Chapter I

BIRTH AND PARENTAGE; HER FATHER; HER MOTHER’S FAMILY; HER
MOTHER; SONNET TO HER MOTHER’S MEMORY; EARLY REMINISCENCES;
EARLY TERRORS AND THEIR CURE; THE BLACK MAN; CRAZY WOMEN;
BEDLAM; VISITS TO THE INMATES; EARLY TRAINING; THE FEMALE
SAILOR; ABRUPT CONCLUSION.

Amelia Opie, the only child of James Alderson, M.D., and of Amelia, his wife, was born the 12th of November, 1769, in the parish of St. George, Norwich; she was baptized by the Rev. Samuel Bourn, then the Presbyterian Minister of the Octagon chapel, in that city. Her father was one of a numerous family, the children of the Rev. Mr. Alderson, of Lowestoft, of whom some account is given in Gillingwater’s History of that “ancient town.” From this we gather that “Mr. Alderson was a very worthy, well-disposed man, of an exceeding affable and peaceable disposition, much esteemed by the whole circle of his acquaintance, and, as he lived much respected, so he died universally lamented.” His death happened in 1760. In a note the following account of his family is added: “Four sons and two daughters survive him; the sons are all distinguished for their industry and ability, and are eminent in their several professions; James, an eminent surgeon, at Norwich; John, a physician, at Hull, Thomas, a merchant, at Newcastle; and Robert, a barrister, at Norwich. Of the two daughters, Judith is married to Mr. Woodhouse, and Elizabeth unmarried.”

This was written in 1790. Were the historian now to add a supplementary notice, with how much satisfaction would he record, that, in the third generation, this family numbered among its descendants, Amelia Opie and Sir E. H. Alderson; the former the child of the eldest brother, the latter the son of the youngest.

The tender attachment borne by Mrs. Opie to her father was perhaps her most prominent characteristic. They were companions and friends through life; and when, at length, in a good old age, he was taken from her, she wept with a sorrow which no time could obliterate, and for which there was no solace but in the hope of rejoining him in a better world. Deeply touching are the evidences of the love which prompted her pen in its most successful efforts, influenced her in all the steps she took throughout her career, and rendered her indefatigable in cheering and soothing him through the long years of his declining age. Best of all, she was enabled to direct his mind towards those great truths of the gospel, which she had learned to love, and in which she found her support, when the arm of her earthly friend was about to relax its hold, and leave her alone to pursue in solitude the remainder of her pilgrimage.

Probably the early loss of the wife and mother was one cause which drew more close the bond of union between the “Father and Daughter.” It naturally followed that when, at the age of fifteen, she took the head of her father’s table, and the management of his domestic arrangements, she should endeavour, as much as possible, to supply the place which had been left vacant, and that her young affections should cling more fondly around her remaining parent. There was also much in the father calculated to draw to him the love of his child. He was of fine person and attractive manners, and to these external advantages was joined something better and more enduring—a kind-hearted and generous sympathy for the sufferers whom his skill relieved, and a charity to the poor, which induced him freely to give them his valuable advice and assistance. His daughter says, “He prescribed for about four or five hundred persons at his house every week. The forms in our large hall in a morning were so full from half-past eight till eleven, that I could scarcely pass; and this he did till the end of the year 1820, or rather perhaps to the beginning of 1821, when, unable to go down-stairs, he received the people, at my earnest desire, in my little drawing-room, till he said he could receive no one again. Oh! it was the most bitter trial he or I ever experienced, when he was forced to give up this truly Christian duty; and I was obliged to tell the afflicted poor people that their kind physician was no longer well enough to open his house to receive them, and try to heal their diseases again. He wept, and so did I; and they were bitter tears, for I feared he would not long survive the loss of his usefulness.” Those acts of kindness are not yet forgotten in his native city; an aged woman, being told the other day of the death of Mrs. Opie, recalled to mind the days of her father, “the doctor,” and the time when he was “very good to the poor folks, that is, he gaw’n ’em his advice for nothing; and that was a true charity, lady.”

