But the raw American, only arrived a week, is in a maze, a confusion, a hurry. He is excited and mystified. He tries to appear cool and unconcerned, and is simply ridiculous. His cards, bearing his name, title and official status, he distributes as freely as doth the winter wind the snow-flakes. Inquire at the Langham office for Mr. Smith, and you find he has blossomed into General Smith. He is always partaking or about to partake of official dinners. He feels that the eyes of all England are upon him. He is dressed _à la_ bandbox--hat immaculate in its pristine gloss, white cravat, umbrella of the slimmest encased in silken wrapper. A speck of mud on his boots would tarnish the national honor. Commonly, he is taken for a head-butler. He drinks much stout. He eats a whitebait dinner before being forty-eight hours in London, and tells of it. All this makes him feel English. You meet him. He is overjoyed. He would talk of everything--your mutual experience in America, his sensations and impressions since arriving in England. He talks intelligibly of nothing. His brain is a mere rag-bag, shreddy, confused, parti-colored. Thus he empties it: "Passage over rough;" "London wonderful;" "Dined with the earl of ---- yesterday;" "Dine with Sir ---- to-day;" "To the Tower;" "Westminster;" "New York growing;" "Saint Paul's"--going, going, gone! and he shakes hands with you, and is off at a Broadway gait straight toward the East End of London for his hotel, which lies at the West End. 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.