Chapter V

MARRIAGE; EARLY MÉNAGE; AUTHORSHIP; LAY ON PORTRAIT OF MRS.
TWISS; LETTER TO MRS. TAYLOR; VISIT TO NORWICH; LETTER FROM MR.
OPIE; MRS. OPIE TO MRS. TAYLOR; MR. OPIE’S MOTHER.

Mr. and Mrs. Opie were married in Marylebone church on the 8th of May, 1798.

In the Memoir prefixed to her husband’s life she speaks with touching naiveté and feeling of the earlier years of their married life; “great economy and self denial were necessary,” she says, “and were strictly observed by us at that time.” The habits and tastes of Mr. Opie were, happily, very inexpensive, and so domestic in their nature, that he preferred spending his evenings at home to joining in society abroad; and liked nothing better, by way of relaxation after the labours of the day, than to spend the evening hours in converse with his wife, in reading with her books of amusement or instruction, in studying prints from the best ancient and modern masters, or in sketching designs for his pictures. His love of his profession was intense, and his unremitting industry in the pursuance of it drew from Mr. Northcote the observation, that while other artists painted to live, _he_ lived to paint. He was incessantly engaged in his painting-room during the hours of day-light, and no society, however pleasant, could long detain him from it. It was indeed a passion to which the whole energies of his being were devoted. In one branch of his art he appears to have been much indebted to his wife, and in what way this was shewn will be best told in her own words:—

When Mr. Opie became again a husband, (she says,) he found it
necessary, in order to procure indulgences for a wife whom he
loved, to make himself popular as a portrait-painter, and in
that productive and difficult branch of the art, female
portraiture. He therefore turned his attention to those points
he had long been in the habit of neglecting, and his pictures
soon acquired a degree of grace and softness to which they had
of late years been strangers. At the second exhibition after our
marriage one of his fellow artists came up to him and
complimented him on his female portraits, adding, “we never saw
any thing like this in you before, Opie; this must be owing to
your wife.”

Her husband related with evident delight this pleasing compliment to her who had inspired his efforts. Her modesty did not permit her to speak of another mode in which she assisted to promote his interests; but her friend Mrs. Taylor has mentioned that “in her own house, where Mr. Opie’s talents drew a constant succession of the learned, the gay, and the fashionable, she delighted all by the sweetness of her manners, and the unstudied and benevolent politeness with which she adapted herself to the taste of each individual.”

Happy it was for them both, that Mr. Opie was disposed to aid and encourage his wife in her favourite tastes, and the exercise of her literary talent. She observes:—

Knowing at the time of our marriage that my most favourite
amusement was writing, he did not check my ambition to become an
author; on the contrary he encouraged it, and our only quarrel
on the subject was not that I wrote so much, but that I did not
write more and better. Idleness was the fault that he was most
violent against in both sexes; and I shall ever regret those
habits of indolence which made me neglect to write while it was
in my power to profit by his criticisms and advice, and when, by
employing myself more regularly in that manner, I should have
been sure to receive the proudest and dearest reward of woman,
the approbation of a husband, at once the object of her respect
and of her love.

Mr. Opie entertained a partiality for works of fiction, and not unfrequently indulged himself in reading a novel, even if it were not of the first class; and his wife remarks in defence of this taste:—

He was above the petty, yet common affectation of considering
that sort of reading as beneath any persons but fools and women;
and if his fondness for works of that description was a
weakness, it was one which he had in common with Mr. Burke and
Mr. Porson.

Encouraged by the sympathy and approval of the man to whom she had united her fortunes, she soon began to exert her powers with diligence, and ere long became (as she expresses it) “a candidate for the pleasures, the pangs, the rewards, and the penalties, of authorship.”

