mind. He is undergoing the
mental acclimatization fever. Should he stay in London for three
months, he might recover and begin to find out where he is. But six
months hence he will have returned to America, fancying he has seen
London, Paris, Rome, Geneva, Vienna, and whatever other places
his body has been hurried through, not his mind; for that, in the
excitement and rapidity of his flight, has streamed behind him like
the tail of a comet, light, attenuated, vapory, catching nothing,
absorbing nothing.

Occasionally this fever takes an abusive phase. He finds in England
nothing to like, nothing to admire. Sometimes he wishes immediately to
revolutionize the government. He is incensed at the cost of royalty.
He sees on every side indications of political upheaval. Or he becomes
culinarily disgusted. Because there are no buckwheat cakes, no codfish
cakes, no hot bread, no pork and beans, no mammoth oysters, stewed,
fried and roasted, he can find nothing fit to eat. The English
cannot cook. Because he can find no noisy, clattering, dish-smashing
restaurant, full of acrobatic waiters racing and balancing under
immense piles of plates, and shouting jargon untranslatable,
unintelligible and unpronounceable down into the lower kitchen, he
cannot, cannot eat.

PRENTICE MULFORD.

FAREWELL.

The occasion commemorated in the following verses--one of those
festive meetings with which tender-hearted Philadelphians are wont to
brace themselves up for sorrowful partings--called forth expressions
of deep regret and cordial good wishes, in which many of our readers,
we doubt not, will readily join:

If from my quivering lips in vain
The faltering accents strove to flow,
It was because my heart's deep pain
Bade tears be swift and utterance slow;
For in that moment rose the ghosts
Of pleasant hours in bygone years;
And your kind faces, O my hosts!
Showed blurred and dimly through my tears.

I could not tell you of the pride
That thrilled me in that parting hour:
Grief held command all undenied,
And only o'er my speech had power.
I found no words to tell the thoughts
That strove for utterance in my brain:
With gratitude my soul was fraught,
And yet I only spoke of pain.

O friends! 'tis you, and such as you,
That make this parting hard to bear!
Pass all things else my past life knew:
I scarcely heed--I do not care.
I lose in you the dearest part