Chapter VIII

THE REVIEW AND BUONAPARTE; “FESCH;” GENERAL MASSENA; RETURN TO
ENGLAND; LETTER TO MRS. COLOMBINE; VISIT TO NORWICH; “ADELINE
MOWBRAY;” LETTER TO MRS. TAYLOR; MR. ERSKINE.

At length the long desired object (a sight of Buonaparte) was attained; she thus relates her impressions of the scene:—

We had now been several days in Paris, and yet we had not seen
the First Consul! I own that my impatience to see him had been
abated, by the growing conviction which I felt of the possible
hollowness of the idol so long exalted.

But still we were desirous of beholding him; and I was glad when
we received a letter from our obliging acquaintance, Count de
Lasteyrie, informing us that Buonaparte would review the troops
on such a day, on the Place du Carousel, and that he had
procured a window for us, whence we should be able to see it to
advantage. But, on account of my short-sightedness, I was still
more glad when our friend De Masquerier, (a very successful
young English painter,) informed us that he had the promise of a
window for my husband and myself, in an apartment on the
ground-floor of the Tuilleries, whence we should be able to have
a near view of Buonaparte:—our friends, therefore, profited by
M. de Lasteyrie’s kindness, and we went to the palace.

As the time of seeing the First Consul drew nigh, I was pleased
to feel all my original impressions in his favour return. This
might be a weakness in me, but it was, I hope, excuseable; and
our sense of his greatness and importance was, as my husband
observed, heightened by seeing the great man of our own
country,—he who was there a sight himself to many,—cross the
Place du Carousel, with his wife on his arm, going, as we
believed, to gaze like us, on, at least, a more fortunate man
than himself—for, at that time, Charles James Fox had not seen
Napoleon Buonaparte.

The door which opened into the hall of the palace was shut, but,
after some persuasion, I prevailed on the attendant to open it;
and he said he would keep it open till the First Consul had
mounted his horse, if I would engage that we would all of us
stand upon the threshold, and not once venture beyond it.

With these conditions we promised to comply; and, full of eager
expectation, I stationed myself where I could command the white
marble stairs of the palace; those steps once stained with the
blood of the faithful Swiss guards, and on which I now expected
to behold the “Pacificator,” as he was called by the people and
his friends—the hero of Lodi.

Just before the review was expected to begin, we saw several
officers in gorgeous uniforms ascend the stairs, one of whom,
whose helmet seemed entirely of gold, was, as I was told, Eugène
de Beauharnois. A few minutes afterwards there was a rush of
officers down the stairs, and amongst them I saw a short pale
man, with his hat in his hand, who, as I thought, resembled Lord
Erskine in profile; but, though my friend said in a whisper,
“_C’est lui_,” I did not comprehend that I beheld Buonaparte,
till I saw him stand alone at the gate. In another moment he was
on his horse, and rode slowly past the window; while I, with
every nerve trembling with strong emotion, gazed on him
intently; endeavouring to commit each expressive, sharply
chiselled feature to memory; contrasting also with admiring
observation, his small simple hat, adorned with nothing but a
little tri-coloured cockade, and his blue coat, guiltless of
gold embroidery, with the splendid head adornings and dresses of
the officers who followed him.

A second time he slowly passed the window; then, setting spurs
to his horse, he rode amongst the ranks, where some faint huzzas
greeted him from the crowd on the opposite side of the Place du
Carousel.

