A NOT inconsiderable contingent to the army ot workers in science has been furnished by London trade. The ranks of our geologists, zoologists, and biologists, have been recruited to a larger extent than many might suppose from city counting-houses. But one would still hardly expect to find the same wholesale chemist's shop in an obscure court out of Lombard Street send forth, in two successive generations, two Fellows to the Royal Society. Except, however, in their common love of science, Daniel Hanbury was a very different man from William Alien, the druggist and Quaker preacher, the lecturer on chemistry and intercessor on behalf of the rights of conscience with almost all the “crowned heads ” of Europe.1 Retaining through life a warm attachment to the religious body in which he was born, Hanbury's religion was nevertheless of the closet rather than the forum; few of his friends ever heard him speak on religious subjects; and anything in the shape of proselytising was altogether alien to his mental constitution. Essentially a specialist, he was at the same time, what the best specialist must always be, an educated gentleman.