Letters from General Washington, to several of his friends in the year 1776. In which are set forth, a fairer and fuller view of American politicks, than ever yet transpired, or the public could be made acquainted with through any other channel. : Together with the Reverend Mr. Jacob Duche's (late chaplain to the Congress) letter to Mr. Washington, and an answer to it, by Mr. John Parke, a lieutenant-colonel in Mr. Washington's army.

LETTERS FROM GENERAL WASHINGTON.

THE public will naturally be inquisitive as to the authenticity of the following letters. For every thing else, they will speak for themselves: and, for their genuineness, the Editor conceives himself con|cerned to give only such vouchers as he himself has received. By the last pacquet he was savoured with a letter from a friend, now serving in a loyal corps under Brigadier-General De Lancey of New-York, of which ••e here subjoins a faithful extract. Pleased with the communication himself (and, as he is not ashamed to add, instructed by it) he could not be ••••sy to withhold it from the public at large: inas|much as, in his judgment, it exhibits a fairer and ful|ler view of American politics, than the world has yet seen.

— "Among the prisoners at Fort-Lee, I espied a mulatto fellow, whom I thought I recol|lected, and who confirmed my conjectures by gazing very earnestly at me. I asked him, if he knew me. At first, he was unwilling to own it; but, when he was about to be carried off, thinking, I suppose, that I might, perhaps, be of some service to him, he came and told me, that he was Billy, and the old servant of General Washington. He had been left there on account of an indisposition which prevented his attending his master. I asked him a great many ques|tions,

as you may suppose; but found very little satisfaction in his answers. At last, however, he told me that he had a small portmanteau of his master's; of which, when he found that he must be put into confinement, he intreated my care. It contained only a few stockings and sh••rts; and I could see nothing worth my care, except an Almanack, in which he had kept a sort of a journal, or diary of his proceedings since his first coming to New-York: there were also two letters from his lady, one from Mr. Cu••••is, and some pretty long ones from a Mr Lund Washington. And in the same bundle with them, the first draughts, or foul copies, of answers to them. I read these with avidity; and being highly entertained with them, have shewn them to several of my friends, who all agree with me, that he is a very different character from what they had supposed him. I never knew a man so much to be pitied. If I remember right, you have seen, and have some knowledge of him; but it is impossible you could form so just an estimate of him, as these letters will give you. They contain also, as you will find, a deal of information, not to be had any where else: I assure myself therefore, you will thank me for the trouble I have taken in copy|ing them for your perusal."

New-York, June 12, 1776. To Mr. Lund Washington, at Mount Vernon, Fair|fax County, Virginia.

DEAR LUND,

THOUGH I wrote to you but a very few days ago, and have nothing new of much moment to communicate, I cannot deny myself the comfort of unburthening my mind to you, whenever I have a little leisure, amid the thousand anxieties and dis|quietudes that almost distract me. I know the good|ness of your heart, and that you will attend to me with indulgence▪ and sympathy, though it be not in your power any otherwise to afford me relief. There

cannot, in the nature of things, be a situation so truly irksome to an ingenuous mind, as the being perpetu|ally obliged to act a part foreign to our true feelings; yet this alas! as you know, is, and must be my lot. I wear a countenance dressed in the calm serenity of perfect confidence, whilst my heart is corroded with infinite apprehensions, and I have no bosom friend near me, to whom I dare lay it open. Tell me Lund, for you have long been privy to my most se|cret thoughts,—trusting to thy native candour, I have never hesitated to lay my heart bare and open to thy inspection; tell me then, am I, do you think, more subject to fears than other men? For I will not con|ceal it from you, that, at this moment, I feel myself a very coward. Do not mistake me—I thank my God, I have never yet known what it was to fear for any personal danger that might befal me. I am not afraid to die — why should I? I am afraid only to die with infamy and disgrace. And, if I am afraid so to die, need I tell you that I am ten thou|sand times more afra••d to live, like Lucifer, a fallen Angel. No, Lund, that were too much; betide what will, I cannot, and I will not, survive either my misfortunes, or my disgraces. Heaven, knows how truly I love my country; and that I embarked in this arduous enterprize on the purest motives. But we have overshot our mark: we have grasped at things beyond our reach: it is impossible we should succeed; and, I cannot with truth, say that I am sorry for it; because I am far from being sure that we deserve to succeed. That the British Mini|stry had meditated schemes fatal to the liberties of America; and that, if we had not opposed their first efforts to impose taxes upon us, without our consent, we might have bid adieu to every idea of constitutio|nal security hereafter, I have not a doubt. Nay, I am so thoroughly persuaded of the unworthiness of their designs, and of the duty of every honest American to oppose them, that, dissatisfied as I am with my situ|ation, were it to do over again, I would rather be even as I am than tamely crouch, whilst chains were fastening round my neck. For there is not in my

estimation, so vile a thing upon earth as a human being who, having once enjoyed liberty, can patiently be••r to see it taken from him. I would, and I will die ten thousand deaths, rather than be this thing myself. On these principles, and these only, I first took up arms; but my misfortune, and the true source of all my uneasiness is, that though in good policy, as well as honour, these ought to be the prin|ciples of every American, I have long ago discover|ed they are not. And on this account alone, that I dread our defeat. Our want of skill, our want of am|munition, in short, our want of every thing which an army ought to have, are all, no doubt, exceedingly against us: but, they are all nothing to our want o•• virtue.—Unused to the many arts and devices, by which designing men carry their points, I unwillingly listened to my own apprehensions, when early in the first Congress, I thought I saw a tendency to measures which I never could approve of. I reasoned myself, however, out of my fears, with no ordinary reproach on my own meanness, in having given way to suspi|cions, which could not be true, unless we had men amongst ourselves more flagitious than even those we were opposing. At length, however, when a conti|nental army came to be voted for, my fea••s returned with redoubled force: for then, for the first time, I clearly saw our aims reached farther than we cared to avow. It was carried with an unanimity that re|ally astonished me; because I knew many wh•• ••oted for it, were as averse to the independency of Ame|rica, as I was. And they even ridiculed me for my apprehensions on that account: and, indeed, when they suggested that Great-Britain, seeing us appa|rently determined to risque every thing rather than that they should tax us, would never think of en|gaging in a civil war with us, which must necessarily cost her more than even America could repay her, I could not but hope, that I was mistaken; and that our military preparations might be a good political movement. In one thing, however, we all agreed, that, as the forces were chiefly to be raised in New-England, it would be extremely rash and imprudent

in the southern delegates to leave them in the pos|session of so formidable a power without any check. I need not tell you, that it was this consideration which, if I am to be credited, sorely against my will, deter|mined me to accept of the command of this army. We set out with bad omens▪ I was mistrustful of them in every thing; and they were taught to look upon me with jealousy. This soon mani••ested itself in forming them to any thing like decent discipline. But I have, long ago, pestered you more than enough with complaints on this head. I knew not, however, certainly, that I had been appointed to this high sta|tion only to be disgraced and ruined, till about the middle and latter end of last February: when contrary to my wishes, I found it absolutely necessary that we should come to open hostilities against our fellow sub|jects in the ministerial army: doubtless, common pru|dence required that when we did attempt it, we should, if possible, do it speedily and effectually. And, hav|ing all the reason in the world to believe that large armies would be sent against us early in the summer, I resolved, cost what it would, to cut off those already here, which would have given us such infinite advan|tages over any future reinforcements that might be sent. And this I believed was easily in our power; but, as I have already told you, noth••ng is to be done with our New-England allies, unless they are let into all your secrets. I could not advance a step with|out communicating my intentions to the gentlemen in the civil department; a thing even ruinous in war. It soon got wind, as I had foreseen; and it appeared, that the General of the enemy was apprised of my design. Still, however, I persevered in my purpo|ses; which in spite of all his care and caution, I was confident must succeed, and reduce him to the utmost extremity. But (as every military man must know) so capital a blow was not to be struck without the loss both of many men, and much property; for my de|sign was, if they would not surrender by an honoura|ble capitulation, to burn the town about their ears, and so rush in, and cut them off in their attempts

to escape to the ships. And this, with our superi|ority of numbers, we certainly could have effected though, no doubt, it would have been a bloody busi|ness, if they had not surrendered, as I think they would. But when, as I was obliged, I laid this be|fore the Council and Representatives, they not only found a thousand objections to it but absolutely re|strained me and I could not have got a man that would have gone on what they called so desperate a scheme. Hence was I under a necessity of proceeding in that poor, s••••w, and unsoldier-like manner, which not only gave them an opportunity to escape, but has taught them to despise us. There is no forming an idea of the importance of such a stroke at that con|juncture. If any thing upon earth could have made America independent and glorious, that was the gol|den opportunity. I confess to you, I had worked my imagination up to such a pitch of high expectation, that my disappointment has dispirited me in a manner I never can recover. For, from that moment, I have despaired of our ever doing any thing truly great. Any little gleams of success, or fairer prospects we have since had, serve but to make our inferiority the more conspicuous. For what incidents can fall out to ag|grandize us, who can be made great only by great and spirited efforts, when we have shewn that we want|ed both the understanding and the virtue to purchase to ourselves immortal glory on better and cheaper terms than ever we can hope hereafter to have it? But, the worst remains yet to be told. Some of those very men who were the most forward to thwart me in this measure, had discovered a different way of thinking on other occasions, and, I am pursu••••ed that were the question put to them now, as t•• this city, and the southern regiments, I should not hear a dis|senting voice. But let me spare you.

After all this, you will again, I doubt not, as you often have, ask why I continue in a situation so dis|agreeable to me? I wish you had forborne this ques|tion, the truth being, that I neither am able, nor very willing to answer it. My resolution to hold it out as

long as I can is dictated by my feelings, which I neither can describe to you, nor wholly justify on paper; but which, however, I find it impossible for me to disregard. The eyes of all America, perhaps, of Europe, of the world are fixed on me. It has been our policy, (and, at the time, I thought it well founded) to hold out false lights to the world. There are not a hundred men in America that know our true situation; three fourths of the Congress itself are ignorant of it; your|self excepted, their lives not a man at all acquainted with my peculiar circumstances. The world looks up|on us as in possession of an army all animated with the pure flame of liberty, and determined to die ra|ther than not be free. It is in possession of proofs, that it is so, under my own hand: I have always so spoken of it and I still do. But, you know how remote in my judgment all this i•• from the truth; though I am not sure that that there is another man in the army, besides myself, that thinks so. I should guess, however, that there are many. But, tied up as my own mouth is, it is little to be wondered at that theirs are so too, at least to me.

