Dear Sir,
I embrace the opportunity of writing to you by the favour of Mrs. Orris. I enclose a letter received [426] from the celebrated Francis Guy, landscape painter, who lately died at New York. He was at the head of his profession in this country, and perhaps in the world. He was born near Keswick, in Cumberland, England. I knew him well, and esteemed him highly, as well for his virtues as his talents. In this letter, (which I believe was the last he wrote, it being dated only a few days before his death) you will know the opinion of many artists, who have left their country to seek for food and fame in this, and see how they are rewarded for the exercise of their talents in this great republic of North America. He (Guy) told me that he had not received 50 cents per day for his labours! You are welcome to any use of this letter.
Buildings seem to rise very fast, notwithstanding the badness of the times, as they are termed.
Please to favour me with a letter as soon as convenient. I am in daily expectation of the nuts, &c. The ground has been ploughed some weeks for their reception. I am in good health, but my mother, my wife, my brother, his wife, and oldest child are all very sick.
Please accept my best wishes for your welfare. The club also wish to be remembered to you.
Your Old Friend.
To Mr. Faux.
[427] Brooklyn, Long Island,
June 29th, 1820.
My Dear Friend,
I received yours, with its inclosures, in due time, and it would be a difficult thing for me to describe the pleasure I feel at seeing such a proof of your continued friendship. There is, indeed, a something in a real upright and downright honest John Bull, that cannot be found in the sly, say-nothing, smiling, deep speculating, money-hunting Jonathans of this all-men-are-born-equally-free-and-independent, negro-driving, cow-skin republic.