CHAPTER XXV.

THE CASTLE MEADOW HOUSE; INDISPOSITION; INCREASE OF CRIME; RUSH’S TRIAL; SUMMER ASSIZES OF 1849; DEATH OF BISHOP STANLEY; SUMMER AND AUTUMN OF 1850; FAREWELL VISIT TO LONDON; THE GREAT EXHIBITION; SUMMER OF 1852; RHEUMATIC GOUT; NOTES; LAST VISIT TO CROMER; THE SPRING AND SUMMER OF 1853; SUDDEN ILLNESS, OCTOBER 23RD; PATIENCE AND CHEERFULNESS; INCREASING SICKNESS; LEAVE TAKING; DEATH.

Returning from London on the 14th of July, 1848, Mrs. Opie took possession of her new house, on the Castle Meadow. She looked back with pleasure upon the time she had passed in town, and said, “never indeed, did I have a more gratifying reception, than I met with from all my friends, of different ranks, this time of my being there.” Fortunately her choice of an abode proved satisfactory, she thoroughly liked it from the first, and conceived the happy idea that Dr. Alderson would have been pleased with it, “for (she said) he would have enjoyed this lively scene, and he often wished to have a house in this locality.” When she had become quite settled in it, she wrote:—

* * * * I am every day more charmed with my new house and home. I feel it a very desirable house to die in, that is to be ill in; a “pleasant cradle for reposing age;” and I do so love to look at my noble trees and my castle turrets rising above them; and when the leaves fall off, I shall still have the pleasure of seeing the green and grassy mound of the Castle. From one of my drawing room windows I see the woods and rising grounds of Thorpe. I neither hear nor see the cattle on market days, and I am quite happy in my choice, and deeply thankful that “the lines have fallen to me in pleasant places.” Indeed I have no _désagrémens_ at all, that I am conscious of, in my new abode.

In the month of October, Mrs. Opie made a short stay at Lowestoft; but the fatigue brought on a return of her malady, and in one of her notes she says:—

I came from Lowestoft apparently well, but soon became ill, and was obliged to send for Dr. Hull, who was, at first, alarmed at my symptoms; but I was not, as he kept his fears to himself. My sufferings were great indeed, and I never was so conscious of his judgment, as while observing the truly efficacious manner in which he treated me. I rallied directly, and was able, with his leave, to go to Sir J. Boileau’s to stay two days and nights. I was charmed with M. Guizot, who was one of the guests; his manners are very simple, and he played at “_jeux de societé_” with us _young_ people, at night, and enjoyed it as much as we did! It is, indeed, a great favour to be permitted to enjoy life still, so much as I do, in company; but it is a far greater one to be able to enjoy equally my lonely hours. * * * How fearful is the state of things on the Continent, and who knows what the result will be? but I read the 46th psalm, and remember who reigneth, and I trust in Him, and am at peace.

At Michaelmas, of this year, Mrs. J. J. Gurney left Earlham Hall for the Grove, and before she removed, Mrs. Opie went over to take a last look at the place which was endeared to her by the recollections of so many bygone years. During the two years longer that Mrs. Gurney remained in England, Mrs. Opie had the comfort of her society, and it was with sorrow that she bade her farewell when she departed for America, in the summer of 1850.

A note, written shortly after this time, refers to the fearful crimes which were committed during that autumn. She says:—

I heard, at that _blessed_ City Mission meeting, which I attended the other evening, that our county is reckoned one of the worst for crime and ignorance. Now comes that murder, by wholesale, at Stanfield, and every week I read of two or three murders. Still, as Dean Swift sarcastically wrote,

“And hell, to be sure, is at Paris or Rome, What a blessing for us, that it is not at home.”

France and Ireland do not, I think, much suffer in comparison with us. Truly, we English improve rapidly in virtue!

Mrs. Opie, latterly, took a somewhat morbid view of the existing state of things, supposing that instead of improving they became worse. She read the daily papers, in which the same crime is repeatedly brought to notice, week after week; and became possessed with the idea that murders and horrors were multiplied in proportion to the publicity given them. In the month of March she went to visit Miss Gurney, and returned from Northrepps on the morning of the Lent assizes, when Rush’s trial came on. She did not attend on that occasion, adhering to her constant determination, never to be present in the Criminal Court in a capital case. But in one of her notes she gives a lively picture of her feelings while the trial was going on:—

I know not what to do to-day except look at the castle and watch the crowds on the plain, and the people continually passing, few walking, but most running, as if too much excited to do otherwise. Rush is on his defence! * * I dread to hear the verdict, and yet I wish all was over. (The evening of the second day.) On my castle turrets, to the west, the sun set gloriously this evening, converting it into a mass of red granite; and while I write the moon is shining into my room, “looking tranquillity.” But what is passing within those castle walls? A man, fierce as a tiger, is struggling for life at the awful bar of justice. * * * *

What hundreds are passing to and fro; and what various sounds I hear! now children and boys laughing and shouting; then men, congregated under my windows, and talking: but always, within those walls, _I_ see that wretched man, writhing in mental agony, and against what, I fancy, he now _believes_ inevitable doom!