—Thus circumstanced, can you point out a way in which it is possible for me to resign, just now as it were, on the eve of action, without the imputa|tion of cowardice? There is no such way. Besides, diffident and desponding as I am, how do I know, that it is not so with those we have to oppose? they certainly have reason. The events of war depend on a thousand minu••••a, without the ken of a mere by|stander. I know not that the commander of the ar|mies of the low-countries, could his heart have been read as you do mine, had not the same fears, and the same causes for them that I have. You learn not this from the history; nor was it to be expected you should. Yet, he succeeded at last. And, who knows, what an over-ruling Providence, who often brings about the greatest revolutions by the most unlikely means, may intend for America? If it be the will of God, that America should be independent of Great-Britain, and that this be the season for it, even I and these unhope|ful

men around may not be thought unworthy instru|ments in his hands. And, should we succeed, we are heroes, and immortalized beyond even those of for|mer times. Whereas disgrace only, and intolerable infamy await our retreat. In this persuasion, I resolve to go on, contented, with the glorious King William, to save my country, or die in the last ditch.

I am, my dear Lund, Your faithful Friend and Servant, G. W.

To John Parke Custis, Esq at the Hon. Benedict Calvert's, Esq Mount Airy, Maryland.

MY VERY DEAR JACK,

YOU have exceedingly obliged me by your letter which I received by yesterday's post. It dis|covers an attention to the great affairs now carrying on, and an information concerning them, which I own to you I had not given you credit for. Your youth and inexperience pleaded your excuse: and though you gave me no opportunity to praise you for any active ex••rtions, I paid you no ordinary compli|ments, in my own mind, for your modesty in forbear|ing to meddle with things which it was no reproach to you to confess, were out of your reach. Consider|ing your rank, fortune, and education, whenever it is proper for you to come forward on the theatre, it must not be any underpart that you act. You are, therefore, certainly, in the right to decline taking any part at all, till you are fit for a first and leading cha|racter. And you have my full and perfect approba|tion of your resolution to persist in your purpose, for the present, not to accept of any rank civil or military.

I see your anxiety, left the present opportunity for signalizing your just love for your country should, by your not unnecessary cautions, be suffered to ••lip by you, unimproved. Your ardour is commendable; and far be it from me to discourage in you a spirit I so much love. But, whilst you retrain these honour|able principles, there is little danger of your wanting opportunities to call them forth into action. The momentous enterprize, in which your country is en|gaged is not to be accomplished in this or that year. If, in no longer a period than the siege of Troy, we bring all our mighty schemes to bear, it will be the greatest work that ever was perfected in so little a time. You have set your heart, you tell me, on a mi|litary employment. This is the usual bent of young men; and, as it was my own, it will be with an ill grace that I reprehend it in you. But with the ex|perience that I have had of it, I should be wanting in that love and esteem I owe you, should I hesitate to tell you that, as your Father, there is not a profession you could have chosen in which I should not more cordially have concurred with you. Yet, I love arms; I am married to my sword, as well as to your most amiable mother: and, herein is my witness, that I am in earnest when I say, death alone shall divorce me from either. I am not so blindly devoted, how|ever, to my profession, as not to see by how frail a tenure I hold the little reputation I have in it. As a statesman, as a senator, it is in the general, sufficient that you mean well, that you are careful to qualify yourself to form a right judgment of the true interests of your country, and that, with the honest impartiality of a free man, you have still exerted your best endea|vours to promote those interests. But, with a soldier, success alone is merit; and there is nothing that can atone for the want of it. The world is a worse judge military of matters, than any other. It would astonish you, to find, on a minute comparison, how very lit|tle difference there was in the skill and spirit which guided Braddock and Wolfe in the last actions of their lives. But, how different has been their fate!— I think, I am not without some talents for the line

of life which has fallen to my lot. But, opposed as I must be by men, probably, of infinitely superior skill, and encompassed moreover with such hosts of other difficulties and discouragements as I am, it is not mine to command success. And when either my cotempo|raries, or future historians, shall sit in judgment on my conduct, if, haply, ill fortune should overtake me, seeing our miscarriages, only, and having neither curi|osity nor ability to investigate the thousand causes which led to them, am I not too well warranted in concluding, that they will be attributed to mismanage|ment? Have I not then reason to wish that your choice had fallen on the quieter but not less important calling of a private gentleman; in which, as a senator, you might have given proof of your abilities, in a way in which fortune would not have had so great a share? But notwithstanding all this, and if after all, you be irrevocably determined to try your fortune in the field, and you can gain your mothers and your wife's consent, I here give it you under my hand, that you shall not want mine. Most certainly there cannot be a more honorable employment: and if (which Heaven avert) Fortune should declare against you, my conso|lation will be, than I can assure myself, you will de|serve to be successful. I will, on the opening of the next campaign, procure you an appointment to the command of a regiment, either here, or in the southern wing. And, if my opinion may have any weight with you, you will, for many reasons, prefer the being sta|tioned in some of the southern states. There is no fear of its being an inactive station. I have little expec|tation that this year will close with ••aught considera|bly decisive on either side: and if our enemies be able to hold out another campaign, it is most likely their policy will be, by means of their naval superiority, to carry on a kind of an incursive war, by making unexpected descents in different and distant places. Mean while, permit me to press you to presevere in your attention to military matters. The manual ex|ercise, which you were so justly diligent to learn, whilst I was with you, is but the A, B, C, of your profession. Neither will you profit so much as you

might reasonably expect, from the study of th••se authors, who have written professedly on the art of war. This is like the learning the game of Whist by reading Hoyle. I have been witness to the mis|chievous effects of it. A man, book-learned only, does very well in the still scenes of marchings and encampments. But when, in the various bustles of actual war, a cause arises, as must often be the case, not described in his books, he is utterly at a loss. I would not, however, have you to understand me as if I meant to discourage your reading these books, at all, so far from it, I would have you read them very often, and make yourself acquainted with the subject as much as you can, in theory My caution meant only to guard you against placing too much reliance on them. Their best commentators, next to your own experience, will be the historians of Greece and Rome; which it is your happiness to be able to read in the originals. But, the main and most essen|tial qualification is an high sense of honour, an ele|vation of sentiment, and a certain dignified ••tile of behaviour, that distinguishes, or should distinguish, a soldier from every other man. It is a shame in|deed, if he who undertakes to command others, has not first learned to command himself: I will not en|dure any thing mean or sordid either in your prin|ciples, or your manners; having determined, if it were left with me, to be as a strict and rigorous in these particulars, as were the knights of old, when a candidate was to be invested with the orders of chivalry. I cannot dissociate the ideas between a soldier and a gentleman: and however common it may be to give that last appellation to persons of every character, it yet conveys to me an idea of worths I want words to express. I am not solicitous to pay you compliments, even by implication; but, I may certainly be permitted to say, that if I had not known you to be a gentleman, you never should have had my consent to your becoming a soldier.

Your observations on this important contest are just and accurate, and discover a reach of thought, and a

penetration beyond what I had expected of you. What you say on the subject of independency is per|fectly ••udicious, and, no doubt, highly worthy of all our most serious consideration. Yet, I have a prae|sentiment, that it will take place, and speedily. Open and unreserved as my conduct towards you has ever been, I have no reluctance to confess to you, that the measure is diametrically opposite to my judgment••, for I have not yet despaired of an honorable recon|ciliation; and whilst I can entertain but an hope of that, both interest and inclination lead me to prefer it to every thing else upon earth. Human affairs are oddly ordered: To obtain what you most wish for, you must often make use of means you the least approve of.

As in bargaining, to obtain a fair and equal price, you must frequently ask more than you wish to take. I do not really wish for independence. I hope there are few who do; but, I have never heard the reason|ings of those, who have proved that, if we did not declare for it, we should fail to obtain the constitu|tional subordination to which we are entitled, fairly refuted. I would not have you, therefore, hastily conclude that if, in this struggle, we fall short of every thing we have claimed; we are worsted: perhaps, the very worst thing that could befal us, is that we should gain all. I do assure you that, in my opinion, the next misfortune to that of being thrust from our just rank in the order of freemen, would be the giv|ing us up, and leaving us to ourselves. But, this Great-Britain will never do, voluntarily: for, if even she does, whatever may become of us, from that moment, she may date the commencement of her own downfall.

I am exceedingly happy in the becoming modera|tion which you observe and endeavour to introduce towards the unhappy men whose political creeds differ from ours. But for this blot in her scutcheon, thrown on her by too many of her rash and unwor|thy advocates, by a contrary conduct, this effort of America would have done her honour, even though she had failed. I am shocked at the instances of in|tollerance

I daily hear of, and have no power to prevent. But, like the other evils of war, it is a calamity that unavoidably grows out of such a con|vulsion; and one might as well hope to stem the fury of a torrent, as to give laws to an enraged people. It is, however, the duty of every true friend to liber|ty, by every gentle and conciliatory means in his power, to restrain it. And, I am happy to find this sentiment daily becoming more general amongst us. All things considered, I cannot but think it not a lit|tle to our honour that things have not been carried to a still greater heighth in this way.

Remember me affectionately to Nelly, and tell her that though I should be happy to see her, I may not hope for that happiness speedily: as the din of arms, I imagine, would be but unpleasing entertainment to her; and I have little prospect of any leisure, at least before we go into winter quarters. I hope Mr. Calvert, and all the family are well: I beg to be remembered to them. I will write to your mother in a few days. You are very good in leaving her alone as little as may be. Continue to write to me frequently, freely, and fully: the hearing of my dearest friends and family's welfare being the only true happiness I have any chance to enjoy amidst the perpetual hurry in which I live.

I am my dear Jack, Your very affectionate Friend and Father, Ge••. Washington.

〈◊〉〈◊〉 18, 1776.

New-York, July the 8, 1776. To Mr. Lund Washington, at Mount-Vernon, Fair|fax County, Virginia.

Dear Lund,

WE are still going on with all imaginable brisk|ness and success with our works, which, I think are already impregnable. It would really astonish you to see the progress we have made. I do not believe that all history can furnish a precedent of so much being done in so little time, or in so masterly a manner, where you had so little right to look for consummate skill. If in every thing else, we could but come up to our exertions in these fortifications, I should hardly know how to doubt the judgment of those who think that we may bid defiance to the world. But, I know not how it is, I am diffident of every thing. Whilst almost every body else seem to have persuaded themselves, that we have nothing to fear, I alone torment myself with thinking that every thing is against us. Even from these very works, which have inspired us with such confidence, I anticipate only misfortune and disgrace. By this time the die is cast, and America is authoritatively declared free and independent; and unless we can be contented to appear ridiculous in the eyes of all the world, we must resolve to support this declara|tion by a suitable conduct;—we must fight our way to freedom and independency; for in no other way, shall we be permitted to obtain it, farther than words.

