On April 14th, 1789, Fulton wrote his mother that he was in perfect health and had good prospect of succeeding in his profession. He confessed that “painting requires more study than I at first imagined, in Consequence of which I will be obliged to stay longer than I expected. But,” he adds, “all things work together for good and I am convinced my exertions will have a good tendency.” There is brave hope in the letter but a touch of home-sickness: “In your next letter,” he continues, “please to give me a very particular account of everything you know, particularly how you like the little farm,—if you have a good garden, and what kind of neighbors you have got. And in fact I should like to know everything that will give you pleasure or promote the happiness of the family. There is nothing interrupts my happiness here but the desire of seeing my relations, but time will bring us together and I hope at my return to see you all happy as the day is long.” It is a very human letter, just such as any fond son might write from a strange land. The constancy of affection, the admission of loneliness, the confession that his task is hard and long, yet withal, the brave faith in the Bible promise taught by his good mother that “all things work together for good,” is stronger than any note of weakness. It was not long before Fulton’s winning manner gained him a host of friends in London, for in West’s studio he met many prominent men, and they in turn introduced him to others. With one of these, Mr. Henry Fulton, a distant kinsman, he became intimate and arranged that all his letters should be sent in this gentleman’s care, for he was a London merchant and well known. Mails were very irregular in those days, and it was uncertain whether a letter, even when properly started, would reach its destination. Postage rates were high and kindly friends who were crossing the ocean carried packets of letters which they passed on to other travelers, until the missives finally reached the persons for whom they were intended. At this point we may let Fulton tell his own story, for none could tell it so well. The letters which follow are intimate; they confide the secrets he withheld from those about him and confided to his mother only when times brightened and his success as an artist became certain. Although happy in forming new friendships in a new land, Fulton could not forget the comrades of his early days. The fifty letters he so casually alludes to in the following letter probably represent but a few of the many friends whom he cherished in memory and desired to touch with that far-reaching wand, the pen of remembrance. The letter to his mother was written from London on July 31st, 1789. AFFECTIONATE MOTHER;