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Editorial Reviews. pixia-club.info Review. Left to his own devices, John Adams might have lived John Adams - Kindle edition by David McCullough. Download it. Read John Adams PDF - by David McCullough Simon & Schuster | The Pulitzer Prize–winning, bestselling biography of America's founding. Read John Adams by David McCullough for free with a 30 day free trial. Read unlimited* books and audiobooks on the web, iPad, iPhone and Android.

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FROM THE #1 NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF JOHN ADAMS On May 15th, David McCullough presented The Course of Human Events. McCullough - David McCullough For Rosalee Barnes McCullough . the flamboyant Lord Mayor of London, John Wilkes, and the leading Whig Congress, was thirty-nine, John Adams, forty, Thomas Jefferson , thirty-two. A Companion to John Adams and John Quincy Adams, First Edition. Edited by David The acclaimed popular historian David McCullough () made his.

About The Book. Reading Group Guide. About The Author. Photograph by William B. David McCullough. Product Details. Related Articles.

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Raves and Reviews. Walter Isaacson Time A masterwork of storytelling. Awards and Honors. Resources and Downloads. John Adams Trade Paperback In , the United States is officially recognized by the world as an independent nation upon the signing of the Treaty of Paris. During this time, Adams recognizes a moral shift amongst the American people. James Warren writes that patriotism has been abandoned to money and materialism. How has the institution of slavery influenced the morale of American people?

Does the economic value of slavery make creating a unified government more challenging? Adams displays a bit of apprehension toward his nomination for Vice President of the United States. Why do you think he won by such a small margin? In , the United States prepares to go to war with France. What was the turning point in the United States relationship with France? Winter makes its approaches fast, she had written to John in November.

I hope I shall not be obliged to spend it without my dearest friend. I have been like a nun in a cloister ever since you went away. He would never return to Philadelphia without her, he had vowed in a letter from his lodgings there. But they each knew better, just as each understood the importance of having Joseph Bass go with him. The young man was a tie with home, a familiar home-face. Once Adams had resettled in Philadelphia, Bass would return home with the horses, and bring also whatever could be found of the common small necessities impossible to obtain now, with war at the doorstep.

Could Bass bring her a bundle of pins? Abigail had requested earlier, in the bloody spring of Her determination that he play his part was quite as strong as his own. They were of one and the same spirit. You cannot be, I know, nor do I wish to see you, an inactive spectator, she wrote at her kitchen table.

Unlike the delegates at Philadelphia, she and the children were confronted with the reality of war every waking hour. For though British troops were bottled up in Boston, the British fleet commanded the harbor and the sea and thus no town by the shore was safe from attack.

Meanwhile, shortages of sugar, coffee, pepper, shoes, and ordinary pins were worse than he had any idea.

The cry for pins is so great that what we used to buy for 7 shillings and six pence are now 20 shillings and not to be had for that. A bundle of pins contained six thousand, she explained. These she could sell for hard money or use for barter. There had been a rush of excitement when the British sent an expedition to seize hay and livestock on one of the islands offshore.

The alarm flew [like] lightning, Abigail reported, men from all parts came flocking down till 2, were collected.

The crisis had passed, but not her state of nerves, with the house so close to the road and the comings and goings of soldiers. They stopped at her door for food and slept on her kitchen floor. Pewter spoons were melted for bullets in her fireplace. Sometimes refugees from Boston tired and fatigued, seek an asylum for a day or night, a week, she wrote to John.

You can hardly imagine how we live. I endeavor to live in the most frugal manner possible, but I am many times distressed. The day of the battle of Bunker Hill, June 17, , the thunder of the bombardment had been terrifying, even at the distance of Braintree. Earlier, in April, when news came of Lexington and Concord, John, who was at home at the time, had saddled his horse and gone to see for himself, riding for miles along the route of the British march, past burned-out houses and scenes of extreme distress.

He knew then what war meant, what the British meant, and warned Abigail that in case of danger she and the children must fly to the woods. From a granite outcropping that breached the summit like the hump of a whale, they could see the smoke of battle rising beyond Boston, ten miles up the bay.

It was the first all-out battle of the war. How many have fallen we know not, she wrote that night. The constant roar of the cannon is so distressing that we cannot eat, drink, or sleep. A handsome young physician and leading patriot allied with Samuel Adams and Paul Revere, Warren had been one of the worthiest men of the province. John had known him since the smallpox epidemic of , when John had gone to Boston to be inoculated.

