University of Virginia Library

TO JOHN ADAMS.

I dare not express to you, at three hundred miles'
distance, how ardently I long for your return. I
have some very miserly wishes, and cannot consent
to your spending one hour in town, till, at least, I
have had you twelve. The idea plays about my heart,
unnerves my hand, whilst I write,—awakens all
the tender sentiments, that years have increased and
matured, and which, when with me, were every day
dispensing to you. The whole collected stock of ten
weeks' absence knows not how to brook any longer
restraint, but will break forth and flow through my
pen. May the like sensations enter thy breast, and
(spite of all the weighty cares of state) mingle themselves
with those I wish to communicate; for, in

giving them utterance, I have felt more sincere
pleasure, than I have known since the 10th of August.[1]
Many have been the anxious hours I have
spent since that day; the threatening aspect of our
public affairs, the complicated distress of this province,
the arduous and perplexed business in which
you are engaged, have all conspired to agitate my
bosom with fears and apprehensions to which I have
heretofore been a stranger; and, far from thinking
the scene closed, it looks as though the curtain was
but just drawn, and only the first scene of the infernal
plot disclosed; and whether the end will be tragical,
Heaven alone knows. You cannot be, I know, nor
do I wish to see you, an inactive spectator; but, if the
sword be drawn, I bid adieu to all domestic felicity,
and look forward to that country, where there are
neither wars nor rumors of war, in a firm belief, that,
through the mercy of its King, we shall both rejoice
there together.

I greatly fear, that the arm of treachery and violence
is lifted over us, as a scourge and heavy punishment
from Heaven for our numerous offences,
and for the misimprovement of our great advantages
If we expect to inherit the blessings of our fathers,
we should return a little more to their primitive simplicity
of manners, and not sink into inglorious ease.
We have too many high-sounding words, and too
few actions that correspond with them. I have spent
one Sabbath in town since you left. I saw no difference

in respect to ornament, &c.; but in the country
you must look for that virtue, of which you find
but small glimmerings in the metropolis. Indeed,
they have not the advantages, nor the resolution,
to encourage our own manufactories, which people
in the country have. To the mercantile part, it
is considered as throwing away their own bread;
but they must retrench their expenses, and be content
with a small share of gain, for they will find but
few who will wear their livery. As for me, I will
seek wool and flax, and work willingly with my
hands; and, indeed, there is occasion for all our industry
and economy. You mention the removal of
our books, &c., from Boston; I believe they are safe
there, and it would incommode the gentlemen to remove
them, as they would not then have a place to
repair to for study. I suppose they would not choose
to be at the expense of boarding out Mr. Williams,
I believe, keeps pretty much with his mother. Mr.
Hill's father had some thoughts of removing up to
Braintree, provided he could be accommodated with
a house, which he finds very difficult.

Mr. Cranch's last determination was to tarry in
town, unless any thing new takes place. His friends
in town oppose his removal so much, that he is determined
to stay. The opinion you have entertained
of General Gage is, I believe, just. Indeed, he professes
to act only upon the defensive. The people
in the country begin to be very anxious for the
Congress to rise; they have no idea of the weighty
business you have to transact, and their blood boils

with indignation at the hostile preparations they are
constant witnesses of. Mr. Quincy's so secret departure
is matter of various speculation; some say
he is deputed by the Congress, others, that he is gone
to Holland, and the Tories say he is gone to be
hanged.[2]

I rejoice at the favorable account you give me of
your health. May it be continued to you. My health
is much better than it was last fall; some folks say
I grow very fat. I venture to write almost any thing
in this letter, because I know the care of the bearer.
He will be most sadly disappointed, if you should be
broken up before he arrives; as he is very desirous
of being introduced by you to a number of gentlemen
of respectable character. I almost envy him,
that he should see you before I can. Mr. Thaxter
and Mr. Rice present their regards to you. Uncle
Quincy, too, sends his love to you. He is very good
to call and see me, and so have many other of my
friends been. Colonel Warren and lady were here on
Monday, and send their love to you. The Colonel
promised to write. Mrs. Warren will spend a day or
two, on her return, with me. I told Betsey[3] to write
to you; she says she would, if you were her husband.
Your mother sends her love to you; and all your
family, too numerous to name, desire to be remembered.

You will receive letters from two, who are
as earnest to write to papa, as if the welfare of a
kingdom depended upon it. If you can give any
guess, within a month, let me know when you think
of returning.