Title
Background
The Journal 1776
Write from thy heart, Mary, from the inmost recesses of it, that I may look into it, as it loves, hopes, thinks, fears, that, though absent, thou mayest be near, and that thy troubles, thy cares, may be shared, though not alleviated, by one whom thou lovest, and who loves thee.
The request shall be granted; each day a page in the journal, or a letter to my husband. Still at the Parsonage with my three precious children; already heart-weary September at your absence, but striving to keep up courage. Today received intelligence of the unfortunate affair of Brooklyn. What a skilful movement was that of General Washington — a wonderful retreat! — the enemy so near that the sound of their pickaxes and shovels could be heard! It is a new proof of his cool forethought and judgment. The heavy fog seemed to fall providentially. May we not accept it as an omen that our leader is the favored of Heaven?
In this quiet nook where we had hoped to find peace and safety, we shall have disturbance, fear, and danger; since the enemy have possession of the island, there can be no doubt of it, but to some extent my father's neutral stand, and sacred profession, will protect us. As we have moved to this place, dear
Edward, since you left us, I think it will be agreeable to you to have some little description of it. It is a low-roofed, Dutch style of house, with its gable to the road; white-washed and covered with sweetbriar and creeping vines of many kinds; and my father has planted the ivy, which came from his dear Old England. It grows slowly, and the children love to pick its glossy leaves, and carry them to grandpa. At the sight of them, his heart of tender- ness reverts to early days; he tells them of the old castles, and grey ruins it mantles over the sea, and of the one which overgrew the cottage where he was born. The thoughts of my dear, honored parent remind me of a brave old tree torn up by its roots, and transplanted into a foreign soil; it may not die, but it has a sickly appearance, and its leaves have lost their living green, and are pale and yellow. The front door opens into a hall of moderate size. On the right is the parlor; back of it my father's study, while on the other side is the dining-room and bed-room, and in the wing the kitchen. The rooms above are spacious and convenient, the windows at the end being large, admitting air and light. Across the front of the dwelling runs a piazza, or covered porch. Here we sit and sew, and talk, and read. My father tells me the news, which he gathers in his walks in the neighborhood; and I read to him portions of your letters, which indeed is but seldom, because they are so few. His breast is, I think, agitated by contending emotions. He is attached to the land of his adoption, and can sympathize in her distress, but naturally his first, his dearest affections, were given to the land of his birth. Can we censure this? call it infatuation, blindness? Oh no I I honor my father for the sentiment. Do not condemn it, Edward.
We love this, our native land, the native country of my mother, of both your parents. Her cause seems to us a righteous one. She is over-taxed, oppressed, insulted; my father feels this, he is indignant at it; yet, in his character of ambassador of Christ, follower of the Crucified, as well as by nature's instinct, he hates the sin, while he loves the sinner. They seem (the English) the foes of our own household to him; brother lifting up sword against brother, in unnatural warfare, which he prays may speedily come to an end!
Write from thy heart, Mary, from the inmost recesses of it, that I may look into it, as it loves, hopes, thinks, fears, that, though absent, thou mayest be near, and that thy troubles, thy cares, may be shared, though not alleviated, by one whom thou lovest, and who loves thee.
The request shall be granted; each day a page in the journal, or a letter to my husband. Still at the Parsonage with my three precious children; already heart-weary September at your absence, but striving to keep up courage. Today received intelligence of the unfortunate affair of Brooklyn. What a skilful movement was that of General Washington — a wonderful retreat! — the enemy so near that the sound of their pickaxes and shovels could be heard! It is a new proof of his cool forethought and judgment. The heavy fog seemed to fall providentially. May we not accept it as an omen that our leader is the favored of Heaven?
In this quiet nook where we had hoped to find peace and safety, we shall have disturbance, fear, and danger; since the enemy have possession of the island, there can be no doubt of it, but to some extent my father's neutral stand, and sacred profession, will protect us. As we have moved to this place, dear
Edward, since you left us, I think it will be agreeable to you to have some little description of it. It is a low-roofed, Dutch style of house, with its gable to the road; white-washed and covered with sweetbriar and creeping vines of many kinds; and my father has planted the ivy, which came from his dear Old England. It grows slowly, and the children love to pick its glossy leaves, and carry them to grandpa. At the sight of them, his heart of tender- ness reverts to early days; he tells them of the old castles, and grey ruins it mantles over the sea, and of the one which overgrew the cottage where he was born. The thoughts of my dear, honored parent remind me of a brave old tree torn up by its roots, and transplanted into a foreign soil; it may not die, but it has a sickly appearance, and its leaves have lost their living green, and are pale and yellow. The front door opens into a hall of moderate size. On the right is the parlor; back of it my father's study, while on the other side is the dining-room and bed-room, and in the wing the kitchen. The rooms above are spacious and convenient, the windows at the end being large, admitting air and light. Across the front of the dwelling runs a piazza, or covered porch. Here we sit and sew, and talk, and read. My father tells me the news, which he gathers in his walks in the neighborhood; and I read to him portions of your letters, which indeed is but seldom, because they are so few. His breast is, I think, agitated by contending emotions. He is attached to the land of his adoption, and can sympathize in her distress, but naturally his first, his dearest affections, were given to the land of his birth. Can we censure this? call it infatuation, blindness? Oh no I I honor my father for the sentiment. Do not condemn it, Edward.
We love this, our native land, the native country of my mother, of both your parents. Her cause seems to us a righteous one. She is over-taxed, oppressed, insulted; my father feels this, he is indignant at it; yet, in his character of ambassador of Christ, follower of the Crucified, as well as by nature's instinct, he hates the sin, while he loves the sinner. They seem (the English) the foes of our own household to him; brother lifting up sword against brother, in unnatural warfare, which he prays may speedily come to an end!
Guiding Questions
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