Adjoining the Town-hall, or separated only by an avenue, is a heavy,
monastic-looking building, used as a bridewell, and called the City
Penitentiary. Having remained a considerable time in the hall where the
trial was going on, the agonized state of the prisoner and sickening
details of the murder caused a disinclination for the present to
continue my perambulations, so I stepped into the Cafe de
l'Independence, in Broadway, and called for a port-wine sangaree,
endeavouring, while I sipped it, smoked a cigar, and read the _Courier
and Inquirer_, to forget the scene I had just witnessed. Leaving soon
after, I pursued my way down Broadway, passing Peel's Museum and the
Astor House, to the Battery Marine Promenade. This is a delightful spot,
the finest in point of situation (although not in extent) of the kind I
ever saw, the Esplanade at Charleston in South Carolina, of which I
shall have by-and-by to speak more particularly, being excepted.
Ladies and gentlemen were promenading up and down, under the umbrageous
foliage of the lofty trees which skirt the Battery Park, and which were
as yet unscathed by the recent frosts, forming a delightful retreat from
the scorching rays of an American sun.
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