LETTER XVIII. 191 



LETTER XVIII. 



London, 



Dec., 1887. 

 MY DEAR PAT, 



It is Longfellow, I think, who asks : 



' How canst thou walk in these streets, who hast trod the green 



turf of the prairies ? 



How canst thou breathe in this air, who hast breathed the 

 sweet air of the mountains V 



Looking with the dyspeptic eye of the body 

 upon the dense yellow fog and filthy slush of the 

 streets of London, and looking fondly back with 

 the eye of memory to the crystal clear skies 

 which hang over Canada, this is a natural ques- 

 tion to ask, a difficult one to answer. 



Perhaps it is best to avoid the question. Here 

 we do not walk, we crawl ; we don't breathe, we 

 choke. 



Ah, well, let me close my physical eyes and 

 open the eyes of memory. 



It is November, and a great train comes 



