Ty-foong passed?—?Pleasant Season?—?Theatrical Exhibition?—?The MacÀense?—?Philharmonic Society?—?Italian Opera?—?Awaiting Orders for Home?—?Thoughts of Home and Friends?—?Idea suggested by the Setting Sun?—?Poetry?—?Maladie de Pays?—?Its effects upon the Swiss?—?A Remedy?—?My own Experience?—?And manner of Cure.

The symptoms of the Ty-foong having passed over, and all fears of its recurrence at an end, time went pleasantly by at MacÀo. The temperature was most delightful, this season being certainly the most agreeable in this part of China, a number of foreign residents from Canton and Hong-Kong adding to its gayety.

The Portuguese officers, aided by the citizens, got up for our amusement a theatrical exhibition, at the old rooms formerly occupied by the Philharmonic Society. The representations were very good, and the accommodations for the audience excellent. Saw the elitÉ of MacÀo at these performances, and must say the MacÀense are not without a goodly share of female beauty, although it is not apparent upon all occasions, for the decline of the place has affected the finances of the families, and their pride will not allow them to exhibit their poverty upon common occasions, not that there was any evidence of it here, for the ladies were all richly as well as tastily dressed.It is perhaps not generally known that opera once flourished in MacÀo. An Italian company, who had carried their "sweet voices" around the world, once made these walls vocal with the music of Donnizetti, Bellini, and others of their great maestros, and "Lucia di Lammermoor" lamented her lost love, and the amiable Amina sobbed forth her somnambulic sorrows for her false lover, upon these very boards.

The performance given upon this occasion was not in opera, but dramatic, something about the troubles of a Jew—not le Juif Errant—although this member of his tribe was off and on sufficiently to have given him a claim to this title.

An interval, filled up by promenading to some pretty good music, was succeeded by a funny farce, which sent the audience laughing to their beds.

We awaited here the arrival of the Commodore, whom we had heard was to bring us our release, and send us home immediately upon his reaching the station. Had not a full view of the part of the horizon from which the flagship might be expected to emerge, but many were the glasses directed to the mouth of the Typa, from which a glimpse of the ocean could be gained, and the quarter-masters of each watch were repeatedly ordered to keep a good look-out. The fact was, we were getting tired of China, and despite all the kind favors showered upon us, longed for home:

And thoughts of home and dear ones there, would intrude, and strong desires once more to tread the soil of that loved native land, and to press the hands of early and long-tried friends, could not be entirely repressed, although not altogether just to "those we had here."

But we had been now nearly two years absent. Two years on shipboard is a long, a very long time—try it if you doubt—and had seen nearly all that was worthy of observation within our reach. Seas of immense extent rolled between us and our homes, and the circumference of the globe had to be traversed ere we could expect to meet our friends. No wonder then that we so ardently desired to be allowed to point our prow towards the West, or watching the retiring beams of the setting sun, envied that orb the privilege that action gave, of kissing eyelids and gazing into eyes, on which we were wont to gaze "lang syne," nor under the influence of such thoughts that we should give them vent in this manner:

I have before explained the causes which operated upon me to produce such effects as above, and hope the reader, if ever he or she should have been afflicted in either of the ways I have mentioned, will at least tolerate the method of alleviation.

This "maladie-de-pays" is a horrible sensation, worse than sea-sickness, I ween, and I can fully sympathize with the poor Swiss, who are said to have fallen victims to it in the armies of Napoleon. He should have allowed pens, ink, and any quantity of writing paper; they might have relieved their minds by scribbling. Music is also said to be a capital cure, although the "Ranz des Vaches" did not succeed; but I judge from the cheerful countenances of those of their countrymen who are in the habit of parading our streets with a hand organ and monkey, and enlivening us with the air of

For myself I have only experienced the malady twice. The first attack occurred, when with a heart rather more tender than at the present writing, I was left amongst a parcel of strange inquisitive boys, at a boarding-school in the country, at what then appeared to my unsophisticated mind away "'tother side of yonder;"—I shall never forget, although I may laugh at it now, the feeling of utter desolateness that came over me, or how low sank my little heart, even to the very soles of my stockings, when the Dominie, whose face was fast forgetting the smiles it had worn in my good parents' presence, inquired in a tone half hypocritical, half ironical: "What does the young gentleman want now?" and I blubberingly answered, "I—want—to—go—go—home." I recovered from that attack with the aid of counter irritation by the application of birch, and emollients in the shape of scribbling verses to the metre of "dulce—dulce domum." The effects of the second are now before the reader, from which I opine he is the greatest sufferer, and this is dispersed by music, for the "retreat" has just been beaten, and I shall turn in.