Still in the right to stay;

If I am wrong, O teach my heart,

To find the better way.

NOTICES
IN CONTINUATION.
BY A FRIEND.

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,