Chapter VI

“THE FATHER AND DAUGHTER;” CRITIQUE IN THE EDINBURGH; THREE
LETTERS TO MRS. TAYLOR; VOLUME OF “POEMS;” “GO, YOUTH BELOVED;”
LETTER FROM SIR J. MACKINTOSH; S. SMITH’S LECTURE.

In the year 1801, Mrs. Opie gave to the world the “Father and Daughter;” her first acknowledged publication. She had, before her marriage, published an anonymous novel, entitled “the Dangers of Coquetry,” which does not appear to have attracted any attention. It will presently be seen that she refers to it in a letter to Mrs. Taylor, and it is included in the list of her works given in Watt’s Bibliotheca Britannica, although without date, and placed in order after her earlier publications. The “Father and Daughter,” in the first edition, was accompanied by a poem called “The Maid of Corinth,” and some smaller pieces. It is unnecessary to do more than remind the reader of the warmth of approval with which this tale was received by the public.[7] In the preface to it Mrs. Opie modestly confesses her diffidence in appearing as an _avowed_ author at the bar of public opinion, and disclaiming for her little book the ambitious title of a novel, says, “Its highest pretensions are to be a simple moral tale.”

In the first volume of “The Edinburgh,” there is a review of her poems,[8] in which the writer thus criticises the “Father and Daughter.”

* * * “Mrs. Opie’s mind is evidently more adapted to seize
situation than to combine incidents. It can represent, with
powerful expression, the solitary portrait, in every attitude of
gentler grief; but it cannot bring together a connected
assemblage of figures, and represent each in its most striking
situation, so as to give, as it were, to the glance of a moment,
the feelings and events of many years. When a series of
reflections is to be brought by her to our view, they must all
be of that immediate relation which allows them to be introduced
at any part of the poem; or we shall probably see before us a
multitude, rather than a group. * * * * She has, indeed, written
a novel; and it is one which excites a very high interest: but
the merit of that novel does not consist in its action, nor in
any varied exhibition of character. Agnes, in all the sad
changes of fortune, is still the same; and the action, if we
except a very few _situations_ of the highest excitement, is the
common history of every seduction in romance. Indeed, we are
almost tempted to believe that the scene in the wood occurred
first to the casual conception of the author; and that, in the
design of fully displaying it, all the other events of the novel
were afterwards imagined.”

The three following letters to Mrs. Taylor admit us behind the scenes, and allow us to see the palpitations of her heart.

Sunday Evening, 1801.
MY DEAR FRIEND,

The only paper I can find consists of two half sheets, _comme
vous voyez_. But no matter. I will not, for appearance’ sake,
baulk my inclination to write to you.

