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.”

[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.