A war, therefore, and a most serious one, is now inevitable. Next to good finances, which it is not my province to provide for, a good army is, doubt|less, a main requisite to the carrying on a successful war. And a good army, is by no means secured, as some seem to reckon, by securing a large number of men. We want soldiers, and between these, and raw, undisciplined men, there is a wide difference.

The question then is, how are these raw and undis|ciplined men to be formed into good soldiers? And I am free to give it as my opinion, that so far from contributing to this, will strong holds, fortified posts, and deep intrenchments be found, that they will have a direct contrary effect. To be a soldier, is to be inured to, and familiar with danger; to dare to look your enemy in the face, unsheltered and expo|sed to their fire, and even when repulsed, to rally again with undiminished spirit. The Indian maxim i••, that it is equally your duty to take care of your|self, and to annoy your enemy. To a General, this may not be an unusual caution; but I will venture to assert, that whenever a private centinel allows himself to act on this principle, the odds are, that, in the moment of trial, in his exceeding solicitude not to forget the former, the latter will be but little at|tended to. Now, what I ask, are all these mighty ditches and breast-works, but so many lessons and admonitions to our men of what prodigious impor|tance it is to take care of themselves? It would be almost worth our while to be defeated, if it were only to train us to stand fire, and to bear a reverse of fortune with a decent magnanimity. If it had not been for this ill-judged humour of fighting from be|hind a screen, the 19th of April and 17th of June last year, might have been the happiest days Ame|rica ever saw. All these things have I, again and again, represented to my masters; I am ashamed to say, to how little purpose. They return me answers and instructions, which, though I cannot refute, have not yet convinced what I would call the feelings of my own mind.

This day week, the enemy's fleet was first descri|ed off Sandy-Hook. They have been employed since then in debarking their troops on Staten-Island, where they are cantoned, as far as I can judge, in a very uncompact and unguarded manner. I cannot exactly ascertain their number, but I have reason to believe, that they fall short of seven thousand. It is more extraordinary still, that I am not able to inform you of the exact number of forces under my own

command: I fancy however, we might bring into the field, at this place, double their number at a minute's warning; and with this superiority of num|bers, making all possible allowances for our other disadvantages, one would hope we might be able to give a good account of them. You, who are san|guine in the extreme, and all impatience, will eager|ly ask, why we suffered them to land unmolested, and to remain so ever since. What excellent expeditions your fire-side generals can instantly plan and execute! But you forget that they are posted on an island, and that we have no way at coming at them unless they would lend us their ships and boats, which I have not presumed to ask of them. Aware, however, of the importance of falling on them, whilst there is a chance of doing it with success, and e're they become a match for us, by reinforcements, which they daily expect, I have formed a scheme, which, at least, is plausible, and promises fair to be successful. I have submitted it to Congress, and every moment expect their answer; and if they will but support me with alacrity, and in good earnest, my next, I trust will not be so desponding. I expect to be all ready to put my plan in execution on Tuesday, or at farthest, on Wednesday night; so that probably, at the very moment you are reading this, we may be engaged in a very different service. You will, no doubt, be im|patient to hear from me as soon as may be after Wednesday, and I will not disappoint you. Mean|while, I shall not need to tell you, that end how it will, all that I freely chatter to you, is to remain a profound secret to every body else.

Doctor, now Brigadier General Mercer is here, and is a great comfort to me. Like myself, he wants experience; but he is very shrewd and sensible, and though a Scotsman, is remarkably humane and libe|ral. I have communicated the whole of my design to him alone; and am not ashamed to own, that I have received much assistance from him. I know not how it may turn out; but though neither he nor I are very apt to be sanguine, we have both confessed to be so on this occasion. Animated, however, as I feel my|self

with the near prospect of at length doing some|thing, not unworthy the high rank to which I am raised, I own to you, I take a serious pleasure in it, only as it flatters me with the hope of thereby ob|taining a spedier and happier peace. Let us, since war must be our lot, distinguish ourselves as freemen should, in fields of blood, still remembering, however, that we fight not for conquest, but for liberty.

I am with the truest Esteem, Dear Lund, Your Faithful Friend and Servant, G. W.

New-York, July 16, 1776. To Mr. Lund Washington, &c.

DEAR LUND,

HOW cruelly are all my hopes in one sad moment blasted and destroyed! I am positively ordered to wait for the enemy in our lines; and lest I should be made enough not to obey their mandates, not a single tittle of any thing I had asked for, is granted. Thus has a second opportunity of rendering my country an essential service, in the way of my pro|fession, been unwisely, and in the most mortifying manner denied me. I profess, I hardly know how to bear it: having to regret not only, that two op|portunities, such as may never again occur, have been suffered to pass by us unimproved, but that none can happen, we can improve. Managed as matters are, we neither are, nor ever shall be a mili|tary people; and yet, in the train in which things are now put, unless we are, it were idiotism to hope for either freedom or independence.

I remember well, in a conversation I once had with a friend, now most unjustly as well as unwise|ly, driven from his friends and his home, on the subject of monarchies and republics, he objected to the unavoidable slowness and dilatoriness of the exe|cutive power in the latter. Aiming to answer him in his own way, I replied that, if popular councils were slow, they yet were sure, and that in the multi|tude of counsellors there is safety. His answer was prophetical If ever (he said) we of these countries should rashly put these things to the proof, it would be found that, however true this adage might be in the cabinet, it was not so in the field. Convinced, by melancholy experience, that this is the case, and, that without some different system, we shall but ex|pose ourselves to contempt and ruin, I resolve this evening honestly & openly to say so to the Congress. I will go farther, and add, that if they cannot in fact, as well as in appearance, trust me with the uncontroul|ed command of their army, I will no longer be their puppet. Why should I? it being now morally cer|tain that by going on as we have hitherto done, I can neither bring honour nor profit to them; and yet am sure to lose all the little of either which I either have, or might have, possessed.

I want words to express to you what I have felt, and still do feel on this disappointment of all my hopes: I had allowed myself to build too much on my scheme I and I seem to be in the situation of one who should be allowed to rise, on purpose only to be thrown down. The enemy, in the midst of all our blusterings, must despise us; and did not shame, or some better principle restrain them, I should be but little surprized to find General Howe, even with his present little handful attacking us,—yes, attacking us in our entranchments.— What shall I do? to retreat is to entail on myself the curses of every public man in my country; and to go on is certain ruin and disgrace. Were the world to know only my true history on this try•• occasion, I persuade my|self, all the candid and ••••••••iderate 〈◊〉〈◊〉 would 〈◊〉〈◊〉 me of blame. But this the world can know only ••y

my resolving to tell a tale, which, considering the rank I now hold in it, must involve my country in such in|ternal broils and quarrels, as must be fatal to the glo|rious cause in which we have embarked. And this, I trust, I shall have the virtue never to do, be my private wrongs and sufferings ever so great.

I have finished my letter to the Congress, to whom I have at length, spoken in a more peremptory tone, than, I fancy, they have been used to. It was absolutely necessary; and I should ill deserve their confidence, if through any mistaken complaisance or diffidence, I hesitated to point out to them the mis|chievous consequences of their interference. I have also insisted on precise instructions in what manner I am to conduct myself towards the British commis|sioners, if peradventure, as is probable, their over|tures shall be made through me. Their answer will have a great influence on all my future measures; as I shall then know, (and surely it is time I should) on what ground I stand. The very decided and ad|venturous measure, which Congress itself has just taken, i•• big with the most important consequences, not only to the community at large, but to every man in it. The temper and judgement which they shall now manifest, on their first avowed assumption of the rein•• of government, will be indicative of what we may hereafter expect. Hoping for the best, I yet will watch them most carefully.

'Tis all fearful expectation: Every man I see seems to be employed in preparing himself for the momen|tous rencontre, which every man persuades himself must shortly come on. There is an offensible ea|gerness and impetuosity amongst us, I could willingly have excused: I should have been better pleased with that steady composure which distinguishes veterans. One thing is in our favour, the passions of our sol|diery are seldom suffered to subside; being constant|ly agitated by some strange rumour o•• other. Hap|pen what will, it can hardly be more extraordi|nary, than some one or other is perpetually presa|ging. And, we have already performed such 〈◊〉〈◊〉 of valour, whilst we have no enemies to engage but

such as our own imagination•• manufacture for us, that I cannot but hope we shall do well, merely be|cause no one ever seems to entertain a suspicion that we shall not. I can as yet, give no guess, where or when they will approach us: I conclude, how|ever, that they will hardly stir, till they are joined by all the men they expect, desponding as I am, I wish they were arrived; and that, at this moment, they were in a condition to attack us: They may gain by procrastination, but we are sure to lose.

I wrote to Mrs. Washington lately, and shall a|gain in a week or two, if I do not hear of her ere that in Philadelphia. It has surprized me that, after what I wrote, she should hesitate. I beg of you if she be still fearful, to second my persuasions by every means in your power. Exposed as she must be to so many interviews with people in the army all of whom are in the way of the small-pox, I have the most dreadful apprehensions on her account. I know not well how the notion came into my head, but it is certain, I have, for several days, pursuaded myself that she is already inoculated, and that out of tenderness and delicacy, she forbears to inform me of it, till she can also inform me she is out of danger.

I note sundry particulars in your letter, to which I am not solicitous to give you answers. Why, when you have so often asked in vain, will you press me for Congress-secrets? Whatever you or my priva•••• sentiments or wishes may be, it is sufficient for us ••••at we know the highest authority in our country has declared it free and independent. All that is left for us to do is, as far as we can, to support this declaration▪ without too curiously enquiring in|to either its wisdom or its justice. I firmly believe, that the advocates for this measure, meant well; and I pay 〈◊〉〈◊〉 but an ordinary compliment in thinking that they were fitter to determine on a point of this sor••, than either you or I are. At any rate, the world must allow i•• to be a spirited measure; and all I have to wish for i••, that we may support it with a 〈◊〉〈◊〉 spirit.

I am, my Dear Lund, Yo•••• most affectionately, G. W.

New-York, July 15, 1776. To Mr. Lund Washington, &c.