At length he took his station before the palace, and as we
looked at him out of the window, we had a very perfect view of
him for nearly three quarters of an hour. I thought, but perhaps
it was fancy, that the countenance of Buonaparte was lighted up
with peculiar pleasure as the _corps d’élite_, wearing some mark
of distinction, defiled before him, bringing up the rear—that
fine gallant corps, which, as we are told, he had so often led
on to victory; but this might be my fancy. Once we saw him
speak, as he took off his hat to remove the hair from his heated
forehead, and this gave us an opportunity of seeing his front
face, and his features in action. Soon after, we saw him give a
sword of honour to one of the soldiers; and he received a
petition which an old woman presented to him; but he gave it,
unread, to some one near him. At length the review ended; too
soon for me. The Consul sprang from his horse—we threw open our
door again, and, as he slowly re-ascended the stairs, we saw him
very near us, and in full face again, while his bright,
restless, expressive, and, as we fancied, dark blue eyes,
beaming from under long black eyelashes, glanced over us with a
scrutinising but complacent look; and thus ended, and was
completed, the pleasure of the spectacle.

I could not speak; I had worked myself up to all my former
enthusiasm for Buonaparte; and my frame still shook with the
excitement I had undergone.

The next day sobered me again, however, but not much, as will be
soon seen.

The day after the review, our accomplished countrywoman Maria
Cosway, took the president of the Royal Academy, Benjamin West,
and ourselves, on a round of picture-seeing; and at length we
proceeded to the residence of a gentleman, who was, I concluded,
only a picture dealer, or one of the many _nouveaux riches_, who
had fine collections; because, whenever she spoke of him, Maria
Cosway called him nothing but “Fesch.” We stopped at the door of
a very splendid hotel in the Chaussée d’Antin, and were met at
the top of a magnificent flight of stairs, by a gentleman in the
garb of an ecclesiastic. His hair was powdered, and he wore it
in a full round curl behind, after the fashion of an _abbé_; his
coat was black, but his stockings were of a bright purple; his
shoe and knee buckles were of gold; round his neck he wore a
glossy white silk handkerchief, from under which peeped forth a
costly gold crucifix. His countenance was pleasing; his
complexion uncommonly blooming; his manners courteous; and his
age (as I afterwards learned) was thirty-nine.

This gentleman was the “Fesch” we came to visit, but I soon
discovered that though he lived in the house, it was not his
own; for Maria Cosway was summoned into an adjoining room, where
I overheard her conversing with a female; and when she returned,
she told us that Madame Buonaparte Mère, (as she was called to
distinguish her from her daughter-in-law,) the mistress of the
hotel, was very sorry that she could not see us, but that she
was so unwell, she was obliged to keep her bed, and could not
receive strangers. So then! we were in the house of Letitia
Buonaparte, and the mother of Napoleon! and in the next room to
her, but could not see her! how unfortunate! however, I was sure
I had heard her voice. I now supposed that “Fesch” was her
spiritual director, and believed his well studied dress, _si
bien soignée_, was a necessary distinction, as he belonged to
the mother of the First Consul.

He seemed a merry, as well as a courteous man; and once he took
Maria Cosway aside, and showed her a letter that he had only
just received, which, to judge from the hearty laugh of “Fesch,”
and the answering smiles of the lady, gave them excessive
pleasure.

By and by, however, I heard and observed many things which made
me think that “Fesch” was more than I apprehended him to be. I
therefore watched for an opportunity to ask the President who
this obliging person was.—“What!” cried he, “do you not know
that he is the Archbishop of Lyons, the uncle of Buonaparte?” I
was astonished! What the person so familiarly spoken of as
“Fesch,” could he be indeed “_du sang_” of the Buonapartes, and
the First Consul’s uncle! How my respect for him increased when
I heard this! How interesting became his every look and word;
and how grateful I felt for his obliging attention to us!

While we were looking at the pictures, his niece, the wife of
Murat, drove to the door; and I saw the top of her cap as she
alighted, but no more, as she went immediately to her mother’s
bedside.

