B. that ardent piety which canalonefortify and cheer the afflicted mind; and when I hear virtuous infidels (for therearesuch) declare that they do not regret either the hopes or consolations of religion, I hear with surprise and pity, and end by believing that they do not know or do not own, theirrealfeelings.Farewell, and believe me,Most affectionately yours,A. Opie.
* * I assure you I cannot enough express how much I admire and honour the fortitude you have throughout displayed. Not to feel would be downright insensibility; but to feel so acutely as I know you do, and still to bear up so well, is a proof of strength of mind which I amproudto see in one whom I so sincerely love and esteem. But you would not, I know, exchange your feelings, for the insensibility of some mothers; for instance, of Mrs. B——, whom I almost hated for your sake, for daring so to intrude on the sacredness of recent sorrow. Do not scold me for speaking thus of her, because she is dead. I think “speak only good of the dead,” is a silly and pernicious maxim; I had rather speak ill of the dead than of the living. * * * Give my kind love to Mr. C. and tell him that he must, and ought to be, cheerful, because he has reason to be proud. Respect and esteem attend him into retirement and misfortune, and though he may be allowed to blush for others, he must respect himself. I think we Norwich people have reason to be proud of our native city! such liberality, and so well directed, makes it an honour to belong to it.[11]It gives me great pleasure to see, both in you and Mrs. B. that ardent piety which canalonefortify and cheer the afflicted mind; and when I hear virtuous infidels (for therearesuch) declare that they do not regret either the hopes or consolations of religion, I hear with surprise and pity, and end by believing that they do not know or do not own, theirrealfeelings.
Farewell, and believe me,
Most affectionately yours,
A. Opie.
During the summer of this year Mrs. Opie paid her usual visit to Norwich, and again her lengthened stay called forth the remonstrances of her husband. He writes, “my affection for you is even increased in point of general feeling and interest, so that if I do not admire you more, I feel you more a part of myself than I ever did at first,” and urging her speedy return, for that he “longs so very much to see her.”
In this letter he mentions that as soon as he has an opportunity he means to send her—
A letter, with a volume of poems, by Henry Kirke White, a “visionary boy,” of seventeen, who, with all becoming diffidence, presumes to lay his youthful productions at the feet of one, “who so eminently enjoys the holy impulse” as yourself. He was “struck with the resemblance of one of his poems to one of yours, though to compare the former to the latter, is like comparing O’Keefe to Shakespeare”—there! I hope this will give you pleasure. Let me hear on Wednesday how you are. The cat and parrot are both well, and the kitten[12]beautiful and merry. The guns have been firing to-day, but on what account I am ignorant yet.Adieu, my only love.
A letter, with a volume of poems, by Henry Kirke White, a “visionary boy,” of seventeen, who, with all becoming diffidence, presumes to lay his youthful productions at the feet of one, “who so eminently enjoys the holy impulse” as yourself. He was “struck with the resemblance of one of his poems to one of yours, though to compare the former to the latter, is like comparing O’Keefe to Shakespeare”—there! I hope this will give you pleasure. Let me hear on Wednesday how you are. The cat and parrot are both well, and the kitten[12]beautiful and merry. The guns have been firing to-day, but on what account I am ignorant yet.
Adieu, my only love.
Again, probably shortly after this, her husband writes to her, enclosing a letter containing some complimentary verses on her “Elegy to the memory of the late Earl of Bedford,” and adding, by way of postscript,
This came to me in a cover on Monday, so I thought it too delicious not to be sent immediately; who is the author? Your letter is arrived; and I am very sorry to find this cursed election lasting so long, and I wish you would not appear so prominent in it. I asked Mrs. N. about the box, and she says it was not to go till I went; however, I shall now have it sent as soon as possible. I have seen nothing of Erskine or Reynolds for some time. The cloak I am afraid is lost, for Mr. Bunn wrote me that he had made every inquiry in vain. Dr. Haweis has been sitting two or three times, and makes a good head. I shall write to you to-morrow or next day, so, God bless you, yours ever. J. O.Let me hear again, Friday or Saturday at furthest; I feel desirous enough of seeing you, but I have not much more to say at present, unless I begin scolding you about the election. What business had you to get mounted up somewhere so conspicuously? But there is no more room; I am going now to dine with Thomson, to meet little J. A Mr. Best called on Saturday, and said he meant to be or to have somebody painted, but I have heard no more.
This came to me in a cover on Monday, so I thought it too delicious not to be sent immediately; who is the author? Your letter is arrived; and I am very sorry to find this cursed election lasting so long, and I wish you would not appear so prominent in it. I asked Mrs. N. about the box, and she says it was not to go till I went; however, I shall now have it sent as soon as possible. I have seen nothing of Erskine or Reynolds for some time. The cloak I am afraid is lost, for Mr. Bunn wrote me that he had made every inquiry in vain. Dr. Haweis has been sitting two or three times, and makes a good head. I shall write to you to-morrow or next day, so, God bless you, yours ever. J. O.
Let me hear again, Friday or Saturday at furthest; I feel desirous enough of seeing you, but I have not much more to say at present, unless I begin scolding you about the election. What business had you to get mounted up somewhere so conspicuously? But there is no more room; I am going now to dine with Thomson, to meet little J. A Mr. Best called on Saturday, and said he meant to be or to have somebody painted, but I have heard no more.
In 1804, Mrs. O. published “Adeline Mowbray,” or “Mother and Daughter,” a Tale, in three volumes, the object of this work is to pourtray the lamentable consequences which would result from the adoption of lax principles on the subject of matrimony. “The second volume of this beautiful story is perhaps the most pathetic and the most natural in its pathos, of any fictitious narrative in the language,” says the writer of the 19th Art. in “The Edinburgh Review” of 1806.
