Why the devil don�t George Bolton write to me.
15. Thursday. Went to New York. Called in at Renwick�s
and saw More, Heylyns fellow-official. Talk architectural and
national. Call on Warren Butler. Proposition of design for big
show-bill. Great assemblage all about and in the Park
and in honour of the memory of defunct Generals. Worth and another.
Military company, of all uniforms, blue, red &c. Mostly young fellows,
and look very Gallic in appointments and tournure.
16. Friday. At work drawing all day.
17. Saturday. In the afternoon took the design for show-bill
to Butler. Returning, had a chat with little Reuben at the clothing
store he officiates as �touter� to. (He shewed me the daguerrotype of his
inamorata, and she herself passed bye.) Walked Jersey-wards
meditatively after a bit of a stroll up Broadway. Faith, had
I, when hurrying up it for the first time with Dick Gunn, George
Bolton and the Wenhamites, pictured myself as now, in California
hat, and �peaked� beard I should have smiled; albeit to some-
what sad being so lonely. Passed through Washington Market,
all alive with traffic. Pleasant faces of women purchasers, suggesting
thoughts of their homes and firesides, and bringing sad thoughts of
my own isolation. Yet a crowd is a melancholy sight. To think
of all the throng of human beings, each with his own loves, hopes and
anxieties, and to know that a few brief years and �all has passed
away.� A market place in Babylon, or Troy, (if Homer�s Troy