After devoting to us at least two hours, the Archbishop
conducted us down the noble staircase, to the beautiful hall of
entrance, and courteously dismissed us. My companions instantly
went away, but I lingered behind; for I had caught a view of a
colossal bust of Buonaparte in a helmet, which stood on a table,
and I remained gazing on it, forgetful of all but itself. Yes!
there were those finely cut features, that “_coupe de menton à
l’Apollon!_” and, though I thought the likeness a flattered one,
I contemplated it with great pleasure, and was passing my hand
admiringly over the salient chin, when I heard a sort of
suppressed laugh, and, turning round, saw the Archbishop
observing me, and instantly, covered with confusion, I ran out
of the house. I found Maria Cosway explaining what the letter
was which had given “Fesch” and her such evident satisfaction.
It was nothing less than a letter from Rome, informing him that
he would probably be put in nomination for the next cardinal’s
hat.

How soon he was nominated I cannot remember, but it is now many
years since the blooming ecclesiastic of 1802, exchanged his
purple for scarlet stockings, his mitre for a red hat, and his
title of Archbishop of Lyons, for that of Cardinal Fesch.

As the time drew near when she must bid farewell to Paris, Mrs. Opie evidently longed for an extension of a season so full of enjoyment to her; but since her wish could not be gratified, she determined to make the most of every hour that remained; and she relates several anecdotes, relative to what she saw at the places she visited; among others the _atelier_ of David, whither she accompanied her husband, and where she was forcibly struck with one of that artist’s pictures, “Brutus returning from the tribunal after adjudging his sons to death.” The emotion of compassion awakened in her mind by this picture was so strong, that she was unable to gaze on it without pain, so real was the illusion. Another visit the party made was to the Hotel of Murat, which, being furnished in the most elegant style of French luxury, was thought worth seeing: and splendid indeed it was.

The bed of the lady of the house was too elegant, and then, too
uncommon, to be forgotten; it stood in a recess which was lined
with looking-glass, and at the foot of the bed were, as I think,
two finely chiselled marble cupids. The draperies were of the
clearest muslin, lined with rose-coloured satin; and the
counterpane as well as the valance was flounced with deep point
lace. The panels of the room were painted in drab and rose
colour; and all the decorations of the apartment were in the
most costly but tasteful style. But what pleased me most in this
hotel, was a picture of General Moreau, which, unframed, stood
against one of the walls. It was a whole-length, as large as
life, from the pencil of Gérard, and was one of those real
portraits, which resemble life so much, that we are apt to
fancy, when we recall the features, that we have seen, not the
portrait, but the original.

Just as they were leaving the hotel, their attention was directed to a gentleman who was talking energetically to the porter, and whom their guide informed them was General Massena. Pleased indeed, to see one of whom she had read and heard so much, she scanned him attentively, and thus describes his appearance:—

His head was one of the largest I had ever seen, his hair long
and thick and curled, _à la Brutus_, and his features large and
not fine. His eyes, however, were bright; in his ears he wore
gold rings of large dimensions, (then commonly worn by French
officers,) and his person was large, his height apparently
nearly six feet. On the whole, however, his appearance was not
prepossessing, and there was a look of coarse brutal daring,
which contrasted unfavourably with the pleasing expression in
the countenance of his rival in military fame, General Moreau.

Sorry as our enthusiastic traveller felt, when the hour of departure from Paris arrived, she yet greeted (she tells us) with heartfelt delight the white cliffs of her own dear native land. On the homeward journey she mentions a somewhat amusing incident; a little dog, purchased by Mr. Opie, was entrusted to her care, and made so many claims upon her time and attention, that she owns it was no matter of regret to her, that the poor brute shortly died, “which saved me (she adds) from the danger I seemed likely to incur, of becoming the slave of a pet animal.”

Some of those who accompanied Mr. and Mrs. Opie on this tour used afterwards to relate, what ardour and intense delight she manifested in all the objects of interest she beheld; and how she sat on the Boulevards and sang, with heart and voice, “Fall, tyrants fall!” At the theatre they heard Talma, as “Cain,” in the “Death of Abel;” and so deep an impression did this wonderful actor produce on her memory, that within a few years, she has been heard to refer to that occasion, dwelling on his look and manner, and the preternatural tone with which he answered the voice, “_Où es tu Cain?_”—“_Ici, Seigneur_;” the sounds, deep and sepulchral, appearing to issue from the ground beneath him.

