I wrote you very hastily yesterday from a most uncomfortable situation at Lovejoy’s. I will now tell you what I have been about since then, as much as I can before dinner. As I don’t have time to write for myself I wish you’d send both these letters to me when you can that I may keep them for a Log.

When I had closed the letter of yesterday, I gave the clerk another blow up, about the room, and then went over to Park Place, where a Regiment of the “Jefferson” somethings were on parade. One company—of rifles, in frocks, dark green and black, looked effective—and one of heavy infantry, grenadiers, looked ridiculous. The whole poorly drilled and awkwardly marching to poor music. The staff officers shabbily mounted. In the p.m. I saw a fine company of “Fusileers” with an excellent band. ’Till two o’clock I spent my time among the book stores &c. Then went and had another jaw about room. (Lovejoy and all his folks are remarkably civil or I should have packed off long ago.)

Then down to Bunels—or Bonnards’ rather—Restaurateur Francais—and here as was to be supposed the tide turned. I came away contented, quietly digesting a nice little dinner. Called at Richard’s place again and made the girl show me up to his room. His comfortable sofa with a luxurious heap of cushions and pillows was too much for me, and when he came in he caught me asleep. I was in a situation to make “Mark” perfectly miserable. I got a good nap while he dined, and afterwards we had a jolly chat over his—fire. For it has been, whew! chilly.

He took me into Trinity and left me there, delighted. You have seen it or will. At B & H’s everybody welcomed me and—so forth. Jo brought me a piece of board which he had saved from the bottom of my old drawer, when the alterations were made. It had on it a list of all hands connected with the establishment at the time it was written upon from Mr. Benkard down to the carman’s mare, with some remarks of title attached to each. Then some observations about myself : a record of my taking the responsibility of Petit Cashier and in virtue of my office the command and keys of that desk. (In the margin was a note that B & H suffered to the amount of the worth of a steel pen which I had spoiled in the above “humbugging.”) There was a closing inscription made at the time I left resigning the office to H. W. Priest &c, &c, concluding “Sic transit” &c.

Mr. Benkard was very civil which was more than I had expected. In truth he was very kind, for him. He gave me a (sealed) note to Captain Robinson, his father-in-Jaw, a fancy farmer at Newburgh. Went to the Sailor’s Home and heard a little about several of our hands—nothing very gratifying or interesting at all to you.

Finally at eight o’clock, having strengthened myself by a little supper at Florence’s, I got a porter, and squeezing through the mob in Lovejoy’s bar room and office, we attacked the pile of baggage, of which there was a stack big enough for a freight train. ’Twould have puzzled half a dozen locomotives to start it all at once, the whole belonging to folks that had arrived, all but five, since I did—and were fools enough to wait there expecting the house would be vacated. Half an hour after, I was in a big comfortable easy chair, in a good big comfortable room, with a good big comfortable fire—and everything else just so. The clean white sheets, mellow pillows, and rosy blankets were so inviting I could not help—just seeing how ’twould feel—and the next thing I knew ’twas nine o’clock to-morrow morning, the fire out, and the stand with the books and the chocolate and the unwritten letters to Emma and Poole by the window, and out the window the great cross of St. Peter’s gilded by the sun, the North River all alive with the morning boats that I was going to Albany in. There goes the gong and after dinner here goes to Newburgh in the “Santa Claus,” to Albany to-morrow night.

I send the Bible. I can’t find anywhere in New York Thomas Barne’s Manual of Prayer. Ask Henry or Jim to procure me one.

My cold’s better. I’ve had a glorious Astor House breakfast, my hair cut just as I remember Stella’s telling father was the new fashion twelve years ago, parted down the middle behind and brushed forward &c and swelled. And I’ve been shampooed, and my head’s as light as a bird, and I’ve flirted with a pretty girl that grew in New Haven or Hartford, I could swear, all down Broadway Omnibus. And I’ve got a summer heavy plaid cap &c &c.