In the Summer Assize Mrs. Opie was in her usual place in court, and with how much lively interest she watched the proceedings, is evident in the following letter:—

Castle Meadow, 8th mo., 4th, 1849.

Well C. L. how art thou? * * * * and so thou hast trodden where Robin Hood did! He was one of my heroes when I was young; and at sixteen, when driving through Sherwood Forest, I insisted on getting out, to walk through it, and tread where he and his merry men had trodden. Thy papa has been very kind to me; he gave me his arm, and saw me safe home, when I walked, two evenings together, from the Shirehall, where I, the poor, limping invalid, (no _appropriate_ name that,) was, from nine to six, on the sixth day, and from nine to nine the following day; that is, twelve hours on Saturday, and without refreshment of any kind save two gingerbread cakes; but I wanted nothing, so completely did mind conquer matter. It was _one_ cause only which lasted from twelve on Friday, to six that evening, and the next day from nine to nine; and so interesting it was to me, my attention never flagged a minute, and when I got home I was quite as able and bright as when I went into court. It was Lord W. Poulett’s action against our Railway Company for damage done to his property and his tenants’, by the fire emitted from the train. I never saw a clearer case proved. I had no bias either way; if I had any leaning it was to the Norwich persons, the defendants; but I felt sure the verdict was a just one. It was for the plaintiff. The fire may be kept in, but they must take more trouble and go to more expense; and I believe this action will save property if not _lives_. Byles spoke admirably, and the judge was excellent also. I assure thee this calling up of all my energies has done me great good. Except in my lameness, I am as well as ever I was in my life; and at the Palace, the other evening, (last Wednesday,) I walked across that room, and to my fly, hold of Arthur Stanley, and did not limp. I heard thy father’s voice last evening, but did not see him; for I was just getting into bed at nine o’clock: but the last time I saw him, he walked off, at half-past ten o’clock, from my house, with a pretty young lady hanging on either arm, to their hotel. I was at Paris when the sister of these ladies was married, and was present at the wedding, and a pleasant sight it was. The marriage took place at the ambassador’s chapel, and the bride and her husband were a sight to see, as they knelt before Bishop Luscombe, picturesque from his fine face and large sleeves!

It is, to my feelings, so cold a day, that I am sitting by a large fire in my smaller drawing room * * * * There, my letter is longer than thine, and I have written four besides this, so hasten to conclude.

Thine faithfully and affectionately, A. OPIE.

In August Mrs. Opie spent a week in Cambridgeshire, visiting some kind friends at Melbourne-Bury, and returning home shortly before the lamented death of Bishop Stanley. This was a grief which, (as she herself expressed it,) cast a shadow over the remainder of her days, and to which she could never refer without deep emotion. How many hearts grieved when the solemn sound of the bell announced to the inhabitants of the city this melancholy event! Every one felt that it told of a general loss, and that a good and holy man had been taken from amongst them. And when, in compliance with the wish of the honoured and beloved prelate, his remains were brought to rest in that cathedral where his voice had so often been heard, there was a mournful satisfaction in the conviction that his heart had loved the people for whom he had laboured, with an unfailing charity, and with a ceaseless zeal.

Several references are made in Mrs. Opie’s notes to this event. At the time it happened she was surrounded by a large circle of her relatives, and while they remained with her she said—“I was taken from myself; but now regret is uppermost again. How I feel for the dear bereaved ones!” Again she says:—

(9th mo., 20th.) * * I cannot reconcile myself to this great loss to me; and as yet can scarcely believe I am awake and not in a delirium. I can’t believe he can be gone for ever! he came to take leave of me, and I am recalling all his looks and words. I followed him to the top of the stairs; he said he was to be gone a month, and that he wanted _rest_—and I would not call him back if I could; he was weary, and is gone to his rest—the rest of the people of God.

In the course of this autumn Mrs. Opie paid several short visits to her friends in the neighbourhood of Norwich; the last of which was to Keswick Hall. On her return home she was attacked with a severe inflammation of the right eye, which caused her much pain, and compelled her to sit in a darkened room. During this confinement, (and indeed during the latter period of her life,) she was much indebted to the kind offices of her friend, Miss Brownson, who was indefatigable in reading to her, and otherwise ministering to her comfort.

On the 6th of April, (1850,) Mrs. Opie went to Lowestoft to spend a few days with her young relatives, the children of Mr. Briggs; and this visit she spoke of with much satisfaction. On the 25th she proceeded to Northrepps, where she remained until the 16th of May.

At the Midsummer assizes, Baron Alderson and Mr. Justice Patteson being on the Norfolk circuit, Mrs. Opie went into court, accompanied by some of her relatives; and, not being able to walk, (from her increased lameness,) was carried in a sedan chair. It was her last visit to that court in which for so many years she had been present! She did not neglect on this occasion to make her usual offering of a bouquet to the judge.

