erious than loss
of patronage and employment befell him later. He had married, unhappily
for himself, a beautiful, unworthy woman, whose picture he has painted
many times. She was a faithless as well as a weak and erring wife,
and finally abandoned him. When Opie was free to marry again he was
thirty-six, a serious, downright man of undoubted power and influence,
of sincerity and tenderness of feeling, of rugged and unusual manners.
He had not many friends, nor did he wish for many, but those who knew
him valued him at his worth. His second wife showed what was in her by
her appreciation of his noble qualities, though one can hardly realise a
greater contrast than that of these two, so unlike in character, in
training, and disposition. They were married in London, at Marylebone
Church, in that dismal year of '98, which is still remembered. Opie
loved his wife deeply and passionately; he did not charm her, though she
charmed him, but for his qualities she had true respect and admiration.

V.

Opie must be forgiven if he was one-idead, if he erred from too
much zeal. All his wife's bright gaiety of nature, her love for her
fellow-creatures, her interest in the world, her many-sidedness, this
uncompromising husband would gladly have kept for himself. For him his
wife and his home were the whole world; his Art was his whole life.

The young couple settled down in London after their marriage, where,
notwithstanding fogs and smoke and dull monotony of brick and smut, so
many beautiful things are created; where Turner's rainbow lights were
first reflected, where Tennyson's 'Princess' sprang from the fog. It
was a modest and quiet installation, but among the pretty things which
Amelia brought to brighten her new home we read of blue feathers and
gold gauze bonnets, tiaras, and spencers, scarlet ribbons, buff net, and
cambric flounces, all of which give one a pleasant impression of her
intention to amuse herself, and to enjoy the society of her fellows, and
to bring her own pleasant contributions to their enjoyment.

Opie sat working at his easel, painting portraits to earn money for his
wife's use and comfort, and encouraging her to write, for he had faith
in work. He himself would never intermit his work for a single day. He
would have gladly kept her always in his sight. 'If I would stay at home
for ever, I believe my husband would be merry from morning to night--a
lover more than a husband,' Amelia writes to Mrs. Taylor