The following letter to Mrs. Taylor was probably written about this time:—
(without date.)My dear Friend,* * * I am just returned from Deptford, where I have been ever since Thursday; a sad loss of time, and nothing would have made me patient under it, but the extreme pity I feel for Miss M.’s forlorn situation. But perhaps, as my company gives her comfort, I ought not to call my visit to her a loss of time. I was lamenting to Mrs. Barbauld, to whom I related this poor orphan’s story, that Miss M. did not seem to have any taste for reading. “So much the better,” was her answer, “I do not think such a taste desirable. Reading is an indolent way of passing the time”—and so she went on. I was extremely surprised, as you may think, and began to combat her assertions; but I recollected that I had heard it said that Mrs. B., like W. Taylor, often contradicted for the sake of argument, and when I feel this, as it is a proceeding which I thoroughly disapprove, I am too angry to keep up the ball.I find that Mrs. B. admires Cowper’s letters very much. In my opinion they have been much overrated. The letters to Lady Hesketh are beautiful; but those to Hayley and J. Johnson, abounding as they do in “dearests” and “fondnesses” and “dearest of all dear Johnnies,” make me sickà la mort!* * * * You have not ridden much in stage coaches I believe, at least not round town. O! what a pleasure I should lose were I to ride in my own carriage and forsake stages! I find egotism the prevailing characteristic of my fellow-travellers. This morning I found, when I entered the stage, one passenger only in it, and that was a little girl. “Are you going to town?” said I. “Yes, I know the gentleman, and so I came.” “What gentleman?” “The coachman, he lives by us; and so, as I wanted to go for my shoes, he said he would take me; he promised me my shoes to wear to-day, and I am going to see arter’em: I ha’ known Mr. Wheeler a long time,” &c.—and so she ran on, till I was tired of listening; and convinced me egotism is of all ages. As I went down, a fine, jolly, florid young countrywoman, a great deal fatter than I am, was complaining to a gentleman (who informed us he was just recovered from a fit of illness) that she was very unwell too; and as she had not seen her friends at Deptford for two years, she was sure they would be quiteshockedat the change in her, for when she left them she was quite jolly and healthy looking. I could hardly keep in my laughter at this. Her Deptford friends must be droll persons, and great amateurs in fat indeed, to be dissatisfied with her magnitude, and regret what she had lost; I protest she might have played the goddess of health at Dr. Graham’s.I shall see you now soon, and I hope to see you nearly well. Farewell! With kind love to Mr. Taylor and all the family, I remain,toute à vous,A. Opie.
(without date.)
My dear Friend,
* * * I am just returned from Deptford, where I have been ever since Thursday; a sad loss of time, and nothing would have made me patient under it, but the extreme pity I feel for Miss M.’s forlorn situation. But perhaps, as my company gives her comfort, I ought not to call my visit to her a loss of time. I was lamenting to Mrs. Barbauld, to whom I related this poor orphan’s story, that Miss M. did not seem to have any taste for reading. “So much the better,” was her answer, “I do not think such a taste desirable. Reading is an indolent way of passing the time”—and so she went on. I was extremely surprised, as you may think, and began to combat her assertions; but I recollected that I had heard it said that Mrs. B., like W. Taylor, often contradicted for the sake of argument, and when I feel this, as it is a proceeding which I thoroughly disapprove, I am too angry to keep up the ball.
I find that Mrs. B. admires Cowper’s letters very much. In my opinion they have been much overrated. The letters to Lady Hesketh are beautiful; but those to Hayley and J. Johnson, abounding as they do in “dearests” and “fondnesses” and “dearest of all dear Johnnies,” make me sickà la mort!
* * * * You have not ridden much in stage coaches I believe, at least not round town. O! what a pleasure I should lose were I to ride in my own carriage and forsake stages! I find egotism the prevailing characteristic of my fellow-travellers. This morning I found, when I entered the stage, one passenger only in it, and that was a little girl. “Are you going to town?” said I. “Yes, I know the gentleman, and so I came.” “What gentleman?” “The coachman, he lives by us; and so, as I wanted to go for my shoes, he said he would take me; he promised me my shoes to wear to-day, and I am going to see arter’em: I ha’ known Mr. Wheeler a long time,” &c.—and so she ran on, till I was tired of listening; and convinced me egotism is of all ages. As I went down, a fine, jolly, florid young countrywoman, a great deal fatter than I am, was complaining to a gentleman (who informed us he was just recovered from a fit of illness) that she was very unwell too; and as she had not seen her friends at Deptford for two years, she was sure they would be quiteshockedat the change in her, for when she left them she was quite jolly and healthy looking. I could hardly keep in my laughter at this. Her Deptford friends must be droll persons, and great amateurs in fat indeed, to be dissatisfied with her magnitude, and regret what she had lost; I protest she might have played the goddess of health at Dr. Graham’s.
I shall see you now soon, and I hope to see you nearly well. Farewell! With kind love to Mr. Taylor and all the family, I remain,toute à vous,
A. Opie.
In 1805 she was again in Norwich, and during that visit she enjoyed the unexpected pleasure of hearing Mr. Erskine plead; happily she has given an account of this event, which is preserved among her MSS. As usual when about to relate anything connected in her mind with an earlier period, she goes back, on the present occasion, to the time when she first saw Mr. Erskine. This was in the Nisi Prius court in Norwich, whither he had come down on a special retainer in a Right-of-Way cause, which for some reason was not heard at that assizes. She says:—