Her timidity was excessive. It pervaded her whole character, and sometimes palsied the efforts of her mind. In her youth she amused herself with writing tales of fiction. ‘But,’ she said, ‘they all took their color from her own life. She could do nothing but kill and destroy; and when her situation became happier, and her mind more cheerful, she could not endure the sight of them.’ When very young, her health being in a feeble state, and not expecting to live long, she determined to write a number of letters to her young friends, after the manner of Mrs Rowe’s; intending they should reach them mysteriously, immediately on her death. But fortunately for the Jews, and for literature, her anticipations were not realized. She was early in life much in the habit of committing poetry to memory; and this she never forgot. ‘I could repeat poetry,’ said she, ‘I believe for three months together; and though I am now continually troubled by forgetting where I have laid a knife, a pencil, or a pen, yet the long poems I learned in my youth, I can repeat as accurately as ever.’ She went on to observe, that these recollections did not give her so much pleasure as might be supposed; for, as this poetry was selected when she was young, much of it was not of a kind which her maturer taste and judgment could approve. Though Miss Adams was born and bred in the country, she felt the strongest enthusiasm for rural scenes; and they always seemed to retain the power of novelty over her mind. A walk, a ride, or a visit to any new place, awoke all the fervor of her feelings. It was on one of these occasions that she composed the following lines. ‘Such scenes the days of innocence renew, And bring the patriarchal age to view, Thus favor’d Abraham, in the days of old, On flowery Mamre kept his fleecy fold; While friendly angels left their heavenly seat, To greet the patriarch in his calm retreat.’