Mrs. Opie’s mother, Amelia, was the daughter of Joseph Briggs, of Cossambaza, up the Ganges, (eldest son of Dr. Henry Briggs, rector of Holt, Norfolk, and Grace, his wife,) and of Mary, daughter of Captain Worrell, of St. Helena. In an old pocket book, Mrs. Opie has entered the following memoranda concerning this branch of her maternal ancestors.

Account of my great, great, _great_ grandfather, Augustine
Briggs, M.P., for Norwich. (From the pedigree of the Briggs’ in
Blomefield’s “History of Norfolk.”) An ancient family of Salle,
in Norfolk, who before the reign of Edward the First assumed the
surname of De Ponte, or Pontibus, i.e. at Brigge or Brigges; as
the ancient family of the Fountaines of the same place assumed
theirs, of De Fonte or Fontibus, much about the same time, one
we presume dwelling by the bridge or bridges, the other by the
springs or fountains’ heads. The eldest branch of both families
continued in Salle till they united in one. William Atte Brigge,
of Salle, called in some deeds W. de Fonte de Salle, was living
at Salle in 1334. John Atte Brigge, his second son, was alive in
1385. Thomas Brigge, of Holt, the fourth brother, was alive in
1400; and, in 1392, went to the Holy Sepulchre of our Lord, an
account of which pilgrimage written by himself is still extant,
in a manuscript in Caius College Library. Augustine Briggs,
mayor, alderman, and member for Norwich in four Parliaments, was
turned out of the Corporation by the _rebels_, and restored at
the king’s restoration. He joined the Earl of Newcastle’s forces
at the siege of Lynn, in 1643. There is a long sword in the
family, with a label in Augustine Briggs’ own hand writing tied
to it. “This I wore at the siege of Linn, in the servis of the
royal martyr, K. Charles ye First, A. Briggs.” He lies buried in
a vault in the church of St. Peter’s Mancroft, built by himself,
but he alone of the family lies there. It has been since
appropriated by the Dean and Chapter to another family, as it
was supposed no one was alive to claim it; but I, A. Opie, am
the lineal descendant and representative of this excellent man,
and the vault was my property. The following is a translation of
part of the Latin inscription on his mural monument in St.
Peter’s church:—“He was indeed highly loyal to his king, and
yet a studious preserver of the ancient privileges of his
country; was also firm and resolute for upholding the Church of
England, and assiduous and punctual in all the important trusts
committed to him, whether in the august assembly of Parliament,
his honourable commands in the militia, or his justiciary
affairs on the bench: gaining the affections of the people by
his hospitality and repeated acts of kindness, which he
continued beyond his death, leaving the following charities by
his will, as a more certain remembrance to posterity, than this
perishing monument erected by his friends, which his posterity
endeavours by this plate to continue to further ages.” He died
in 1684, aged 67. He lived in the Briggs’ Lane, called after
him, which lane is now (1839) widening, and is to be called
D’Oyley Street, a proper tribute of respect to the public
spirited individual who subscribed £1600 to further this
improvement.[1]

Augustine Briggs was also a public benefactor to this, his
native city, for he left “estates and monies to increase the
revenue of the Boys’ and Girls’ Hospital, and for putting out
two poor boys to trades every year, as can read and write, and
have neither father nor mother to put them forth to such
trades.” My cousin, Henry Perronet Briggs, R.A.,[2] his male
representative, has a very fine picture of him, a half-length,
in his military dress, painted, he believes, by a pupil of
Vandyke. I have a tolerably good three-quarter picture of
him,[3]—Amelia Opie. I have also a portrait of his
daughter-in-law, Hannah Hobart, heiress of Edmund Hobart, son of
the Lord Chief Justice Hobart, afterwards ennobled, and wife of
Dr. W. Briggs, M.D., of the University of Cambridge, a man of
great science and learning, and an eminent physician.