Of the ensuing winter, and spring of the year following, we have no record from her hand; one letter alone remains, dated 25th February, 1803, addressed to her old and esteemed friend Mrs. Colombine. It is too long to be inserted entire, although of much interest, illustrating as it does her benevolence, and that kindliness of heart which was throughout life one of her most distinguishing characteristics. After expressing her friendly sympathy in the troubles that had befallen those to whom in early life she had been attached, she says:—

* * I assure you I cannot enough express how much I admire and
honour the fortitude you have throughout displayed. Not to feel
would be downright insensibility; but to feel so acutely as I
know you do, and still to bear up so well, is a proof of
strength of mind which I am _proud_ to see in one whom I so
sincerely love and esteem. But you would not, I know, exchange
your feelings, for the insensibility of some mothers; for
instance, of Mrs. B——, whom I almost hated for your sake, for
daring so to intrude on the sacredness of recent sorrow. Do not
scold me for speaking thus of her, because she is dead. I think
“speak only good of the dead,” is a silly and pernicious maxim;
I had rather speak ill of the dead than of the living. * * *
Give my kind love to Mr. C. and tell him that he must, and ought
to be, cheerful, because he has reason to be proud. Respect and
esteem attend him into retirement and misfortune, and though he
may be allowed to blush for others, he must respect himself. I
think we Norwich people have reason to be proud of our native
city! such liberality, and so well directed, makes it an honour
to belong to it.[11] It gives me great pleasure to see, both in
you and Mrs. B. that ardent piety which can _alone_ fortify and
cheer the afflicted mind; and when I hear virtuous infidels (for
there _are_ such) declare that they do not regret either the
hopes or consolations of religion, I hear with surprise and
pity, and end by believing that they do not know or do not own,
their _real_ feelings.

Farewell, and believe me,
Most affectionately yours,
A. OPIE.

During the summer of this year Mrs. Opie paid her usual visit to Norwich, and again her lengthened stay called forth the remonstrances of her husband. He writes, “my affection for you is even increased in point of general feeling and interest, so that if I do not admire you more, I feel you more a part of myself than I ever did at first,” and urging her speedy return, for that he “longs so very much to see her.”

In this letter he mentions that as soon as he has an opportunity he means to send her—

A letter, with a volume of poems, by Henry Kirke White, a
“visionary boy,” of seventeen, who, with all becoming
diffidence, presumes to lay his youthful productions at the feet
of one, “who so eminently enjoys the holy impulse” as yourself.
He was “struck with the resemblance of one of his poems to one
of yours, though to compare the former to the latter, is like
comparing O’Keefe to Shakespeare”—there! I hope this will give
you pleasure. Let me hear on Wednesday how you are. The cat and
parrot are both well, and the kitten[12] beautiful and merry.
The guns have been firing to-day, but on what account I am
ignorant yet.

Adieu, my only love.

Again, probably shortly after this, her husband writes to her, enclosing a letter containing some complimentary verses on her “Elegy to the memory of the late Earl of Bedford,” and adding, by way of postscript,

This came to me in a cover on Monday, so I thought it too
delicious not to be sent immediately; who is the author? Your
letter is arrived; and I am very sorry to find this cursed
election lasting so long, and I wish you would not appear so
prominent in it. I asked Mrs. N. about the box, and she says it
was not to go till I went; however, I shall now have it sent as
soon as possible. I have seen nothing of Erskine or Reynolds for
some time. The cloak I am afraid is lost, for Mr. Bunn wrote me
that he had made every inquiry in vain. Dr. Haweis has been
sitting two or three times, and makes a good head. I shall write
to you to-morrow or next day, so, God bless you, yours ever.
J. O.

Let me hear again, Friday or Saturday at furthest; I feel
desirous enough of seeing you, but I have not much more to say
at present, unless I begin scolding you about the election. What
business had you to get mounted up somewhere so conspicuously?
But there is no more room; I am going now to dine with Thomson,
to meet little J. A Mr. Best called on Saturday, and said he
meant to be or to have somebody painted, but I have heard no
more.

