_May 19, Saturday night._ I leave this to-morrow morning for London, a little anxious to go there, as I have oftentimes desired to be in sight of St. Paul's Church. I have not been able to write because I felt great pleasure in letting my good friends the Rathbones know what I had done since I was here last; so the book has been in the fair hands of my friend Hannah. "Lady" Rathbone and Miss Hannah are not at Green Bank, but at Woodcroft, and there we met. While I waited in the library how different were my thoughts from those I felt on my first entry into Liverpool. As I thought, I watched the well-shaped Wagtails peaceably searching for food within a few paces of me. The door opened, and I met my good, kind friends, the same as ever, full of friendship, benevolence, and candor. I spent most of the morning with them, and left my book, as I said, with them. _Thy_ book, I should have written, for it is solely for thee. I was driven into Liverpool by Mr. Rd. Rathbone, with his mother and Miss Hannah, and met Mr. Chorley by appointment, that we might make the respectful visits I owed. First to Edward Roscoe's, but saw only his charming wife; then to William Roscoe's. The venerable man had just returned from a walk, and in an instant our hands were locked. He asked me many questions about my publication, praised the engraving and the coloring. He has much changed. Time's violent influence has rendered his cheeks less rosy, his eye-brows more bushy, forced his fine eyes more deeply in their sockets, made his frame more bent, his walk weaker; but his voice had all its purity, his language all its brilliancy. I then went to the Botanic Gardens, where all was rich and beautiful; the season allows it. Then to Alexander Gordon's and Mr. Hodgson. Both out, and no card in my pocket. _Just like me._ I found the intelligent Swiss[127] in his office, and his "Ah, Audubon! Comment va?" was all-sufficient. I left him to go to Mr. Rathbone's, where I have spent every night except the last. As usual I escaped every morning at four for my walk and to write letters. I have not done much work since here, but I have enjoyed that which I have long desired, the society of my dear friends the Rathbones. Whilst writing this, I have often wished I could take in the whole at one glance, as I do a picture; this need has frequently made me think that writing a good book must be much more difficult than to paint a good picture. To my great joy, Mr. Bentley is going with me to London. With a heavy heart I said adieu to these dear Rathbones, and will proceed to London lower in spirits than I was in Edinburgh the first three days.