Mr. Eliot, of Fairfield, is this moment arrived, on his way to Boston.
He read us a letter from the Dr., his father, dated yesterday sennight,
being Sunday. The Dr.'s description of the melancholy of the town is
enough to melt a stone. The trials of that unhappy and devoted people
are likely to be severe indeed. God grant that the furnace of affliction
may refine them. God grant that they may be relieved from their present
distress.
It is arrogance and presumption, in human sagacity, to pretend to
penetrate far into the designs of Heaven. The most perfect reverence and
resignation becomes us, but I cannot help depending upon this, that the
present dreadful calamity of that beloved town is intended to bind the
colonies together in more indissoluble bonds, and to animate their
exertions at this great crisis in the affairs of mankind. It has this
effect in a most remarkable degree, as far as I have yet seen or heard.
It will plead with all America with more irresistible persuasion than
angels trumpet-tongued.
In a cause which interests the whole globe, at a time when my friends
and country are in such keen distress, I am scarcely ever interrupted in
the least degree by apprehensions for my personal safety. I am often
concerned for you and our dear babes, surrounded, as you are, by people
who are too timorous and too much susceptible of alarms. Many fears and
jealousies and imaginary dangers will be suggested to you, but I hope
you will not be impressed by them. In case of real danger, of which you
cannot fail to have previous intimations, fly to the woods with our
children. Give my tenderest love to them, and to all.