I praise thy form, and idolize thy soul;
Such worship’s thine, from “threescore and eleven,”
Whose higher adoration mounts to heaven.
I can devise no better mode of expressing my gratitude to you for this delightful proof of your filial regard, than by putting into the case, which conveyed you to my cell, that sweet picture[[22]] of Virgil’s Tomb, by my friend of Derby, which I had long intended as a legacy for you; yet some time must elapse before the picture can arrive at Norwich, because it is to halt on its transit through London, at the house of a very amiable young artist, who is to execute for me a diminutive copy of it, as a companion to another small picture. And now I must hastily say addio carissima! not to lose the post of to-day. Addio.
In October of this year Mr. Hayley wrote:—[[23]]
“I have much enjoyed a social visit of several weeks, from our admirable Amelia Opie, who, after having kindly devoted some pleasant months to various friends, in her excursion, is just settling herself at home again, with a mind well prepared to exert its powers in several projected works, that will, I trust, in due time, afford a copious supply of pleasure and instruction to the literary world.”
In 1818 Mrs. Opie published her “Tales of the Heart,” probably one of the works alluded to in this letter. In the first volume of this series there are two, entitled, “The Odd Tempered Man,” and “White Lies.” The former of these, is an original picture of an eccentric phase of the infirmities of temper; to the latter Mrs. O. evidently refers in the following letter to Mr. Hayley:—
Norwich, 24th Jan., 1819.
My dear Friend,
You are too just to expect that the author of “White Lies,” the tale, should be guilty of “White Lies,” the fault—therefore though I can, en toute sureté de conscience say, that I was very glad to hear from you again, yet I must own that I did not feel your excuses for not having written at all satisfactory. * * * I am going to send you (perhaps to-morrow) some dried apples, apples being once more plentiful here; and the box will also contain an etching of my dear father, from a drawing by my husband: it is like, but too full about the jawbone, and my father’s hair must have been by accident rough, when my husband drew him; now it is close to his head, and his head is well shaped. However, on the whole, it is very like, and the etching does credit to the artist, a lady, the wife of Dawson Turner, and a most admirable person she is. * * * My father is now, blessed be God! quite well, in all respects; but soon after my return home in July he sprained his ancle, and was lame, unwell, dispirited, and broken down in mind and body for weeks, nay months, and I suffered much, but he now walks well, and is well, and enjoys himself. Farewell!