* * * * * *

Of the mother of Mrs. Opie but few memorials remain. She was of a delicate constitution, and appears to have cherished the habits of retirement, so naturally preferred by an invalid. Her early death bereaved her daughter of a mother’s care and guidance at the most critical period of woman’s life; and we may perhaps trace some features of Mrs. Opie’s character to this event. From the occasional glimpses we catch of the mother in her daughter’s short record of her own early days, it is evident that she was possessed of firm purpose and high principle; a true-hearted woman, and somewhat of a disciplinarian. Her steady hand would have curbed the high spirit of her child, and softened those ebullitions of youthful glee, which made the young Amelia such an impetuous, mirthful creature: she would have been more demure and decorous had her mother lived, but perhaps less charming and attractive. Speedily as the mother’s influence was withdrawn, it left, notwithstanding, some indelible traces in the memory of her daughter, who frequently referred to her, even in her latter days, and usually with reference to some bad habit from which she had warned her, or some good one which she had inculcated. Mrs. Alderson died on the 31st of December, 1784, in the 39th year of her age.

A series of Letters referring to the death of Mr. Joseph Briggs and his wife, and the transfer of their little orphan daughter to England, still exist. They are principally written by Mr. William Briggs, the second son of Dr. Henry Briggs, who having died in 1748, (just about the time of his eldest son’s decease in India,) the family affairs were committed to the care of his next surviving son. He writes thus:—

Several years ago my elder brother, Joseph Briggs, went over to
Bengal as a writer in the Company’s service; he married Miss
Mary Worrell; he died in May, 1747, and his widow in the
December following; leaving behind one child, Amelia. Captain
James Irwin, out of friendship to my brother, took care of his
little daughter after the death of her mamma. The latter end of
May, 1749, the child arrived here in England, and is now in
perfect health.

To this kind friend of the orphan, Captain Irwin, the grateful uncle writes:—

London, August 23rd, 1749.

Worthy sir, your letter of December 24th, 1748, and my very dear
niece, Amelia Briggs, came safe to England the latter end of May
last, praised be God! My honoured father dying in May 1748,
yours to him came to me with one directed for myself, in both
which you give very uncommon proofs of real friendship.
Friendship in prosperity is common; but in adversity none are
true friends but the pious.

Your great care of my niece has given very sensible pleasure to
all her relations, and all unite with me to return you sincere
and hearty thanks; at present we can only express our gratitude
in words, but should you ever be pleased to give us an
opportunity, I doubt not but you will find us ready to testify
our thanks by useful deeds. I believe you will meet with a
reward more substantial and durable from our gracious God.

My very great affection for my dear brother Joseph naturally
leads me to love and care for the little orphan as if it was my
own. She will never want whilst I have it in my power to assist
her. She will be a burden to none of her relations; for, before
she will have any occasion for it, she will be in possession of
a very handsome annuity. At present she is with my mother in
Norfolk, one hundred miles from London. She is a charming child,
and the country agrees very well with her. The black girl, her
nurse, is not reconciled to England; and, thinking she never
shall be so, she is determined to return to Bengal by the
Christmas ships. As my mother will give her entire liberty to be
at her own disposal, I believe her design is to enter into
service, as other free women do. If it be in your power, you are
very much desired by all my niece’s friends to prevent
Savannah’s being bought or sold as a negro.

May the God of all grace and consolation keep and bless you,
dear sir, and all your family, with everything necessary to make
your short passage easy and agreeable through time into a happy
eternity, is the sincere wish and prayer of,

Dear Sir,
Your most obliged humble servant,
W. B.

Seven years after her mother’s death, (1791,) she addressed to her memory the following sonnet.

ON VISITING CROMER FOR THE FIRST TIME SINCE THE DEATH
OF MY MOTHER, WITH WHOM I USED FREQUENTLY TO VISIT IT.

Scenes of my childhood, where, to grief unknown,
And, led by Gaiety, I joy’d to rove,
’Ere in my breast Care fix’d her ebon throne,
And her pale rue, with Fancy’s roses wove.
No more, alas! your wonted charms I view,
Ye speak of comforts I can know no more;
The faded tints of Memory ye renew,
And wake of fond regret the tearful power.
But would ye bid me still the beauties prize
That on your cliff-crowned shores in state abide,
Bid, aim’d in awful pomp, yon billows rise
And seek the realms where Night and Death reside;
Unusual empire bid them there assume,
And force departed goodness from the tomb!

