Every Tuesday evening, when the members of the class assembled to compare their notes and discoveries of the past week, there was old Crozier, busy as usual with his birds, and only too glad to chat with his young disciples, withholding nothing he could tell that would interest and amuse, and, what was far more valuable, inspiring them with his own enthusiasm. This kind, warm-hearted, cheerful old man it was who, taking the young naturalists by the hand, first showed many of them the way to Baguley and to Carrington, to Greenfield and to Rostherne, pointing out the rarities which his large experience knew so cleverly how to find, and communicating his various knowledge with the unselfishness of one in a thousand. Nothing seemed to come strange to him. Great as was his botanical information, he excelled in a still higher degree as an entomologist and ornithologist; he was acquainted with the shape and habits of every bird and every butterfly, every branch of his knowledge helping him to enlarged success in the prosecution of the others, botany aiding entomology, and entomology facilitating botany. It was his extensive and accurate knowledge of plants that rendered him so expert in finding rare insects, being aware what species the latter feed upon, and familiar with their forms. He showed, in the highest degree, how happy a man can make himself by the study of natural history, however humble his station in life, and however confining his employment. For Crozier, like all the rest of the old Lancashire naturalists, got his living, as already indicated, by manual labour, exercised in a shop on Shudehill, the last place in the world one would look to for the abode of a naturalist, yet made by his intelligent pastimes one of the most contented in Manchester. Here we have looked over his dried plants, his choice exotics given him by friendly gardeners, examined his birds and shells, and listened while he told his adventures "by flood and field." Of such he was always ready with large store, being, as an old Banksian associate reminds me, in a letter of pleasant anecdote and reminiscence, "one of those plain, plodding, practical naturalists, whose knowledge the field and forest, the uplands and the watery cloughs, had far more contributed to give than the lore of books." * * * "The quiet, unromantic study of books," he continues, "would never have made either him or them what they were. Active adventure, real life within the whole domain of nature, was their condition of enjoyment; and, consequently, the secluded footpaths, the fine old green and lonely lanes, the umbrageous bosky dell, with its clear babbling brook, and rich with plants, insects, and minerals, were their haunts." In all his excursions he was joined by from three to a dozen of his companions in the love of science and nature; it should rather be said, perhaps, that he was generally one of every party made up by the naturalists of the day for the purpose