* * I am very sorry that Mrs. Jordan and the Duke of Clarence
have hitherto managed their matters so ill, as always to
disappoint you; but the lady is now about again, though, from
pecuniary disputes with the manager, probably, she is, as yet,
invisible to the public. However, by the time you come, I hope
she will be on the boards again. I believe you were very right
in what you said to me, about the good arising from my having
delayed publishing my juvenile pieces; but some of those things
which have now gained me reputation _are_ juvenile pieces,
written years ago; however, I am contented that I have, till
now, lived unconscious of the anxieties of an author. I wish I
were launched! As usual, all the _good_ I saw in my work, before
it was printed, is now vanished from my sight, and I remember
only its faults. All the authors, of both sexes, and artists
too, that are not too ignorant or full of conceit to be capable
of alarm, tell me they have had the same feeling when about to
receive judgment from the public. Besides, whatever I read
appears to me so superior to my own productions, that I am in a
state of most unenviable humility. Mr. Opie has no patience with
me; but he consoles me by averring that fear makes me overrate
others, and underrate myself. Be so good as to tell my father
that, as a subscriber to Dyer’s book, he has half a guinea to
pay for the volume I have received for him, and when the other
two volumes are done, he will have to pay half a guinea more!
Poor man; but tell him, as some little consolation, that there
are three pretty stanzas addressed to me in the first volume,
the old verses lengthened and improved, but they are “To a
Lady,” not to Mrs. Opie. Viganoni was with me from twelve to
three to-day, alternately singing with me and talking; he has,
with all his genius, a great deal of what the French call
_bonhommie_, which makes him talkative and confiding, when he is
with those he thinks his friends. I was pleased, for his sake,
to hear him say he should sing only two or three years longer,
as he had saved money enough to live quite at his ease in his
native country. He says music is now so cultivated and courted
in England, that it is at its height, and must soon fall “_en
décadence_;” but he thinks the present taste a vicious one. “_Le
monde Anglais_;” he says, “like nothing equal to bravura
singing,” which he thinks no singing at all, and which never
goes to the heart like simple sentimental singing. Indeed he
never puts in a grace, but what tends to illustrate the
sentiment of the words, and the style of the air; his singing is
conversation, put into sweet sounds. My plaudit is of no weight,
perhaps; but Viganoni has, unrivalled, that of all the oldest,
most experienced, and able professors of music—men who unite
theory with practice, and are the _only good_ judges, from
having, from their situations, an opportunity of comparing
singers and styles—men who have _learnt_ to _hear_, an art,
nothing but hearing constantly the first music and performers,
can teach. I long to hear Mara again. V. says she sings better
than ever, though her voice is on the wane. How strange it is
that Bante retains her _unequalled_ voice, though she gets drunk
every day. This extraordinary creature can’t even write her
name, and knows not a note of music. V. is sometimes forced to
pinch her to keep her in time, and make her leave off her vile
shake, or rather no shake, at the proper point. A gentleman
declared to me he saw this; but I did not believe it, till I
asked V., who told me it was true. Adieu! Love to all.

1801.
MY DEAR FRIEND,

I began a letter to you full a fortnight ago, but I know not
what is become of the precious scrawl; it is “wasting its
sweetness on the desert air,” somewhere or other, so I must
begin a new one. All I remember of it is, that it began with
very sensible reproaches for your having thought it necessary
and becoming in you to _thank_ me for what you were pleased to
call kindnesses, from me, to you and yours; as if such words and
such ceremonies were proper between you and me, and as if, in
showing attention to you and Richard, I did not do myself honour
by proving the sense I entertain of superior merit. Tol de rol
lol!

So you are coming to the great city! but let me advise you to
come in mourning, for there seems to be a rot amongst royalty,
and one court mourning succeeds to another; the present one will
scarcely be over before you arrive. One of our great
grandmothers is dead, but which I do not know. I shall have a
great deal to tell you about new people and new characters when
I see you, which a letter could neither contain nor do justice
to. It is a world to see! I dearly love to get a peep at it now
and then; and what I do see of it only serves to endear the
safety and quiet of my own home. You will be up just time enough
for one of my pleasantest parties, and I expect you and I shall
be two merry wives when we get together again. You will see the
exhibition too; and I hope _que vous y verrez briller mon Mari_.

