Boston, 12 May, 1774.
I am extremely afflicted with the relation your father gave me of the
return of your disorder. I fear you have taken some cold. We have had a
most pernicious air a great part of this spring. I am sure I have reason
to remember it. My cold is the most obstinate and threatening one I ever
had in my life. However, I am unwearied in my endeavors to subdue it,
and have the pleasure to think I have had some success. I rise at five,
walk three miles, keep the air all day, and walk again in the afternoon.
These walks have done me more good than anything. My own infirmities,
the account of the return of yours, and the public news[15] coming
altogether have put my utmost philosophy to the trial.
We live, my dear soul, in an age of trial. What will be the consequence,
I know not. The town of Boston, for aught I can see, must suffer
martyrdom. It must expire. And our principal consolation is, that it
dies in a noble cause--the cause of truth, of virtue, of liberty, and of
humanity, and that it will probably have a glorious resurrection to
greater wealth, splendor, and power, than ever.
Let me know what is best for us to do. It is expensive keeping a family
here, and there is no prospect of any business in my way in this town
this whole summer. I don't receive a shilling a week. We must contrive
as many ways as we can to save expenses; for we may have calls to
contribute very largely, in proportion to our circumstances, to prevent
other very honest worthy people from suffering for want, besides our own
loss in point of business and profit.
Don't imagine from all this that I am in the dumps. Far otherwise. I can
truly say that I have felt more spirits and activity since the arrival
of this news than I had done before for years. I look upon this as the
last effort of Lord North's despair, and he will as surely be defeated
in it, as he was in the project of the tea.