In September she attended the Annual Meeting of the Bible Society in St. Andrew’s Hall; and in November she was present at the meeting of the City Mission. These meetings cheered her spirit, and she “closed another year very happily.”

In 1851, after a visit at Keswick, Mrs. Opie, on the 7th of May, travelled to London, and took up her residence with her friends in Russell Square. During her stay she attended several meetings at Devonshire House and Westminster Meeting, and paid numerous visits to her friends and acquaintances. She felt that it was her _last_ visit, and seemed desirous to take a farewell look at all her old haunts; she would go to the various shops she had been wont to frequent, and at every turn was met by some one who recognised and welcomed her. (At Swann and Edgar’s she saw the Duchess of Orléans.)

Her visit to the Great Exhibition was quite a delight to her. She was among the few privileged persons who, from age or infirmity, requiring chairs, were admitted an hour before the usual time. She saw there many whom she knew; among others, her very old acquaintance, Miss Berry, also in a wheelchair. Mrs. Opie’s carriage attracted the notice of her friends, by its superiority. The wheels had a coating of Indian-rubber, and sprang forward at a touch. At length Miss B. exclaimed, “where did you get that chair Mrs. Opie? I quite envy it;” on which Mrs. O. playfully proposed a chair race! After the public were admitted, she remained sitting in the Transept an hour, enjoying the sight of the many hundreds who rushed in; among whom were several of the Society of Friends, and others known to her, who gathered around her chair and cordially greeted her.

Mrs. Opie left Russell Square on the 19th June for Ham House, (Mr. S. Gurney’s,) where she staid two days. Her homeward journey was rendered uncomfortable by some derangement of the railway engine; so that they were twice stopped on the road, and had to change carriages. On arriving safely at home, she expressed her gratitude for journeying mercies; and added, “these alarms have been warnings to me, that in my infirm state I must not venture on the line again. So, railway, farewell!”

In the course of the autumn Mrs. Opie paid short visits to her friends in the neighbourhood of Norwich, (at Berghapton, Ketteringham, Brooke, and Keswick,) and, though almost constantly in pain, was bright and cheerful. The death of Lady Charleville, which happened about this time, much affected her; this event was probably hastened by a severe domestic calamity, which occurred early in the same year, on which occasion Mrs. Opie wrote:—

My dear old friend of forty-one years, Lady C., has lost her son by her first husband, and she has written me a _touching_ note indeed, and as well composed as in her young days, pious too, and satisfactory; and the day after this beloved son’s death, was that of her 89th birthday! She is a wonder, and yet, as her amiable daughter wrote to me, “there she is, still well and intellectual, and even capable of business!”

She said on one of these occasions, “it is a heavy trial to be called on to survive so many dear ones, some younger than myself; it has been my fate to do so, and seems likely to continue to be so; but still I think and feel, that He doeth all things well, and I hope to be always able to say with the Patriarch, ‘though He slay me yet will I trust in Him.’”

Mrs. Opie attended (for the last time) the Annual Meeting of the Bible Society, in St. Andrew’s Hall, in the month of September, and says:—

I had been nursing for it two days, and was so glad to be able to go. I did so enjoy it, in spite of certain reminiscences of auld lang syne! The Bishop’s speech was charming and judicious, and to me, so affecting, that it brought me to tears. He paid a just and touching tribute to the memory of Andrew Brandram. Last year he (A. B.) came to me, while I waited for my chair, and I congratulated him on his good looks: he looked ten years younger than when I saw him last: and there was I, yesterday, years older than himself, sitting there, in health, (though not with my once active limbs,) and _he_ was in his grave!

In November her last visit to Northrepps Cottage was paid. On the 2nd of January following, (1852,) she was attacked with rheumatic gout in her feet, which confined her to her bed two months, and never afterwards entirely left her.

The following note to Miss Gurney, written shortly after this time, shows her happy resignation and cheerful spirit amid increasing infirmities.

Castle Meadow, 3rd mo., 5th, 1852. MY DEAREST A.,

I was very sorry not to be able to see R. yesterday; but I was denied to every one while Mrs. F. Kemble was with me, as I had much to say to her. The cold of this day has kept me in bed, and one of my feet has been very painful. I much enjoyed F. K.’s conversation. She is gone to-day on her way to London. How many things I want to say to thee, but can’t say them! but I am very thankful for what I _can_ do, and I do not repine at what I can’t do; and life flies only too fast. I do not see, at present, any chance for my speedy recovery; but life has still its charms. I am so glad to have an excuse for lying in bed all day: it is so troublesome to move from bed to chair, and thence to sofa.

Thine ever, most affectionately, A. OPIE.

A few passages from her notes will be read with pleasure.

