NOTICES.
Those who have been favored with a personal knowledge of the Author of the short Memoir contained in this book, will read it with the deepest interest; and perhaps to them it may seem almost superfluous to say more of her. But Miss Adams’s works have circulated far beyond the sphere in which she moved, and there are many who are desirous of knowing her, as she was appreciated by others, and not by her own estimate. Such would be poorly satisfied with the short sketch she has given of herself, though her friends must ever value it as a parting legacy.
The ‘timidity of early years’ followed Miss Adams through life; and, even when surrounded by intimate friends, it never wholly forsook her. It was a sensitiveness that sprung from deep feeling, and a diffidence that was the result of genuine humility. This often operated unfavorably upon her manners, and produced an awkwardness, of which she was painfully conscious. But there were times when the warmth of her heart, and the cultivation of her mind, gave an enthusiasm and eloquence to her language, that astonished those who listened to her. At such times, her countenance lost its usual calm placidity, and glowed with an animation that rendered it highly interesting. There was indeed a wonderful singularity in her appearance. In the circles of polished life to which she was often courted, there was nothing like her. In the circles of humble life, she was equally unassuming, and equally peculiar. No one could see her, without feeling that she was not of this world. It is possible that part of this timidity might have arisen from the seclusion of early years. But it is certain, that no culture, or discipline, could have formed her manners to the standard of easy and fashionable life. She sometimes observed, ‘I know I am very awkward; I never could learn to make a curtsey.’ But it must not be supposed that there was in her any want of gentleness, or propriety. Her disinterested and affectionate disposition made her, in reality, all that the most calculating would desire to appear.
The simplicity, and often the abstractedness of Miss Adams’ manner, led many to suppose that her talents were confined to the subjects on which she wrote. Some considered her as a walking dictionary of ‘Religious Opinions.’ Others viewed her merely as an ‘Abridgment of the History of New England.’ And many said, ‘if you want to know Miss Adams, you must talk to her about the Jews.’ And this last was, indeed, a subject that always called forth the energy of her mind. She had faithfully studied their history, and she venerated the antiquity of their origin. Her inquiring mind was deeply interested by their ‘wonderful destination, peculiar habits, and religious rites.’ She felt for them as a suffering and persecuted people; and she felt yet more, when she considered them as a standing monument of that religion, which she regarded as the first and best of God’s gifts to men. It was the long contemplation of this chosen race that induced her, amidst all the obstacles that were in her way, to write their history. It was an arduous labor. Yet her work is a proof, that, in this ‘barren wilderness she found many a spot of verdure.’ But those who viewed her merely in relation to her literary works, knew her but imperfectly. With her extreme simplicity, there was an uncommon depth of observation, and an intuitive knowledge of character. She was often in circles where her timidity kept her almost wholly silent, and where she hardly seemed to be even a spectator. But her subsequent remarks would show how accurately she had observed, and how nicely she had discriminated. In speaking of a lady of her acquaintance, she said, ‘I value and admire her, but I can never be easy with her. She is so kind, and so condescending, that I can see she never forgets I am a poor awkward old woman.’ At another time, when deploring the loss of a young lady, whose fine talents had made her the delight of her friends, ‘and yet,’ she said, ‘she died at the best time. Her powers were brilliant, and beautiful, but they were exhausting to herself; and had she lived, she would have faded before she reached her prime.’ Her mind was habitually cheerful, and her cheerfulness was much increased by her sensibility to the works of nature. She looked upon every object with the eye of a poet, and forgot her infirmities, and even her diffidence, as she described her emotions. On visiting her sister, who resided in the country, after having been confined to her chamber, in the city through the winter, ‘it seemed to me,’ said she, ‘as if the world was just created.’ No one could exclaim with more feeling and truth,
‘I care not, fortune, what you me deny,
You cannot rob me of free nature’s grace,
You cannot bar the windows of the sky,
Through which Aurora shows her brightening face.’
There is but little doubt, that, had she given way to the natural temperament of her mind, which was enthusiastic and romantic, she might have been a poet. But her duties, and her lot, led her into a different path of life. In her youth, however, she occasionally listened to the inspiration of the muses; and though she never set any value on these productions, they discover much excellent thought, and a high tone of feeling.
