 | Letters of Mrs. Adams, |  |
TO JOHN ADAMS.
I have received all the papers you sent, the oration
and the magazines. In the small papers I sometimes
find pieces begun and continued, (for instance, Johnston's
speech,) but am so unlucky as not to get the
papers in order, and miss of seeing the whole.
The removal of the army seems to have stopped
the current of news. I want to know to what part
of America they are now wandering. It is reported
and credited, that Manly has taken a schooner belonging
to the fleet, richly laden with money, plate,
and English goods, with a number of Tories. The
particulars I have not yet learned. Yesterday the
remains of our worthy General Warren were dug
up upon Bunker's hill, and carried into town, and on
Monday are to be interred, with all the honors of
war.
The Doctor was buried on Monday; the masons
walking in procession from the Statehouse, with the
military in uniforms, and a large concourse of people
attending. He was carried into the Chapel,
and there a funeral dirge was played, an excellent
prayer by Dr. Cooper, and an oration by Mr. Morion,
which I hope will be printed. I think the subject
must have inspired him. A young fellow could
talents. The amiable and heroic virtues of the deceased,
recent in the minds of the audience; the
noble cause to which he fell a martyr; their own
sufferings and unparalleled injuries, all fresh in their
minds, must have given weight and energy to whatever
could be delivered upon the occasion. The
dead body, like that of Cæsar, before their eyes.
whilst each wound.
To beg the voice and utterance of a tongue.
Woe to the hands that shed this costly blood,
A curse shall light" upon their line.[1]
The quotations from Shakspeare's "Julius Cæsar," so frequently to be met with in this and the preceding letter, betray as strongly the historical precedents to which the mind of the writer at this time inclined, as the signature which she assumed.
I take my pen and write just as I can get time;
my letters will be a strange mixture. I really am
"cumbered about_many things," and scarcely know
which way to turn myself. I miss my partner, and
find myself unequal to the cares which fall upon me.
I find it necessary to be the directress of our husbandry.
I hope in time to have the reputation of
being as good a farmeress, as my partner has of
being a good stateman. To ask you any thing about
your return, would, I suppose, be asking a question
which you cannot answer.
Retirement, rural quiet, domestic pleasures, all, all,
must give place to the weighty cares of state. It
would be
A good man owes his country to be great,
Should act abroad the high distinguished part,
And show, at least, the purpose of his heart."
I hope your Prussian general[2]
will answer the high
character which is given of him. But we, who have
been bred in a land of liberty, scarcely know how to
give credit to so unjust and arbitrary a mandate of a
despot. To cast off a faithful servant only for being
the unhappy bearer of ill news, degrades the man,
and dishonors the prince. The Congress, by employing
him, have shown a liberality of sentiment,
not confined to colonies or continents, but, to use the
words of "Common Sense," have "carried their
friendship on a larger scale, by claiming brotherhood
with every European Christian, and may justly
triumph in the generosity of the sentiment."
Yesterday, was taken and carried into Cohasset,
by three whaleboats, who went from the shore on
purpose, a snow from the Grenadas, laden with
rum, forty-three barrels of sugar, twelve thousand
and five hundred weight of coffee; a valuable
prize. A number of Eastern sloops have brought
wood into town since the fleet sailed. We have a
rumor of Admiral Hopkins being engaged with a
number of ships and tenders off Rhode Island; and
are anxious to know the event. Be so good as to
send me a list of the vessels which sail with Hopkins,
their names, weight of metal, and number of
men; all the news you know, &c.
I hear our jurors refuse to serve, because the writs
are issued in the King's name. Surely, they are for
independence.
Write me how you do this winter. I want to say
many things I must omit. It is not fit "to wake the
soul by tender strokes of art," or to ruminate upon
happiness we might enjoy, lest absence become in
tolerable.
| Letters of Mrs. Adams, | |