Philadelphia, Saturday Evening, 26 April, 1777.
I have been lately more remiss than usual in writing to you. There has
been a great dearth of news. Nothing from England, nothing from France,
Spain, or any other part of Europe, nothing from the West Indies,
nothing from Howe and his banditti, nothing from General Washington.
There are various conjectures that Lord Howe is dead, sick, or gone to
England, as the proclamations run in the name of Will. Howe only, and
nobody from New York can tell anything of his lordship.
I am wearied out with expectations that the Massachusetts troops would
have arrived, ere now, at Head-quarters. Do our people intend to leave
the continent in the lurch? Do they mean to submit? or what fatality
attends them? With the noblest prize in view that ever mortals contended
for, and with the fairest prospect of obtaining it upon easy terms, the
people of the Massachusetts Bay are dead. Does our State intend to send
only half or a third of their quota? Do they wish to see another
crippled, disastrous, and disgraceful campaign, for want of an army? I
am more sick and more ashamed of my own countrymen than ever I was
before. The spleen, the vapors, the dismals, the horrors seem to have
seized our whole State. More wrath than terror has seized me. I am very
mad. The gloomy cowardice of the times is intolerable in New England.
Indeed, I feel not a little out of humor from indisposition of body. You
know I cannot pass a spring or fall without an ill turn, and I have had
one these four or five weeks; a cold, as usual. Warm weather and a
little exercise, with a little medicine, I suppose, will cure me, as
usual. I am not confined, but mope about and drudge, as usual, like a
galley-slave. I am a fool, if ever there was one, to be such a slave. I
won't be much longer. I will be more free in some world or other. Is it
not intolerable, that the opening spring, which I should enjoy with my
wife and children, upon my little farm, should pass away, and laugh at
me for laboring, day after day and month after month, in a conclave
where neither taste, nor fancy, nor reason, nor passion, nor appetite
can be gratified?
Posterity! you will never know how much it cost the present generation
to preserve your freedom! I hope you will make a good use of it. If you
do not, I shall repent it in heaven that I ever took half the pains to
preserve it.