 | Letters of Mrs. 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
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
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?
| Letters of Mrs. Adams, | |