... We walked across this eastern part of the city down to the Tower, entered the gates and walked over the grounds. It was too late to get entrance to the armory or any of the interesting places, as the light was beginning to fail. I went back to Mr. Ward’s, at Well-close Square, according to promise, to name some plants for him, but Dr. Valentine,[74] a most ingenious vegetable anatomist and microscopist, being in town (had previously met him at Lindley’s), Mr. Ward had foregone his own advantage and invited Valentine and Quekett to meet me with their microscopes, so that the evening was very instructive to me, which I had not anticipated. Mr. Ward seems to have taken a fancy to me, for I can hardly imagine that he takes so much pains to oblige every one, absorbed as he is also in medical practice. He presented me with a beautiful botanical digger of fine polished steel, with a leathern sheath, which I suspect he has had made on purpose for me; though I don’t know why he should have thought of it. Mrs. Ward was inquiring about the Abbotts and their works, one of which she had, which makes her wish for more. I am often asked about Mr. Abbott, whose works seem much more generally known here than those of any other American religious author. I must find some for Mrs. Ward. Sunday evening, March 3.--I went this morning to hear, perhaps for the last time, Baptist Noel. The sermon was from the last three verses of the same psalm (Ps. ciii.) from which he has preached on the former occasions when I have heard him in his own church; and truly a good sermon it was. I have told you that the chapel is a large one. Yet it is so well filled that I have always had some difficulty in getting a seat, and to-day I actually stood near the pulpit during the whole service and sermon. But it is worth while submitting to some inconvenience. In the afternoon I walked up to Tottenham Court Road, and looked up the chapel built by Whitfield, the scene of his useful labors in London. If you read, as I think you did, Philip’s “Life of Whitfield,” you must take some interest in this place.[75] I found the chapel a large but outlandish building, with an inscription over one of the entrances, stating that the building was erected by George Whitfield. Within is a tablet to the memory of Mrs. Whitfield, who is buried here, and a monumental inscription to Whitfield himself (which I regret I did not copy), mentioning the date of his death at Newburyport, near Boston. The preacher this afternoon (for I believe there is more than one who officiates here) was the Rev. Mr. Wight, who gave an impressive, practical sermon from the concluding clause of the last verse of Romans viii.: “The love of God which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.” It was, I think, rather above his audience, which I am sorry to say was exceedingly small. Indeed I hope it is generally better filled, but I should not have expected so great a falling off in the attendance of