 | Letters of Mrs. Adams, |  |
TO JOHN ADAMS.
'T is a little more than three weeks since the dearest
of friends and tenderest of husbands left[1]
his solitary
partner, and quitted all the fond endearments of
domestic felicity for the dangers of the sea, exposed,
perhaps, to the attack of a hostile foe, and, O good
Heaven! can I add, to the dark assassin, to the secret
murderer, and the bloody emissary of as cruel a
tyrant as God, in his righteous judgments, ever suffered
to disgrace the throne of Britain.
I have travelled with you over the wide Atlantic,
and could have landed you safe, with humble confidence,
at your desired haven, and then have set
myself down to enjoy a negative kind of happiness,
allot me; but the intelligence with regard to that
great philosopher, able statesman, and unshaken
friend of his country,[2] has planted a dagger in my
breast, and I feel, with a double edge, the weapon
that pierced the bosom of a Franklin.
Nor towering genius claims its due reward;
From Britain's fury, as from death's keen dart,
No worth can save us, and no fame can guard."
The more distinguished the person, the greater
the inveteracy of these foes of human nature. The
argument of my friends to alleviate my anxiety, by
persuading me that this shocking attempt will put
you more upon your guard and render your person
more secure than if it had never taken place, is kind
in them, and has some weight; but my greatest comfort
and consolation arise from the belief of a superintending
Providence to whom I can, with confidence,
commit you, since not a sparrow falls to the
ground without his notice. Were it not for this, I
should be miserable and overwhelmed by my fears
and apprehensions.
Freedom of sentiment, the life and soul of friendship,
is in a great measure cut off by the danger of
miscarriage, and the apprehension of letters falling
into the hands of our enemies. Should this meet
with that fate, may they blush for their connexion
and abhorred, by a long list of crimes, which
not their high achievements, nor the lustre of former
deeds, nor the tender appellation of parent, nor the
fond connexion which once subsisted, can ever blot
from our remembrance, nor wipe out those indelible
stains of their cruelty and baseness. They have engraven
them with a pen of iron on a rock for ever.
To my dear son remember me in the most affectionate
terms. I would have written to him, but my
notice is so short that I have not time. Enjoin it
upon him never to disgrace his mother, and to behave
worthily of his father. Tender as maternal
affection is, it was swallowed up in what I found a
stronger, or so intermixed that I felt it not in its full
force till after he had left me. I console myself with
the hopes of his reaping advantages under the careful
eye of a tender parent, which it was not in my
power to bestow upon him.
There has nothing material taken place in the political
world since you left us. This letter will go by
a vessel for Bilboa, from whence you may, perhaps,
get better opportunities of conveyance than from any
other place. The letter you delivered to the pilot
came safe to hand. All the little folks are anxious
for the safety of their papa and brother, to whom
they desire to be remembered; to which is added the
tenderest sentiments of affection, and the fervent
prayers for your happiness and safety, of your
| Letters of Mrs. Adams, | |