I am glad on reperusing “The Dangers of Coquetry,” that you
think so highly of it. I read it at Seething soon after I
married, and felt a great respect for it; and if I ever write a
collection of tales, I shall correct and re-publish that, as _I
originally wrote it_, not as it now is, in the shape of a novel,
in chapters. I believe I told you that Mr. Hoare was so struck
with it, as to intend writing a play from it. I wish he would.
Heigho, I am very stupid to-night, so my ideas do not come
_coulamment_; so for want of something better to say, I will
tell you a characteristic anecdote of Mr. Northcote. Mr. Opie,
and he, and Sir Francis Bourgeois (the landscape painter) dined
at Sir William Elford’s the other day, and met there a Colonel
Elford. After dinner some disputatious conversation took place,
in which my husband and Mr. N. took a principal part; after some
time, the Colonel said, in a low voice to Sir Francis, “Painters
are queer fellows; how oddly they converse. One knows not what
to make of them; how oddly these men run on!” Sir Francis
assented, and consoled himself as well as he could, for being so
little eminent as not to be known to be a painter himself. After
tea, he took an opportunity of telling this story to Northcote;
who, starting back with a face of horror, exclaimed, “Gude G—!
then he took _you_ for a gentleman!” I dare say he did not sleep
that night. My husband says very truly and admirably of this
queer little being, that his mind resembles an old family
mansion, in which some of the apartments are furnished and in
good repair, while the major part are empty or full of rubbish.
* * * (Enter Mr. Northcote!) (Sunday.) I have nothing to tell
you in consequence of the little man’s visit, except a fresh
proof of the care he takes of his little health. I had some
cheese toasted and brought up. “Gude G—! how unwholesome, one
piece if you please, and no more.” Presently after, he says,
“Bless me, Mrs. Opie! eating still? how much have you ventured
to eat?” “Two pieces.” “Oh, then so will I, I’ll venture to eat
two pieces too.” As a proof of his _politeness_, I will tell you
that on my saying Sir Roger L’Estrange was a Norfolk man, he
exclaimed, “A Norfolk man! could anything good or great come out
of Norfolk?”

I am told my father certainly means to visit us this spring, but
I am resolved not to expect him, as I was so disappointed last
year. I am sorry you will come up too late for the Oratorios. I
am going to-day to carry Mrs. Inchbald my book to read. She has
promised me her opinion of it; and I long to receive it. She is
a judge of the tale only; poetry is to her an undiscovered
country. The ballads she already admires very highly. As this
letter will not go till to-morrow, I shall leave it
open.—(Sunday eve.)—I had written thus far, when your kind
letter came. I repeat my advice to you to come in a black
muslin; a white gown and black ribbons, or even a coloured gown,
will do occasionally in a morning, to spare the other, and then
you will always be either dressed or undressed; for black suits
all companies; black stockings and a black petticoat you would
find so useful too. All black continues fashionable, and is
economical too. I am very glad you like my tale. The Hoares
called to-day, and expressed themselves much pleased and
affected by it, Mr. H. could not sleep all night after it, it
made him so wretched. You will undoubtedly see both Coome and
Mrs. Jordan. Adieu, just room to send kind love. Yours, &c.,

A. O.
Monday, 1801.

* * * I did not expect, my dear friend, that my asking one
favour of you should procure me _two_; viz., fowls for Viganoni,
and a letter for myself; but I like to take all heaven
sends—and the more the better. Your question to me “what is
this indescribable charm which attends the overflowings of one
mind into another when it finds itself understood?”—I can’t
answer; though, as you observe, the enjoyment is known to me.
But this pleasure is not confined to the contemplation of well
assorted minds; in everything we delight to see things _fit_, as
we call it; even a scissors-sheath delights us when, on buying
it, we find it sits _flush_—as the phrase is. No wonder then
that, when mind fits mind, the pleasure should be so great.
Yes!—as you say, July is coming; and I am coming, but late in
July I doubt. I have not made out the author of the anonymous
letter—I wish I had; yet, there I lie; mountains look largest
and most sublime when they are shrouded partly in mist. The
“British Critic” is something _awful_; but what is Parson Beloc?
Pray tell my father that 750 are to be printed of the _Tale_; it
will be time enough to settle the number of the other volume
when it is ready for the press. At present I am so incapable of
writing!

I have been giving myself a great deal of trouble to-day, and I
doubt at last I shall be disappointed. Viganoni, with great
readiness and great humility, granted my request that he would
set the little song I wrote the other day; but to enable him to
do this, I have just written it out, leaving a space between
each line wide enough for him to write the cadence of the words,
as if they were Italian, underneath; then at the bottom, in
French prose, I have translated the song, that he may comprehend
the sentiment; and I have also written it again with a literal
translation of each word by a _French_ one under it, regardless
of French construction, that he may catch the proper emphasis;
thus:—

New friends, new hopes, new joys, to find—
De nouveaux amis, de nouvelles espérances, de nouveaux plaisirs, à
trouver.