In one respect, indeed, they were not congenial in their tastes; she ardently loved society, to which she had been so much accustomed, and in which her talents so peculiarly fitted her to appear to advantage. On the contrary, it was with difficulty that Mr. Opie could be induced to join a numerous and mixed assemblage. He preferred to spend an evening occasionally at the theatre, or rather at the opera; for he loved music, and had so quick an ear that he would remember accurately a tune that pleased him, after having heard it once. When he sought society, he preferred select dinner parties, where he could meet persons whose friendship he valued, and from whom he might hope to learn. With honourable pride his wife observes:—

He was conscious that he aimed at no competition with the
learned; while, with a manly simplicity, which neither feared
contempt nor scorned applause, he has often, even in such
company, made observations, originating in the native treasures
of his own mind, which learning could not teach, and which
learning alone could not enable the possessor to appreciate.

In the year after her marriage Mrs. Opie wrote a Lay “addressed to Mr. Opie on his having painted for me the picture of Mrs. Twiss;” it was published the same year, in the 1st volume of “The Annual Anthology,” and was (she tells us) one of her earliest; the concluding lines contain a pleasing tribute of affection to her husband:—

Within my breast contending feelings rise,
While this lov’d semblance fascinates my eyes;
Now pleas’d, I mark the painter’s skilful line,
Now joy, because the skill I mark, was thine;
And while I prize the gift by thee bestow’d,
My heart proclaims I’m of the giver proud,
Thus pride and friendship war with equal strife,
And now the friend exults, and now the wife.

A. O. 1799.

This picture was in her possession at the time of her death; it is “Portrait the Second” in her “Lays for the Dead,” which commences:—

The gift of love
That speaking picture was—of bridal love,
Now both the painter and his subject are
Where pictures come not. * * *

Mr. Opie’s ardour in the pursuit of his profession made him also unwilling to leave his home, even for a short change of scene and relaxation. In the frequent visits paid to Norwich by his wife, it was with difficulty she could prevail on him to accompany her; and whenever he was induced to do so, she says she had no chance of detaining him there, unless he found business awaiting him. In the autumn after their marriage, she turned her steps towards her early home, and rejoiced in greeting once more her father and the friends of her youth. After her return to London, we find her again resuming her pen to write to Mrs. Taylor: this letter bears date—

27th of January, 1800.
MY DEAR FRIEND,

* * * * John, I suppose, informed you he called on us; he
promised to come and dine with us, but has not been since; and
as I have been tied by the foot ever since the day after
Christmas day, from having worn a tight bound shoe, which made a
hole in my heel, I do not regret his false-heartedness, as when
he does come we are to go church and meeting hunting. * * * * *
_Àpropôs_, I was very sorry to hear of your husband’s severe
return of gout, but as he had a long respite before, I hope he
will again. Severe illness has (I often think) on the frame, the
same effect that a severe storm has on the atmosphere. I myself
am much better in every respect, since my late indisposition,
than I was before; and the mind is never perhaps so serene and
tranquil, as when one is recovering from sickness. I enjoyed my
confinement, as I was not, like your good man, in pain. My
husband was so kind as to sit with me every evening, and even to
introduce his company to my bedside. No less than three beaux
had the honour of a _sitting_ in my chamber. Quite Parisian you
see, but I dare not own this to some women. I have led a most
happy and delightful life since my return, and in the whole two
months have not been out more than four times; so spouse and I
had no squabbles about visiting, and that is the only thing we
ever quarrel about. If I would stay at home for ever, I believe
he would be merry from morning to night; and be a lover more
than a husband! He had a mind to accompany me to an assembly in
Nottingham place, but Mrs. Sharpe (a most amiable woman)
frightened him, by declaring he should dance with her, if he
did.

