Philadelphia, 25 May, 1777.
At half past four this morning I mounted my horse and took a ride in a
road that was new to me. I went to Kensington and then to
"Point-no-point" by land, the place where I went once before with a
large company in the row-galleys by water. That frolic was almost two
years ago. I gave you a relation of it in the time, I suppose. The road
to Point-no-point lies along the river Delaware, in fair sight of it and
its opposite shore. For near four miles the road is as straight as the
streets of Philadelphia. On each side are beautiful rows of trees,
buttonwoods, oaks, walnuts, cherries, and willows, especially down
towards the banks of the river. The meadows, pastures, and grass-plats
are as green as leeks. There are many fruit trees and fine orchards set
with the nicest regularity. But the fields of grain, the rye and wheat,
exceed all description. These fields are all sown in ridges, and the
furrow between each couple of ridges is as plainly to be seen as if a
swath had been mown along. Yet it is no wider than a plough-share, and
it is as straight as an arrow. It looks as if the sower had gone along
the furrow with his spectacles, to pick up every grain that should
accidentally fall into it. The corn is just coming out of the ground.
The furrows struck out for the hills to be planted in are each way as
straight as mathematical right lines; and the squares between every four
hills as exact as they could be done by plumb and line, or scale and
compass.
I am ashamed of our farmers. They are a lazy, ignorant set; in
husbandry, I mean; for they know infinitely more of everything else than
these. But after all, the native face of our country, diversified as it
is with hill and dale, sea and land, is to me more agreeable than this
enchanting artificial scene.