(4th mo. 18th.) My prisms are, to-day, quite in their glory. The atmosphere must be very clear, for the radiance is brighter than ever I saw it before. Surely the mansions in heaven must be draped with such unparalleled colours! (5th mo. 4th.) Oh! Captain Gardener and his crew! how I have cried over their death; and yet how enviable was the state of their minds; how meek and entire their resignation how blessed their entrance into the Redeemer’s kingdom, and their awaiting welcome there! I have read it through three times, as though fascinated.—Poor John Dalrymple, cut off when he had _attained_ the height of his profession! (5th mo. 18th.) No one surely ever had so many kind friends as I have! I can truly say that I have every alleviation of my suffering that I can have, and have every comfort that I desire, and I do not want any nursing but what I have. Mine has been a lonely lot through life; but I have never felt it painfully so; and I believe the happiest persons are those who have the fewest wants. The great I AM, is more even-handed than we think Him.

In the month of September, Mrs. Opie made her last visit to Cromer. She remained there for a fortnight, and had two rooms on a ground floor of the house in which she lodged, where she could lie in bed, and watch the billows as they rolled. Numerous friends flocked around her; amongst them her very old and valued ones, Mrs. and Miss Hoare, whose daily visits cheered her; and many were the little kindnesses she received, which, small in themselves, were yet valued as tokens of love; and they were mentioned with grateful remembrance. On reaching home she was carried upstairs in her basket-chair, never to go down again!

Shortly after her return she wrote to Miss Gurney,

9th mo., 26th, 1852. DEAREST ANNA,

I had a pleasant journey home, arriving safely at my own door; but not quite so pleasant an one as I went upstairs. * * It grieves my heart to think that I am not any nearer at present than I was to get to the Bible Meeting, and my _Quarterly_ Meeting! but I find I am not up to the exertions necessary. It is heart-breaking to me, almost, to miss a Bible Meeting; this is the _first_ I ever omitted, and I did not with any certainty look forward to another; I can truly say that I give it up most unwillingly, but “His will be done!”

I am come home with a cold, but nothing to make me regret one hour spent at Cromer; so many dear friends to see, some new ones to welcome, and more enamoured of Cromer than ever. Farewell! I must lie down and hope to sleep.

Thy ever affectionate, A. OPIE.

Three months later she wrote:—

I shall probably never be able to go out again; and the idea of being confined to my bed is anything but disagreeable, what a mercy this is! but thankfully as well as reverently, I can repeat, “His mercies are new every morning.” I must, however, own, that being unable to go to meeting is a continually recurring trial; but I hope by spring, if I live so long, I may have contrived a way to get there again. All I ask is to be made more and more resigned to the Divine will, whatever it may be.

In January, 1853, her long-loved and honoured friend, Lucy Aggs, died; she writes of this event in one of her notes:—

(1st mo. 23rd, 1853.) She is indeed _gone home_; this morning she slept her last, like a wearied child; how sudden her removal! This day month she was with me, and at meeting twice! how trying to me and to others is this event; but how blest to her. I am grieved more than I can express; and am almost selfish enough to forget that our great loss is her abundant gain.

During the course of the summer many of Mrs. Opie’s relatives visited her; their presence seemed greatly to cheer and comfort her; and she frequently spoke of the pleasure it gave her to see them all; on one occasion particularly, she remarked, “I know not how it is, but my cousins and friends seem as though they felt their leave-taking were the last. My cousin R. W. came back twice to shake hands with me. Would that the Baron had been with them!”

The strong feeling of family attachment which characterized Mrs. Opie through life, was retained to the last. She evinced the deepest sympathy with her beloved cousin, Lady Milman, whom she knew to be dying, (and who, in fact, survived her but a very short time,) constantly inquiring for her, and suggesting anything which occurred to her mind as likely to contribute to her comfort, expressing her joy that the confidence of this dear relative was like her own, placed in the blessed promises of the gospel, and thus secure for eternity.

We add a few closing passages from her notes.

(5th mo. 30th.) Again I am forced to feel the pain of not being able to go to Yearly Meeting, a great loss to me; and I have lost an opportunity of seeing H. B. Stowe; but I heartily rejoice in the reception she has met with: well has it been deserved, in my opinion; and well has she performed the work delegated to her from above. I am very glad dear H. Birkbeck has a son; and very glad also, that dear L. B. will soon be home; for I had feared I should not live to see her again. I rejoice, too, to hear such good accounts of the dear Cunninghams.