What the friendships of dissipated women are, Mrs. —— going to
a ball, while poor H. T. was dying, sufficiently proves. I
remember with satisfaction that I saw her, and shook hands with
her at the November ball. Indeed she had a _heart_; and I can’t
help recollecting that when I had the scarlet fever she called
on me every day, regardless of danger, and sat at the foot of my
bed. Besides, she was the friend of twenty years, and the
companion of my childhood, and I feel the older I grow, the more
tenderly I cling to the scenes, and recollections, and
companions, of my early hours. When I now look at Mr. Bruckner’s
black cap, my memory gets astride on the tassel of it, and off
she gallops at a very pleasant rate; wooden desks, green bags,
blotted books, inked hands, faces, and gowns, rise in array
before me. I see Mrs. Beecroft (Miss Dixon I should say) with
her plump good-humoured face, laughing till she loses her eyes,
and shakes the whole form; but I must own, the most welcome
objects that the hoofs of memory’s hobby-horse kick up, are the
great B.’s, or bons, on my exercises! I do not choose to
remember how often I was marked for being _idle_. * * So you
have had riots. I am glad they are over. Mrs. Adair called on me
this morning, and she tells me that Charles Harvey was terribly
alarmed after he had committed Col. Montgomery. A fine idea this
gives one of the state of a town, where a man is alarmed at
having done his duty!

I am very much afraid my spouse will not live long; he has
gotten a fit of tidyness on him; and yesterday evening and this
evening, he has employed himself in putting his painting-room to
rights. This confirms what I said to him the other day; that
almost every man was _beau_ and sloven, at some time of his
life. Charles Fox once wore _pink heels_; now he has an
unpowdered crop. And I expect that as my husband has been a
sloven hitherto, he will be a _beau_ in future; for he is so
pleased with his handyworks, and capers about, and says, “look
there! how neat! and how prettily I have disposed the things!
Did you ever see the like?” Certainly I never did, where he was,
before. Oh! he will certainly be a _beau_ in time. Past ten
o’clock! I must now say farewell; but let me own that I missed
you terribly when I was ill. I have no _female_ friend and
neighbour; and men are not the thing on such occasions. Besides,
you, on _all_ occasions, would be the female neighbour I should
choose. Love to your spouse. Write soon, and God bless you.

In the autumn of 1800 she again visited Norwich, accompanied by her husband; and on this occasion Mr. Opie painted the portrait of Dr. Sayers, an engraving from which is prefixed to the Life of that gentleman by Mr. W. Taylor; who says, “Dr. Sayers conversed much with Mr. O. on art, and listened to his native strength of talent and originality of judgment, and has happily applied to him a Greek distich in his Essay on Beauty.”

Mr. Opie seems to have returned to London after completing this picture, leaving his wife to spend some longer period with her father. His patience, however, became exhausted before she felt disposed to return to him, and he remonstrated with her in a half lover-like strain of complaint.

My dearest life, (he writes,) I cannot be sorry that you do not
stay longer; though, as I said, on your father’s account, I
would consent to it. Pray love forgive me, and make yourself
easy, for I did not suspect, till my last letter was gone, that
it might be too strong; I had been counting almost the hours
till your arrival for some time, and have been unwell and unable
to sleep these last three weeks, so that I could not make up my
mind to the disappointment. As to coming down again, I cannot
think of it; for though I could, perhaps, better spare the time
at present from painting, than I could at any part of last
month, I find I must now go hard to work to finish my lectures,
as the law says they must be delivered the second year after the
election, and though they have never acted on this law, yet
there are many, perhaps, who would be glad to put it in force in
the present instance. I had almost given way to the suggestions
of idleness, and determined to put them off till another year;
but since I have been acquainted with the above-mentioned
regulation, I have shut myself up in the evenings, and, I doubt
not, shall be ready with three or four of them at least. We had
a thin general meeting on Monday last, and elected Calcot an
associate of the R.A. Lawrence and Hoppner attended. Thompson
was also there, and we were very sociable; but he has not
called, nor was there any notice taken, on either side, of our
long separation. Pray, love, be easy, and as (I suppose) you
will not stay; come up as soon as possible, for I long to see
you as much as ever I did in my life.

A very short time elapsed after her return before we find her writing again to Mrs. Taylor.

