Let us now look a little more closely at the individuals. The lives of some of them are before the world,--told in those interesting, though "short and simple annals," which have appeared in the local press from time to time, such as the autobiography of John Horsefield, who died March 6th, 1854, and the obituary notice of Crowther, which filled a column and a half of the _Manchester Guardian_, of January 13th, 1847, a week after his decease. Crowther was a Banksian, and one of the most simple-hearted men that ever lived; willing to travel any distance, and undergo any amount of fatigue, so that he secured his flower. As one of his old companions remarked to me some years ago, "he was not _learned_, but he was very _loving_." It is worthy also of record that Crowther never touched his wages for purposes of botanical pleasure, but took home every penny, and trusted to fortunate accidents for the means of supplying his scientific wants. Of the indefatigable and acute George Caley, who was born at Craven in 1770, and died May 23rd, 1829, there is a pleasing memoir in the "Magazine of Natural History," vol. ii., p. 310; and vol. iii., p. 226. A similar memoir of Edward Hobson, who died September 7th, 1830, may be seen in the "Transactions of the Manchester Literary and Philosophical Society," vol. vi., 1842. Buxton's is prefixed to the "Guide," and several other memoirs have since been given by Mr. Cash in his delightful little book, "When there's a Will there's a Way." These appear to be the whole of the memoirs of any length that have been printed, though there have frequently been short notices when death has carried off another of the band. It would be well were they reprinted in a collective form. Unmarked though they are by stirring incidents, the lives of these men are such as no person of feeling and intelligence, and sympathy with pure, hearty, honest endeavour after knowledge and self-improvement, can peruse without emotion. Science owes more to them than has ever been confessed, and it is anything but honourable to public taste and public morals, that while the lives of murderers and rascals of all descriptions are read with avidity, and the minutest incidents of their abominable careers demanded and fed upon, the lives of the modest, unassuming votaries of science, both the dead and those who are yet with us, are never so much as inquired for. They have their reward. If it be not in the notoriety of a great criminal, it is in the perennial enjoyment of the highest faculties of our nature, such as are brought out only by loving conversance with the works of God.