The want of early advantages, to which Miss Adams so feelingly alludes in her memoirs, ought not to be forgotten, nor the difficulties through which she struggled. Her attendance upon any school was extremely uncertain, and often interrupted by her feeble health. Added to this, the schools of a country village are not often of the highest class. Even the elementary parts of education are much neglected in them. ‘I never,’ said she, ‘was taught how to hold my pen.’
There is nothing that more strikingly denotes the progress of literature in this part of the country, than the attention which is at present paid to female education. There are few branches, if any, in which boys are instructed, which are not now equally open to girls. Not many years ago, however, the test of a good school rested principally upon the exhibitions made of hand-writing, spelling, and arithmetic. Grammar, it is true, was professedly taught, but in a manner that conveyed few ideas to the pupil. To get the longest lessons, and to be at the head of the class, constituted the best scholar. By degrees, parsing, in its simplest forms, was introduced, to aid the knowledge of grammar. Composition, geography and history followed; and the education of girls began to assume a more respectable standing. Yet even at this period, our village school-master much resembled Goldsmith’s, of whom,
‘The village all declared how much he knew;
’Twas certain he could write and cipher too.’
It was at such schools as these that Miss Adams received her early education. Her ardent thirst for knowledge, however, and her industry and perseverance enabled her, in maturer life, to make uncommon acquirements. Yet she always felt, and regretted, the want of more thorough, and systematic instruction. Her father entered into trade as a desperate resource from the weariness of an agricultural life, for which he had no taste. He was plundered, and cheated by the man, whom he engaged to carry on his farm; and as he had plunged into all the transactions of a country trader, dealing in books and drugs, English and West India goods, through all came vexation and disappointment, and a total failure ensued. A large proportion of his books were left on his hands, and afforded to Miss Adams great facilities for reading. Her father, too, happily for her, had encouraged in her a taste congenial to his own; and her mind became cultivated, and embued with knowledge, almost without her own consciousness of the progress she was making. However unpropitious to her were the pecuniary disappointments of her father’s life, they seem to have exerted a favorable influence on her mind. Resort was had also, at this time, to the receiving of several boarders into the family; and from these she acquired the knowledge of Greek and Latin. Of this knowledge, she tells us she availed herself, for fitting three young men for College; and for Mr P. Clark, one of her pupils, mentioned in her memoirs, she retained through life the warmest regard. He married a friend of hers; and ‘this,’ said she, ‘was the only match I ever had any hand in making.’ Of her mother, she always spoke with enthusiastic reverence; and though only eleven years of age when she died, she retained a perfect recollection of her. Mrs Adams was married at fifteen, and died at the age of thirty three, leaving three girls and two boys. Her short life seems to have been filled with usefulness; and the following epitaph, written by an Episcopal clergyman, who was a particular friend, and constant visitor of the family, may still be traced on her humble grave stone, should any descendant of ‘Old Mortality’ chance to wander to the spot.
‘Beneath this monument of love and truth,
Rear’d by fair gratitude’s persuasive call,
Rest the remains of innocence, and youth;
Esteem’d, lamented, and beloved by all.
Fond of retirement, and of rural ease,
Her sober wishes never loved to stray.
Heaven was her aim, her study, how to please,
And carefully improve each fleeting day;
To worth, a friend; a parent to the poor.
Such was the woman! could the saint be more?’
After the death of her mother, the care of Hannah, and of a younger sister, devolved on Elizabeth, who was the oldest daughter. They now lived in great retirement; and one of Miss Adams’s early employments was, weaving lace with bobbins on a cushion. In referring to this, she afterwards pleasantly observed, that, ‘it was much more profitable than writing books.’ This manner of life, with her desultory habits of reading, gave a romantic and enthusiastic turn to her mind, which was never essentially changed either by time or circumstances.