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Now Joseph Warren was dead at age thirty-four, shot through the face, his body horribly mutilated by British bayonets. They would travel the Post Road west across Massachusetts as far as Springfield on the Connecticut River, there cross by ferry and swing south along the west bank, down the valley into Connecticut. At New York, horses and riders would be ferried over the Hudson River to New Jersey, where they would travel as fine a road as ever trod, in the opinion of John Adams, whose first official position in Braintree had been surveyor of roads.

Three more ferry crossings, at Hackensack, Newark, and New Brunswick, would put them on a straightaway ride to the little college town of Princeton. Then came Trenton and a final ferry crossing over the Delaware to Pennsylvania. In another twenty miles they would be in sight of Philadelphia.

All told, they would pass through more than fifty towns in five provinces—some twenty towns in Massachusetts alone—stopping several times a day to eat, sleep, or tend the horses. With ice clogging the rivers, there was no estimating how long delays might be at ferry crossings.

Making the journey in , Adams had traveled in style, with the full Massachusetts delegation, everyone in a state of high expectation. He had been a different man then, torn between elation and despair over what might be expected of him. It had been his first chance to see something of the world.

His father had lived his entire life in Braintree, and no Adams had ever taken part in public life beyond Braintree. He himself had never set foot out of New England, and many days he suffered intense torment over his ability to meet the demands of the new role to be played. Politics did not come easily to him. But was there anyone of sufficient experience or ability to meet the demands of the moment? I wander alone, and ponder. I muse, I mope, I ruminate, he wrote in the seclusion of his diary.

We have not men fit for the times. We are deficient in genius, education, in travel, fortune—in everything. I feel unutterable anxiety. He must prepare for a long journey indeed, he had told Abigail. But if the length of the journey was all, it would be no burden. Great things are wanted to be done. I think it will be necessary to make me up a couple of pieces of new linen. I am told they wash miserably at N[ew] York, the Jerseys, and Philadelphia, too, in comparison of Boston, and am advised to carry a great deal of linen.

Whether to make me a suit of new clothes at Boston or to make them at Philadelphia, and what to make I know not.

Still, the prospect of a gathering of such historic portent stirred him as nothing ever had. It is to be a school of political prophets I suppose—a nursery of American statesmen, he wrote to a friend, James Warren of Plymouth. May it thrive and prosper and flourish and from this fountain may there issue streams, which shall gladden all the cities and towns in North America, forever.

There had been a rousing send-off in Boston, on August 10, , and in full view of British troops. Samuel Adams, never a fancy dresser, had appeared in a stunning new red coat, new wig, silver-buckled shoes, gold knee buckles, the best silk hose, a spotless new cocked hat on his massive head, and carrying a gold-headed cane, all gifts from the Sons of Liberty. It was thought that as leader of the delegation he should look the part.

In addition, they had provided a little purse for expenses.

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It had been a triumphal, leisurely journey of nearly three weeks, with welcoming parties riding out to greet them at town after town. They were feted and toasted, prayers were said, church bells rang.

Silas Deane, a Connecticut delegate who joined the procession, assured John Adams that the Congress was to be the grandest, most important assembly ever held in America. At New Haven every bell was clanging, people were crowding at doors and windows as if to see a coronation.

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In New York they were shown the sights—City Hall, the college, and at Bowling Green, at the foot of Broadway, the gilded equestrian statue of King George III, which had yet to be pulled from its pedestal by an angry mob. The grand houses and hospitality were such as Adams had never known, even if, as a self-respecting New Englander, he thought New Yorkers lacking in decorum. They talk very loud, very fast, and altogether, he observed.

If they ask you a question, before you can utter three words of your answer, they will break out upon you again—and talk away. Tomorrow we reach the theater of action.

God Almighty grant us wisdom and virtue sufficient for the high trust that is devolved upon us. But that had been nearly two years past. It had been high summer, green and baking hot under summer skies, an entirely different time that now seemed far past, so much had happened since. There had been no war then, no blood had been spilled at Lexington, Concord, and Bunker Hill.

Now fully twenty regiments of red-coated British regulars occupied Boston under General William Howe. British warships, some of 50 guns, lay at anchor in Boston Harbor, while American forces outside the city had become perilously thin. In the late summer and fall of , the bloody flux, epidemic dysentery, had ripped through their ranks. Nor was Braintree spared the violent epidemic. For Abigail, then thirty years old, it had been the worst ordeal of her life.

