How simple things are at the end of a journey and a daily restlessness to arrive!  My valise was taken to my room.  I went with the negro porter.  I looked from my window out upon Broadway.  The porter departed.  The door was closed.  My journey to New York was over.  I was alone.  I began to wish for Yarnell, wish to be back upon the boat.  Above all I began to sense the distance that separated me from England and those I loved.  Here was the afternoon on my hands.  Should I not see something of the city?  When should I start west?  I took from my pocket the letter written from Illinois by the lawyer, who had advised this journey and my presence at Jacksonville, for that was the town where my father’s estate was to be settled.  For the first time I was conscious of the fact that difficulties probably stood in my way.  The letter read:  “Claims are likely to be made against the estate that require your personal attention.”  What could it mean?  Why had my grandmother said nothing to me of this?  She had seen the letter.  I began to wonder.  But to fight down my growing loneliness I started out to see the city.

As I passed up the street I bought Valentine’s Manual and glanced at it as I walked.  How far up did the city extend?  The manual said more than thirteen miles.  I could not make that distance before dark.  A passerby said that there was a horse railway running as far as Murray Hill.  But I strode on, arriving in a little while at Washington Square.  Beyond this I could see that the city did not present the appearance of being greatly built.  On my way I passed the gas works, the City Hall, many banks, several circulating libraries, saw the signs of almost innumerable insurance companies.  But the people!  They were all strange to me.  So many negroes.  My manual said there were over 14,000 negroes in the city, which, added to the white population, made an aggregate of more than 200,000 souls.  I sat for a while in the Park and then retraced my steps.

On my way back I stopped at Niblo’s Garden at Broadway and Prince Street.  It was a gay place.  People were feasting upon oysters, drinking, laughing, talking over the affairs of the day.  Here I partook of oysters for the first time in my life.  I walked through the grounds, looking at the flowers.  I stared about at the splendor of the paintings and the mirrors in the rooms.  Then like a ghost I resumed my way to my hotel.  Why?  There was nothing there to call me back.  Yet it was the only home I had, and the evening was coming on.

Instead of stopping at the hotel, I went on to Castle Garden.  I decided to dine there.  I could look over the harbor and the ships.  It was a way to put myself in touch with England, to travel back over the way I had come.  I found a table and ordered a meal.