e been partly suggested by that of poor Mary
Wollstonecraft, whose prejudices the heroine shares and expiates by a
fate hardly less pathetic than that of Mary herself. The book reminds
one of a very touching letter from Godwin's wife to Amelia Alderson,
written a few weeks before her death, in which she speaks of her
'contempt for the forms of a world she should have bade a long
good-night to had she not been a mother.' Justice has at length been
done to this mistaken but noble and devoted woman, and her story has
lately been written from a wider point of view than Mrs. Opie's, though
she indeed was no ungenerous advocate. Her novel seems to have given
satisfaction; 'a beautiful story, the most natural in its pathos of any
fictitious narrative in the language,' says the 'Edinburgh,' writing
with more leniency than authors now expect. Another reviewer, speaking
with discriminating criticism, says of Mrs. Opie: 'She does not reason
well, but she has, like most accomplished women, the talent of perceiving
truth without the process of reasoning. Her language is often inaccurate,
but it is always graceful and harmonious. She can do nothing well that
requires to be done with formality; to make amends, however, she
represents admirably everything that is amiable, generous, and gentle.'

Adeline Mowbray dies of a broken heart, with the following somewhat
discursive farewell to her child: 'There are two ways in which a mother
can be of use to her daughter; the one is by instilling into her mind
virtuous principles, and by setting her a virtuous example, the other is
by being to her, in her own person, an awful warning!'

* * * * *

One or two of Opie's letters to his wife are given in the memoir. They
ring with truth and tender feeling. The two went to Norwich together on
one occasion, when Opie painted Dr. Sayers, the scholar, who, in return
for his portrait, applied an elegant Greek distich to the painter. Mrs.
Opie remained with her father, and her husband soon returned to his
studio in London. When she delayed, he wrote to complain. 'My dearest
Life, I cannot be sorry that you do not stay longer, though, as I said,
on your father's account, I would consent to it. Pray, Love, forgive
me, and make yourself easy. I did not suspect, till my last letter was
posted, that it might be too strong. I had been counting almost the
hours till your arrival for some time. As to coming down again I cannot
th