Many years after, among her “Lays for the Dead,” appeared some further lines dedicated to her mother, and, as they have several references to the recollections she retained of her, and are in themselves very sweet and full of earnest tenderness of regret, they are reprinted here:—

IN MEMORY OF MY MOTHER.

An orphan’d babe, from India’s plain
She came, a faithful slave her guide!
Then, after years of patient pain,
That tender wife and mother _died_.
Where gothic windows dimly throw
O’er the long aisles a dubious day,
Within the time-worn vaults below
Her relics join their kindred clay—
And I, in long departed days,
Those dear though solemn precincts sought,
When evening shed her parting rays,
And twilight lengthening shadows brought—
There long I knelt beside the stone
Which veils thy clay, lamented shade!
While memory, years for ever gone,
And all the distant past pourtray’d!
I saw thy glance of tender love!
Thy check of suffering’s sickly hue!
Thine eye, where gentle sweetness strove
To look the ease it rarely knew.
I heard thee speak in accents kind,
And promptly praise, or firmly chide;
Again admir’d that vigorous mind
Of power to charm, reprove, and guide.
Hark! clearer still thy voice I hear!
Again reproof, in accents mild,
Seems whispering in my conscious ear,
And pains, yet soothes, thy kneeling child!
Then, while my eyes I weeping raise,
Again thy shadowy form appears;
I see the smile of other days,
The frown that melted soon in tears!
Again I’m exiled from thy sight,
Alone my rebel will to mourn;
Again I feel the dear delight
When told I may to thee return!
But oh! too soon the vision fled,
With all of grief and joy it brought;
And as I slowly left the dead,
And gayer scenes, still musing sought,
Oh! how I mourn’d my heedless youth
Thy watchful care repaid so ill,
Yet joy’d to think some words of truth
Sunk in my soul, and teach me still;
Like lamps along life’s fearful way
To me, at times, those truths have shone,
And oft, when snares around me lay,
That light has made the danger known.
Then, how thy grateful child has blest
Each wise reproof thy accents bore!
And now she longs, in worlds of rest,
To dwell with thee for evermore!

* * * * * *

Mrs. Opie evidently designed, at one time, to write a record of the most interesting events of her life; she commenced the task, but abruptly broke off when she reached the age of early youth. This interesting fragment was clearly written at a late period of her life, it commences thus:—

“_Ce n’est que le premier pas qui coûte_,” says the proverb, and
when I have once begun to put down my recollections of days that
are gone, with a view to their meeting other eyes besides my
own, the difficulty of the task will, I trust, gradually
disappear.

But I should be afraid that my garrulities, as I may call them,
would not be so interesting to others as I have thought they
might be, had I not observed such a hunger and thirst in the
world in general for anecdotes, whether biographical or
otherwise, and had I not experienced, and seen others evince,
such interest and amusement while reading of persons and things;
and I am thus encouraged to record my recollections of those
distinguished persons with whom I have had the privilege of
associating, from my youth upwards, to the present day.
Therefore, without further delay or apology, I mean to relate a
few “passages” in my very early days, in order to make my
readers acquainted with the preparation for my future life and
occupations, which these days so evidently afforded.

One of my earliest recollections is of gazing on the bright blue
sky as I lay in my little bed, before my hour of rising came,
and listening with delighted attention to the ringing of a peal
of bells. I had heard that heaven was beyond those blue skies,
and I had been taught that _there_ was the home of the good, and
I fancied that those sweet bells were ringing in heaven. What a
happy error! Neither illusion nor reality, at any subsequent
period of my life, ever gave me such a sensation of pure,
heartfelt delight, as I experienced when morning after morning I
looked on that blue sky, and listened to those bells, and
fancied that I heard the music of the home of the blest, pealing
from the dwelling of the most high. Well do I remember the
excessive mortification I felt when I was told the truth, and
had the nature of bells explained to me; and, though I have
since had to awake often from illusions that were dear to my
heart, I am sure that I never woke from one with more pain than
I experienced when forced to forego this sweet illusion of my
imaginative childhood.