And, after all, if he should not do it well! he says he will do
_son possible_, but I have my fears; if he succeeds I shall be
so pleased! * * What a labour it is to laugh for a continuance!
I am quite sore to-day with immoderate laughter yesterday! I was
irritable, and then anything sets me off. Not but what my uncle
and aunt, at whose house I dined, and Mr. Biggs who dined there
also, were very agreeable; but had I been quite well, and my
husband not gone to Chatham I should not have been so noisy. Yet
I declare I laugh now at some of the fun. I expect my husband
home in half an hour. He went to please me, and after he was
gone I repented of my persuading him to go, but I thought the
air and exercise would do him good. Do not laugh, but though
only two days absent, the house seems so strange without its
master, that I have learned to excuse, nay to commend, women for
marrying again! How dreadfully forlorn must be the situation of
a widow! I think I shall write an essay recommending second
marriages, and dedicate it to Mrs. Merrick. Well, God bless you!
I think I have written nonsense enough. Love to your spouse and
bairns; and believe me, ever yours,

A. OPIE

“The other Volume” was the “Poems,” which appeared early in 1802, and for a critique upon which we must again refer the reader to the article in the Edinburgh Review for October, 1802. After some rather severe criticism of her deficiencies and faults, the writer observes, “It is in the smaller verse of eight syllables, which requires no pomp of sound, and in the simple tenderness, or simple grief, to which, the artlessness of such numbers is best suited, the power of Mrs. O.’s poetry consists. * * * The verses of feeling, on which she must rely for the establishment of her fame, are certainly among the best in our opuscular poetry. As a specimen we select the following song, which is scarcely surpassed by any in our language:—

Go, youth beloved, in distant glades,
New friends, new hopes, new joys to find!
Yet sometimes deign, ’midst fairer maids,
To think on her thou leav’st behind.
Thy love, thy fate, dear youth, to share,
Must never be my happy lot;
But thou may’st grant this humble prayer
Forget me not! forget me not!

Yet should the thought of my distress
Too painful to thy feelings be,
Heed not the wish I now express,
Nor ever deign to think of me!
But oh! if grief thy steps attend,
If want, if sickness be thy lot,
And thou require a soothing friend,
Forgot me not! forget me not!

Sir James Mackintosh, in a letter written to Mr. Sharpe, from India, refers to these lines in the following manner: “Tell the fair Opie that if she would address such pretty verses to me as she did to Ashburner, I think she might almost bring me back from Bombay, though she could not prevent his going thither. I beg that she will have the goodness to convey Lady M.’s kindest compliments and mine, to her friend Madame Roland, of Norwich.” (By this playful epithet Mrs. Taylor was designated, in consequence of a fancied resemblance to her portrait.) It was probably, the delivery of this message which produced the impromptu by Mrs. Opie, on being asked if she had written verses on the absence of Sir James Mackintosh, in India:—

No! think not in verse
I his absence deplore:
Who a sorrow can sing
Till that sorrow is o’er?
And when shall his loss
With such sorrow be classed?
Oh! when shall his absence
Be _pain that is past_?

Sir James acknowledged the compliment thus paid him by the following letter, dated,

Bombay, 30th September, 1805.
MY DEAR MRS. OPIE,

Many thanks for all your late presents, your good cousin, your
most affecting novel, and your elegant verses. Your cousin will
do well, and return to you, I hope, in a few years, with a
reasonable fortune, and an unbroken constitution. At present I
think he looks fresher than I ever saw him in Norfolk. Of
Adeline, I cannot speak with quite so much unmixed complacency;
she has occasioned many painful moments, and even cost us some
tears. The verses I am sure I should admire, even if they had
not bribed me to do so. The first four lines in particular are
so ingenious and so natural, so lively and so easy, that they
resemble the light poetry of the French, in which they so much
surpass all nations. Standing by themselves, they would make an
admirable _impromptu_ answer to the question which is the
subject. Perhaps you will allow me to prove the sincerity of
this praise, by adding that the remaining lines though
excellent, are not perhaps of quite so high a cast as the first
four. I have some thought of publishing these four in our Bombay
Paper, in the form of which I have spoken; if I do, I bespeak
pardon by anticipation.