Another note, dated 7th mo. 18th, records the visit of her cousin, Mrs. Vincent Thompson, with warm affection, and expresses the happiness she had experienced in her society, concluding, “I am indeed delighted to have seen her once more.” Shortly after this time she mentions the expected departure to America of the lamented William Forster; he had been her friend and counsellor; one to whom she looked for help and support; and from whose lips she had drunk in truth and wisdom. It did indeed cost her heart a severe pang to part from him; and the more so, as she felt she “should see his face no more.” She writes:—

(7th mo. 28th.) How very much I feel the return of this season, this year. The dead have been more present with me than the living; but that is very natural. I am writing in bed, the place I love best. Alas! to the house of the Lord I _cannot_ go, and that is an evil. Dearest W. Forster! going away, not to return again, I fear, till I am no more; but I shall not own that to him.[46]

On the 21st of October Mrs. Opie appeared much as usual; during that morning she received several friends, and was highly interested by a visit from Lieutenant Cresswell, who had recently returned to England with dispatches from the Investigator, to tell of the discovery of the north-west passage, though not, alas! of the finding of Sir John Franklin. His communications excited her lively sympathy; and, as the grandson of Mrs. Fry, his presence alone awakened the slumbering remembrances of the past.

The following day she was evidently somewhat fatigued, but was able to write several notes. In one, addressed to Miss Gurney, after expressing her joy at hearing a good account of her dear friend Mrs. Hoare, she mentions the pleasure she had enjoyed in seeing Mrs. Cunningham and Mr. John Gurney, who had dined at her house, and attended the Bible Meeting; she says:—

I could not accompany them, nor can I perhaps expect to go out again. Well! all good and all _evil_ here will soon be over with me now. I am abundantly thankful for everything; for I feel that “His mercies are new every morning.” How I wish thou and dear Lady Buxton could have been my guests yesterday. It was really a very enjoyable time, and the only drawback was my being unable to go to the meetings, and to dine below stairs.

The next day was Sunday; early in the morning she was taken ill; and her maid, S. Nixon, observing symptoms unusual with her mistress, sent immediately for Dr. Hull, who desired she might be kept perfectly quiet.

The writer of these memoirs had been in the habit, since Mrs. Opie’s confinement to the house, of spending an hour with her, on Sunday morning. On that day there was not the usual influx of visitors, and she seemed to enjoy having a quiet chat. The usual call was made that morning, but the mandate of the doctor was communicated, and, of course, obeyed. It was with a strange feeling of alarm, that turning away from the door-step, the writer began to think over the past few months. Yes, there had certainly been some tokens of enfeebled powers—a partial failure of memory—an occasional loss in the thread of her conversation; and at times an inability to express clearly her meaning. For the last few weeks the newspapers had been neglected; and, once or twice, an ominous sentence had been dropped, that startled her friends. “When I am gone.”—“I feel I shall not be here long.” To her faithful friend of many years’ standing, the Rev. H. Tacy, she had said, shortly before, “Do not be long before you come again; for I am on the wing!”—But, her aunt had lived more than ninety years, and Mrs. Opie was so cheerful and bright, her carriage so erect, and she looked so much as she had long done, that, after all, these occasional symptoms were probably merely the inevitable results of advancing age, and her foreboding expressions the effects of confinement and seclusion!

So whispered Hope; and the writer, for one, did not realize the idea that the end was at hand. On the evening of that Sunday, a message from Dr. Hull was sent to her friend and professional adviser, Thos. Brightwell. Mrs. Opie was very ill—might not, perhaps, survive many hours; and, as she had desired, in case of any sudden attack of illness, that “Thomas Brightwell and Mary Brown” should be sent for, he had felt it his duty to inform them of her condition.

In a few hours, however, the alarming symptoms subsided, and the gout appeared externally, and fixed itself in the right heel.

Mrs. Opie survived nearly six weeks from that day, being unable to leave her bed, and suffering greatly. At first, there was much of her usual cheerfulness and buoyancy of spirit about her; and she evidently entertained no apprehension of the fatal nature of the attack. She took an interest in the events occurring around her, and frequently made inquiries and remarks that shewed her sympathies were lively, and her recollection unimpaired. Her constant patience and endurance under suffering, were truly exemplary. To one friend who asked her, after she had been talking with great vivacity, whether she suffered much pain; she replied, “Oh! yes, I am scarcely ever free from it, and it is often severe; but I am so used to pain, I have learned not to mind it;” and, on another occasion, when her sufferings were spoken of, she said, she thought “more of her mercies than of her trials.” During the last three or four weeks of her life, she became greatly worse; her weakness increased; she took little nourishment, and suffered much distressing pain in the hip and in the heel. Throughout this trying season, her kind, gentle, and watchful friend, Mary Brown, remained in constant and unwearying attendance beside her, ministering to her wants, and answering the numerous inquiries, personal, and epistolary, of her friends. Having, like herself, joined the Society of Friends, she was the more able to sympathize with her feelings; and to _her_ it was, that she expressed her constant adherence to the religious tenets of Friends, and the satisfaction she experienced in looking back upon the time when she joined their communion.

The frequent presence and devoted attention of her cousin, the Rev. R. Alderson, was another great comfort to Mrs. Opie; happily, he was able to give much of his time to her; and she missed him if he left her, and anxiously inquired when he would return. It was doubtless, a great satisfaction to him to render these last and important services to his honoured relative.