I believe I was naturally a fearful child, perhaps more so than
other children; but I was not allowed to remain so. Well do I
remember the fears, which I used to indulge and prove by tears
and screams, whenever I saw the objects that called forth my
alarm. The first was terror of black beetles, the second of
frogs, the third of skeletons, the fourth of a black man, and
the fifth of madmen.

My mother, who was as firm from principle, as she was gentle in
disposition, in order to cure me of my first fear, made me take
a beetle in my hand, and so convince myself it would not hurt
me. As her word was law, I obeyed her, though with a shrinking
frame; but the point was carried, and when, as frequently
happened, I was told to take up a beetle and put it out of the
way of being trodden upon, I learnt to forget even my former
fear.

She pursued the same course in order to cure me of screaming at
sight of a frog; I was forced to hold one in my hand, and thence
I became, perhaps, proud of my courage to handle what my
playfellows dared not touch.

The skeleton of which I was afraid was that of a girl, black,
probably, from the preparation it had undergone; be that as it
may, I was induced to take it on my lap and examine it, and at
last, calling it my black doll, I used to exhibit it to my
wondering and alarmed companions. Here was vanity again perhaps.

The African of whom I was so terribly afraid was the footman of
a rich merchant from Rotterdam, who lived opposite our house;
and, as he was fond of children, Aboar (as he was called) used
to come up to speak to little missey as I stood at the door in
my nurse’s arms, a civility which I received with screams, and
tears, and kicks. But as soon as my parents heard of this ill
behaviour, they resolved to put a stop to it, and missey was
forced to shake hands with the black the next time he approached
her, and thenceforward we were very good friends. Nor did they
fail to make me acquainted with negro history; as soon as I was
able to understand, I was shewn on the map where their native
country was situated; I was told the sad tale of negro wrongs
and negro slavery; and I believe that my early and
ever-increasing zeal in the cause of emancipation was founded
and fostered by the kindly emotions which I was encouraged to
feel for my friend Aboar and all his race.

The fifth terror was excited by two poor women who lived near
us, and were both deranged though _in different degree_. The one
was called Cousin Betty, a common name for female lunatics; the
other, who had been dismissed from bedlam as incurable, called
herself “Old Happiness,” and went by that name. These poor women
lived near us, and passed by our door every day; consequently I
often saw them when I went out with my nurse, and whether it was
that I had been told by her, when naughty, that the mad woman
should get me, I know not; but certain it is, that these poor
visited creatures were to me objects of such terror, that when I
saw them coming (followed usually by hooting boys) I used to run
away to hide myself. But as soon as my mother was aware of this
terror she resolved to conquer it, and I was led by her to the
door the next time one of these women was in sight; nor was I
allowed to stir till I had heard her kindly converse with the
poor afflicted one, and then I was commissioned to put a piece
of money into her hand. I had to undergo the same process with
the other woman; but she tried my nerves more than the preceding
one, for she insisted on shaking hands with me, a contact not
very pleasing to me: however, the fear was in a measure
conquered, and a feeling of deep interest, not unmixed with awe,
was excited in my mind, not only towards these women, but
towards insane persons in general; a feeling that has never left
me, and which, in very early life, I gratified in the following
manner:—