Miss Adams’s heart was however peculiarly alive to the ties of natural affection. She deeply felt the death of an aunt, who had shown for her maternal tenderness. But as long as her sister Elizabeth lived, she had, to use her own words, a friend, a counsellor, and guide. ‘There was,’ she said, ‘but one heart between us; and I used sometimes to tell my sister, in the overflowing of my affection, that I could bear to lose everything if she was spared to me; but, if she were taken away, I should surely die!’ Yet this calamitous event took place; and Miss Adams lived to prove, as many others have done, that there is, in the day of sorrow, a strength imparted beyond human fortitude. The health of this beloved sister was declining for nearly two years; and it was, during that time, one of her constant objects, to fortify Miss Adams’s mind for an event, that she felt was near, and which she feared would be overwhelming. It however gradually approached, and brought no terrors to herself. She was calm, and resigned; constantly expressing her ‘entire submission to the Divine will, and laying all her burden at the foot of the cross.’ There were no enthusiastic flights, nor was there any unnatural exaltation of mind in her views of death. Though in the bloom of youth and with an ardent enjoyment of life, she met the event like a Christian. Hers was a philosophy which was formed and nurtured by religion.
‘For years after my sister’s death,’ said Miss Adams, ‘it was a struggle to live.’ Her health was extremely feeble, her heart she believed broken, and poverty pressed heavily upon her. There were times, indeed, when she felt as if she had not even a home. Her father had made over his house and property to a son, with whom he and his other children continued to live; but as this son was married, and his family was increasing, notwithstanding his paternal kindness, Miss Adams felt, and could not but feel, as if she was a burden upon her brother. This was the most trying period of her life, and it was always recollected by her with strong emotion.
The first effort of her pen, after her sister’s death, produced some lines on that subject. They seem to be the very breathings of her heart, and are thrown together almost without form; yet a few extracts from them will best show the state of her mind.
‘The first attachment of my earliest years,
Ere yet I knew to feel the attractive force
Of sacred friendship, was my love to her.
Our minds expanding, each succeeding year
Heightened our mutual friendship. Not a joy
Ere touched my soul, but when she shared a part.
When pierced with sorrow, her all cheering smile
Could give me comfort. Well she knew to bear
Life’s adverse scenes with calm, undaunted mind,
And placid resignation. Grace divine
Illumed her soul, and stamp’d its features there.
The best of friends! Oh, how my bleeding heart
Recalls her tender love! Of self unmindful,
For me she seemed to live; forever kind.
Forever studious to promote my good.
“She was my guide, my friend, my earthly all;”
Heaven’s choicest blessing. Not a single thought
Could lurk in close disguise. I knew to trust
This much loved sister with my inmost soul.
And must I lose her! While unkind disease
Threatened a life so dear, my trembling heart
Sunk in o’erwhelming wo. Could prayers, or tears.
Could sleepless nights, or agonizing days,
And all the care of fond officious love
Avert thy fate,—sister, thou still hadst lived.’
Many expressions of her deep feeling on this subject might be extracted from her papers; and to her immediate friends, they are precious records of a sorrow stricken, and resigned spirit. But the friendship of these two sisters was such as ‘strangers intermeddle not with.’ The death of this sister seemed to be the dissolution of a tie, like that which occasioned the exclamation of David in his beautiful lamentation over Jonathan, ‘Thy love to me was wonderful, passing the love of women.’
That Miss Adams drew her support from religion under this calamity, her manuscripts very clearly show. She employed herself, when unable to compose, in making extracts from the Scriptures, which she applied to her particular state of mind. These she arranged in a little book, and preserved till her death.
In her memoirs, she alludes to a small circle of females that had gradually been drawn together from the neighboring towns, by a similarity of taste and situation; and in this circle she found great enjoyment. In after years, her imagination probably exaggerated their merit. Yet she retained many proofs that they were not of an ordinary stamp. In speaking of this knot of friends, Miss Adams, said, ‘they were all poor, and most of them good-looking,’ and then added, with her usual simplicity, ‘I had the fewest attractions of any of them.’
Nor was Miss Adams’s pen at this time idle. The powers of her mind were early appreciated by her young associates; or, perhaps, it is more just to say, that they obtained that influence, which, however unclaimed, is stamped upon superior intellect. Mind is created to rule. Wealth, and all merely outward distinctions are thrown into obscurity, when brought in competition with mental power. This is strikingly exemplified in public and professional strife; and, though more minutely, yet hardly less obviously, in the miniature circle of private life. Miss Adams, with all her humility, and her retiring modesty, was the casuist of her youthful friends. A number of her papers that remain, prove how often she was resorted to by her companions in cases of opinion; and the publication of a few of these, it is believed, cannot be wholly uninteresting to those who knew her in later life.