In 1804, Mrs. O. published “Adeline Mowbray,” or “Mother and Daughter,” a Tale, in three volumes, the object of this work is to pourtray the lamentable consequences which would result from the adoption of lax principles on the subject of matrimony. “The second volume of this beautiful story is perhaps the most pathetic and the most natural in its pathos, of any fictitious narrative in the language,” says the writer of the 19th Art. in “The Edinburgh Review” of 1806.

The following letter to Mrs. Taylor was probably written about this time:—

(without date.)
MY DEAR FRIEND,

* * * I am just returned from Deptford, where I have been ever
since Thursday; a sad loss of time, and nothing would have made
me patient under it, but the extreme pity I feel for Miss M.’s
forlorn situation. But perhaps, as my company gives her comfort,
I ought not to call my visit to her a loss of time. I was
lamenting to Mrs. Barbauld, to whom I related this poor orphan’s
story, that Miss M. did not seem to have any taste for reading.
“So much the better,” was her answer, “I do not think such a
taste desirable. Reading is an indolent way of passing the
time”—and so she went on. I was extremely surprised, as you may
think, and began to combat her assertions; but I recollected
that I had heard it said that Mrs. B., like W. Taylor, often
contradicted for the sake of argument, and when I feel this, as
it is a proceeding which I thoroughly disapprove, I am too angry
to keep up the ball.

I find that Mrs. B. admires Cowper’s letters very much. In my
opinion they have been much overrated. The letters to Lady
Hesketh are beautiful; but those to Hayley and J. Johnson,
abounding as they do in “dearests” and “fondnesses” and “dearest
of all dear Johnnies,” make me sick _à la mort_!

* * * * You have not ridden much in stage coaches I believe, at
least not round town. O! what a pleasure I should lose were I to
ride in my own carriage and forsake stages! I find egotism the
prevailing characteristic of my fellow-travellers. This morning
I found, when I entered the stage, one passenger only in it, and
that was a little girl. “Are you going to town?” said I. “Yes, I
know the gentleman, and so I came.” “What gentleman?” “The
coachman, he lives by us; and so, as I wanted to go for my
shoes, he said he would take me; he promised me my shoes to wear
to-day, and I am going to see arter’em: I ha’ known Mr. Wheeler
a long time,” &c.—and so she ran on, till I was tired of
listening; and convinced me egotism is of all ages. As I went
down, a fine, jolly, florid young countrywoman, a great deal
fatter than I am, was complaining to a gentleman (who informed
us he was just recovered from a fit of illness) that she was
very unwell too; and as she had not seen her friends at Deptford
for two years, she was sure they would be quite _shocked_ at the
change in her, for when she left them she was quite jolly and
healthy looking. I could hardly keep in my laughter at this. Her
Deptford friends must be droll persons, and great amateurs in
fat indeed, to be dissatisfied with her magnitude, and regret
what she had lost; I protest she might have played the goddess
of health at Dr. Graham’s.

I shall see you now soon, and I hope to see you nearly well.
Farewell! With kind love to Mr. Taylor and all the family, I
remain, _toute à vous_,

A. OPIE.

In 1805 she was again in Norwich, and during that visit she enjoyed the unexpected pleasure of hearing Mr. Erskine plead; happily she has given an account of this event, which is preserved among her MSS. As usual when about to relate anything connected in her mind with an earlier period, she goes back, on the present occasion, to the time when she first saw Mr. Erskine. This was in the Nisi Prius court in Norwich, whither he had come down on a special retainer in a Right-of-Way cause, which for some reason was not heard at that assizes. She says:—