When able to walk in the street with my beloved parents, they
sometimes passed the city asylum for lunatics, called the
bedlam, and we used to stop before the iron gates, and see the
inmates very often at the windows, who would occasionally ask us
to throw halfpence over the wall to buy snuff. Not long after I
had discovered the existence of this interesting receptacle, I
found my way to it alone, and took care to shew a penny in my
fingers, that I might be asked for it, and told where to throw
it. A customer soon appeared at one of the windows, in the
person of a man named Goodings, and he begged me to throw it
over the door of the wall of the ground in which they walked,
and he would come to catch it. Eagerly did I run to that door,
but never can I forget the terror and the trembling which seized
my whole frame, when, as I stood listening for my mad friend at
the door, I heard the clanking of his chain! nay, such was my
alarm, that, though a strong door was between us, I felt
inclined to run away; but better feelings got the mastery, and I
threw the money over the door, scarcely staying to hear him say
he had found the penny, and that he blessed the giver. I fully
believe that I felt myself raised in the scale of existence by
this action, and some of my happiest moments were those when I
visited the gates of bedlam; and so often did I go, that I
became well known to its inmates, and I have heard them say,
“Oh! there is the little girl from St. George’s” (the parish in
which I then lived.) At this time my mother used to send me to
shops to purchase trifling articles, and chiefly at a shop at
some distance from the bedlam, which was as far again from my
home. But, when my mother used to ask me where I had been, that
I had been gone so long, the reply was, “I only went round by
bedlam, mamma.”

But I did not confine my gifts to pence. Much of my weekly
allowance was spent in buying pinks and other flowers for my
friend Goodings, who happened to admire a nosegay which he saw
me wear; and as my parents were not inclined to rebuke me for
spending my money on others, rather than on myself, I was
allowed for some time to indulge in this way the interests which
early circumstances, those circumstances which always give the
bias to the character through life, had led me to feel in beings
whom it had pleased the Almighty to deprive of their reason. At
this period, and when my attachment to this species of human woe
was at its height, a friend of ours hired a house which looked
into the ground named before, and my father asked the gentleman
to allow me to stand at one of the windows, and see the lunatics
walk. Leave was granted and I hastened to my post, and as the
window was open I could talk with Goodings and the others; but
my feelings were soon more forcibly interested by an unseen
lunatic, who had, they told me, been crossed in love, and who,
in the cell opposite my window, sang song after song in a voice
which I thought very charming.

But I do not remember to have been allowed the indulgence of
standing at this window more than twice. I believe my parents
thought the excitement was an unsafe one, as I was constantly
talking of what I had said to the mad folks, and they to me; and
it was so evident that I was proud of their acquaintance, and of
my own attachment to them, that I was admonished not to go so
often to the gates of the bedlam; and dancing and French school
soon gave another turn to my thoughts, and excited in me other
views and feelings. Still, the sight of a lunatic gave me a
fearful pleasure, which nothing else excited; and when, as youth
advanced, I knew that loss of reason accompanied distressed
circumstances, I know that I was doubly eager to administer to
the pecuniary wants of those who were awaiting their appointed
time in madness as well as poverty. Yet, notwithstanding, I
could not divest myself entirely of fear of these objects of my
pity; and it was with a beating heart that, after some
hesitation, I consented to accompany two gentlemen, dear friends
of mine, on a visit to the _interior_ of the bedlam. One of my
companions was a man of warm feelings and lively fancy, and he
had pictured to himself the unfortunate beings, whom we were
going to visit, as victims of their sensibility, and as likely
to express by their countenances and words the fatal sorrows of
their hearts; and I was young enough to share in his
anticipations, having, as yet, considered madness not as
occasioned by some physical derangement, but as the result, in
most cases, of moral causes. But our romance was sadly
disappointed, for we beheld no “eye in a fine phrensy rolling,”
no interesting expression of sentimental woe, sufficient to
raise its victims above the lowly walk of life in which they had
always moved; and I, though I knew that the servant of a friend
of mine was in the bedlam who had been “crazed by hopeless
love,” yet could not find out, amongst the many figures that
glided by me, or bent over the winter fire, a single woman who
looked like the victim of the tender passion.

