At five o’clock on Thursday Morning I took leave of them. Richardson was violently affected, he cried like a child. Tudor and I took the thing more philosophically but still there was plenty of regret at the dire necessity. In half an hour I was on board the Steamboat and taking leave of the Spires of the city of New York, with plenty of time to look back upon all that had passed during the last fourteen days. It seemed all a dream so rapidly had it gone. Dr. Ironside found it convenient to return at the same time and so we once more found ourselves in company. I was less disposed to be amusing than on my journey to pleasure; he was always the same. And as this equanimity has a violent tendency to provoke a testy person the more, I began to feel violently fretful. My old disorder too, which I had little time to think of at the scene of bustle began to worry me prodigiously in my present leisure. The day passed without incident. Arrived at Philadelphia, I spent the evening at the Theatre, where I dozed through Pisarro. Young Forest played Rolla with a good deal of merit, but I do not like the piece and this combined with my late vigils had a soporific effect. Heyle took the place of Jefferson in the Review, but was not nearly equal to him.1