Braintree, 31 July, 1775.
I do not feel easy more than two days together without writing to you.
If you abound, you must lay some of the fault upon yourself, who have
made such sad complaints for letters, but I really believe I have
written more than all my sister delegates. There is nothing new
transpired since I wrote you last, but the sailing of some transports,
and five deserters having come into our camp. One of them is gone, I
hear, to Philadelphia. I think I should be cautious of him. No one can
tell the secret designs of such fellows, whom no oath binds. He may be
sent with assassinating designs. I can credit any villainy that a Caesar
Borgia would have been guilty of, or Satan himself would rejoice in.
Those who do not scruple to bring poverty, misery, slavery, and death
upon thousands will not hesitate at the most diabolical crimes; and this
is Britain! Blush, O Americans, that ever you derived your origin from
such a race.
We learn from one of these deserters that our ever-valued friend Warren,
dear to us even in death, was not treated with any more respect than a
common soldier; but the savage wretches, called officers, consulted
together, and agreed to sever his head from his body and carry it in
triumph to Gage, who no doubt would have "grinned horribly a ghastly
smile," instead of imitating Caesar, who, far from being gratified with
so horrid a spectacle as the head even of his enemy, turned away from
Pompey's with disgust, and gave vent to his pity in a flood of tears.
How much does Pagan tenderness put Christian benevolence to shame! What
humanity could not obtain, the rites and ceremonies of a Mason demanded.
An officer, who it seems was one of the brotherhood, requested that as a
Mason he might have the body unmangled, and find a decent interment for
it. He obtained his request, but upon returning to secure it, he found
it already thrown into the earth, only with the ceremony of being first
placed there with many bodies over it.
"Nor writ his name, whose tomb should pierce the skies."
"Glows my resentment into guilt? What guilt
Can equal violations of the dead?
The dead how sacred! Sacred is the dust
Of this heaven-labored form, erect, divine!
This heaven-assumed, majestic robe of earth."