Dear Lund,

LAST Friday, the British fleet was seen off Sta|ten-Island; they have since been employed, uninterrupted by us, in debarking their men, stores, &c. And as they must now, I should imagine, be pretty nearly as strong as they expect to be this cam|paign, no doubt we shall soon hear of their motions. I have reason to believe, their first essay will not be on this, but on Long-Island; where injudiciously I think, we also are, or soon shall be in force. Yet, if we do but act our parts as becomes us, be the issue as it may, we shall at least give them no pleasing ear|nest of what they have to expect in the course of the war. But there is no relying on any plan that is to be executed by raw men.

You have heard much of the powers with which commissioners were to be in vested, for the purpose of settling this dispute. Like most other things belong|ing to it, these too have made a much greater figure in talk, than they do in fact. There are but two com|missioners, the two Howes; and their powers are ex|tremely vague and undefined. It is a pity, methinks, that Congress had not had better information on this subject; if they had, it is to be presumed, they would not have precipitated the declaration of independen|cy, so as to preclude all possibility of negociation. I may venture to whisper in your ear, that this except|ed, I firmly believe, that America might have carried every other point; and certainly, there was a time, when this would have been deemed a conquest beyond the warmest w••shes of the warmest American. Whe|ther in the present posture of affairs, it still be so, is another question: I can answer only for myself, that I would not even ask so much.—Different men will judge differently with respect to this conduct, on the part of Great-Britain; I own I am bewildered and puzzled to account for it. After such an astonishing

expence as they have been at, and with such fair prospects as they have before them of being soon in a capacity to prescribe their own term••, it certainly is extraordinary to find them condescending to be friends with us, on conditions as mortifying and de|grading to them, as they are flattering to us. I can account for it but in one way; I really ascribe it to their magnanimity. It must be an unpleasing contest to the nation: I say the nation; for however expe|dient it may be for us to have it called a ministerial war, no man who knows any thing of the English go|vernment, can imagine, that the ministry could have moved a step in it, if it had not been the sense▪ of the nation. It must, too, be a most fruitless and unpro|fitable war; since every advantage they can gain, must in fact be a loss, as being gained over themselves. No wonder, therefore, they have been slow and back|ward to enter into it; no wonder they would be glad to be well rid of it, on almost any terms. I have ever been of this opinion, and it was this persuasion alone that reconciled me to the measure of taking up arms. I see, however, the world around me viewing it in a different light; every concession that is made to us, they attribute to timidity only, and despondency. I own appearances make for this conjecture; and, no doubt, Congress will give it its sanction.

I have not adopted this opinion, that we might have peace with Great-Britain, on terms which would once, have been thought most honorable, on slight grounds. Yesterday, a letter was bro't to me, ma|king overtures for a nego••iation, from Lord Howe. —I had expected it; and had my instructions. It was addressed, as I had foreseen, to me as in my private character only. On the ground of indepen|dency, if we chose to maintain it, this was not a mere matter of punctilio; it was the critical moment of trial, whether we would assert, or recede from our pretensions. Never did men sit in debate on a quest••on of higher magnitude: and when they had once de|termined to declare their country free, I see not why they might not support this their declaration, by this as well as other means. A contrary conduct would

certainly have indicated some want of firmness. Yet, I confess to you, I felt aukward upon the occasion. The puncti••io seemed, and it could not but seem, to be my own: and as such it looked, methought, as though I were proud of my titles. Put yourself in my place, and see me, longing as you know I do most earnestly for peace, yet turning my back on a gentleman, whom I had reason to consider as the harbinger of it, only because he asked for Mr. and not, GENERAL WASHINGTON. How often it is my lot to find it my indispensible duty to act a part con|trary to both my own sentiments and inclinations! But, if I mistake not, it is in such instances only, that, properly speaking, we manifest our fortit••de and magnanimity.

I shall astonish you, when I inform you, that this first rebuff abated not the ardour of the noble com|missioner. His Deputy paid as a second visit, and vouchsafed to honour me with the appellation of General. What name will you give to this condes|cension? I own it hurt me; and has well nigh led me into a train of thinking very different from all my former opinions. The gentleman who brought the message, is a Colonel Patterson, Adjutant General, and a sensible well informed man. He requested to speak to me alone; and I was glad he did. After the first salutations, he told me the purport of the letter which had been refused; and his errand now was to ask me to point out the most eligible means of opening a negociation, for the purpose of accommo|dating the unhappy dispute. I replied, that I knew but of one way; and that was by application to Con|gress. He said, the King's Commissioners would have no objection to treating with the members who composed the Congress, provided only that they came with legal authority from the regular legisla|tures of their respective countries. I answered, they, doubtless would come with such authority; as in|deed, they could come with no other. I evidently saw his drift in the exception, as he did mine: and so put a stop to all possibility of mistake; he declared it impossible for his masters ever to acknowledge the

Congress, as such, a legal, and constitutional body of men; and as it seemed to be rather a punctilio of pride, than of any real importance, he hoped it might be waved. I stared: How, Sir, have you not already acknowledged the powers of Congress, by acknow|ledging the honourable rank I hold, and which I hold from them, and them only? That said he, was the concession merely of politeness; and made for the purpose only of getting access to me; and he was persuaded, I was too sensible a man to lay any stress on so m••re a trifle; I thanked him for his compli|ment, but assured him, that I meant to lay the most serious stress on it. If he really had had that opinion of my understanding which he was pleased then to express, he must have supposed, that though a trifle in itself, it ceased to be so after I had made a point of it.

Words could not have told him more strongly that our resolutions were to assert and maintain our in|dependency. And if the commissioners of the King of Great-Britain found themselves either unable or unwilling to give up this, as a preliminary article, they, & he must pardon me for saying, that I could but think them very idly employed in soliciting an inter|view with me. On this he prepared to take his leave, first adding with a degree of sharpness and animation, that I own affected me. Sir, said he, you are pleas|ed to be cavalier with me: I consider you as a well-meaning —I wish I could say, well-informed man; yet, I am mistaken, if your head, as well as your heart, would not, at this moment, dictate a very dif|ferent language. There may be heroism, for ought I know, in desperately resolving to go all length•• with the men with whom you have connected your|self; but it is madness: and you may be thankful, if posterity gives no worse a name to a man who has no judgment of his own Wrong, Sir, your judg|ment no longer. We certainly have stooped as low as the proudest wrong-head among you could ask us; but, if you really think as you seem to affect to do, that we have made these overtures either from mean|ness, from a distrust of our cause, or our ability to make good our just claims, you are out in all your

reckoning. That the mean and narrow-minded leaders of your councils may disseminate such opini|ons, in your unhappy country, I can easily suppose; but remember, Sir, you, and your party, owe some account to the world! and when the world shall come to know your infatuated insolence in the in|stance before us, as know it they must, think how you will excuse yourselves? I replied with no less warmth, nor I trust, dignity. I was, indeed, flung: for after once having owned me as a General, you must confess there was something singularly contemp|tuous in presuming thus to school me. A few per|sonal civilities put an end to the conference.

I have transmitted a faithful account of it to Con|gress; but, as I can hardly suppose, they will judge it expedient to make it public, I thought I owed to you, not wholly to disappoint your curiosity. You will not, however, need me to caution you to be secret, as well on this as on other things, which I write to you.

One thing more I must not omit to mention to you. In my conference with Colonel Patterson, I thought I could discover that it was intended I should be impressed with a persuasion that the commission|ers thought not unfavourably of our pretensions, as urged in the beginning of the dispute. This is to be accounted for. They are whigs; and if I am right|ly informed, the General owes his seat in Parliament to the interest of the dissenters. But why approve of our first pretensions only? Surely if we were then right, we are not now wrong: I mean as to what we have a right to, by the principles of the constitu|tion; the expediency of our measures is now out of question. I cannot dissociate the ideas between our having a right of resistance in the case of taxation, and the same right in the case of legislating for us. You know I am no deep casuist in political specula|tions, but having happily been brought up in revolu|tion principles, I thought I trod surely when I traced the footsteps of those venerable men. Wonderful! These too are the principles of our opponents; so that all our misfortune and fault is the having put in practice the very tenets which they profess to embrace

But I shall exhaust your patience; which I should not do, foreseeing as I do, that I shall, hereafter, have occasion to put it to the trial.

I am, with the truest regard, Dear Lund, Yours, &c. G. W.

New-York, July 22, 1776. To Mr. Lund Washington, &c.

I WISH I could say I thoroughly approved of all the new regulations in the new institution of government in my native state. It could, however, hardly have been expected that a reformation so ca|pital and comprehensive should be perfect at first; the wonder is, it is not still more exceptionable. My heart glows with unusual warmth, when I advert, as I often do, to that pure and disinterested ardour which must have animated the bulk of my country|men throughout the whole of this controversy. There may be exceptions amongst us, and no doubt, there are; but it is not fair to infer this from our uncom|mon impetuosity and violence. This one would wish restrained, but, by no means extirpated; for is it not the effect of a highly agitated public spirit; the mere effervescence of good principles thrown into a state of strong fermentation? And, surely▪ even pre|cipitancy is preferable to the spirit-breaking cau|tions of chill despondency. Yet I am no advocate, in general, either for rash measures, or rash men; but at such a conjuncture as this, men had need to be stimulated by some more active principle than cool and sober reason. They must be enthusiasts, or they will continue to be slaves.

I give this in answer to my friend Mr. Carter's objections to the first procedures of the new govern|ment. No doubt, Henry is, in many respects, the unfittest man in the state for Governor of Virginia. He has no property, no learning, but little good sense, and still less virtue or public spirit; but he is the idol of the people; and, as it is by their means only that you can hope to effect the grand schemes which you have meditated, you must humour them, and indulge them with their rattle. They will soon tire of him; and the opportunity must then be watched gently to lead them to a better choice; for they may be led, though they cannot be driven. And though it be, alas! but too true, that they often mistake their real interests, I am of opinion they never mistake them long. Sooner or later, they will judge and act from their settled feelings; and these I take it are generally founded in their settled interests. When great enter|prizes are to be performed, we may well dispense with some little errors in judgment: when without that, we have, in its stead, that which perhaps, we could not have with it; I mean, that undisciplined ardour which is infinitely better adapted to our purposes.

