1820.

Dear Sir.—I thank you for your New-Year's letter, &c. * * * * As agriculture is the nursing mother of us all, it cannot be too assiduously cultivated; nor is it likely to be too much honoured, while mercantile profits are so much greater, and military glory is esteemed the highest glory!

The "American"[1] is an able writer; but I wish he had avoided so many appearances of endeavouring to justify, or at least to apologize for slavery in general. His arguments ad hominem from the Bible, reminded me of an anecdote, which as I am an old man, and as old age has a privilege to be talkative and narrative, I will attempt to relate: In the winter of '76, Mr. Paine's Common Sense and my Thoughts on Government, made their appearance in public, the one not long after the other. Common Sense recommended the Thoughts on Government; an organization in three distinct departments, as independent of each other as human beings can be;—the legislature to consist of three branches. Mr. Paine came flying to my apartment, to reproach me for publishing a monarchico, aristicratico, democratico system. He scolded violently, but I soothed him down by laughing at him in my turn. Paine, said I, how could you be such an abominable hypocrite, as to pretend to prove in your Common Sense from the Old Testament, that monarchy was not lawful by the word of God? This struck him dumb for a moment, but recovering himself, and shrugging his shoulders, and laughing, said, with great contempt; "I believe nothing of the Old Testament, nor the New neither;" and then pausing, said, "I have had thoughts of publishing my opinions upon religion, but upon the whole I have concluded to put it off till the latter part of my life." This plan he consistently pursued.

I am not sorry his bones are gone to England, to moulder in the soil where they grew; for I claim neither to myself or to my country, any honour from having once supported them.

I am, Sir, your obliged friend, and humble servant,

John Adams.

FAMILIAR LETTERS

From an Englishman in this country to his Friend at home.

(Communicated for the Rural Magazine.)

No. II.

Philada. Sept. 16, 1819.

My Dear G.

You know how very apt persons are to form an opinion of other persons with whom accident or design makes them acquainted, either on the very wise principles of Lavater, or the still wiser principles of Doctor—what's his name—(I wish I could forget as easily the labour I lost in studying him)—who first conceived craniology. You know also that I had every predisposition to the study of both these abstruse sciences, and the consequent deductions; so you will not be much surprised when I tell you that I have employed the time that has elapsed since the date of my last, in observing the physiognomy of Philadelphia. I did this, before I trespassed on the good-will, the hospitality, or the politeness of any of its citizens. You will observe I am perfectly distinct in my classification, and I beg of you to remember this, when you peruse any of my rambling epistles hereafter. My letters would, I hope, have commanded the civil attention of any person to whom they were addressed, independent of any particular kindness to which the recommendation of our venerable Quaker friend D—— of London would on the principle of reciprocity entitle me. But before I penetrated like Asmodeus in "Le Diable Boiteaux," into the domestic circle, the parlour, the halls, the tables, or the toilettes, or (shall I say it) to the counter and the desk. I wished to see the roofs, at least, if I could not see through them. So for the last week I have been studying physiognomies. There can be no need of apology to you my friend, who, (Heaven be praised) have never had occasion to leave the precincts of your ancient patrimony for any thing but pleasure, for dilating on a city that so far as it regards myself, has hitherto been on a par with Herculaneum or Pompeia. Some manuscripts and some printed accounts I have seen, but like those saved from the lava of Vesuvius, they were hardly worth unfolding. Indeed, I always pitied poor Sir Humphrey for so incomprehensible a task. He had better have staid at home, and made experiments in separating the brick and mortar from the old ruins lord L—— boasts of having been in his family, at the smallest calculation from William Rufus. I do wonder what it could have been that the ancients took such care of.

Well—I have seen Philadelphia.—And if it were not for the dull monotony of its right angles—the wide streets that throw such an immense space between your lodgings and any desired object—the want of all the cries I have been used to in all the popular cities I have frequented, except, indeed, the solitary halloo of a sweep, (and then only before one gets up in a morning) and the everlasting gong that wakes me from my sweetest slumber, and dreams of home, with all its indefinable attractions, I would say that Philadelphia was a very decent, orderly, well arranged, and handsome city. But give me Hogarth's line of beauty; I hate your everlasting parallels that run together to infinity, and never unite. By the way I am told that I shall be amply gratified in this respect in New York and Boston. There is only one street in this city, called Dock street, that is entitled to any claim to my fancy; and that is too broad, and nobody lives in it—all shops and warehouses.

The weather is remarkably fine,—every body complains of a want of rain:—for my part I must confess I had enough at home; and if I must find fault with the climate, it is too hot. Yet I do not find the lassitude I expected, consequent on exercise in the open air. Notwithstanding a mid-day sun, that in England we should have thought intolerable, a young gentleman with whom I formed an acquaintance at our excellent hotel, prevailed upon me to take a promenade along the Philadelphia Bond street, which here is denominated Chesnut street. We saw some mansions that would not have disgraced one of our fashionable squares;—some ladies that would have honoured the very first equipage that sports in Hyde Park. Only a few could boast of our Saxon complexion; but their forms were cast in a superior mould;—this I apprehend is aboriginal—and although I cannot learn that any are willing to acknowledge their derivation from the native Indians, several circumstances induce me to believe there has been a greater mixture with the first occupants of this vast continent than has been generally supposed. But more of this hereafter—if in my contemplated visit next summer to the falls of Niagara, I should meet with some of the deer skinned heroes and heroines of this western hemisphere. I have laid all those of the sock and buskin on the shelf, and am enthusiast enough to expect perfection among the savages of North America. Why should I not? Through all the obloquy that has been thrown upon them by their ruthless despoilers,

"More savage still than they,"

through all that inveteracy of feeling which those who injure universally entertain—and "they who injure never pardon," you may still find a confession, or rather an admission of their virtues and their talents, of their magnanimity of character, and their elevation of soul. Not merely that indifference to privation and bodily suffering which we have been taught, was characteristic of savage