Chapter IX

PROSPERITY; “SIMPLE TALES;” VISIT TO SOUTHILL; LADY ROSLYN; MR.
OPIE’S “LECTURES;” HIS ILLNESS; HIS DEATH.

The year 1806 was, to the subject of these memoirs, prosperous, and full of joyful anticipation for the future, beyond any that had preceded it. The time so long desired seemed now at hand; Mr. Opie saw himself justly rewarded, for all his labour and perseverance amid difficulties and disappointments, by success and fame; “he was conscious (his wife says) that our circumstances were now such as would enable us to have more of the comforts and elegancies of life, and to receive our friends in a manner more suited to the esteem which we entertained for them; I was allowed to make the long projected alterations and improvements in my own apartments; and he had resolved to indulge himself in the luxury (as he called it) of keeping a horse.” But alas! when the time did come, it came too late!

Not, however, to anticipate—in the spring of this year, Mrs. Opie published her “Simple Tales,” in four volumes; tales which are characterized by the same merits, as well as defects, as are found in her other works of this description. For a critique upon them, and on Mrs. Opie’s merits as an author, we must refer the reader to the article, before alluded to, in the July number of “The Edinburgh Review,” for 1806, from which we may be allowed to quote a short extract. After alluding to the deficiencies of her style, and observing that few of her personages can be said to be original, or even uncommon, the writer says:—

“They have, however, a merit in our eyes incomparably superior;
they are strictly true to general nature, and are rarely
exhibited except in interesting situations; * * * there is
something delightfully feminine in all Mrs. O.’s writings; an
apparent artlessness in the composition of her narrative; and
something which looks like want of skill or practice in writing
for the public, that gives a powerful effect to the occasional
beauties and successes of her genius; there is nothing like an
ambitious, or even a sustained tone in her stories; we often
think she is going to be tedious or silly; and immediately,
without effort or apparent consciousness of improvement, she
slides into some graceful and interesting dialogue, or charms us
with some fine and delicate analysis of the subtler feelings,
which would have done honour to the genius of Marivaux. She does
not reason well; but she has, like most accomplished women, the
talent of perceiving truth, without the process of reasoning,
and of bringing it out with the facility and the effect of an
obvious and natural sentiment. Her language is often inaccurate,
but it is almost always graceful and harmonious. She can do
nothing well that requires to be done with formality; and,
therefore, has not succeeded in copying either the concentrated
force of weighty and deliberate reason, or the severe and solemn
dignity of majestic virtue. To make amends, however, she
represents admirably everything that is amiable, generous, and
gentle.”

The following note by Mr. Sydney Smith, was written soon after this time, when she was preparing to publish one of her subsequent works:—

DEAR MRS. OPIE,

I have read your manuscripts, upon the whole, with great
satisfaction; two or three I have advised you to suppress; two
or three to correct and polish; and upon many I have bestowed a
praise, which I hope, for your sake, is as enlightened, as it is
warm and sincere. Tenderness is your forte, and carelessness
your fault.

Direct me how to dispose of your MS., and believe me,

Ever yours most truly,
S. SMITH.

Mrs. S. begs her kind compliments to you. You will find my
remarks scrawled in pencil under each page. I have left
emendations to you, merely marking where they are wanted.

In the summer of this memorable year, (when, as the phrase is, “all the talents were in,” so soon to be driven out by the death of Fox,) Mr. and Mrs. Opie went, accompanied by Mr. Wilkie, on a visit to Southill, the seat of Mr. Whitbread; “and never,” says Mrs. Opie, “did I see my husband so happy, when absent from London, as he was there; for he felt towards the host and hostess every sentiment of respect and admiration which it is pleasant to feel, and honourable to inspire. But though he was the object of the kindest and most flattering attention, he sighed to return to London and his pursuits; and when he had been at Southill only eight days, he said to me, on my expressing my unwillingness to go away, ‘Though I shall be even anxious to come hither again, remember that I have been idle _eight days_!’”

In a letter to her father, during this visit, she gives a pleasing account of some of the events that transpired;—

1806.
MY DEAR FATHER,

I received the parcel safe, and beg you to thank Mr. Taylor for
his letter, and tell him I am quite convinced of his sobriety,
but not the less of my neglect. Your letter is just arrived. I
had already asked about the boroughs and borough-mongers; but
Mr. W. knows not where to find the latter, and nothing certainly
about the price of the former; but he fancies it is £4000 for a
single seat, and five, or more, for two seats. * * * *