There cannot be a more striking instance that the judgment of the people may, in general, be safely trusted, in the long run, than is to be met with in Virginia. Very few countries have to boast of more men of respectable understandings; I know of none that can produce a family, all of them d••stinguish•••• as clever men, like our Lees. They are all of them the very men one would wish for to take the le•••• of a willing multitude; for, they are certainly men of shining talents, and their talents are of that particul••r kind which usually render men popular. No men were ever more so, than the men in question once were. It is obvious, this is no longer the case; a••d the reason must be that they are no longer worthy of it. With all their cleverness, they are selfish in the extreme. The people, at length, have found this out; or, no doubt, R. H▪ Lee would have now been go|vernor, the grand object of all his aims.

You would be mortified to hear the criticisms which are common here on Henry's inauguration speech. It is, indeed, a poor and pitiful performance; and yet I can believe, that set off by his smooth and oily delivery, it would appear clever when he spoke it. Why did he not ask Mr. Page to prepare it for him? There is not a man in America more capable. The Counsellors of state are certainly irreproachable, and will do honor to those who appointed them. I am particularly pleased with the success of my honest brother-in-law, B••t•• Dandridge; and the pleasure is not lessened by the assurance he makes me, that my letters were serviceable to him, there being but few men whom I love more than I do him. As you are soon to go down the country, you will see him, and therefore spare me the trouble of writing, particular|ly to him. My friends must now be so indulgent to me, as to wave the matter of compliment; I think myself happy, whenever I can write, as I should, on urgent business. You know how ticklish my situation is; little as one would think, there is to be envied in it, I yet am envied. And though, in all good reason; their fears should take a direct contrary course, there are who are for ever suggesting suspici|ons and jealousies of the army and its commander. My own heart assures me, I mean them no ill; how|ever, if I really have the influence and ascendency which they suppose, I will, for their sakes as well as my own, hereafter maintain it at some little cost. A thousand considerations determine me to strain every nerve to prevent the army's being under any other controul, whilst I live. Let a persuasion of the necessi|ty of this, if occasion should arise, be seasonably urged in my native state: and, in the mean while, let some more than ordinary pains be taken to make me po|pular. Their own honor and interest are both con|cerned in my being so. Shew this to Mr. Dandridge; and, as you both can enter into my meaning, even from the most distant hints, I can rest satisfied, that you will do every thing I wish you.

We have lately had a general review; and I have much pleasure in informing you, that we made a

better appearance, and went through our exercises more like soldiers, than I had expected. The Southern states are rash and blameable in the judg|ment they generally form of their brethren of the four New-England states; I do assure you, with all my partiality for my own countrymen, and preju|dices against them, I cannot but consider them as the flower of the American army. They are a strong, vigourous, and hardy people, inured to la|bour and toil; which our people seldom are. And though our hot and eager spirits may, perhaps, suit better in a sudden and desperate enterprise: yet in the way in which wars are now carried on, you must look for permanent advantages only from that pa|tient and persevering temper, which is the result of a life of labour. The New-Englanders are cool, con|siderate and sensible; whilst we are all fire and fury: like their climate, they maintain an equal tempe|rature, whereas we cannot shine, but we burn. They have a uniformity and stability of character, to which the people of no other states have any pre|tensions; hence they must, and will always pre|serve their influence in this great Empire. Were it not for the drawbacks and the disadvantages, which the influence of their popular opinions, on the sub|ject of government, have on their army, they soon might, and probably would, give law to it. If General Putnam had the talents of Mr. S. Adams, or Mr. Adams had his, perhaps, even at this mo|ment, this had not been matter of conjecture. But, Putnam is a plain, blunt, undesigning old fellow, whose views reach no farther than the duties of his profession. He is, indeed, very ignorant; yet, I find him a useful ••fficer; and chiefly because he neither plagues me not others, with wrangling claims of privileges. I owe him too no small acknow|ledgments, for the fairness of his accounts. I could open to you some strange scenes in this way. Some people seem to have gotten such a habit of cheating government, that, the•• 〈…〉〈…〉 suffi••••••en••ly con|scientious in other respects, the•• 〈…〉〈…〉 far less scrupulous in their manner of charging ••han, I th••nk,

becomes them. — But, as I have often told you, General Mercer is the man, on whom these states must rest their hopes. The character that one of his countrymen g••ve to the Pretender, fits him exactly; "He is the most cautious man I ever saw, not to be a coward; a••d the bravest not to be rash." In my judgment, he is not inferior even to General Lee, in military knowledge; and, in almost every thing else, he is, infinitely, his superior. Yet the overbearing virtues of this last named gentleman are useful to us, especially at our setting out: we want|ed not the sober and slow deductions of argument and reason: and Lee, like the author of Common Sense, has talents perfectly formed to dazzle and confound.

I thank you for your care in making the remit|tances you mention to Messrs. Carey and Co. I sin|cerely wish they may arrive safe; as I cert••inly owe it to them, to take every step in my power to make them easy. There is a pleasure in doing as one ought, in little as well as great affairs; but, in my present circumstances, I should often want this plea|sure, were it not for your affectionate assiduity, and truly friendly attention. God bless you, my dear friend, for every instance of your care and concern for me!

I am, &c. G. W.

June 24, 1776. To Mrs. Washington.

MY DEAREST LIFE AND LOVE,

YOU have hurt me, I know not how much by the insinuation in your last, that my letters to you have lately been less frequent, because I have

felt less concern for you. The suspicion is most un|just; —may I not add, it is most unkind? Have we lived, now almost a score of years, in the closest and dearest congugal intimacy to so little purpose that, on an appearance only of inattention to you, and which you might have accounted for in a thousand ways more natural and more probable, you should pitch upon that single motive which alone is injurious to me? I have not, I own, wrote so often to you as I wished, and as I ought. But think of my situation and then ask your heart, if I be WITHOUT EXCUSE. We are not, my dearest in circumstances the most favourable to our happiness: but let us not, I beseech you, idly make them worse, by indulging suspicions and apprehensions which minds in distress are but too apt to give way to. I never was, as you have often told me, even in my better and more disen|gaged days, so attentive, to the little punctilio•• of friendship, as, it may be, became me: but, my heart tells me, there never was a moment in my life since I first knew you, in which it did not cleave and cling to you with the warmest effection: and it must cease to beat, ere it can cease to wish for your hap|piness, above any thing on earth.

I congratulate you most cordially on the fair prospect of recovery of your amiable daughter-in-law; nor can I wonder, that this second loss of a little one should affect you, I fear the fatigues of the journey, and the perpetual agitations of a camp, were too much for her. They are, however, both young and healthy; so that there can be little doubt of their soon repairing the loss.

And now will my dearest love permit me, a little more earnestly than I have ever yet done, to press you to consent to that so necessary, so safe & so easy, though so dreaded a thing—the being innoculated? It was always adviseable; but at this juncture it seems to be almost absolutely necessary.

I am far from sure, that, that restless madman, our quondam Governor, from the mere lust of doing mischief, will not soon be take himself to the carrying on a praedatory war in our rivers. And as Potow|mack

will certainly be thought most favourable for his purposes, as affording him scope to keep without the reach of annoyance. I have little reason to flat|ter myself that it would not be particularly pleasing to him, to vent his spite at my house. Let him; it would affect me only as it might affect you; and, for this reason, among others, I wish you out of his reach. Yet I think I would not have you quit your house, professedly, from an apprehension of a visit from him▪ An appearance of fearfulness and timi|dity, even in a woman of my family, might have a bad effect; but, I must be something more or less than man, not to wish you out of the way of a dan|ger, which, to say the least, must be disagreeable to you, and could do good to no one. All this makes for your going at Philadelphia, a place of perfect se|curity; and it would be almost worth while to be in|noculated, if it were only for the fair pretence it fur|nishes you with of qui••ting Virginia, at a time when I could not but be exceedingly uneasy at your re|maining in it. But I flatter myself any further ar|guments will be unnecessary, when I shall add, as I now do, that till you have had the small-pox▪ anxiously as else I should wish for it, I never can think of con|senting to your passing the winter here in quarters with me.

I would have Lund Washington immediately re|move all the unmarried and suspicious of the slaves, to the quarters in Frederick. The harvesting must be got in by hireling••. Let him not keep any large stock of grain trod out, especially at the mill, or within the reach of water carriage: and in particular, let as little as may be, be left at Clifton's quarters. It will not be two late, even in the first week of Ju|ly, to sow the additional supply of hemp and flax seed which Mr. Mifflin has procured for me in Phi|ladelphia; and which I hope will be with you be|fore this letter. For obvious reasons, you will not sow it on the island, nor by the water side. But I hope you will have a good account of your crop on the Ohio. If Bridgey continues refractory and riotous, though I know you can ill spare him, let

him by all meane be sent off, as I hope Jack Custis's boy Joe already is, for his sau••••ness at Cambridge.

My attention is this moment called off to the dis|covery, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 pretended discovery, of a most wild and daring plot▪ It is impossi•••••• as yet, to develope the mystery in which it either is, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 supposed to be in|volved. Thus much only 〈◊〉〈◊〉 find 〈◊〉〈◊〉 with certain|ty, that it will be a fine field for a war of lies on both sides. No doubt it will make a good deal of noise in the country; and there are who think it use|ful to have the minds of the people kept constantly on the 〈◊〉〈◊〉 by rumours of this sort. For my part, I who am said to be the object principally aimed at in it, find myself perfectly at my ease, and I have men|tioned it to you only from an apprehension that, hearing it from others and not from me, you might imagine I was in the midst of danger that I knew not of.

