a paper, 1,500 miles from Charleston. At breakfast I found meats in abundance, besides a peck of eggs, and huge dishes of toast and rolls soaked in butter, and smothered with cream, to make the hard crust tender. I am now again in negro land, and all the comforts of slavery surround me. In Philadelphia I seemed a man; but here, a god for negroes to worship. All is homage and black attention. The city, seen from the bay, might be mistaken for Rome, and the huge dome of the Exchange for that of Holy St. Peter's.
At ten, a. m., entered Uncle Sam's mail for Washington city, that is to be. During this long journey, I saw no good land, save the marshes on the banks of the Delaware. All seems exhausted, worn-out, rusty, and hung up to dry, or rather to bake in the sun.
At four, p. m., reached Washington, which, viewed from the Capitol Hill, looks like a Roman village, for all is Roman or Grecian here. The streets are a mile or two in length, with houses a quarter of a mile apart, beautified by trees and swamps, and cows grazing between. At first view, a {100} stranger might suppose that some convulsion of nature had swept away whole streets, and laid waste this far-famed metropolitan city.
At seven, p. m., I met, at a private table at the house of a friend and countryman, several exiles, to tea, or rather supper, where I was received and treated with all imaginable kindness. Here I was formally introduced to my countryman, Mr. Elliott, of the City Gazette.[16] I visited
