Philadelphia, 7 July, 1775.
I have received your very agreeable favors of June 22 and 25. They
contain more particulars than any letters I had before received from
anybody.
It is not at all surprising to me, that the wanton, cruel, and infamous
conflagration of Charlestown, the place of your father's nativity,
should afflict him. Let him know that I sincerely condole with him on
that melancholy event. It is a method of conducting war long since
become disreputable among civilized nations. But every year brings us
fresh evidence that we have nothing to hope for from our loving mother
country, but cruelties more abominable than those which are practiced by
the savage Indians.
The account you give me of the numbers slain on the side of our enemies
is afflicting to humanity, although it is a glorious proof of the
bravery of our worthy countrymen. Considering all the disadvantages
under which they fought, they really exhibited prodigies of valor. Your
description of the distresses of the worthy inhabitants of Boston and
the other seaport towns is enough to melt a heart of stone. Our
consolation must be this, my dear, that cities may be rebuilt, and a
people reduced to poverty may acquire fresh property. But a constitution
of government, once changed from freedom, can never be restored.
Liberty, once lost, is lost forever. When the people once surrender
their share in the legislature, and their right of defending the
limitations upon the Government, and of resisting every encroachment
upon them, they can never regain it.
The loss of Mr. Mather's library, which was a collection of books and
manuscripts made by himself, his father, his grandfather, and
great-grandfather, and was really very curious and valuable, is
irreparable. The family picture you draw is charming indeed. My dear
Abby, Johnny, Charley, and Tommy, I long to see you, and to share with
your mamma the pleasures of your conversation. I feel myself much
obliged to Mr. Bowdoin, Mr. Wibird, and the two families you mention,
for their civilities to you. My compliments to them. Does Mr. Wibird
preach against oppression and the other cardinal vices of the times?
Tell him the clergy here of every denomination, not excepting the
Episcopalian, thunder and lighten every Sabbath. They pray for Boston
and the Massachusetts. They thank God most explicitly and fervently for
our remarkable successes. They pray for the American army. They seem to
feel as if they were among you.
You ask if every member feels for us? Every member says he does, and
most of them really do. But most of them feel more for themselves. In
every society of men, in every club I ever yet saw, you find some who
are timid, their fears hurry them away upon every alarm; some who are
selfish and avaricious, on whose callous hearts nothing but interest and
money can make impression. There are some persons in New York and
Philadelphia to whom a ship is dearer than a city, and a few barrels of
flour than a thousand lives--other men's lives, I mean.
You ask, Can they realize what we suffer? I answer, No. They can't. They
don't. And, to excuse them as well as I can, I must confess, I should
not be able to do it myself, if I was not more acquainted with it by
experience than they are.
I am grieved for Dr. Tufts's[85] ill-health, but rejoiced exceedingly at
his virtuous exertions in the cause of his country. I am happy to hear
that my brothers were at Grape Island, and behaved well. My love to
them, and duty to my mother.
It gives me more pleasure than I can express, to learn that you sustain
with so much fortitude the shocks and terrors of the times. You are
really brave, my dear. You are a heroine, and you have reason to be. For
the worst that can happen can do you no harm. A soul as pure, as
benevolent, as virtuous and pious as yours, has nothing to fear, but
everything to hope and expect from the last of human evils. I am glad
you have secured an asylum, though I hope you will not have occasion for
it.
There is an amiable, ingenious hussy, named Betsey Smith, for whom I
have a very great regard. Be pleased to make my love acceptable to her,
and let her know that her elegant pen cannot be more usefully employed
than in writing letters to her brother at Philadelphia, though it may be
more agreeably, in writing to young gentlemen.
The other day, after I had received a letter of yours, with one or two
others, Mr. William Barrell desired to read them. I put them into his
hand, and the next morning had them returned in a large bundle packed up
with two great heaps of pins, with a very polite card requesting
Portia's acceptance of them. I shall bring them with me when I return.
But when that will be is uncertain. I hope not more than a month hence.
I have really had a very disagreeable time of it. My health, and
especially my eyes, have been so very bad that I have not been so fit
for business as I ought; and if I had been in perfect health, I should
have had, in the present condition of my country and my friends, no
taste for pleasure. But Dr. Young has made a kind of cure of my health,
and Dr. Church of my eyes.
I have received two kind letters from your uncle Smith. Do thank him for
them. I shall forever love him for them. I love everybody that writes to
me.