92. Abigail Adams.
Braintree, 7 April, 1776.
I have received two letters from you this week. One of the 17th and the other the 19th of March. I believe I have received all your letters except one you mention writing from Framingham, which I never heard of before. I have received all the papers you have sent, the oration, and the magazines. In the small papers. I sometimes find pieces begun and continued (for instance, Johnston's speech), but am so unlucky as not to get the papers in order, and miss of seeing the whole.
The removal of the army seems to have stopped the current of news. I want to know to what part of America they are now wandering. It is reported and credited that Manly has taken a schooner belonging to the fleet, richly laden with money, plate, and English goods, with a number of Tories. The particulars I have not yet learned. Yesterday the remains of our worthy General Warren were dug up upon Bunker's Hill, and carried into town, and on Monday are to be interred with all the honors of war.
10 April.
The Dr. was buried on Monday; the Masons walking in procession from the State House, with the military in uniforms, and a large concourse of people attending. He was carried into the Chapel, and there a funeral dirge was played, an excellent prayer by Dr. Cooper, and an oration by Mr. Morton, which I hope will be printed. I think the subject must have inspired him. A young fellow could not have wished a finer opportunity to display his talents. The amiable and heroic virtues of the deceased, recent in the minds of the audience; the noble cause to which he fell a martyr; their own sufferings and unparalleled injuries, all fresh in their minds, must have given weight and energy to whatever could be delivered upon the occasion. The dead body, like that of Cæsar, before their eyes, whilst each wound,—
"Like dumb mouths, did ope their ruby lips,
To beg the voice and [utterance] of a tongue.
Woe to the hands that shed this costly blood!
A curse shall light" upon their line.
11 April.
I take my pen and write just as I can get time; my letters will be a strange mixture. I really am "cumbered about many things," and scarcely know which way to turn myself. I miss my partner, and find myself unequal to the cares which fall upon me. I find it necessary to be the directress of our husbandry. I hope in time to have the reputation of being as a good a farmeress as my partner has of being a good statesman. To ask you anything about your return would, I suppose, be asking a question which you cannot answer.