 | Letters of Mrs. Adams, |  |
Tuesday Afternoon.
I have been so much agitated, that I have not
been able to write since Sabbath day. When I say,
that ten thousand reports are passing, vague and uncertain
41
am not able to give you any authentic account of
last Saturday, but you will not be destitute of intelligence.
Colonel Palmer has just sent me word, that
he has an opportunity of conveyance. Incorrect as
this scrawl will be, it shall go. I ardently pray, that
you may be supported through the arduous task you
have before you. I wish I could contradict the report
of the Doctor's death; but it is a lamentable
truth, and the tears of multitudes pay tribute to his
memory; those favorite lines of Collins continually
sound in my ears;
"How sleep the brave," &c.[1]
I must close, as the Deacon waits. I have not
pretended to be particular with regard to what I
have heard, because I know you will collect better
intelligence. The spirits of the people are very
good; the loss of Charlestown affects them no more
than a drop of the bucket. I am, most sincerely,
Yours,
Portia.
| Letters of Mrs. Adams, | |