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.