‘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!