Philadelphia, 22 May, 1776.
When a man is seated in the midst of forty people, some of whom are
talking, and others whispering, it is not easy to think what is proper
to write. I shall send you the newspapers, which will inform you of
public affairs, and the particular flickerings of parties in this
colony. I am happy to learn from your letter that a flame is at last
raised among the people, for the fortification of the harbor. Whether
Nantasket or Point Alderton would be proper posts to be taken, I can't
say. But I would fortify every place which is proper, and which cannon
could be obtained for. Generals Gates and Mifflin are now here. General
Washington will be here to-morrow, when we shall consult and deliberate
concerning the operations of the ensuing campaign.
We have dismal accounts from Europe of the preparations against us. This
summer will be very important to us. We shall have a severe trial of our
patience, fortitude, and perseverance. But I hope we shall do valiantly,
and tread down our enemies.
I have some thoughts of petitioning the General Court for leave to bring
my family here. I am a lonely, forlorn creature here. It used to be some
comfort to me that I had a servant and some horses. They composed a sort
of family for me. But now, there is not one creature here that I seem to
have any kind of relation to. It is a cruel reflection, which very often
comes across me, that I should be separated so far from those babes
whose education and welfare lie so near my heart. But greater
misfortunes than these must not divert us from superior duties.
Your sentiments of the duties we owe to our country are such as become
the best of women and the best of men. Among all the disappointments and
perplexities which have fallen to my share in life, nothing has
contributed so much to support my mind as the choice blessing of a wife
whose capacity enabled her to comprehend, and whose pure virtue obliged
her to approve, the views of her husband. This has been the cheering
consolation of my heart in my most solitary, gloomy, and disconsolate
hours. In this remote situation, I am deprived in a great measure of
this comfort. Yet I read and read again your charming letters, and they
serve me, in some faint degree, as a substitute for the company and
conversation of the writer. I want to take a walk with you in the
garden, to go over to the common, the plain, the meadow. I want to take
Charles in one hand and Tom in the other, and walk with you, Abby on
your right hand and John upon my left, to view the corn fields, the
orchards, etc.
Alas, poor imagination! how faintly and imperfectly do you supply the
want of originality and reality. But instead of these pleasing scenes of
domestic life, I hope you will not be disturbed with the alarms of war.
I hope, yet I fear.