We hope this involuntary digression will be pardoned, and we return again to the subject of our memoir. We have spoken of her sensibility and elsewhere of her humility. This, however, must not be mistaken for that slothful quiescent sense of inferiority, which sometimes belongs to common minds. It was true christian humility; it was the consciousness of high moral capacities, falling far short of her exalted standard of excellence. The sensibility that led her so fully to appreciate the kindness of her friends, made her alive to injury. At any attempt at imposition, her spirit rose proportionably, and she expressed and felt a resentment for which she afterwards reproached herself.
Her judgment and opinion of books was derived from her own power of thought. She did not wait for the decision of others, but expressed her own fearlessly, when called for. But it was on the subject of character that her mind discovered most acuteness and originality. Even in those whom she loved, she knew how to discriminate, and when she allowed herself to speak on the subject, plainly discovered that she knew how to separate the good from the evil, and that she had learned to love them with their faults.
The last visit that Miss Adams made was to South Boston, in the family of the Superintendent of Juvenile Offenders. There was much in her short residence there to interest her mind. The success of this institution; the groups of rescued children, now cheerful and obedient; the disinterested kindness of the family; nor ought it to be forgotten, the beautiful situation of the building, overlooking the bay of Boston with its many islands, the harbor and city rising in its pyramid of beauty, and crowned by the dome of the State-house; all called forth her enthusiasm, and brightened the last days of her earthly existence. When she returned to her lodgings in Boston, she lamented the want of sun and of prospect. By the instrumentality of judicious friends, she was removed to Brookline; and when there, she wrote the following note to a friend, which, as the last effort of her pen, is here inserted.
Dear Madam—Will you excuse me if I trouble you with a few lines. I am now settled for the winter, if I live. The greatest earthly happiness I can enjoy is seeing my friends, among whom dear Mrs —— is in the first rank. I need not inform you, and I am unable to express, how much pleasure it would give me to see you in Brookline. The lady I am now boarding with is all goodness. My trembling hand will scarcely allow me to write. Adieu, dear Madam; pray call upon me as soon as you can conveniently.
From your affectionate and grateful friend,
H. Adams.
Brookline, Nov. 12, 1831.
The friend to whom the note was addressed hastened to see her. She found her in a large, and airy apartment. It was a fine morning; one of those days in which ‘Autumn seems to linger in the lap of Winter.’ The sun poured its rays into her apartment to her heart’s content. She was bright, and cheerful, and said with a smile she ‘believed some people thought she had lived long enough; but she was willing to remain as long as it pleased God to continue her,’ and then added, pointing to the prospect without, ‘how can any body be impatient to quit such a beautiful world!’
But little remains to be added to this short sketch, and that little perhaps is expressed in the Obituary notice which we subjoin.
OBITUARY.
Died at Brookline, near Boston, on the 15th inst. Miss Hannah Adams, aged seventysix. Her literary labors have been long before the public, and have made her name known in Europe as well as in her native land. Her first work, the ‘View of Religions,’ was published at a time when this country had few authors, and when a book from a female hand was almost without precedent. She was not impelled by any desire of fame; and though the hope of usefulness was undoubtedly a strong motive to her literary exertions, yet this would not have availed, without the prospect of contributing by her pen to her own support, and the comfort of her nearest friends. It is gratifying to know, that she has left behind a simple and interesting memoir of her early life, which precludes the necessity of saying more of her literary history. Indeed, literary claims are perhaps among the last that, at a moment like this, present themselves to the minds of her friends. The virtues and excellences of her character, her blameless life, her sensibility, the warmth of her affections, her sincerity and candor, call forth a flow of feeling that cannot be restrained. To an almost child-like simplicity, and singleness of heart, she united a clear and just conception of character; to a deep and affecting humility, a dignity and elevation of thought, that commanded the respect and veneration of those around her. Amidst many infirmities she retained the freshness and enthusiasm of youth. Society never lost its charms. To the aged she listened with submission and gentleness; to the classic and highly gifted, with a delight almost amounting to rapture. The young, and there were such who felt it a privilege to ‘sit at her feet,’ she viewed as ‘ministering angels’ dispensing joy and gladness. Her love of nature was exhaustless. The first beam of morning, the glory of noon, the last rays of the setting sun, were objects which through a long life she never contemplated with indifference. Those who were in the habit of visiting her, will recollect how constantly her apartment was decorated by flowers of the field, or the garden. It was her object to gather round her images of natural and moral beauty. In many respects her mind seemed so truly constituted for enjoyment, that to those who knew her but slightly, she might have appeared to be exempted from that mental discipline, which is gradually leading the pilgrim on to the land of promise. But her friends knew otherwise; they knew how keen was her religious sensibility, how tremblingly alive her conscience, how high her standard of excellence, and how great her timidity and self-distrust, and they felt that this was not her haven of rest.