One of her young friends put to her this interrogative. Ought mankind to be respected for their personal worth alone, abstracted from all accidental causes?
To this question Miss Adams replied.
‘Mankind ought primarily to be respected for their personal worth; yet if accidental causes make that worth appear more conspicuous, it may increase our esteem, which still is founded on personal worth in proportion as it appears. The more we see of virtue, the more it ought to attract our love and admiration. Virtue becomes visible only by its effects. The diamond we value for its intrinsic worth. But when it is polished and set, its essential beauty appears more refulgent. So external accomplishments, and accidental causes, set forth the original beauty of virtue, and serve to heighten its charms. There are particular circumstances in which every virtue will shine with peculiar lustre. For instance, humility has intrinsic excellence. But it appears most attractive in those who are placed in affluent circumstances, and are surrounded by pomp and splendor. Fortitude, also, is an excellent quality of the mind. But suffering and adversity must bring it forth. Persons who have performed eminent services for their country are worthy of greater honor, than those who have remained in private life with equal worth. I conclude, therefore, that mankind ought to be esteemed for their personal worth, as it is rendered conspicuous by accidental causes.’
Another question proposed was, whether virtue ought not to be regarded as its own reward, without any reference to a future state of happiness, or misery?
To this she replied, ‘A regularity of conduct is for the interest of all, even were their prospects terminated by the enjoyments of this life. We cannot doubt that the virtuous Seneca enjoyed more happiness than Nero, his cruel and tyrannical master. So far as inward peace of conscience depends on virtue, it is its own reward. But we do not find that its ends are commensurate with its exertions. Honest industry does not always bring even a moderate support. It therefore appears evident to me, that there would not be sufficient reward for, nor consequently sufficient excitement to, the sacrifices which virtue requires, without the hope of a future life. God, by the influences of his spirit, brings home the truths of the Gospel upon the mind, and makes them the spring of new, and right principles. Hence Divine Revelation informs us, “by his own will begat he us by the word of truth.” If we look for nothing beyond the grave, too many will say, “what advantageth it me?” Dr Doddridge observes, “there are some sufferings of flesh and blood, to which good men for conscience’ sake have been exposed, so extreme, that without some extraordinary support from God, it would be really impossible that the pleasures of a rational thought should be enjoyed by them.” Such support must arise from a view of a future state, and from a conviction that afflictions are but for a moment, and are “working out for them a far more exceeding, even an eternal weight of glory.” Not that I mean to say, we are to expect Heaven as a reward for our virtue, independent of the free grace of God. But he has promised a glorious inheritance to those who do well, and this ought to stimulate men to the greatest industry in his service. Love to God is the great principle of christian virtue.’
On another occasion she was applied to by a friend, who was placed in an embarrassing situation, for her sentiments on the subject of forming a connexion, without mutual attachment.
The following observations are extracted from her reply.
‘It has been readily allowed, that marriage, without great congeniality, must render a person of sensibility extremely wretched. Novel writers have general urged the impropriety of this connexion from this motive. But as this life is only a passport to a better, the principal objection ought to arise from a nobler source.
‘Both religion and morality require that there should be a conformity between our words and actions; and, that in both we should always be entirely true. Now when two people marry, they virtually and publicly declare, that they prefer each other to all the world. If that preference be wanting, this declaration is a capital breach of sincerity. It is the declaration of an untruth before Heaven and earth.
‘The least deviation from truth, in this one capital point, imposes a kind of necessity to practise continual dissimulation. Having exhibited to the world the strongest proof of a peculiar, and individual affection, honor and reputation render it of consequence to keep up the deception. By doing this, however, the delicacy of moral feeling must be continually wearing away. And what will be the happiness of married life under circumstances like these?
‘The attention which a husband and wife have a right to expect from each other, must originate in a decided preference of each other; else the indifference of one of the parties may effectually destroy that happiness, which they had bound themselves by the most sacred obligations to promote.
