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 want of capital; they hold so much unnegociable paper, and must hold it until the indorser pleases to cash it.

10th.—My host, every where the public eulogist of America, says, "that England is the place for men of fortune, but this land for the industrious bees who cannot live there. Fools must not come, for Americans are nationally cold, jealous, suspicious, and knavish, have little or no sense of honour, believing every man a rogue, until they see the contrary; thinking imposition and extortion fair business, and all men, fair game: kind, obliging {102} conduct is lost upon them. A bold, saucy, independent manner towards them is necessary. They love nobody but themselves, and seem incapable of due respect for the feelings of others. They have nothing original; all that is good or new, is done by foreigners, and by the British, and yet they boast eternally."

Such is the rough sketch of an admiring artist, once in a state of infatuation, but now getting sane and sober. The scales have left his eyes, and he begins to see, to his sorrow. I, too, fancy I see something like a strong and general feeling of disappointment, pervading almost all I meet, who have recently emigrated; and, on examination, I find that my observation does not deceive me. All have over-rated America. Hope told a flattering, lying tale, and they believed her to their own undoing. A visit to this country will increase an Englishman's love for his own, whether he can or cannot live in it. If he cannot, he comes here, cursing the cause, hating the change, and hoping to return, on some fair future day, which fate may yet have in store for him.

Sunday, 11th.—To-day, I received a long epistle from Joseph Lancaster, very eulogistic on my letter and conduct touching negro-killing, but not so honorable to Caro