Mrs. Opie had expressed, on more than one occasion, the hope that her friend William Forster, would be with her during her last hours. But this wish was not granted her. His sisters, who were then in Norfolk, assiduously visited her, as did also Mrs. Birkbeck; and John Shewell, a Minister of the Society, paid her a religious visit, shortly after the commencement of her illness, and was enabled to speak to her comfort and satisfaction; and her kind and highly esteemed friend, the Rev. J. Alexander, saw her, and his spiritual aid was “refreshing” to her. But, soothing as are the offices of friendship, and precious the prayers of the righteous under such circumstances, how unavailing is all human ministry when heart and flesh are failing! _Then_ the soul realizes her independence, and the inefficiency of earthly help, and feels with whom she has to do; and knows that for herself, and alone, she must stand in the presence of the Holy One. And so it was, in this instance. Alone, in the night season, her voice was heard in supplication, pouring out the desires of her soul to her Redeemer. The pathetic utterances of resignation, amid pain and anguish, were heard, by those who watched beside her couch; “what am I (she said, thinking aloud) that I should expect to escape suffering? this, also, is meant for my good.” Often too, she was heard repeating to herself texts of Scripture, and hymns; and on more than one occasion, she called for her Bible, and for Wesley’s Hymn Book, (her much used copy of which is full of her marks, and turned down at her favourite hymns,) and, sitting up in her bed, read aloud to her maids, as it had been her constant habit to do.

Mrs. Opie often spoke of the kindness of her friends, and evinced the most tender interest in them; weeping as she mentioned the proofs of their affectionate remembrance, and sending touching messages in reply to their inquiries. “Tell them (she said) I have suffered great pain; but I think on Him who suffered for me.”—“Say that I am trusting in my Saviour, and ask them to pray for me.” And when told by one of those who visited her, that many prayers were offered for her, she said (and a tear glistened in her eye) “it were worth while to be ill, to have the prayers of our friends.”

Latterly there was a striking change in her personal appearance. So completely was her countenance altered, that it would have been impossible for any one, even of those who knew her best, to recognize her. The only vestige remaining of her former looks, was a peculiar uplifting of the eye, accompanied by a slight shake of the head. Her articulation also became so imperfect, that it was very difficult to distinguish what she said; and for very weakness, her head lay, bent sideways, apparently powerless, on the cushion.

Her debility prevented her seeing more than two or three most intimate friends; and one of the last visitors she received, and the sight of whom evidently afforded her the most heartfelt satisfaction, was the friend of her early days, Mrs. Gurney, of Keswick; who, herself an invalid, made a considerable effort to reach her bedside and bid her farewell. “How much she loved me!” was her whispered expression, when she afterwards mentioned this interview. Shortly before her death, the Rev. H. Tacy called to see her, not knowing of her illness; and little thinking that the words she had spoken when they last parted, were so soon to be fulfilled. His visit, painful as it was, was opportune, and appeared to comfort her much. On another day, she desired that parts of the Litany and the other prayers should be read to her, which was done; Mrs. Opie, with clasped hands, repeating all the responses.

Her debility now visibly and rapidly increased. She refused almost all nourishment, and seemed to crave no other refreshment than “cold water,” for which she frequently called. It was evident that her end was approaching.

On the last Sunday of Mrs. Opie’s life, (the 27th November,) the writer of these lines accompanied her father to pay a farewell visit to the bedside of their dying friend. She lay propped up on pillows and cushions, extremely feeble, but perfectly clear in her intellect, calm, and composed. She had become conscious of her danger, and anticipated her approaching departure. This she intimated by saying “the last few days I have been preparing to go.”[47] In reply to the inquiry, what she meant to convey by these words, she said, “why, to die, child, to be sure!” “You have long been prepared to die, we hope.” “I hope so indeed,” she replied, “there is only _one_ way.”

There she lay! helpless, dying, alone. Could all those whom she had loved and served been permitted to gather around her couch, what a cloud of witnesses, circle within circle, had thronged that small chamber with looks of tender sympathy! Impelled by some such thought, the writer bent over her and said, “it is a great thing to be loved as you are loved. How many ask anxiously for tidings of you.” She raised her eyes to those of the speaker, and seemed as though awaiting confirmation of the assurance, and looked satisfied on receiving it. She responded too, with evident earnestness of feeling, to the expression of the hope that she was soon about to rejoin those dear ones whom she had loved so well, and who were gone before.

From time to time she uttered a few broken words; and once, with a piteous look, said, “I am very thirsty; but her weakness was too great to allow of more than an occasional sentence. It was truly distressing to gaze upon her entirely changed countenance, and exhausted frame, and to feel the sad conviction that one was looking on her for the last time!

