# Women worth Emulating/Chapter 5

CHAPTER V.
Amelia Opie.
AN ONLY DAUGHTER
here are few conditions of life more abounding both in responsibilities and temptations than that of an only daughter, called at an early age, by the death of her mother, to take that mother's vacant place and superintend her father's house. She has to be his earthly consoler, his duteous child, and the careful manager of his domestic affairs, just after they have been wrecked or shattered by a heavy blow. It must be her study to prevent her father from having to mourn over a ruined home, as well as a departed wife.
​every Christian spirit will be ready to breathe a prayer for, and give gentle counsel to, a daughter so bereaved.
Yet among the sweet examples which rise to our observation or memory, if we are thoughtful seekers for excellence, we shall find many an instance, among high and low, of a daughter taking her mother's place—showing her tender love for the departed, not so much by tears and grief as by trying to fulfil every duty, and seeking to compensate the home for the loss of the wife and mother, who, if worthy of those names, was the central light of the dwelling.
In many a humble home, the family have had to cling to some elder sister, who seemed to have put off her childhood at her mother's grave; and, while the tears were still wet upon her cheeks, has begun to set the house in order, to tend the children, to pay extra attention to the head of the family, and in a thousand ways to prevent the father from being utterly crushed by his trouble. God's blessing is on all such efforts of affection! The effort is indeed twice blessed—to the youthful mind that makes it, and to the home it is made for. Many a thoughtless girl has been developed into a noble woman by such a discipline of sorrow.
But the temptations of youth are much increased in the case of an only daughter whose father is in that position in life which belongs to a superior station. A professional man, whether doctor or ​lawyer, is not able to leave the locality in which he lives in search of the consolation of travel; he must remain among his patients or clients. He may have household arrangements which cannot, without utter discomfiture, be altered; and if, being the father of an only daughter, he has no near female relative of mature years to undertake the management of his domestic affairs, he is committed either to an upper servant, or to the plan of putting his child at the head of his house and confiding to her youth a charge which demands a thoughtful care scarcely to be expected in early years. Happy the man whose daughter in such an exigency shows herself equal to the task of filling her mother's place in his home and heart.
In the year 1784, Dr. Alderson, an eminent physician of Norwich, lost his wife, and was left with an only daughter, Amelia, aged fifteen. This young lady at once became her father's housekeeper as well as companion. She was gifted with so many advantages of person and mind that her childhood had attracted the attention of all who knew her. Fair and blooming, with a smiling face and beaming eyes, perfect health, great vivacity, a sweet voice, and frank charming manners, she seemed the very embodiment of the poet's ideal of joyous youth.
Great attention had been paid to her education, and very uncommon advantages of intellectual culture had been bestowed. A Flemish pastor, the ​Rev. John Bruckner, settled in Norwich when Amelia Alderson was seven years of age, and he gave her instruction in the French language, and also in some solid branches of acquirement then much neglected in female education. She had great love of, and some skill in, music—particularly singing. Added to this was a mind active to acquire and tenacious to retain knowledge, with an imagination so graceful, and a love of poetry so great, that its youthful possessor was in danger of living too much in an ideal world, for her gifts were just those which need the utmost discretion in their culture and use.
This first grief—the loss of her mother—checked the exuberance of her spirits, and called her reflective faculties into exercise. That dear mother had been wise and firm, as well as tender in the management of her gifted child, who had the good sense and gratitude to remember her admonitions and reproofs, as thankfully as the more indulgent and pleasant evidences of her affection. In a sweet poem to her mother's memory, written some years after her death, Amelia says:—
"Oh how I mourned my heedless youth Thy watchful care repaid so ill;
Yet joyed to think some words of truth Sunk in my soul and teach me still;
Like lamps along life's fearful way, To me, at times, those truths have shone;
And oft when snares around me lay. That light has made my danger known. ​Then how thy grateful child has blest Each wise reproof thy accents bore! And now she longs, in worlds of rest, To dwell with thee for evermore."
It is not wonderful that this lovely girl, brought into society when young people of her age were in the schoolroom, should have been much admired and sought after, A vain or romantic girl would have been ruined by so much praise; a cold-hearted and selfish one would have taken it as her right, and sought only her own pleasure; but this young lady had two great preservatives—her deep love for her father, and her conscientious desire to act as her pious mother, if living, would have approved.