The character of the Hindu is, in your songs, and in most
European descriptions, beautiful and poetical; but on near
approach it is base and odious enough. Their fine forms and
graceful attitudes might indeed furnish subjects for Mr. Opie’s
pencil, but their minds will seldom be worthy of your verse or
your prose. I agree with you about the commencement of the third
volume of Godwin’s novel. It is most masterly. There are other
admirable parts; but, taken throughout, I think it the worst of
his three; though far indeed above the limits of a vulgar fate.
So unlettered and incurious is this place, that the copy of
Fleetwood which came here, was suffered to lie on the shop
counter with all the common trash of the Minerva press,
undistinguished by our novel readers, to whom Godwin has no
name; and might have so remained till it was devoured by the
white ants, if I had not heard of it by chance, and eagerly
snatched it from these animals, or from others of nobler shape,
but not much nobler nature. I need scarcely say that no
hostility was mixed with my eagerness; on the contrary, I
expected, and I found great pleasure. I hope you are in love
with Walter Scott’s “Lay of the Last Minstrel.” Nowhere else,
but in “Warwick Castle,” are antique character and dignity
reconciled with modern elegance and regularity. It has many
charming passages, and the narrative is full of warlike and
Homeric spirit; if the poem be sometimes tedious, so is Homer
himself, the prince of ballad-makers, and of border minstrels. I
presume that you have read Madame de Genlis’ “Duchesse de la
Valière;” which, though not precisely a novel, is surely a most
fascinating work. Have you ventured on the Abbé Delille’s
translation of “Paradise Lost?” I presume it is a capital crime
to praise it in England; and perhaps the importation of it may
be prohibited; I see it is most profusely panegyrized in the
_Moniteur_, and the only fault in the opinion of the French
critics, is that the Translator has _not altered Milton
sufficiently_. How would this sound on the banks of my beloved
Thames? It would be blasphemy in England, and would be very bad
taste anywhere, not to mention its glaring inconsistency with
the first idea of _translation_. The bearer of this letter is
Mrs. Stewart, a very amiable, and rather unfortunate woman, who
brought here beauty and understanding fit for happier spots, and
who is now going to England in search of long-lost health; any
attention that you may have the goodness to show her, Lady M.
and I shall consider as a great favour to us. I am confident,
that when your own ingenious delicacy has gently dispelled the
clouds that dejection and retirement have spread around her, you
will see in herself sufficient motives for kindness to her.

I am, my Dear Madam,
Truly and faithfully yours,
JAMES MACKINTOSH.

A triple crown was to be awarded to this song “Go, youth beloved.” It was selected by the Rev. Sydney Smith, in one of his “Lectures on Moral Philosophy,” delivered at the Royal Institution in 1804-5, as possessing peculiar excellence in its style; he says, “If any man were to discover the true language of nature and feeling in this little poem of Mrs. Opie’s, he would gain no credit for his metaphorical taste, because the beauties of it are _too_ striking for a moment’s hesitation.”

The authoress was present at the time when Mr. Smith pronounced this eulogium upon her verses; and she used laughingly to tell how unexpectedly the compliment came upon her, and how she shrunk down upon her seat, in order to screen herself from the observation of those around her.

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[7] It was afterwards taken as the groundwork for one of the most popular Italian operas of the time, the “Agnese” of Paer.

[8] Written by Dr. Brown.