In the hall of the great Natural History Museum in London, a statue of Darwin was placed June 9, 1885, with appropriate addresses. Darwin's life is a most interesting study. That a boy who seemed in youth to have no special fondness for books, but an especial delight in collecting beetles; who appeared unfitted either for medicine or the church, should come to such a renowned manhood, is remarkable. His perseverance, his industry, his thought, his gentleness, his sunny nature in the midst of suffering, are delightful to contemplate. His books will be an enduring monument. He combined a great intellect and a great heart, which makes the most attractive nature, in either man or woman. FRANCIS TREVELYAN BUCKLAND. Most of those whose lives are sketched in this volume lived to be old men; but Frank Buckland, the pet and pride of thousands in England, died in his prime, almost at the beginning of his fame; a man of whose life our "Popular Science Monthly" says, "None more active, varied, and useful is recorded in scientific biography." He was the oldest son of the Dean of Westminster, Dr. William Buckland, and was born December 17, 1826, at Christ Church, Oxford, of which cathedral his father was canon at that time. [Illustration: FRANCIS TREVELYAN BUCKLAND.] "I was told," says Frank, in later years, "that, soon after my birth, my father and my godfather, the late Sir Francis Chantry, weighed me in the kitchen scales against a leg of mutton, and that I was heavier than the joint provided for the family dinner that day. In honor of my arrival, my father and Sir Francis went into the garden and planted a birch tree. I know the taste of the twigs of that birch tree well. Sir Francis Chantry offered to give me a library. 'What is the use of a library to a child an hour old?' said my father. 'He will live to be sorry for that answer,' said Sir Francis. I never got the library. "One of my earliest offences in life was eating the end of a carriage candle. For this, the birch rod not being handy, my father put me into a furze bush, and therein I did penance for ten minutes. A furze bush does not make a pleasant lounge when only very thin summer garments are worn." The father, Dean Buckland, was distinguished as a man of letters, and for his geological research. The mother, as is often the case with sons of genius, was a remarkable woman, who idolized her boy, and who received in return an affection unusual in its intimacy and confidence. She began to write about him early, in her journal. "At two and a half years of age," she says, "he never forgets either pictures or people he has seen. Four months ago, as well as now, he would have gone through all the natural history books in the Radcliffe Library, without making one error in miscalling a parrot, a duck, a kingfisher, an owl, or a vulture."