We arrived in New York the 28th. It was a larger city than I had ever seen; it seemed to me very large, though it then contained only a fifth of its present population. We stayed there till after the 1st of January, and witnessed and shared that high holiday of Dutch origin, but at that time of almost universal observance. The house I most frequented was that of Mr. Robert Lenox, a rich Scotch merchant, intelligent, hearty, and hospitable, with a very agreeable family. We went to Philadelphia the 2d, and there Mr. John Vaughan, the Secretary of the Philosophical Society, took charge of me, and made me acquainted with every one whom I could desire to know. I was a great deal at the house of Mr. William Meredith, a lawyer held in much respect; but his wife (of the Morris family in New York) was so uncommon for talent, knowledge, and brilliant conversation, that he was rather overshadowed at home. She educated her large family herself, entirely fitting her sons for college. She was a lady of warm feelings, strong prejudices, and great energy, and much attached to Philadelphia. Her oldest son, Mr. William Meredith, is a leading lawyer in Philadelphia, and at one time was Secretary of the Treasury, under General Taylor. I dined with a large party at Mr. Daniel Parish's, and, for the first time in my life, saw a full service of silver plate, for twenty persons, with all the accompaniments of elegance and luxury to correspond, and a well-trained body of servants in full livery. But—what was of more interest to me—John Randolph was one of the guests. The instant I entered the room my eye fell on his lean and sallow physiognomy. He was sitting; and his head, with long hair, straight like an Indian's, seemed hardly larger than that of a well-grown boy. When I was presented to him, he rose to receive me, and seemed to tower at once a foot and a half above my own height. This arose from the peculiar conformation of his person: the upper part was small, and, until one was near enough to him to see the wrinkles in his face, it seemed boyish; but his extremities were unnaturally protracted, and his hands and feet long and large. He talked but little at table. I was a good deal at Mr. Hopkinson's, who was distinguished for the union of wit, sense, culture, and attractive manner. He was the son of Francis Hopkinson, of the Revolution, who wrote the Battle of the Kegs, and whose works have been published. Mr. Hopkinson was a prominent lawyer, and, later, was Judge of the United States District Court, for Pennsylvania. His house was one of the most agreeable
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