The perpetual solicitude of your poor heart about me, is certainly highly flattering to me, yet I should be happy to be able to quiet your fears. Why do you complain of my reserves? Or, how could you imagine that I distrusted either your prudence or your fideli|ty? I have the highest opinion of them both. But why should I teaze you with tedious details of schemes and views which are perpetually varying; and which therefore might, not improbably mislead, where I meant to inform you? Suffice•••• that I say, what I have often before told you, that, as far as I have the controul of them, all our preparations of war aim only at peace. Neither do I, at this moment, see the least likelihood of there being any considerable military operations this season; and, if not in this season certainly in no other. It is impos|sible to suppose, that, in the leisure and quiet of win|ter quarters, men will not have the virtue to listen to the dictates of plain common sense and sober reason. The only true interest of both sides is reconciliation; nor can there be a point in the world clearer, than that both sides must be losers by war, in a manner which even peace will not soon compensate for. We must, at last, agree and be friends; for we cannot live with|out

them, and they will not without us; and a bye|stander might well be puzzled to find out, why as good terms cannot be given and taken now, as when we shall have well nigh ruined each other by the mutual madness of cutting one another's throats. For all these reasons, which cannot but be as obvi|ous to the English commissioners, and ours, as they are to me, I am at a loss to imagine how any thing can arise to obstruct a negociation, and, of conse|quence, a pacification. You, who know my heart, know that there is not a wish nearer to it than this is; but I am prepared for every event, one only except|ed — I mean a dishonourable peace. Rather than that, let me, though it be with the loss of every thing else I hold dear, continue this horrid trade, and, by the most unlikely means, be the unworthy instrument of preserving political security and hap|piness to them, as well as to ourselves.—Pity this cannot be accomplished, without fixing on me that sad name, Rebel. I love my king; you know I do: a soldier, a good man cannot but love him. How peculiarly hard then is our fortune to be deemed traitors to so good a King! But, I am not without hopes, that even he will yet see cause to do me justice: posterity, I am sure, will. Mean while, I comfort myself with the reflection that this has been the fate of the best and bravest men, even of the Barons who obtained Magna Charta, whilst the dispute was de|pending. This, however, anxiously as I wish for it, it is not m••ne to command: I see my duty, that of standing up for the liberties of my country; and whatever difficulties and discouragements lie in my way, I dare not shrink from it; and I rely on that Being, who has not left to us the choice of duties, that whilst I consc••••••tiously discharge mine, I shall not finally lose my reward. If I really am not a bad man, I shall not long be so set down.

Assure yourself. I will pay all possible attention to your recommendations. But happy as I am in an opportunity of obliging you, even in the smallest things, take it not amiss, that I use the freedom with you to whisper in your ear, to be paring of

them. You know how I am circumstanced: hard|ly the promotion of a subaltern is left to me. And free and independent as I am, I resolve to remain so. I owe the Congress no obligations for any personal favours done to myself; nor will I run in debt to them for favours to others. Besides, I am mortified to have to ask of them, what, in sound policy (if other motives had been wanting) they ought to have granted to me, unasked. I cannot describe to you the inconveniencies this army suffers for want of this consequence being given to its commander in chief. But, as these might be increased, were my peculiar situation in this respect generally known, I forbear; only enjoining you a cautious silence on this head▪—In a regular army, our Virginia young men, would certainly, in general, make the best offi|cers; but I regret that they have not now put it in my power justly to pay them this compliment They dislike their northern allies; and this dislike is the source of infinite mischiefs and vexations, to me. In the many disputes and quarrels of this fort which we have had, one thing has particularly struck me. My countrymen are not inferior in understanding; and are certainly superior in that distinguished spirit and h••gh sense of honour which should form the cha|r••cter of an officer. Yet, somehow or other, it for|ever happens, that in every altercation, they are pro|ved to be in the wrong; and they expect of me at|tentions and partialities which it is not in my power to shew them.

Let me rely that your answer to this will be dated to Philadelphia. I•• I am not very busily engaged, (which I hope may not be the case) perhaps I may find ways and means to pay you 〈◊〉〈◊〉 of a day or two; but this I rather hin•••••• what I wish▪ than what I dare h••d you expect. If you st••ll think the frag|ments of the set o•• greys I bought o•• Lord Bo••etourt unequal to the journey, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Lund Washington sell them, singly, or otherwise as he can, to the best ad|vantage, and purchase a new ••ot of bays I could as you desire, get them here, and perhaps on better terms; but, I have a notion, whether well o•• ••ll

founded I know not, that they never answer well in Virginia. I beg to be affectionately remembered to all our friends and relations; and that you will con|tinue to believe me to be

Your most faithful and tender Husband, G. W.

COPY of a Letter from the Reverend Mr. JACOB DUCHE, to General WASHINGTON.

October 8th, 1777.

SIR,

IF this ••etter should find you in council or in the field before you read another sentence I beg you to take the first opportunity of retiring and weigh|ing its important contents▪ — You are perfectly ac|quain••ed with the part I formerly took in the pre|sent unhappy contest. I was, indeed, among the first to bear my public testimony against having any re|course to threats, or indulging a thought of an armed opposition. The current, however, was too strong for my feeble efforts to resist. I wished to follow my countrymen as far only as virtue, and the righteous|ness of their cause, would permit me. I was, however, prevailed on, among the rest of my clerical brethren in this city, to gratify the pressing desires of my fel|l••w citizens, by preaching a sermon to the second city battalion. I was pressed to publish this sermon, and relunctantly co••••ented. — From a personal attachment of n••ar twenty years standing, and a high respect for your cha••••••ter in private as well as pub|lic life, I took the liberty of dedicating this sermon to you. I had your affectionate thanks for my per|formance, in a letter, wherein was expressed, in the most delicate and ob••••ging terms, your regard for me, your wishes for a continuance of my friendsh••p and

approbation of your conduct. Farther than this I intended not to proceed, My sermon speaks for it|self, and wholly disclaims the idea of independen|cy. My sentiments were well known to my friends; I communicated them, without reserve, to many re|spectable members of Congress, who expressed their warm approbation of it then. I persisted, to the very last moment, to use the prayers for my Sovereign, though threatened with insults from the violence of a party. Upon the declaration of independency I called my ve••try, and solemnly put the question to th••m, Whether they thought it best for the peace and welfare of the congregation, to shut up the chur|ches, or to continue the service, without using the prayers for the Royal Family? This was the sad alternative; I concluded to ab••de by their decision, as I could not have time to consult my spiritual su|periors in England. They determined it most expe|dient, under such critical circumstance•• to keep o|pen t•• 〈…〉〈…〉, that the congregations might not be dispersed, which we had great reason to apprehend. A very few days after the fatal declaration o•• in••••|pendency, I received a letter from Mr. Hancock, sent by express to Germantown, where my family were for the summer season, acquainting me I was appointed Chapl••••n to the Congress, and desired my atendence next morning at 9 o'clock. Surprised, and distressed, as I was, by an event I was not prepar|ed to expect; obliged to give an immediate atten|dance, without the opportunity of consulting my friends, I easily accepted the appointment. I could have but one motive for tak••ng this step. I thought the churches in danger, and hoped by this means, to have been instrumental in preventing those ill•• I had so much reason to apprehend. I can, however, with truth, declare, I then looked upon independency rather as an expedient, and hazardou••, or, indeed, thrown out IN TERROREM, in order to procure some favour••ble terms, than a measure that was s••riously p•• 〈…〉〈…〉 events. My sudden charge of con|duct will clearly evince this to have been my idea of

the matter Upon the return of the committee of Con|gress, appointed to confer with Lord Howe, I soon dis|cerned their whole intentions. The different accounts which each member gave of this conference, the time they took to make up the matter for public view, and the amazing disagreement between the newspa|per accounts and the relation I myself had from the mouth of one of the committee, convinced me there must have been some unfair and ungenerous pro|cedure. This determination, to treat on no other strain than that of independency, which put it out of his Lordship's power to mention any terms at all, was sufficient proof to me, that independency was the idol they had long wished to set up, and that, rather than sacrifice this, they would deluge their country with blood. From this moment I deter|mined upon my resignation, and, in the beginning of October 1776, sent it in form to Mr. Hancock, after having officiated only two months and three weeks; and from that time, as far as my safety would permit, I have been opposed to all their mea|sures. This circumstantial account of my conduct, I think due to the friendship you were so obliging as to express for me, and I hope will be sufficient to justify any seeming inconsistencies in the part I have acted. And now, dear Sir, suffer me, in the lan|guage of truth and real affection, to address myself to you. All the world must be convinced you are en|gaged in the service of your country from motives perfectly disinterested. You risked every thing that was dear to you, abandoned the sweets of domestic life, which your affluent fortune can give the unin|terrupted enjoyment of. But, had you, could you have had, the least idea of matters being carried to such a dangerous extremity? Your most intimate friends shuddered at the thought of a separation from the mother country, and I took it for granted that your sentiments coincided with theirs. What then can be the consequence of this rash and violent mea|sure and degeneracy of representation, confusion of council•• blunders without number? The most res|pectable

characters have withdrawn themselves, and are succeeded by a great majority of illiberal and vi|olent men. Take an impartial view of the present Congress, and what can you expect from them? Your feelings must be greatly hurt by the represen|tation of your natural province. You have no lon|ger a Randolph, a Bland, or a Braxton, men whose names will ever be revered, whose demands never ran above the first ground on which they set out, and whose truly glorious and virtuous sentiments I have frequently heard with rapture from their own lips.— Oh! my dear Sir, what a sad contrast of characters now present—others whose friends can ne'er mingle with your own.—Your Harrison alone remains, and he disgusted with the unworthy associates. As to those of my own province, some of them are so ob|scure, that their very names were never in my ears before, and others have only been distinguished for the weakness of their understanding, and the violence of their tempers. One alone I except from the gene|ral charge,—a man of virtue, dragged reluctantly into their measures, and restrained by some false ideas of honour, from retreating, after having gone too far. You cannot be at a loss to discover whose name answers to this character.