We arrived here after a pleasant journey of forty-two miles,
(not sixty, as we were told it was,) at three o’clock on
Saturday. Part of the country through which we passed was
pleasant, but for some miles before we approached Southill, we
went through such bleak barrenness, as was scarcely cheered by
the sight of a large white house seen at a distance, which we
took to be Mr. Whitbread’s. In two miles more we entered the
park, “and paradise seemed opened in the wild.” The entrance is
near the house, which is, however, perfectly concealed by a
thick shrubbery and high trees, skirting a winding gravel walk
up to the house, which bursts upon you very beautifully indeed.
The country is flat; but in the front of the house there is a
slight inequality of ground, and the lawn is so beautiful, and
the trees so fine, and the shrubs so richly diversified; in
short, it is so truly a smiling scene, and at the same time so
comfortably sequestered, that, for a dwelling, I would not
change it for one commanding views of bolder country. On
entering the house, the true use and enjoyment of unbounded
opulence force themselves at once on one’s conviction.
Everything is rich, but at the same time tasteful and
comfortable; and the more you see, and the longer you inhabit
Southill, the more you feel assured that, used as it is there,
opulence is a blessing. The family, not expecting us till near
six, were out when we arrived; so the groom of the chambers led
us to our apartments, consisting of a large dressing-room and
bed-room; and we had the pleasure to find that our room
commanded the pretty view at the front of the house, of which a
pond, prettily shaded, is an agreeable feature. As soon as we
had had sandwiches, &c., the barouche and the family arrived,
and we had the sorrow to find Lady Elizabeth very unwell, and so
she had been all the time on her journey. She immediately went
to lie down. Mr. Opie accompanied Mr. Whitbread, &c., in the
barouche, in a drive which he was going to take, four in-hand;
and Mr. Wilkie and I took a walk. At six we all met at dinner.

_Wednesday._ I began this yesterday before breakfast, but had
no opportunity of resuming my pen till to-day, nine o’clock.
Nobody down but my husband and myself. He is standing under a
colonnade, going from the open window at which I am now sitting,
enjoying the rolling of the thunder and the forked lightning,
which, untired with its tremendous violence last night, has
renewed the elemental strife to-day. It reminds me of the storm
some twenty years ago, which made a tour through the whole
country. Hark! it comes nearer and nearer, and the lightning
flashes across my face. I doubt there has been mischief done
somewhere.—But to resume my narrative.—I need not tell you our
dinner was excellent, and French enough to delight me. The
dessert consisted of ice, pine apple, and every variety of fruit
and wine. The only guests here are Reynolds, Wilkie, ourselves,
and Lady Roslyn and her children. After a pleasant evening, Lady
Elizabeth being much recovered, we retired at eleven, and were
summoned to meet the next morning at the breakfast table at
nine, that we might get off for Woburn Abbey in good time. We
got away a little before eleven, Tom Adkin and Wilkie in a gig,
Lady E. W., Lady Roslyn, Miss Whitbread, her brother, Reynolds,
and ourselves in the barouche and four greys, driven by Mr.
Whitbread. The day was only too fine, as its extreme brightness
almost made it impossible for us to gaze on the really pretty
country which we passed. * * * Interrupted by the tempest, and
for the first time in my life _terrified_ and awed almost to
fainting by the nearness and overpowering brilliancy of the
lightning, and the loudness of the thunder; it is quite over the
house, and one feels as if the vast building was rived in twain.
It was quite mournful to hear the cattle lowing and the sheep
bleating their fears last night. Another and another louder yet!
the rain falling in torrents. The poor green parrot by me, its
powers sharpened by fear, is trying to imitate the thunder; the
other parrot, a grey one, seems too much alarmed to speak. I
never felt so nervous before at a storm, but it quite oppresses
me! * * I think it abates. How I pity those who are always
afraid at such times, during the awful continuance of such a
tempest as this! At eleven Lady Roslyn was to leave us; she
can’t go now certainly, and I wish her departure may be delayed
till to-morrow. On the stairs I met three lovely children the
first day I came, and the nursemaid said, “this is Lady Janet
Sinclair.” And who is that lovely boy in petticoats? “That is
Lord Loughborough.” I thought I should have laughed in the
child’s face, for my associations with that name are a great wig
and a parrot face! The child himself, an uncommonly grand and
handsome boy, of four years old, says, “my _real_ name is
_James_, that is what my friends call me, but my nickname is
Lord Loughborough.” “And who calls you by your nickname?” “The
maids in the nursery.”

The storm is greatly subsided, at least it is further off, or I
could not have told you this trifling story. If I have time
after breakfast, before the post goes off, I will describe our
delightful day at Woburn, and our drive yesterday. To-day Lady
St. John is to dine here, and with her come Mr. Peakwell and his
mother. Mrs. Bouverie writes to Lady R. (her daughter) every
day, the most delightful accounts of Mr. Fox’s health!

The envelope of this letter is missing.

Mrs. Opie has recorded, in her note book, some further particulars of this delightful visit; and especially in reference to Lady Roslyn, whom she had long wished to see and know.