12th December, 1800.

* * * * Are you not very much obliged to me, my dear friend? I
am good for nothing to-day, so I am going to write to you! But
one ventures to show one’s person in _dishabille_ at a friend’s
fireside, and why not one’s mind? and so I’m resolved, though my
mind is not just now smart enough for Parnassus, to exhibit it
at St. George’s. Here’s weather! But you Norwich people can’t,
even from recollection, I think, conceive half the horror of a
London fog. At present my husband’s mind is more affected by it
than my health (for it is a terrible time for a painter). I hope
I shall not suffer this winter as I did last; on the contrary, I
continue to grow fat, and have an excellent appetite for
everything but breakfast; and alas! I still “sigh and lament me
in vain” for Mrs. Lessy’s hot half-baked cakes. Fye upon her!
she has made me so dainty. My visit to Harleston was a very
satisfactory one; it seemed the burial of unpleasant feelings,
and the resurrection of amiable ones. I left Eliza Merrick a
_plump_ image of health and content, and I found Betsey Fry
yester-evening at her own house a _lean_ image of the same. How
women vary! I am surprised to see the leanness of the one, and
the fatness of the other; formerly the lean one was fat, and now
the fat one is lean; but now she is so very comfortably settled,
no doubt she will soon grow fat again. In all Quaker houses
there is a most comfortable appearance of neatness, comfort, and
affluence. Betsey Fry is settled down with everything requisite
to domestic happiness. Mr. Fry pleases me very much.

Richard and I have frequent meetings now. On Sunday he is to
breakfast with me, squire me to the Catholic chapel in King
Street, where French Bishops (and sometimes the Archbishop of
Narbonne) officiate, and then eat his beef with us.

To-morrow, if Anne Plumptre returns, I shall go with her into
the pit of Drury lane to see a new tragedy, the author nameless
to me, (though known to others I find,) and so I wish him to
continue; for I should like to form of the piece, for the first
time in my life, an unprejudiced judgment. Mrs. Siddons, indeed,
told me not to go, because the play was stupid; but I have since
recollected, to counteract her influence, that Kemble says she
knows nothing about a play. So I flatter myself I am still
unprejudiced.

I shall have left Norwich a month only next Sunday, and it seems
to me three, at least, so much have I done and seen since my
return. Mr. Opie, too, has been constantly employed. The T.s
will be here in a month; that is a great joy to me. I purposely
avoid saying anything of my evening at Mrs. Siddons’ on Tuesday
evening last, as I expect to fill my letter to my father with it
to-morrow.

I am uneasy about Mr. Opie’s mother. She has again taken to her
bed; and I fear the long struggle she had with death last
winter, though she overcame him, will have weakened her too much
to make it possible for her to endure another—and I did so
ardently wish to see her! A committee of Academicians is to meet
every Saturday till means are found to execute Mr. Opie’s plan
for a Naval Pantheon; and this looks well. Just room for love to
your circle, and my name,

A. OPIE.

The fear expressed in this letter was, happily, not realized; Mr. Opie’s mother survived till the spring of 1805, when she died at the advanced age of ninety-two. To this parent he was most tenderly attached, and neither time nor the pressure of business, diminished his filial devotion to her. He delighted to dwell upon her early tenderness, her careful attention to his childish wants, and the encouragement which she afforded to his first attempts in the art he loved; his eye would glisten and his face kindle with affection when he spoke of her; and no sooner was it in his power to assist her, than he rejoiced in affording her the means of comfort and independence.

How cordially could his wife sympathize with him in this fervent attachment; she, who was, throughout life, so sensitively alive to the claims of relationship, even in the remotest degrees, and whose whole being was devoted with tenderest love to her parents while living, and to their memory when dead! She appears to have been permitted the gratification of her wish to see her husband’s mother, and “I believe (she says) that scarcely any one who knew her would have thought this description of her an exaggerated one.”