From the N. England provinces, can you find one, that as a gentleman, you could wish to associate with, unless the soft and mild address of Mr. Hancock, can atone for his want of every other qualification necessary for the s••a•• which he fills.—Banckrupts, at|tornies, and men of desperate fortunes, are his col|leagues Maryland no longer sends a Tilghman and a protestant Carrol. Carolina has lost its Lynch, and the elder Middleton has retired.—Are the dregs of Congres••••en 〈◊〉〈◊〉 to influence a mind like your's? These are not the men you engaged to serve; these are not the men that America has chosen to repre|sent her. Most of them were chosen by a little low faction 〈◊〉〈◊〉 few gentlemen that are among them no•• 〈…〉〈…〉 known to lie on the balance, and look|in•• 〈…〉〈…〉 alone to turn the be••m: 'Tis 〈…〉〈…〉 you only, that support the present Con|gress;

of this you must be fully sensible. Long be|fore they left Philadelphia, their dignity and conse|quence was gone; what must it be now since their precipitate retreat?—I write with freedom, but with|out invective; I know these things to be true, and I write to one whose own observation must have con|vinced him that it is so.—After this view of the Con|gress, turn to the army.—The whole world knows that its only existence depends upon you; that your death or captivity disperses it in a moment, and that there is not a man on that side the question in A|merica capable of succeeding you.—As to the army itself, what have you to expect from them. Have they not frequently abandoned you yourself, in the hour of extremity? Can you, have you the least con|fidence in a set of undisciplined men and officers, ma|ny of them have been taken from the lowest of the people without principle, without courage; take away them who surround your person, how very few are there you can ask to sit at your table?—As to your little navy, of that little, what is left? Of the Dela|ware fleet part are taken, the rest must soon surrender: Of those in the other provinces some are taken, one or two at sea, and others lying unmanned and unrigged in your harbours; and now where are your resources? Oh! my dear Sir, How sadly have you been abused by a faction void of truth, & void of tenderness to you and your country? They have amused you with hopes of a declaration of war on the part of France. Be|lieve me, from the best authority, it was a fiction from the first.— Early in the year 1776, a French gentle|man was introduced to me, with whom I became in|timately acquainted. His business to all appearance, was to speculate in the mercantile way. But, I be|lieve it will be found, that in his country he moved in a higher spher••.—He saw your cause.—He became acquainted with all your military prepara|tions. He was introduced to Congress, and engaged with them in a commercial contract.—In the course of our intimacy, he has frequently told me, that he hoped the Americans would never think of inde|pendency; he gave me his reasons.—Independency

can never be supported unless France should declare war against England. I well know the state of her finances, years to come will not put them in a situa|tion to enter upon a breach with England.—At this moment there are two parties in the court of Versailles; one inlisted under the Duke De Choiseul, the other under Count Maurepas. Choiseul has no chance of succeeding, tho' he is violent for war; Maurepas must get the better; he is for oeconomy and peace; this was his information, which I mentioned to several members of Congress, they treated it as a fable, de|pending entirely on Doctor Franklin's intelligence. The truth of the matter is this: Dr. Franklin built upon the success of Choiseul. Upon his arrival in France he found him out of place, his councils repro|bated, and his party dwindled into an insignificant faction: This you may depend upon to be the true state of affairs in France, or the court of Dr. Frank|lin. And further, by vast numbers of letters found on board prizes taken by the King's ships, it appears, that all commerce with the merchants, through whom all your supplies have been conveyed, will be at an end; the letters being full of complaints of no remit|tances from America, and many individuals having generally suffered.—From your friends in England you have nothing to expect, their numbers have di|minished to a cypher; the spirit of the whole nation is in activity, a few sounding names among the no|bility, though perpetually ringing in your ears, are without character, without influence. Disappointed ambition has made them desperate, and they only wish to make the deluded Americans instruments of re|venge. All orders and ranks of men in Great-Bri|tain, are now unanimous and determined to risque their all with content. Trade and manufactures are found to flourish, and new channels are continually offering, that will perhaps more than supply the loss of the old. In America your harbours are blocked up; your cities fall one after another; fortress after fortress, battle after battle is lost. A British army after having passed unmolested through a vast extent of country, have possessed themselves of the capital of

America. How unequal the contest! How fruitless the expence of blood! Under so many discouraging circumstances, can virtue, can honour, can the love of your country prompt you to succeed? Humanity itself, and sure humanity is no stranger to your breast, calls upon you to desist.—Your army must perish for want of common necessaries, or thousands of inno|cent families must perish to support them; wherever they encamp, the country must be impoverished; wherever they march, the troops of Britain will pur|sue, and must complete the destruction which Ameri|ca herself has begun; perhaps it may be said, it is better to die than to be made slaves. This indeed is a splendid maxim in theory, and perhaps in some instances may be found experimentally true; but when there is the least probability of an happy ac|commodation, surely wisdom and humanity call for some sacrifices to be made, to prevent inevitable de|struction. You well know there is but one invincible bar to such an accommodation, could this be removed, other obstacles might readily be removed.

It is to you, and you alone, your bleeding country looks and calls aloud for this sacrifice, your arm alone has strength sufficient to remove this bar; may hea|ven inspire you with this glorious resolution of exert|ing your strength at this crisis, and immortalizing yourself as a friend and guardian to your country; your penetrating eye needs not more explicit language to discern my meaning; with that prudence and deli|cacy therefore, of which I know you possessed, repre|sent to Congress the indispensible necessity of rescind|ing the hasty and ill-advised declaration of indepen|dency. Recommend, and you have an undoubted right to recommend, an immediate cess••t••on of hosti|lities. Let the controversy be taken on where that declaration left it, and where Lord Howe certainly expected to find it. Let men of clear and impartial characters, in or out of Congress, liberal in their sen|timents, heretofore independen••, in their fortunes; and some such may be found in America be appoint|ed to confer with his Majesty's comm••ss••••••••rs. Let them, if they please, prepare, some well digested con|stitutional

plan, to lay before them at the commence|ment of the negociation, when they have gone thus far, I am confident the usual happy consequences will ensue; unanimity will immediately take place through the different provinces, thousands who are now ardently wishing and praying for such a measure will step forth, and declare themselves the zealous advocates, for constitutional liberty, and millions will bless the hero that left the field of war, to decide this most important contest with the weapons of wis|dom and humanity. Oh! Sir, let not false ideas of worldly honour deter you from engaging in so glori|ous a task, wha••ever censures may be thrown out, by mean illiberal mind••, your character will rise in the estimation of the virtuous and noble: It will appear with lustre in the annals of history, and form a glo|rious contrast, to that of those, who have fought to obtain conquest, and gratify their own ambition by the destruction of their species, and the ruin of their country.

Be assured, Sir, that I write not this under the eye of any British officer, or person connected with the British army, or m••nistry. The sentiments I express, are the real sentiments of my own heart, such as I have long held, and which I should have made known to you by letter before, had I not fully ex|pected an opportunity of a private conference. When you passed through Philadelphia on your way to Wil|mington, I was confined by a severe fit of the gravel, to my chamber; I have since continued so much indisposed, and times have been so very d••stressing, that I had neither spirit to write a letter, nor an op|portunity to convey it when written, nor do I yet know by what means, I shall get these sheets to your hands; I would fain hope that I have said nothing by which your de••••cacy can be in the least hurt; if I have, I assure you it has been without the least in|tention, and therefore your candour will lead you to forgive me. I have spoke freely of Congress, and of the army, but what I have sa••d, is partly from my own knowledge, and partly from the in|formation of some respectable members of the former,

and some of the best officers in the latter; I would not offend the meanest person upon earth; what I say to you, I say in confidence, to answer what I cannot but deem a most valuable purpose. I love my country, I love you; but to the love of truth, the love of peace, and the love of God, I hope I should be enabled, it called upon to the tryal, to sacrifice every other inferior love. If the arguments made use of in this letter should have so much influence as to engage you in the glorious work, which I have warmly recommended, I shall ever deem my success the 〈◊〉〈◊〉 tempor••l favour that Providence could grant me. Your interposition and advice, I am con|fident would meet with a favourable reception from the authority under which you a••••, if it should not, you have an infallible recourse still left, negociate for your country at the head of your army. After all, it may appear presumption as an individual to address himself to you on a subject of such magnitude, or to say what measures would best secure the interest and welf••re of a whole continent. The fri••••••ly and favourable opinion you have always expressed for me, emboldens me to undertake it, and which has greatly added to the weight of this motive; I have been strongly impressed with a sense of duty upon the occasion, which left my conscience uneasy, and my heart afflicted till I fully discharged it. I am no enthusiast; the cause is new and singular to me, but I could not enjoy one moment's peace till this letter was written. With most ardent prayers for your spiritual, as well as temporal welfare,

I am your most obedient, And humble Friend and Servant. JACOB DUCHE.

His Excellency General Washington.

TO THE REVEREND JACOB DUCHE.

SIR,

LEST the poison of your precepts should mislead the ignorant and credulous, or corrupt the ho|nest, I have ventured, with much deference to able•• pens, to make a few observations on some of the most remarkable passages in your celebrated letter to his excellency the commander in chief.

Great pains and many words have been used to palliate your former conduct, and reconcile it with the part you now act;—you have found it an Herculean labour, and it still rests in the same place where you began. That the grass is green, is self-evident; that the sun shines, needs no demonstration; and that you have acted the most base and treacherous part, is a truth that wants no proof. As well might you at|tempt to reconcile jarring elements, is to d••pe us into a belief of the integrity of your heart. "You wished to follow your countrymen as far ONLY as VIRTUE and the RIGHTEOUSNESS of their cause would permit you;" that is to say, as far as your interest and safety were concerned, then you was their man: But by forsaking us at this time, it would lead us to infer, that with you, every principle of virtue and humanity have likewise abandoned us. You shudder at the idea of an in••ependency, and yet suffered Mr. Hancock, "who has nothing but a soft 〈◊〉〈◊〉 address to atone for h••s want of every other qual••fication necessary for the station he fills."— Redemptum nulla virtute a vitris —I say you suffered this cypher of a man to attack you by surpr••ze with a commission and dub you a chapla••n. 'Tis true▪ you say you was much distressed, but, quaerenda pecunia primum est, virtus post nummos—your conscience afterwards beco•••• 〈◊〉〈◊〉, and you•• pockets were lined: At the SAM•• 〈◊〉〈◊〉 you insi••uate that you utterly deprecated SUCH 〈◊〉〈◊〉; being inconsistent with your new-adop|ted faith of a••••olute submission and non-resistance.

The danger of the episcopal church, lest it should fall into anarchy, by absurd••y praying for the — we oppose, is one specious reason for your lapsus; and, to prevent that misfortune, you adopted a con|duct which you NOW confess your sentiments repro|bated at TH••T very time. But perhaps you may be one of thos•• who believe, "that it is lawful to do EVIL, that GOOD may come of it"

How often, with pleasure, have I heard you declaim on the blessings of liberty, the horrors of a despotic government, and exhorting us to firmness and unani|mity! But, alas! little did I then think you "spoke a language foreign to your heart," and that your soul was all deceit and treachery. Your good sense and sound judgment were not proof against the po|pular torrent and the violence of party, so as a lamb to the slaughter you were borne down by the general voice.