Well do I remember him, as I first saw him, entering for a few
minutes, and taking a hasty survey of the court. I was
immediately struck with the look of intelligent inquiry which he
cast over the eager, but disappointed crowd, assembled to hear
him; that eye reminded me of the description of Ledyard, the
eastern traveller’s eye, for it seemed “bright and restless,”
and its rapid glance appeared to observe, in its brief survey,
as much as other eyes in a more lengthened one; and I much
regretted that the interest which his appearance excited in me
was not to be increased by the well known melody of his
voice.[13]

Soon after, I had the privilege of becoming acquainted with him,
when I was staying at the house of a dear friend near London,
and in the course of conversation he informed us that he was
going down special to Huntingdon, on a most interesting
occasion. A young man, lately come into possession of a large
fortune, had been proceeded against by the next heir as being a
supposititious child; and he told us that he was counsel for the
defence, and that the cause was likely to be very long and very
interesting, as the defendant was universally beloved; kindly
adding, that as he saw I was interested in such things, when he
met me at dinner again, on his return to London, he would then
give myself and my friends an account of the trial.
Consequently, great was my impatience till the day of the dinner
came, and the great orator arrived; but though he again talked
most pleasantly, and on law subjects too, not one single
allusion did he make to the Huntingdon cause. In vain did I try
to take courage, and remind him of his promise; I was not then a
married woman, and fancied it would be presuming to do so; but,
when I heard his carriage announced, and saw him about to
depart, made valiant by despair, I exclaimed “Oh! Mr. Erskine,
you have not fulfilled your promise! you have not told us the
particulars of the Huntingdon cause!” “True!” he replied,
starting and turning back, “but you shall not be disappointed,”
and leading me to the sofa, he seated himself beside me, and
went through the whole of the proceedings. He gave us the
evidence on both sides, told us what his opponent had said for
the plaintiff, and he for the defendant; and, warming as he
proceeded, he soon grew as much interested in the details as we
were; and when he came to the verdict of the jury which was in
favour of his client, his countenance beamed with animation,
while he described the general plaudit with which the verdict
was received in the court, and the shouts which were heard
outside the walls from the assembled multitude!

He then hastily jumped into his carriage, leaving me exulting in
having drawn from him a gratification so unusual and so
complete.

But I experienced a still greater and much longer enjoyment of
his eloquence in the year 1805, when he went down to Norwich, on
the same Right-of-Way cause before alluded to; and I, being then
on a visit to my father, had the pleasure of hearing him speak
when he appeared on the side of the plaintiff.

As I was very early in court, I obtained a seat by the side of
the judge, Sir Alexander Macdonald, and saw and heard everything
to the greatest advantage. In that place I remained the whole
day, except when, on being assured that my seat should be kept
for me, I went home to tea, but soon returned to the scene of
action, where I staid all night; as I could not bear to go away
without hearing the great orator’s reply to the defendant’s
counsel. As I was desirous that the plaintiff should gain her
cause, I had been alarmed to find by the speech of the eloquent
advocate for the defendant, how much could be said on both
sides, and was therefore anxious to hear by what means his
arguments could be rendered powerless; therefore, though
listening with delighted attention and wonder to the powerful
cross-examination, I wished it over: but witness, on the
defendant’s side, succeeded to witness; the audience became
gradually smaller and smaller, and although Lord Brougham with
his usual eloquence and felicity of expression has said, “that
juries declared they found it impossible to remove their looks
from Mr. Erskine when he had, as it were, rivetted and
fascinated them by his first glance,” I am obliged to confess
that some of this Norfolk jury began visibly to nod, and it
seemed likely, that, except the judge, the high sheriff, the
barristers, the officers of the court, and myself, there would
soon be no hearers left awake, and the beams of rising day were
forcing themselves through the windows!

The observant Erskine took the hint, so palpably given, and
coming up to me, he kindly said, “go home! go home! I shall not
reply to-night; but you had better be here by eight in the
morning,” and soon after the court adjourned to that hour.