At the former part of her illness, Mrs. Opie’s natural warmth of affection, and lively interest in those whom she loved, seemed to induce her still to cling to life; and while she said that on looking back and contemplating the past, the time seemed long in the review, yet she intimated it would be sweet to live a little longer, if permitted to do so, “were it not still better to depart.” But, as the end approached, there appeared to be a gradual giving up her hold on the present life, and the few words she uttered shewed that her thoughts were on heavenly things.

On the night of the 30th she said to her cousin “all is peace;” and afterwards, when Mr. S. Gurney was present, she gave it as her dying testimony “all is mercy.”

During the last five days of her life her sufferings were protracted and severe. Hers were “the groans and pains and dying strife” of a mortal conflict. But her faith and patience failed not; and at length the Angel messenger came, and she was released!

At midnight, on Friday the 2nd of December, 1853, Amelia Opie breathed her last.

[46] He died soon after in Tennessee, while on a mission on behalf of the slave.

[47] The preparation to which she referred had reference to some small directions she had dictated to her maid a few evenings before, to be communicated to her executor; at the close of which she said, “I should have liked to give little remembrances to all my friends, and have taken leave of them, but I have done the best I can.”

CONCLUSION.

“Death is something so strange, that, notwithstanding all experience, one thinks it impossible for it to seize a beloved object; it always presents itself as an incredible and unexpected event; and this transition, from an existence we know, to one of which we know nothing, is something so violent that it cannot take place without the greatest shock to survivors.”

Who has not experienced, to some extent, the feelings thus expressed by Goethe? The immediate results of death, no less than the actual event, excite the most perplexing and distressing ideas. All is unwonted and unnatural. One’s thoughts are compelled to take a new and strange turn. They are occupied henceforth, about that which _was_, and is not; it is the “history of a life,” not a living, sentient, beloved being, that occupies them now. Fancy, having tried in vain to “paint the moment after death,” gives place to Memory and Love, which busily go o’er the past, and trace, again and again, each step.

One glance at the forsaken “tabernacle,” lately the dwelling-place of that soul beloved, renews the sad conviction, that what you once had, you have no more, and ne’er can have again. Then, after a time, the sarcophagus—the chest, that shuts in and confines what loved to be free, and _would_ not be held in durance;—it is all unnatural! the result of some infringement of the original intent.

So felt the writer when next she entered the house on the Castle Meadow; now no longer Mrs. Opie’s house; for she lay dead therein. Yes! she lay dead; placed in her coffin, in the lower chamber, beneath the one in which she had breathed her last; surrounded by the portraits of her friends, which, hanging upon the walls of the room, used so often to attract her notice, and win from her some expression of remembrance and regard. Men of all views, political and religious, were there; all known, and having earned a niche there, by some superiority of natural or acquired excellences. There Lafayette, Cooper, David, Madame de Staël, and others, of her foreign friends, hung side by side. There J. J. Gurney and his brother, Elizabeth Fry and Lucy Aggs, and close by them the Bishops of Norwich and Durham, and Professors Sedgwick and Whewell; there the poets and statesmen, whose genius had charmed her; and last, though not the least, Mrs. Siddons, in her glory, as Queen Catherine.

It was an affecting and instructive sight to look upon—very sad; and yet, after a time, reason and faith suggested soothing and happy reflections. She, who lay there, had died in a good old age, full of years and honour; had finished her earthly course in peace, and now, the end was known, and all was “well.” She had died in the faith and hope of the gospel; her feet had not fallen, for God had held up her goings; and her spirit, though no longer permitted to sojourn among the living, had joined the “great crowd of witnesses,” which is ever multiplying its hosts, and securely awaiting its ultimate completion and triumph.

The 9th of December was the day appointed for the funeral of Mrs. Opie; she was interred in the Friends’ burying ground, at the Gildencroft; in the same grave with her father. About two hundred persons, assembled in solemn silence, stood there to meditate: one voice alone was heard; that of a venerable Friend, who uttered a few simple scriptural words. It seemed strange to miss from among the sorrowing group around, so many who had loved and honoured her. But the eye had only to glance over that green enclosure, and one was reminded that they lay _there_, beside and around her. Rich, indeed, is that small plot of ground. The good, the honoured, the lovely, and beloved, lie there;—some of the best of men and saints, whose prayers drew blessings down from heaven,—awaiting the day when “the secrets of all hearts shall be made known.” It is a hallowed spot; consecrated to holy memories.

Should any wanderer, at some future day, desire to visit the grave of Amelia Opie, he will find, at the extreme left side of the ground, beneath an elm tree that overshadows the wall, a small slab, bearing the names of James Alderson and Amelia Opie, with the dates of their births and deaths.