She had not then, nor for some years afterwards, the guidance of that unerring light which religious conviction gives to the soul I but wise early training had its influence, and she sought and loved the society of the good and intellectual Her earliest friend, on whom she relied for advice, to whom she gave her confidence, was Mrs. John Taylor, a lady distinguished among the then very cultivated society of Norwich, for her many excellences of mind and character. Nothing is so important to the young as the friendships they form. The common proverb contains a volume of wisdom: "Tell me your company, and I will tell you your manners."
Dr. Alderson was intimate with most of those memorable Norwich families whose names have gained a world-wide celebrity. The Taylors, the ​Martineaus, the Gurneys, and, later on, Bishop Stanley and his family. In such a circle, there was everything to stimulate the development of mind and give a bias to genius; and the young mistress of Dr. Alderson's house was soon as distinguished among her intellectual friends for her talents, as she was beloved for the sweetness of her temper and disposition.
Although she did not apparently contemplate becoming an authoress, it was known by her intimate friends that she had a gift of poetic expression; and many sweet stanzas and some charming songs of her composition were circulated among her friends. In after-years she was destined to be known and celebrated as a writer both in prose and verse, of works admirable for purity, pathos, and sound morality. In an age when woman's genius has gained great triumphs in the highest departments of literature, some of the poems of Amelia Opie have retained their place as true expressions of genius. And one is just now, in this time of war and carnage, singularly touching:—
THE ORPHAN BOY.
Stay, lady, stay, for mercy's sake, And hear a helpless orphan's tale, Ah! sure my looks must pity wake, 'Tis want that makes my cheek so pale. Yet I was once a mother's pride, And my brave father's hope and joy; But in the Nile's proud fight he died, And I am now an orphan boy.
​Poor foolish child! how pleased was I When news of Nelson's victory came,
Along the crowded streets to fly, And see the lighted windows flame!
To force me home my mother sought, She could not bear to see my joy;
For with my father's life 'twas bought, And made me a poor orphan boy.
The people's shouts were long and loud, My mother, shuddering, closed her ears;
"Rejoice! rejoice!" still cried the crowd; My mother answered with her tears.
"Why are you crying thus," said I, "While others laugh and shout with joy?"
She kissed me—and with such a sigh! She called me her poor orphan boy.
"What is an orphan boy?" I cried, As in her face I looked, and smiled;
My mother through her tears replied, "You'll know too soon, ill-fated child!"
And now they've tolled my mother's knell, And I'm no more a parent's joy;
O lady, I have learned too well What 'tis to be an orphan boy!
Oh! were I by your bounty fed! Nay, gentle lady, do not chide—
Trust me, I mean to earn my bread; The sailor's orphan boy has pride.
Lady, you weep!—ha?—this to me? You'll give me clothing, food, employ?
Look down, dear parents! look, and see Your happy, happy, orphan boy!
One of the occupations of her childhood was so unusual that it excites astonishment. The coming ​of the judges and the opening of the law-courts at the assizes, of course was, and is, the periodical excitement of a provincial city. All the children in Norwich—from the noisy urchins who throng the streets, to the little curled darlings who are dressed and taken out to witness the ceremonial of the judges' arrival, or the procession of the municipal authorities who escort the judicial dignitaries to the cathedral—were then, as now, delighted at the ceremonial and the show, the bustle and the life of the scene. Very few, probably, ever think deeply respecting the people to be tried, or feel much curiosity about the solemn proceedings of a court of justice; but the young Amelia, from a very early age, was full of interest and excitement about the trials, and was allowed to go—not to the criminal trials, but to the nisi prius court—and hear the pleadings and witness the proceedings, which she did with an absorbed attention, making her own mental comments, and finding her love of truth greatly shocked by the contradictions, prevarications, and carelessness of witnesses.
The deep attention and intelligent look of this young observer attracted the attention of many eminent legal men; and, to her own surprise at the time, and her amusement as she recalled it in after-years, she was noticed and talked to by learned judges, and her attendance was looked for with indulgent interest.
She was from early childhood a remarkably good ​reader; and it is probable, as the bar has always been considered a school of oratory, that this, in the first place, both excited her attention and induced her father to permit her to gratify her wish of attending the trials.
Some years after, a near relative of hers became one of our most eminent judges—Baron Alderson—which must have been a great gratification to such a lover of forensic eloquence and legal distinction as was our heroine from her youth up.