Like all young sinners, you soon became familiar with vice, and RELUNCTANTLY preached a sermon to one of the city battalions, encouraging them to stand fast in their opposition. You afterwards became well acquainted with that MONSTER independency, and seem never to have discovered i••s Gorgon head till we had been defeated on Long-Island, lost the city of New-York, and our aff••irs in that State wore a melancholly aspect▪ These circumstances, I say, (truly terrifying to little minds) determined you at once to get out of the SUPPOSED scrape as well as you could; you were conscious at the same time, how fatal such an inconsistent step woul•• be to your character as a man of virtue, as a man of honour, and therefore cautiously concealed the reasons of your resignation from the candid public, till, like a 〈◊〉〈◊〉 poit••oon, you sheltered yourself under the arm of that very power which from the SACRED pulpit, you exhorted us to oppose. It is needless to prove the necessity of that DEFINITIVE measure, which you hold forth as the chief cause of your defection, it ha|ving been often and wisely demonstrated, but only to mention it as far as it interferes with your apology. You consider it as a bug-bear, "held up in terrorem

to frighten our oppressors into SOME terms, but not as a measure to be persisted in at all events;" that is to say, if military parade and threats were not suffi|cient to intimidate the foe, to concede those privileges which you have often acknowledged to be our just and natural rights, and which no powers ought to divest us of—then to sit down patiently, bow the neck to the yoke, and bare the shoulders to the lash. "This, indeed, is a splendid maxim in theory," but the ex+periment applies so strongly to the senses, that even you, Sir, have not Stoicism to reduce it to practice.

I pass by your remarks on the result of the confer|ence between Lord Howe, his Britannick Majesty's Commissioner, and the Committee of Congress, not being conclusive arguments against the necessity of independency.

"All the world," you say, "are convinced that the illustrious personage to whom you write, is enga|ged in the Service of his country from motives per|fectly disinterested." It is a catholic faith, that no action can be praise-worthy, whose principles are un|just and cruel, and which is not only MALUM IN 〈◊〉〈◊〉, but practised to obtain the most villanous and per|nicious ends. On the other hand, it is acknowledged by you, for yourself and the whole world, that he is engaged to serve his country, and that from the most laudable motives; how then can you be so in|consistent, after such declaration, to dissuade from that honourable service? To bring ruin and destruc|tion on our country, or to suffer others to do it, can|not certainly be called SAVING IT; but an opposite conduct implies benefits, favours, and every good gift that can be conferred, and which at this very time you amply confess, are the motives of action in the Personage to whom you write.

"But," you again say, "could you have had the least idea of matters being carried to such a danger|ous extremity as they are now? Or in words tanta|mount, Had you any prospect of the hardships of war, of marching and counter-marching, cold and heat, wet and dry, hunger and thirst; but above all, of coming to battle? I myself, one of your most inti|mate

acquaintance, who have known you near twen|ty years, could not believe you would have persisted. And now to prove, that from the measure of inde|pendency, has flowed a degeneracy of representation, confusion of councils and numberless blunders; that the most worthy characters have withdrawn, and are succeeded by fools and madmen, we have your ample testimony: And who had a better opportunity of knowing the characters of those Gentlemen, than their own Chaplain, after preaching up Liberty for two months and three weeks to them?

No candid person can discern, from the general tenor of your letter, you ever meant it should have the effect proposed, otherwise you would not have begun with such illiberal, false, ungentleman-like as|persions on the greatest body politick in America, the only power which could bring about that important change for which you solicit. The first who met the fire of your pen, are the Delegates from Virginia. You recapitulate the virtues of the deceased and superanu|ated, or persons who, after long and faithful servi|ces, had retired to manage their private affairs, which had suffered by their absence, or to be more immediately aiding the public business of their own States: I say, some of these aforesaid causes affect every Gentleman whom you have thought proper to discriminate from the rest, and daub with fulsome a|dulation. Even the members of your own State, or the catholic Carroll, do not hold you in a more con|temtible view than those very men who have been the subjects of your flattery. In the New-England states, it is well known, even by our enemies, that the general voice is for supporting our independency at all events; those people being unanimous, their e|lections cannot be called the result of a low faction. Certainly then, under such circumstances, men of virtue and property, men of wisdom and experience would be chosen to represent them—men, who ha|ving the real interests of their country at heart, would be the properest guardians of their rights and privileg|••••. That the Congress have lost their influence the

following circumstance will prove to be false—The paper currency circulates freely under their credit, the camp is stored with every necessary; their troops have taken one powerful army, and strongly block|aded the other—These are facts among thousands, that give the lye to your assertions.

Notwithstanding our illustrious General is the idol of his army, and though by his death or captivity we should experience a most heavy and sensible loss, yet the principles upon which we have taken up arms, are such as indissolubly cement our interests and consequently our powers. The merits of our cause are the same now as at first, only our opposition is more confirmed by accumulated injuries and ag|gravated insults. Be assured, we never mean to quit the field, to expose our country to the ravages of a foe, whose tender mercies are death and cruelty. Happy for America we have officers amongst us, who, by imitating the conduct of our great General, (if under the circumstances you mention) would arrive at such a military perfection, as might in a great measure supply so capital a loss.

To your bitter sarcasms on our army, I reply— That some of our men are, and all have been un|disciplined, is a truth that needs no controverting, only that our opposition thereby becomes more glo|rious. True it also is, that we have sometimes given way before superior numbers and advantageous at|tacks; but our misfortunes, therefore, are not to be imputed to cowardice. No, Sir, every gentleman of candor in the British army must acknowledge that we are not cowards: Mr. Duche himself, was he not under the influence of fear, must acknow|ledge it. And though many of our officers and men who heretofore never sho••e in private life, more than in the character of honest citizens, or farmers; yet we have numbers who have held the most consi|derable posts in government, and are highly respected as private Gentlemen, such whose names have often reached your ears, and whom you have not been ashamed to profess a friendship for, exclusive of those Gentlemen who surrounded his Excellency's person.

As to our little fleet, which you have already an|nihilated in idea; believe me, that does not form the nerves of our opposition. Your arguments against the probability of a French war, and the fine-spun anecdote of a certain speculative French trader, I purposely omit, leaving the event in the hands of all-revealing time, which doubtless we shall have no cause to be dissatisfied with. We do not court the friendship of England, its inhabitants have never done us any material services; on the contrary, they have voted ample supplies to hire foreigners to spill our blood unjustly: they never exerted themselves to effect; it was once in their power to have spared the lives of our butchered countrymen,—to have prevented the tears of many widows and orphans, now deprived of their dearest connections by a band of hireling Scotch and German ruffians. We know that the spirit of the whole nation is in full activity against us, and we have already experienced the ef|fects of that humane spirit, which you say is united and determined. Some few noble patriotic souls are yet left in both Houses of Parliament, though you have the consummate assurance to say they are with|out character, and without influence, whose steady opposition has no other motive than despair, ven|geance, and disappointment.—But America will ever have a grateful sense of their merits, in spite of the calumny of their and our enemies.

Since the Declaration of Independency, the ground of our contest is materially changed; and it is not rights and priviledges for which we now fight, but dominion and empire are the objects of both parties. Britain is endeavouring to reduce us to conquered provinces, and again to monopolize our trade. Why then this immense expence of blood and treasure? when you tell us that "new channels are continually opening, that will perhaps more than supply the loss of the old."—It is only changing the navigation from America to Europe, and the loss of our trade and ••••nafactures will never be felt by England.

The whole navy of Great-Britain is not sufficient to block up all our harbours; and though fortresses

are taken, and battles lost, the victors have ever rea|son to lament the conquest. Every day their army moulders away, whilst ours, like the Hydra, encreases two-fold; and notwithstanding they now possess our unfortunate capital, I may justly cry out with you, "How unequal the contest! how fruitless the ex|pence of blood!"

After recapitulating every discouragement calcula|ted to terrify weak minds, like an able logician, you draw an inference as foreign from the premises as probably you and I will be, before this letter reaches you. Ergo, "Under so many discouraging circum|stances, can virtue, can honour, or the love of your country, prompt you to persevere? Humanity itself, (and then a stroke of flattery) calls you to desist." The very idea of virtue implies difficulties and disap|pointments; was it not so, patriotism would degene|rate into licentiousness, and liberty be of no real value.

True it is, that where-ever our army encamps, it becomes somewhat burthensome to the inhabitants of the vicinage: But observe the progress of the British spoiler—murder, rape, robbery, and burning, mark their footsteps. And though sometimes they may pursue, they as often shamefully retreat, and con|tinue the devastation which they (not we) have be|gun.

Wisdom dictates a glorious and happy peace, and humanity wishes for it, but accommodation seems to imply dependance: A sacrifice which I am confident America will never make. You call upon his Ex|cellency in the name of the whole Continent, to make this destructive sacrifice, and to become "the friend and guardian of his country"—by withdrawing his protection.

As a full and conclusive answer to the two follow|ing paragraphs, I refer you to a serious perusal of Lord Chatham's speech in the House of Lord's▪ June third, 1777.

That you did not write this letter under the eye, or immediate inspection of any British officer, or any person connected with the British army or ministry,

is the only assertion in your whole performance which is believed; but that you wrote it at the instigation of some, and for the perusal and eclat of all such per|sons, appears very evident. This is a master piece of casuistry, and would do honour to the eldest son of St. Ignatius himself.

After casting he foulest aspersions on Congress, scandalizing the officers and the army, and affronting his Excellency with the most villanous propositions, you say, "I would fain hope, that I have said noth|ing by which your delicacy can in the least be hurt, if so, 'twas without intentention, and your candour will lead you to forgive me." O most consummate as|surance! You would not offend the meanest person on earth; I believe you, Sir—you cannot offend, your obscurity hides you, and your insignificance renders harmless the shafts of your malice.

I never before saw a discrimination between the love of truth, of peace, of our God, and the love of our country. The end of war is peace—'tis for that we are now contending. Peace promotes truth and Religion; your principles would annihilate both. 'Tis for our country we fight, for her we dare bleed —Religion and justice approve to conflict.

In fine, your whole performance is a rhapsody, without pathos to soften, or arguments to convince; and your last proposition is of such a horrid, villa|nous nature, that I blush to think o•• it.

Indeed, Sir, I sincerely lament your departure from virtue, from honour, from your country which, a|las! you have for-ever sold. This, perhaps, may be said in your excuse,—

Incenditque Animum Famoe venientis Amore.

But can riches, can fame, or clerical preferment re|pay you for a lost character & prostituted conscience? These shores, as well as your own reflections, will be forever hostile to you. You are now going to a country where you must flatter for a subsistance, and exist upon the smiles of the great. A miserable state of dependance and servility is the only prospect before you; and this is the eligible exchange you have

made—O Tempora! O Mores!—Your talents will perhaps be exercised there to as little purpose as her••: You will ever be the contempt of honest men, and the tool of high-priests and knaves in power.

I leave you in the hands of Heaven and a guilty conscience, and am your humble servant,

JOHN PARKE, Lieut. Colonel.

N. B. Mr. Duche's letter is published in the Phi|ladelphia papers with many alterations and amend|ments, which were not in the original sent out.

FINIS.