 | Letters of Mrs. Adams, |  |
TO JOHN QUINCY ADAMS.
This evening, as I was sitting with only your sister
by my side, who was scribbling to some of her correspondents,
my neighbour, Field, entered with, "I
have a letter for you, Madam." My imagination was
wandering to Paris, ruminating upon the long, long
absence of my dear son and his parent, so that I was
rather inattentive to what he said, until he repeated,
"I have letters for you from abroad." The word
"abroad," roused my attention, and I eagerly seized
the letters, the handwriting and seal of which gave
me hopes, that I was once more about to hear from
my young wanderer; nor was I disappointed.
After two years' silence, and a journey of which
I can scarcely form an idea, to find you safely returned
see your improvements! You cannot know, should
I describe to you, the feelings of a parent. Through
your father, I sometimes heard from you, but one
letter only ever reached me after you arrived in
Russia. Your excuses, however, have weight and
are accepted; but you must give them further energy
by a ready attention to your pen in future. Four
years have already passed away since you left your
native land and this rural cottage; humble indeed
when compared to the palaces you have visited, and
the pomp you have been witness to; but I dare say,
you have not been so inattentive an observer as to
suppose, that sweet peace and contentment cannot
inhabit the lowly roof and bless the tranquil inhabitants,
equally guarded and protected in person and
property in this happy country as those who reside
in the most elegant and costly dwellings. If you
live to return, I can form to myself an idea of the
pleasure you will take in treading over the ground
and visiting every place your early years were accustomed
wantonly to gambol in; even the rocky
common and lowly whortleberry bush will not be
without their beauties.
My anxieties have been and still are great, lest
the numerous temptations and snares of vice should
vitiate your early habits of virtue, and destroy those
principles, which you are now capable of reasoning
upon, and discerning the beauty and utility of, as the
only rational surce of happiness here, or foundation
of felicity hereafter. Placed as we are in a transitory
nigher day after day to that important crisis which
must introduce us into a new system of things, it
ought certainly to be our principal concern to become
qualified for our expected dignity.
What is it, that affectionate parents require of their
children, for all their care, anxiety, and toil on their
account? Only that they would be wise and virtuous,
benevolent and kind.
Ever keep in mind, my son, that your parents are
your disinterested friends, and that if, at any time,
their advice militates with your own opinion or the
advice of others, you ought always to be diffident of
your own judgment; because you may rest assured,
that their opinion is founded on experience and long
observation, and that the they would not direct you but
to promote your happiness. Be thankful to a kind
Providence, who has hitherto preserved the lives of
your parents, the natural guardians of your youthful
years. With gratitude I look up to Heaven, blessing
the hand which continued to me my dear and honored
parents until I was settled in life; and, though
now I regret the loss of them, and daily feel the want
of their advice and assistance, I cannot suffer as I
should have done, if I had been early deprived of
them.
You will doubtless have heard of the death of your
worthy grandpapa before this reaches you. He
left you a legacy more valuable than gold or silver;
he left you his blessing and his prayers that you
might return to your country and friends, improved
become a useful citizen, a guardian of the laws,
liberty, and religion of your country, as your father
(he was pleased to say) had already been. Lay this
bequest up in your memory, and practise upon it;
believe me, you will find it a treasure that neither
moth nor rust can devour.
I received letters from your father last evening,
dated in Paris the 10th of September, informing me
of the necessity of his continuance abroad this winter.
The season is so far advanced that I readily
sacrifice the desire of seeing him to his safety; a
voyage upon this coast at this season is fraught with
dangers. He has made me a request, that I dare
not comply with at present. No husband, no son, to
accompany me upon the boisterous ocean, to animate
my courage and dispel my fears, I dare not
engage with so formidable a combatant. If I should
find your father fixed in the spring, and determined
to continue abroad a year or two longer, the earnest
desire I have to meet him and my dear son might
overcome the reluctance I feel at the idea of engaging
in a new scene, and the love I have for domestic
attachments and the still calm of life. But it would
be more agreeable to me to enjoy all my friends together
in my own native land; from those who have
visited foreign climes I could listen with pleasure to
the narrative of their adventures, and derive satisfaction
from the learned detail,, content, myself, that
Is all from simple nature drained."
I have a desire that you might finish your education
at our University, and I see no chance for it
unless you return in the course of the year. Your
cousin, W. Cranch, expects to enter next July. He
would be happy to have you his associate. I hope
your father will indulge you with a visit to England
this winter. It is a country I should be fond of your
seeing. Christianity, which teaches us to forgive our
enemies, prevents me from enjoining upon you a
similar vow to that which Hamilcar obtained from
his son Hannibal, but I know not how to think of
loving those haughty islanders.
Your friends send you their affectionate regards;
and I enjoin it upon you to write often to your
ever affectionate mother,
| Letters of Mrs. Adams, | |