At first (she says) I was rather disappointed in her beauty, but
there was a charm in her manner and conversation which soon won
upon me, and we shortly became mutually interested in each
other, and visited Bedford Jail together, and two or three
country houses, at one of which, belonging to our host, we
remained for some time with the old dame who took care of it.
Lady R. begged her to fetch us a draught of new milk, and the
good woman, who was basting a leg of mutton, hastily laid down
her basting-spoon and departed to fulfil her wishes. “It were a
pity the good soul should suffer for her kindness,” said the
lady, and immediately seizing the ladle, the graceful countess
commenced operations; while I, admiring her benevolence, pleased
myself with observing her, and thought that among the
interesting sights of the morning, that of seeing Harriet,
Countess of Roslyn, basting a leg of mutton, was not the least.

The last paragraph in the preceding letter speaks of “delightful accounts of Mr. Fox’s health;” soon to be exchanged for tidings of his lamented death, which happened on the 13th of September following.

On his return from this short period of relaxation, Mr. Opie betook himself with increasing diligence to the duties of his profession. “To the toils of the artist, during the day, (says his wife,) succeeded those of the writer, every evening; and from the month of September, 1806, to February, 1807, he allowed his mind no rest, and scarcely indulged in the relaxation of a walk, or the society of his friends.” He was engaged in completing his Lectures on Painting, to be delivered as Professor of Painting, at the Royal Academy. Each of them, as he finished it, he read to his wife, and, after the delivery of the first lecture in the Academy, “he was complimented by his brethren, escorted home by Sir William Beechey, and appeared to his wife in a flush of joy. Next morning he said he had passed a restless night, for he was so elated that he could not sleep!”[15] The first of the lectures was delivered on the 16th February, 1807; the fourth and last, on the 9th of March following.

To the completion of these Lectures his life perhaps fell a sacrifice, at least so thought Mrs. Opie, and, in the bitterness of her regret, she wished they had never been thought of. When they were completed, his friend, Mr. Prince Hoare, requested of him an article for his periodical paper, called “The Artist.” “I am tired, (he replied,) tired of writing; and I mean to be a gentleman in the spring months, keep a horse, and ride out every morning.”

But it was otherwise determined. He shortly after sickened; a slow and consuming illness attacked him, and wasted his vital energies, baffling the skill of the most experienced physicians, who hastened to his bedside, and attended him during the few remaining weeks of his life, with unremitting attention. His poor wife said she had, at least, the soothing conviction, that no human means had been left untried to ward off the inevitable stroke. Her memoir concludes with a few details respecting the closing scenes, which are best given in her own words.

I cannot dwell minutely on these painful hours. Great as my
misery must have been at such a moment, under any circumstances,
it was, if possible, aggravated by my being deprived of the
consolation and benefit of my father’s presence and advice, at
this most trying period of my life; for he was attending the
sick bed of his, apparently, dying mother. Yet she recovered, at
the age of 85, to the perfect enjoyment of life and happiness,
while Mr. Opie was cut off in the prime of his days! But let me
dwell on the brighter side of the picture. Let me be thankful
for the blessing I experienced in the presence of that sister,
so dear to my husband, who, by sharing with me the painful, yet
precious tasks of affection, enabled me to keep from his bed all
hired nurses,—all attendants, but our deeply interested selves;
that was indeed a consolation.

Of this sister Mrs. Opie speaks frequently with affectionate regard; and many years after, when she visited her husband’s relations in Cornwall, expressed her tender regret that she was no longer living to welcome her, and to go over with her the memories of the past.

After paying a tribute of thanks to the numerous friends who evinced their sympathy and respect, and shared, with affectionate solicitude, her anxieties, she says:—

The most soothing consciousness which I now have to look back
upon, when I revert to the painful scenes of his illness, is the
certainty that my husband’s last perceptions in this world were
of a pleasurable nature. By the kindness of his friend and
former pupil, Mr. Thompson, R. A., he was gratified in his
desire to see his picture of the Duke of Gloucester, which he
was most anxious should appear in the exhibition, completed, and
when it was brought to the foot of his bed, he looked at it with
the greatest satisfaction, and said, with a smile, “Take it
away, it will do now.” This incident seemed to give the turn to
the delirium which followed, for he was painting in imagination
upon it, until the last hour of his existence.

When Sir Joshua was buried in St. Paul’s, Mr. Opie exclaimed to his sister, with the proud consciousness of innate power, “Aye girl! and I too shall be buried in St. Paul’s.” His prophecy was accomplished. On the 9th of April, 1807, in the 46th year of his age, he expired; and on the 20th, the remains of John Opie were interred close beside those of Sir Joshua Reynolds!

It was said of him, by one of the first painters of his day, “Others get forward by steps, but this man by strides;” and so Goethe said of his great rival Schiller, “Er hatte ein furchtbares Fortschreiten; und so ging er immer vorwärts, bis sechs und vierzig Jahre; dann war er denn, freilich, weit genug!”[16]

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[15] A. Cunningham’s Lives of British Artists.

[16] “His strides were astounding: and so he continued ever onwards, for forty and six years; then indeed, he had gone far enough!”