University of Virginia Library

TO JOHN ADAMS.

I was greatly rejoiced, at the return of your servant,
to find you had safely arrived, and that you were
well I had never heard a word from you after you
had left New York, and a most ridiculous story
had been industriously propagated in this and the
neighbouring towns to injure the cause and blast your
reputation; namely, that you and your President[1] had gone on board of a man-of-war from New York,
and sailed for England. I should not mention so
idle a report, but that it had given uneasiness to
some of your friends; not that they, in the least,
credited the report, but because the gaping vulgar
swallowed the story. One man[2] had deserted them

and proved a traitor, another might, &c. I assure
you, such high disputes took place in the public
house of this parish, that some men were collared
and dragged out of the shop with great threats, for
reporting such scandalous lies, and an uncle of ours
offered his life as a forfeit for you, if the report
proved true. However, it has been a nine days'
marvel, and will now cease. I heartily wish every
Tory was extirpated from America; they are continually,
by secret means, undermining and injuring our
cause.

I am charmed with the sentiments of "Common
Sense," and wonder how an honest heart, one who
wishes the welfare of his country and the happiness
of posterity, can hesitate one moment at adopting
them. I want to know how these sentiments are received
in Congress. I dare say there would be no
difficulty in procuring a vote and instructions from all
the Assemblies in New England for Independency.
I most sincerely wish, that now, in the lucky moment,
it might be done.

I have been kept in a continual state of anxiety
and expectation, ever since you left me. It has been
said "to-morrow" and "to-morrow" for this month,
but when the dreadful to-morrow will be, I know not.
But hark! The house this instant shakes with the
roar of cannon. I have been to the door and find it
is a cannonade from our army. Orders, I find, are
come for all the remaining militia to repair to the
lines Monday night by twelve o'clock. No sleep for
me to-night. And if I cannot, who have no guilt

upon my soul with regard to this cause, how shall
the miserable wretches, who have been the procurers
of this dreadful scene, and those who are to
be the actors, lie down with the load of guilt upon
their souls?

I went to bed after twelve, but got no rest; the
cannon continued firing, and my heart beat pace
with them all night. We have had a pretty quiet
day, but what to-morrow will bring forth, God only
knows.

Tolerably quiet. To-day the militia have all
mustered, with three days' provision, and are all
marched by three o'clock this afternoon, though
their notice was no longer ago than eight o'clock,
Saturday. And now we have scarcely a man, but
our regular guards, either in Weymouth, Hingham,
Braintree, or Milton, and the militia from the
more remote towns are called in as seacoast guards.
Can you form to yourself an idea of our sensations?

I have just returned from Penn's Hill, where I
have been sitting to hear the amazing roar of cannon,
and from whence I could see every shell which
was thrown. The sound, I think, is one of the
grandest in nature, and is of the true species of the
sublime. 'T is now an incessant roar; but O! the
fatal ideas, which are connected with the sound!
How many of our dear countrymen must fall!

I went to bed about twelve, and rose again a little
after one. I could no more sleep, than if I had been
in the engagement; the rattling of the windows, the
jar of the house, the continual roar of twenty-four
pounders, and the bursting of shells, give us such
ideas, and realize a scene to us of which we could
form scarcely any conception. About six, this morning,
there was quiet. I rejoiced in a few hours'
calm. I hear we got possession of Dorchester hill
last night; four thousand men upon it to-day; lost
but one man. The ships are all drawn round the
town. To-night we shall realize a more terrible
scene still. I sometimes think I cannot stand it. I
wish myself with you, out of hearing, as I cannot
assist them. I hope to give you joy of Boston, even
if it is in ruins, before I send this away. I am too
much agitated to write as I ought, and languid for
want of rest.

All my anxiety and distress is at present at an
end. I feel disappointed. This day our militia are
all returning without effecting any thing more than
taking possession of Dorchester hill. I hope it is
wise and just, but, from all the muster and stir, I
hoped and expected more important and decisive
scenes. I would not have suffered all I have for
two such hills. Ever since the taking of that, we
have had a perfect calm: nor can I learn yet, what

effect it has had in Boston. I do not hear of one
person's escaping since.

I was very much pleased with your choice of a
committee for Canada. All those to whom I have
ventured to show that part of your letter, approve the
scheme of the priest, as a master-stroke of policy.[3] I feel sorry, that General Lee has left us, but his
presence at New York was no doubt of great importance,
as we have reason to think it prevented Clinton
from landing and gathering together such a nest of
vermin, as would at least have distressed us greatly.
But how can you spare him from here? Can you
make his place good? Can you supply it with a man
equally qualified to save us? How do the Virginians
relish the troops said to be destined for them? Are
they putting themselves into a state of defence? I
cannot bear to think of your continuing in a state of
supineness this winter.

I had scarcely finished these lines when my ears
were again assaulted by the roar of cannon. I could
not write any further. My hand and heart will
tremble at this "domestic fury and fierce civil strife,"
which "cumber all" our "parts"; though "blood
and destruction" are "so much in use," "and dreadful
objects so familiar," yet is not "pity choked,"
nor my heart grown callous. I feel for the unhappy
wretches, who know not where to fly for safety. I
feel still more for my bleeding countrymen, who are
hazarding their lives and their limbs. A most terrible
and incessant cannonade from half after eiglht
till six this morning. I hear we lost four men killed,
and some wounded, in attempting to take the hill
nearest the town, called Nook's Hill. We did some
work, but the fire from the ships beat off our men,
so that they did not secure it, but retired to the fort
upon the other hill.

I have not got all the particulars; I wish I had;
but, as I have an opportunity of sending this, I shall
endeavour to be more particular in my next.

If there are reinforcements here, I believe we shall
be driven from the seacoast; but, in whatever state
I am, I will endeavour to be therewith content.

You will excuse this very incorrect letter. You
see in what perturbation it has been written, and,
how many times I have left off.