Are those English people who are now in America happier than they were in England? I will take upon me to pronounce, that in the aggregate, they are not. Happiness and misery are not mere localities, for as God is the father of all, the earth is his and the fulness thereof; his frowns or smiles are not bounded by geographical lines and latitudes; the whole human family are under his wise economy. God's management is always right. He can blast prosperity and bless disappointment, so as to keep it from disappointing; thus bringing good out of evil, light out of darkness, blessings out of curses, and curses out of blessings. Blessings unblessed are curses in disguise, and adversity blessed is a blessing. We need his blessing {425} upon every thing, even on his blessings. I am sometimes disposed to think that the blessings of American liberty are unblessed. Mr. Elliott deems universal suffrage, as it exists in America, an universal evil, because the worst and meanest of mankind, who are the most numerous every where, are enabled to exert an overwhelming influence over the good and the honourable. Every man here is a segment of the government. Mean and evil men seek to represent their like. A good man cannot descend to the mean mode of popularity; he cannot bribe with whiskey; he cannot promise what is evil to perform; and therefore but few good men are in the government. Antipathy to Englishmen, and whatever they suggest, is general and nearly national. For the following very interesting, original, and last letter of a distinguished, yet unfortunate artist, I am indebted to an old philosophical friend, whose well-judged opinions of and extensive acquaintance with men and things, make his sentiments precious and almost oracular. Let him here receive my thanks for the many pleasant hours which I spent in his company, and for the rich materials of thinking gathered from him. _Washington, September 5th, 1820._ 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.