Braintree, 20 September, 1777.
I sit down this evening to write you, but I hardly know what to think
about your going to New York. The story has been told so many times, and
with circumstances so particular, that I with others have given some
heed to it, though my not hearing anything of it from you leaves me at a
loss.
Yours of September 4 came to hand last night. Our worthy uncle is a
constant attendant upon the post-office for me, and brought it me. Yours
of September 5 came to-night to Braintree, and was left as directed with
the canister. I am sorry you gave yourself so much trouble about it. I
got about half you sent me by Mr. Gerry. Am much obliged to you, and
hope to have the pleasure of making the greater part of it for you. Your
letter damped my spirits. When I had no expectation of your return till
December, I endeavored to bring my mind to acquiesce in the too painful
situation. I have reckoned the days since Bass went away a hundred times
over, and every letter expected to find the day set for your return.
But now I fear it is far distant. I have frequently been told that the
communication would be cut off, and that you would not be able ever to
return. Sometimes I have been told so by those who really wished it
might be so, with malicious pleasure. Sometimes your timid folks have
apprehended that it would be so. I wish anything would bring you nearer.
If there is really any danger I should think you would remove. It is a
plan your enemies would rejoice to see accomplished, and will effect if
it lies in their power. I am not apt to be intimidated, you know. I have
given as little heed to that, and a thousand other bugbear reports, as
possible. I have slept as soundly since my return, notwithstanding all
the ghosts and hobgoblins, as ever I did in my life. It is true I never
close my eyes at night till I have been to Philadelphia, and my first
visit in the morning is there.
How unfeeling is the world! They tell me they heard you was dead with as
little sensibility as a stock or a stone; and I have now got to be
provoked at it, and can hardly help snubbing the person who tells me so.
The story of your being upon this conference at New York came in a
letter, as I am told, from R. T. P. to his brother-in-law G----fe. Many,
very many have been the conjectures of the multitude upon it. Some have
supposed the war concluded, the nation settled. Others an exchange of
prisoners. Others, a reconciliation with Britain, etc., etc.
I cannot consent to your tarrying much longer. I know your health must
greatly suffer from so constant application to business, and so little
exercise. Besides, I shall send you word by and by, as Regulus's steward
did, that whilst you are engaged in the Senate, your own domestic
affairs require your presence at home; and that your wife and children
are in danger of wanting bread. If the Senate of America will take care
of us, as the Senate of Rome did of the family of Regulus, you may serve
them again; but unless you return, what little property you possess will
be lost....
As to what is here under my more immediate inspection, I do the best I
can with it. But it will not, at the high price labor is, pay its way. I
know the weight of public cares lie so heavy upon you that I have been
loath to mention your own private ones.
The best accounts we can collect from New York, assure us that our men
fought valiantly. We are no wise dispirited here. We possess a spirit
that will not be conquered. If our men are all drawn off and we should
be attacked, you would find a race of Amazons in America. But I trust we
shall yet tread down our enemies.
I must entreat you to remember me often. I never think your letters half
long enough. I do not complain. I have no reason to. No one can boast of
more letters than your