Naturally, a young lady so much her own mistress and so admired, mingling in the most fashionable circles of a gay and wealthy city, would early receive those attentions which some young girls think the crowning distinction of early womanhood. But with all her warmth of feeling and fancy. Miss Alderson was not one of those young ladies who think it inevitable that, as soon as they are grown up, they should fall in love. She loved her father so fondly that she wished to devote her life to him; and so her first youth passed away, and left her
"In maiden meditation— Fancy free."
She had paid many visits to London, and was known as a writer of great promise before her heart was troubled, or blessed, with any emotion that equalled her filial love.
In the year 1781–2, there was in London an artist, whose genius excited the utmost admiration, not unmingled with surprise, named Opie, who had been ​brought from his native Cornwall, where his youthful genius had burst through all the impediments of a humble station, a very limited education, and a life of toil. Dr. Walcot, when visiting Cornwall, saw some pictures by a self-taught artist which arrested his attention. He was told the name, circumstances, and age of the painter, and he set off to find him. Opie was working in a saw-pit, when he was called out to answer the question, "Can you paint?" and the reply he gave was both rustic and ready, "Oh, yes; I can pe'aint a farmyard, and King George." The interview ended in the youth accompanying Dr. Walcot to London, where, by diligent study and ceaseless industry supplementing his natural genius, he became not merely a rustic wonder to be stared at, patronized, and then neglected by aristocratic idlers, but a winner of a foremost place among the most gifted artists of the age.
It was, however, in 1797, a great surprise to many circles that the beautiful and gifted Amelia Alderson should have accepted the man whom Allan Cunningham calls an"inspired peasant." She was gay, fond of and shining in society, and visited in the highest circles. He was grave, fond of retirement, rather eccentric in conversation, and devoted to his noble art. In looks and manners, they were a contrast to each other; but some contrasts harmonize admirably. The solid worth and true genius of Opie which had raised him to eminence, won her esteem and regard, and her high ​estimate of a wife's duties made her in all respects an admirable help-meet.
New duties and new trials both came to her, for an artistes life often abounds in cares and reverses; and Opie, though an admired and successful painter, was not without many anxieties, and had a- hard struggle for some years to keep the eminence he had attained.
It was at this time that Mrs. Opie^s pen was most active, and she wrote some stories that were greatly estimated for their moral excellence and literary beauty. She displayed a great knowledge of the human—the female—heart, its strength and its weakness; and the tenderness of her own nature made her excel in pathetic descriptions.
"Father and Daughter," and "Tales of the Heart," have retained their place among the purest works of fiction; while her story, "White Lies," had a great popularity, as useful to that large class of thoughtless young people who let their tongues run on,without caring to be accurate in what they say, doing often an immense amount of mischief by carelessly mixing up truth and falsehood, heedless of consequences. Would that all would ponder those capital lines of the Poet Laureate—
"A lie which is half a truth is ever the blackest of lies; A lie which is all a lie may be met and fought outright; But a lie which 'is part a truth is a harder matter to fight."
Nine years of happy wedded life ended in widowhood, and Mrs. Opie returned to her beloved father's ​house and her native city as a permanent resident. Dr. Alderson lived to a good old age, cheered by the duteous attendance of his devoted daughter, who at length was left, by his death, alone in. the world, a childless widow.
It was during her early widowhood that her mind underwent a change on the most important of all subjects—vital religion. Hitherto she had lived, as thousands of amiable people are content to do, without any deep thought or faithful searchings of heart, as to the real condition of her soul. Content merely with a name to live, and not feeling herself a sinner, and looking to Jesus as the only Saviour.
Ah, my dear young reader! multitudes are satisfied to pass through the daily round of their simple duties, and think they have done all that is required of them, if they are amiable and kindly, and avoid all flagrant offences against the moral law. Lulled by self-complacency into a sense of security, they cast aside all serious thought, all salutary fear, as to their spiritual state. The answer to the solemn demand, "Give Me thy heart," has never been made. Prayer has been merely a daily formula, perhaps endeared by memories of childhood, or sentimentally practised as a salutary habit. The real supplicatory spirit, the intense yearning for communion with God in Christ, as an ever-present Guide, Saviour, and Comforter, has never been realized.
