In reality, the man is not in his right 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
    Of pleasant time that here now ends: 
  Hand parts from hand, not heart from heart,
    And I must leave you, O my friends!

  What can the future’s fairest hours
    Bring me to recompense for these? 
  Acquaintances spring like the flowers—­
    Friends are slow growth, like forest trees. 
  Come hope or gladness, what there will—­
    Days bright as sunshine after rain—­
  The past gave life’s best blessings still: 
    We’ll find no friends like these again.