Such is the distress of the neighborhood that I can scarcely find a well person to assist me in looking after the sick. As to politics I know nothing about them. I have wrote as much as I am able to, being very weak. Randall has lost her daughter, Mrs. Bracket hers, Mr. Thomas Thayer his wife, she reported.

I know of eight this week who have been buried in this town. Parson Wibird was so ill he could scarcely take a step.

We have been four sabbaths without any meeting. Their three-year-old Tommy was so wretchedly sick that [were] you to look upon him you would not know him. She was constantly scrubbing the house with hot vinegar. Woe follows woe, one affliction treads upon the heel of another, she wrote. Some families had lost three, four, and five children. Some families were entirely gone. The strong clarity of her handwriting, the unhesitating flow of her pen across the paper, line after line, seemed at odds with her circumstances.

Rarely was a word crossed out or changed. It was as if she knew exactly what was in her heart and how she wished to express it—as if the very act of writing, of forming letters, in her distinctive angular fashion, keeping every line straight, would somehow help maintain her balance, validate her own being in such times.

She had begun signing herself Portia, after the long-suffering, virtuous wife of the Roman statesman Brutus. If her dearest friend was to play the part of a Roman hero, so would she. Her mother lay mortally ill in neighboring Weymouth. When, on October 1, , her mother died, Abigail wrote to John, You often expressed your anxiety over me when you left me before, surrounded with terrors, but my trouble then was as the small dust in the balance compared to what I have since endured.

In addition to tending her children, she was nursing a desperately ill servant named Patty. The girl had become the most shocking object my eyes ever beheld. It was all Abigail could do to remain in the same house.

When Patty died on October 9, she made the fourth corpse that was this day committed to the ground. Correspondence was maddeningly slow and unreliable. In late October she wrote to say she had not had a line from John in a month and that in his last letter he had made no mention of the six she had written to him.

Yet in that time he had written seven letters to her, including one mourning the loss of her mother and asking for news of poor, distressed Patty. But for days afterward, their enlistments up, hundreds, thousands of troops, New England militia, started for home.

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Replacements had to be found, an immensely difficult and potentially perilous changing of the guard had to be carried off, one army moving out, another moving in, all in the bitter winds and snow of winter and in such fashion as the enemy would never know.

It is not in the pages of history, perhaps, to furnish a case like ours, Washington informed John Hancock, president of the Continental Congress. Hardly 5, colonial troops were fit for duty. Promises of men, muskets, powder, and urgently needed supplies never materialized. Blankets and linen for bandages were greatly wanted.

Firewood was in short supply. With smallpox spreading in Boston, the British command had allowed pathetic columns of the ill-clad, starving poor of Boston to come pouring out of town and into the American lines, many of them sick, and all in desperate need of food and shelter. The reflection on my situation and that of this army produces many an unhappy hour when all around me are wrapped in sleep, wrote Washington, who had never before commanded anything larger than a regiment.

The night of January 8, Washington had ordered a brief American assault on Charlestown, largely to keep the British guessing. Whether American forces were on the attack or defense, he could not tell. But in either case, I rejoice, he wrote, taking up his pen again, for defeat appears to me preferable to total inaction. As it was, Washington saw his situation to be so precarious that the only choice was an all-out attack on Boston, and he wrote to tell Adams, I am exceedingly desirous of consulting you.

As a former delegate to Philadelphia, Washington understood the need to keep Congress informed. Your commission constitutes you commander of all the forces. No one in Congress had impressed Adams more. On the day he had called on his fellow delegates to put their colleague, the gentleman from Virginia, in command at Boston, Washington, out of modesty, had left the chamber, while a look of mortification, as Adams would tell the story, filled the face of John Hancock, who had hoped he would be chosen.

Washington was virtuous, brave, and in his new responsibilities, one of the most important characters in the world, Adams had informed Abigail. The liberties of America depend upon him in great degree. Later, when she met Washington at a Cambridge reception, Abigail thought John had not said half enough in praise of him. With others of the Massachusetts congressional delegation still at Philadelphia, Adams was the only member of Congress present as Washington made the case for an attack on Boston, by sending his troops across the frozen bay.

But the generals flatly rejected the plan and it was put aside. Two days later, Adams was summoned again.Thomas Thayer his wife, she reported. For additional information, see the Global Shipping Program terms and conditions - opens in a new window or tab.

People saw each other at church, town meeting, in the mill, or at the taverns. Hardly 5, colonial troops were fit for duty. Recalling his childhood in later life, Adams wrote of the unparalleled bliss of roaming the open fields and woodlands of the town, of exploring the creeks, hiking the beaches, of making and sailing boats.

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