In this important matter, a great change occurred ​in the experience of Mrs. Opie. She had been intimate from her youth with the family at Earlham Hall. Elizabeth Fry, and one of her sistdrs, Priscilla Gurney—who seems to have been by all testimonies a trae embodiment of spiritual and mental excellence—commended spiritual religion to her conscience. Correspondence with them brought serious subjects prominently before the mind of Mrs. Opie, and the ministrations and letters of Joseph John Gurney, led her to deep reflection on religion. She left the Presbyterian (or Unitarian?) connection into which she had been born, and after due—indeed long deliberation—united with the Society of Friends.
The name of the section of the Church of Christ with which she united, is very secondary to the fact that she became a devout Christian; and that one of the first efforts of her awakened soul was to lead her beloved father, as Apollos of old was led, into the way of truth more perfectly. A prayer that she wrote down on this subject is so beautiful that I recommend it to my young readers:—
"O Thou, 'the God that hearest prayer,' and, even amidst innumerable choirs of angels for ever glorifying Thee and hymning Thy praise, canst hearken to the softest breathings of a supplicating and wretched heart; deign. Lord, to let the prayers of a child for a beloved parent come up before Thee. In grateful return for that life he gave me here, and which, under Thy good providence, he has tenderly watched ​over, and tried to render happy, enable me, Lord! to be the humble means of leading him to Thee. Oh, let us thirst, and come together to the waters; and 'buy wine and milk without money and without price;' and grant, Lord! that before we go hence and are no more seen of men, our united voices may ascend to Thee in praises and blessings! Grant that we may together call upon the name of Him who has redeemed us by His most precious blood, that in that blood our manifold sins may be washed away"
Mrs. Opie was ever charitable to the very utmost of her means, but deepening religious convictions gave a wider sphere and a wiser purpose to her benevolence. Her loving heart seemed ever like a temple of peace and hope, where all gentle and generous thoughts prompted to deeds of benevolence and mercy.
She made, in her later years, many excursions to the Continent and to different portions of the United Kingdom, kept up her literary intercourse and the exercise of her pen, but thought it suitable to give up writing fiction,—a decision which tells more for her honest fidelity to her convictions, than to the clearness of her reasoning power. Such fiction as she wrote was Truth exemplified—principles embodied and wrought out—and thus brought home to many minds not otherwise accessible. Multitudes of writers of the most enlightened Christian ​conviction, in our time, wisely use the outward vehicle of fiction to convey the deepest truths of social life, and believe that imagination, like every good gift, was bestowed to be used, and consecrated in its use. However, let us honour a conscientious scruple in a great writer, even though it hampered her powers and impeded her influence.
Her age was beautiful and dignified. Every good cause received her aid—^prominently the Anti-slavery Society, and the advancement of education: nor were the claims of the animal world neglected—man's faithful dumb companions and servants. In a time when animal wrongs and sufferings were too often ignored, she ever showed and taught mercy as a Christian duty.
Thus, amid her many elevated pursuits the years passed calmly on. She built a house for herself at Norwich, on Castle Hill, close to the old fortress she had known from earliest years, and amid the scenes she loved. The inevitably painful experience of advancing age—that of the loss of early friends—tried her affectionate heart; but she was so loving, that she was sure to win love from a generation succeeding those with whom she had set out in life. Miss Lucy Brightwell, her friend and biographer, and others paid her the tender attention of friendship as her infirmities increased.
She was last in London at the Great Exhibition in 1851; and, in common with many noble spirits, hailed the " rich dawn of an ampler day," in. hope ​that "fruitful strifes and rivalries of peace" would hasten the coming of the time when men should learn war no more. Sweet and holy anticipations! not as yet realized, but sure to come; for the mouth of the Lord hath spoken it.
Mrs. Opie had become lame, but otherwise time had dealt gently with her. The beaming sweetness of her countenance remained to testify of peace within, and so, by gentle gradations, the end drew near. But her dismissal was not to be without a struggle. Her bodily sufferings for the last six weeks were severe, but were borne with all the pious, chastened resignation of a Christian. Amid great pain and weakness, she said to her cousin, "All is peace;" and afterwards to Mr. S. Gurney, "All is mercy." Brief, yet comprehensive testimony, rich in all the fulness of the gospel of Christ!
On the 2nd of December, 1853, she closed her long and valuable life, leaving not only her writings to delight, but her example to instruct, her country-women.