‘But even this continual dissimulation, which is highly injurious to the moral character, and extremely painful to an ingenuous mind, will be wholly unavailing for its end. True love is of so delicate a nature, that it can never be satisfied with anything short of love in return; and it is of a power so penetrating, that, by its own light, it sees into the heart of the person beloved. Its primary object is to possess the heart. “Not the warmest expressions of affection, or the most fervent protestations, are able to give any satisfaction, where we are not persuaded the affection is real, and the satisfaction mutual.
“All these possessed are nought, but as they are
The proofs, the substance of an inward passion
And the rich plunder of a taken heart.”’
The first edition of Miss Adams’s View of Religion was published before her sister’s death, and partly transcribed by this sister. The second was begun as soon after this afflicting event took place, as she could collect resolution to engage in it. Those who knew her might indeed wonder that any motive could at any time be powerful enough to induce her to publish a book. Her humility, her diffidence, and her total ignorance of business, seemed to present insurmountable obstacles. It was necessary, however, that she should earn a subsistence in some way. She had tried various methods. Making lace, during the war, had been one of the most lucrative employments. But home-made lace could only be tolerated, when no other could be procured; and as soon as importation become easy, it sunk into total disuse. Spinning, weaving, and braiding straw were by turns tried. But all afforded her only a scanty subsistence. Her eyes were weak, and often so much inflamed that she could not use them. Her general health also was extremely feeble, and her mind depressed by present evil, and harassed by distressing fears for the future. ‘It was desperation, therefore, and not vanity,’ said she, ‘that induced me to publish.’ Her memoirs mention the disappointment she experienced in the profits of her first edition. When about publishing a second, it was necessary to pay a few shillings for the further security of the copy-right; and this sum, though so small, she was obliged to borrow from a friend. On the subject of poverty, she always spoke with great feeling. She had early in life been brought up in indulgence; and poverty had come upon her at an age, when the sensibility of the heart are most alive. There can hardly, indeed, be a suffering more acute to a feeling mind, that has experienced the pleasure of bestowing, than to find its means of benevolence cut off, and all its powers necessarily turned into a weary, wasting struggle for self-preservation. ‘And yet,’ she said, ‘I had then enjoyments, of which the rich have no idea. When I had any work brought in that would enable me to earn a few shillings, by which I might buy paper, or any articles of stationary, I engaged in writing with an interest that beguiled the monotony of my life.’ After the second edition of her book was published, she kept a school for the summer months for successive years; and, though in this employment she experienced the usual difficulties of school-keeping in the country, it was, upon the whole, a source of happiness. As the schools were in the neighboring towns, she resided among the parents of the children by turns; and her intelligent and acute mind often derived amusement, and profit, from these occasional residences. She treasured up many pleasant little anecdotes, that marked the habits and manners of the families in which she then lived, many of which retained much of the primitive simplicity of their forefathers.
One anecdote may not be unacceptable. She passed several months in the family of a respectable farmer, whose turn it was to receive the school-mistress. His wife was a pattern of frugal, industrious management; yet not devoid of that desire of appearing ‘decent,’ which was manifested by the Vicar of Wakefield’s wife before her. The usual dress of females in the country at that period, when engaged in domestic employments, was the ‘short russet kyrtle,’ confined at the waist by a home-spun checked apron. This was the costume of the mistress of the family. The year Miss Adams resided there had been one of uncommon prosperity. The crops were abundant, and many little luxuries had been added to the household establishment. With injunctions of secrecy, the good woman informed her guest, that, if the next year also should prove to be as prosperous, she intended to wear long calico gowns!
Miss Adams remarked, that these early scenes often recurred to her mind, amidst the wealth and splendor she witnessed in later life; and the impressions of both were heightened by the contrast.
That her sensibility was a source of pain, as well as of happiness, cannot be doubted. She censured herself severely for moments of irritation, and felt the keenest self-reproach for what might be truly called the infirmity of her nature. That she perfectly understood her weaknesses, and moral exposures, and guarded in her heart the avenues to temptation, the following resolutions, found among her papers, are a sufficient proof.