When I reached the terrace of the castle[14] my steps were
arrested, and even the necessity of sleep forgotten, by the
sight of the most splendid sunrise I had ever beheld! I did not
pause to gaze on it alone, and I should not have paused in my
narrative, in order to mention so irrelevant a circumstance, had
not my companion been one whom I never again beheld; one whom I
have pleasure in recalling to my memory, and of whom I have
lately been agreeably reminded by Dr. Bowring’s amusing memoir
of Jeremy Bentham. I allude to the late George Wilson, who for
many years went the Norwich Circuit, and to whom I was made
known at an early age, and by whom my love of attending courts
was good humouredly encouraged. When impaired health (rather
than age) obliged this amiable and intellectual man to quit the
bar, he retired into Scotland, his native country, and I think
he took up his abode in the delightful city of Edinburgh, where
he died a few years ago, lamented and regretted by all who had
the privilege of his acquaintance. It is a satisfaction to me to
have had the oportunity of paying even this little tribute to
his memory.

I was in court again by half-past seven, but too late to obtain
a seat, and I stood many hours, in a painful position, but I was
soon made unconscious of it by the eloquence of Erskine; for
during those hours he spoke, and hushed a court, crowded even to
suffocation, into the most perfect stillness. Never was the
power of an orator over his audience more evident or more
complete.

The plaintiff gained her cause, and her advocate new laurels;
for I know that those best qualified to form a correct judgment
on the subject, namely, his brother lawyers, who were present,
declared that they had “never before heard Mr. E. so great in
reply.”

Fortunate, therefore, were those who heard him that day, as
never again was he heard to equal advantage. A few months
afterwards he was made Lord Chancellor, and when, while talking
to him at a party in London, I told him I was every day
intending to go into the Court of Chancery, in hope of hearing
him speak in his new capacity—his reply was, “Pray do not come!
you will not hear anything worth the trouble. I am nothing now;
you heard the last and best of me at Norwich last year!”

This was indeed too true; and those powers of forensic eloquence
for which he was so celebrated, he could exercise no longer. His
audiences, in future life, were almost wholly different from his
former ones, and those attractions so peculiarly his own, were
not necessary on the judgment-seat, in the Court of Chancery,
and would have been in a measure thrown away in the House of
Lords.

Fortunate, therefore, I repeat it, were those who heard him in
the Right-of-Way cause at Norwich, and when he forcibly reminded
me of the portrait of Garrick so admirably drawn by the pen of
Sheridan in his unequalled monody—a portrait which might have
been supposed to be that of the Honorable Thomas Erskine, for
his indeed were

“The grace of action, the adapted mien,
Faithful as nature to the varied scene;
The expressive glance, whose subtle comment draws
Entranc’d attention and a mute applause;
Gesture that marks, with sense of feeling fraught,
A sense in silence, and a will in thought.
Harmonious speech, whose pure and liquid tone
Gives verse a music scarce confess’d its own:
As light from gems assumes a brighter ray,
And cloth’d with orient hues transcends the day.
Passion’s wild break, and frowns that awe the sense
And every charm of gentler eloquence.”

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[11] We find in Matchett’s “Norfolk and Norwich Remembrancer,” p. 63, under date, October 13th, 1802, this entry; “Alderman Francis Colombine resigned his gown as Alderman, to whom and his daughter the Corporation of Norwich granted an annuity of £100.”

[12] This creature became a great pet. Mrs. Opie taught it some pretty tricks, and it was so fondly attached to Mr. O. that during his illness it used to sit and watch at the door of his chamber like a dog. Mrs. O. often talked of it. It came to an untimely end, and she was so much distressed about it, that this probably was the reason she never would again have any pets; for, in later years she evinced no disposition to fondle animals. No favourite dog, cat, or bird, was permitted to domicile with her.

[13] I observed the same expression in the eye of Buonaparte, when, standing near the marble stairs of the Tuilleries, I saw him as he ascended them and looked on a group of English assembled to gaze at him.—A. O.

[14] The Assizes were held at this time in a building at the top of the Castle Hill adjoining the Castle.