Among those present on this occasion, was one, long and well-known to Mrs. Opie, and of whom she has spoken in terms of warm praise, in one of her notes; Mr. Hodgkin, a minister of the Friends, who, addressing those around, invited them to accompany him to the Meeting House; where, after a short time spent in silence and in prayer, he rose, and spoke, in words very pleasant and judicious, of the dear departed friend, whom they had lost. He had known her, he said, from his own earlier days, and when she was very different from what she afterwards became. He believed that the ruling principle in her mind, and that which, being implanted there by Divine grace, had remained the dominant one in her soul, was the love of Christ; constrained by the sweet influence of which, she had been enabled to maintain much consistent Christian deportment, amid snares and temptations of peculiar fascination for one, endowed by nature, and trained by early habit, as she had been.

Much more he added, of a nature to impress his hearers with a deep sense of thankfulness for the Divine goodness, and to urge them to pursue, with humble and pious zeal, the path of Christian devotedness and obedience.

It may seem natural and desirable that a few words should be said touching the personal appearance of the subject of these memoirs, during the latter period of her life.—How difficult, and indeed _impossible_ it is, to satisfy yourself, when attempting to portray the form and features of those you know most intimately, and have been constantly in the habit of seeing! This you feel in trying to describe the members of your own family; in the mind’s eye their image lives, ’tis true; but it is rather as a _consciousness_; something, as it were, that is interwoven with the secret and hidden ideas of your soul. In a degree, this is the case with all those most familiar to you; and perhaps the reason is, that the whole idea of their personality has been formed by degrees—shade after shade, as the events of passing years have left their impress upon them.

Be that as it may; the difficulty is known, and will be acknowledged. Yet, for the sake of strangers, rather than to assist the recollections of the friends of Mrs. Opie, the following slight sketch may be permitted.

She was of about the standard height of woman; her hair was worn in waving folds in front, and behind, it was seen through the cap, gathered into a braid; its colour was peculiar—’twixt flaxen and gray; it was unusually fine and delicate, and had a natural bend or wave. Her Quaker cap was of beautiful lawn, and fastened beneath the chin with whimpers, which had small crimped frills: her dress was usually of rich silk or satin, often of a fawn or grey colour; and over the bust was drawn a muslin or net handkerchief, in thick folds, fastening into the waist, round which was worn a band of the same material as the dress; an apron, usually of net or muslin, protected (or _adorned_) the front of the gown. Her feet, which were small and well formed, peeped out beneath the dress. On her hands she wore small, black, netted muffatees, (she sometimes repaired them while talking to her friends,) and the cuffs of her gown were secured by a small loop at one corner, which she wore passed over the thumb, so as to prevent them from turning back or rucking upon the arm; her figure was stout, the throat short; her carriage was invariably erect, and she bore her head rather thrown back, and with an air of dignity. Her countenance, in her later years, lost much of that fire which once irradiated it; but the expression was more pleasing; softer, more tender, and loving. Her eyes were especially charming; there was in them an ardour mingled with gentleness, that bespoke her true nature, and occasionally they were raised upwards with a look most peculiar and expressive, when her sympathy was more than usually excited. Her complexion was fair, and the kindling blush mantled in her cheek, betraying any passing emotion; for, like her friend Lafayette, she “blushed like a girl to hear her own praises.” Altogether she attracted you, and you drew near to her, and liked to look into her face, and felt that old age, in her, was beautiful and comely.

Often, very often, has the writer, while listening to her lively anecdotes, and watching her animated countenance, drawn her chair closer and yet closer, and at length, slipping down, rested on one knee, in order the better to see her; and after bidding her farewell again and again, returned to the same position and “staid a little longer.”

How lively were her narratives; and with what minute touches she gave the details of the scene she was describing. What spirit and life did she breathe into the portraits of those whom she admired! Certainly her conversation was superior to her writing; perhaps the charms of manner and voice aided to enhance the effect of her words.

The peculiar virtues and excellencies of Mrs. Opie’s character have been manifested (as it were unconsciously) in the notes and diaries given in these pages; and it would be unbecoming, and is unnecessary, for the writer to enumerate them. Her foibles, too, are shewn by her own hand; and happy they who have so few; happier still, they, who exercise the same watchfulness against their easily besetting faults. In one of her earlier notes, she says, “My practice every night is to examine all my actions, and sift all my motives during the day, for all that I have said or done. I make sad discoveries, by that means, of my own sinfulness; but I am truly thankful that this power has been given me, and lay my head on my pillow with much gratitude.”

Seneca accounted the remembrance of his departed friends amongst his solemn delights; not looking upon them as lost, for, he said, “the thought of them is sweet and soothing to me; while I had them I expected to lose them; and having lost them, I still feel that I have them;” and if it were so with the pious heathen, with how much more confidence may the Christian cherish delightful thoughts of the friends he has lost; and, indeed, it is the will of God, and part of the favour which He has promised to His servants, that “the memory of the just shall be blessed.”

To many the remembrance of Amelia Opie will long be dear. Would that these memorials of her life, (imperfect alas! and unsatisfactory as they are,) might be the means of animating some by her example, to pursue the things “which are true and lovely and of good report.”

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[The end of "Memorials of the Life of Amelia Opie", by Cecilia Lucy Brightwell.]