The only woman, who had aught interesting about her, was a poor
girl, just arrived, whose hair was not yet cut off, and who,
seated on the bed in her new cell, had torn off her cap, and had
let the dark tresses fall over her shoulders in picturesque
confusion! This pleased me; and I was still more convinced I had
found what I sought, when, on being told to lie down and sleep,
she put her hand to her evidently aching head, as she exclaimed,
in a mournful voice, “Sleep! oh, I cannot sleep!” The wish to
question this poor sufferer being repressed by respectful pity,
we hastened away to other cells, in which were patients confined
in their beds; with one of these women I conversed a little
while, and then continued our mournful visits. “But where (said
I to the keeper) is the servant of a friend of mine (naming the
patient) who is here because she was deserted by her lover?”
“You have just left her,” said the man. “Indeed,” replied I, and
hastened eagerly back to the cell I had quitted. I immediately
began to talk to her of her mistress and the children, and
called her by her name, but she would not reply. I then asked
her if she would like money to buy snuff? “Thank you,” she
replied. “Then give me your hand.” “No, you must lay the money
on my pillow.” Accordingly I drew near, when, just as I reached
her, she uttered a screaming laugh, so loud, so horrible, so
unearthly, that I dropped the pence, and rushing from the cell,
never stopped till I found myself with my friends, who had
themselves been startled by the noise, and were coming in search
of me. I was now eager to leave the place; but I had seen, and
lingered behind still, to gaze upon a man whom I had observed
from the open door at which I stood, pacing up and down the
wintry walk, but who at length saw me earnestly beholding him!
He started, fixed his eyes on me with a look full of mournful
expression, and never removed them till I, reluctantly I own,
had followed my companions. What a world of woe was, as I
fancied, in that look! Perhaps I resembled some one dear to him!
Perhaps—but it were idle to give all the perhapses of romantic
sixteen—resolved to find in bedlam what she thought _ought_ to
be there of the sentimental, if it were not. However, that poor
man and his expression never left my memory; and I thought of
him when, at a later period, I attempted to paint the feelings I
imputed to him in the “Father and Daughter.”

On the whole, we came away disappointed, from having formed
false ideas of the nature of the infliction which we had gone to
contemplate. I have since then seen madness in many different
asylums, but I was _never disappointed_ again.

Faithful to the views with which I began this little sketch of
my childhood and my early youth, I will here relate a
circumstance which was romantic enough to add fresh fuel to
whatever I had already of romance in my composition; and
therefore is another proof that, from the earliest circumstances
with which human beings are surrounded, the character takes its
colouring through life. Phrenologists watch certain bumps on the
head, indicative, they say, of certain propensities, and assert
that parents have a power to counteract, by cultivation, the bad
propensities, and to increase the good. This may be a surer way
of going to work; but, as yet, the truth of their theory is not
generally acknowledged. In the meanwhile, I would impress on
others what I am fully sensible of myself; namely, that the
attention of parents and instructors should be incessantly
directed to watching over the very earliest dispositions and
tastes of their children or pupils, because, as far as depends
on mere human teaching, whatever they are in disposition and
pursuit in the earliest dawn of existence, they will probably be
in its meridian and its decline.

When I was scarcely yet in my teens, a highly respected friend
of mine, a member of the Society of Friends, informed me that
she had a curious story to relate to me and her niece, my
favourite friend and companion; she told us that her husband had
received a letter from a friend at Lynn, recommending to his
kindness a young man, named William Henry Renny, who was a
sailor, just come on shore from a distant part, and wanted some
assistance on his way (I think) to London. My friend, who was
ever ready to lend his aid when needed, and was sure his
correspondent would not have required it for one unworthy,
received the young man kindly, and ordered him refreshments in
the servants’ hall; and, as I believe, prepared for him a bed in
his own house. But before the evening came, my friend had
observed something in the young man’s manner which he did not
like; he was too familiar towards the servants, and certainly
did not seem a proper inmate for the family of a Friend. At
length, in consequence of hints given him by some one in the
family, he called the stranger into his study, and expressed his
vexation at learning that his conduct had not been quite
correct. The young man listened respectfully to the deserved
rebuke, but with great agitation and considerable excitement,
occasioned perhaps, as my candid friend thought, by better meals
than he had been used to, and which was therefore a sort of
excuse for his behaviour; but little was my friend prepared for
the disclosure that awaited him. Falling on his knees, the young
man, with clasped hands, conjured his hearer to forgive him the
imposition he had practised. “Oh, sir,” cried he, “I am an
impostor, my name is not William Henry R. but Anna Maria Real, I
am not a man, but a woman!” Such a confession would have
astounded any one; judge then how it must have affected the
correct man whom she addressed! who certainly did not let the
woman remain in her abject position, but desired immediately to
hear a true account of who and what she was. She said, that her
lover, when very young, had left her to go to sea, and that she
resolved to follow him to Russia, whither he was bound; that she
did follow him, disguised as a sailor, and had worked out her
passage undetected. She found her lover dead, but she liked a
sailor’s life so well, that she had continued in the service up
to that time, when (for some reason which I have forgotten) she
left the ship, and came ashore at Lynn, not meaning to return to
it, but to resume the garb of her sex. On this latter condition,
my friend and his wife were willing to assist her, and endeavour
to effect a reformation in her. The first step was to procure
her a lodging that evening, and to prevent her being seen, as
much as they could, before she had put on woman’s clothes.
Accordingly, she was sent to lodgings, and inquiries into the
truth of her story were instituted at Lynn and elsewhere.

But what an interesting tale was this for me, a Miss just
entered into her teens! Of a female soldier’s adventures I had
some years previously heard, and once had seen Hannah Snelling,
a native of Norfolk, who had followed her lover to the wars.
Here was a female sailor added to my experience. Every
opportunity of hearing any subsequent detail was eagerly seized.
What a romantic incident! The romance of real life too! How I
wanted to see the heroine; and I was rather mortified that my
sober-minded friend would not describe her features to me. Might
I (I asked) be at last allowed to see her? and as my parents
gave leave, I, accompanied by a young friend, called at the
adventurer’s lodgings, who was at home! Yes,—she was at home,
and to our great consternation we found her in men’s clothes
still, and working at a trade which she had acquired on board
ship, the trade of a tailor! Nor did she leave off though we
were her guests, but went on stitching and pulling with most
ugly diligence, though ever and anon casting her large, dark,
and really beautiful, though fierce eyes, over our disturbed and
wondering countenances, silently awaiting to hear why we came.
We found it difficult to give a reason, as her appearance and
employment so totally extinguished any thing like sentiment in
our young hearts, upon this occasion. However, we broke the ice
at last, and she told us something of her story: which, however
touching in the beginning, as that of a disguise and an
enterprize prompted by youthful love, became utterly offensive
when persisted in after the original motives for it had ceased.
Her manner too was not pleasant: I wore a gold watch in my
girdle, with a smart chain and seals, and the coveting eye with
which she gazed, and at length clapped her hand upon them,
begging to see them near, gave me a feeling of distaste; and, as
I watched her almost terrible eyes, I fancied that they
indicated a deranged mind; therefore, hastening to give her the
money which I had brought for her, I took my leave, with my
friend, resolving not to visit her again. Out of respect to our
friends, she went to the Friends’ meeting with them, and they
were pleased to see her there in her woman’s attire; but when
she walked away, with the long strides and bold seeming of a
man, it was anything rather than satisfactory, to observe her.

I once saw her walk, and though this romance of real life
occupied the minds of my young friend and myself, and was
afterwards discussed by us, still the actress in it was
becoming, justly, an object with whom we should have loathed any
intercourse.

I do not recollect how long she remained under the care of my
excellent friends, but I think much of her story was
authenticated by the answers to the inquiries made. All that I
know with certainty is, that a collection of wild beasts came to
town, the showman of which turned out to be Maria Real’s
husband, and with him she left Norwich!

* * * * * *

Thus abruptly does Mrs. Opie’s narrative of her early days break off. Had she turned the next leaf in that history it must have been to record her first sorrow.

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[1] For all that it is Briggs’ Street still!—Ed.

[2] Since deceased.

[3] This portrait is the first of those which she apostrophizes in her “Lays for the Dead,” and begins—

“There hangs a Soldier in a distant age,
Call’d to his doom—my honour’d ancestor.”