de them, then?" asked Francois.

"Who!" exclaimed Lucien, with some warmth; "who but _closet_-
naturalists, old mummy-hunters of museums! Bah! it makes one angry."

As Lucien said this, his usually mild countenance exhibited an
expression of mingled indignation and contempt.

"What is there in it to make one angry?" inquired Basil, looking up at
his brother with some astonishment.

"Why, to think," answered Lucien, "that these same closet-naturalists
should have built themselves up great names by sitting in their easy
chairs measuring, and adding up, and classing into dry catalogues,
objects which they knew very little about; and that little they obtained
from the observations of others--true naturalists--men like the great
Wilson--men who toiled, and travelled, and exposed themselves to
countless dangers and fatigues for the purpose of collecting and
observing; and then for these men to have the fruits of their labours
filched from them, and descanted upon in dry arithmetical terms by these
same catalogue-makers.--Bah!"

"Stay, brother; Wilson was not robbed of the fruits of his labours! He
became famous."

"Yes, and he died from the struggles and hardships that made him so. It
reminds me of the fabled song of the swan, brother. He told his
beautiful tale, and died. Ah! Poor Wilson, he was a _true_
naturalist."

"His name will live for ever."

"Ay, that it will, when many of the _philosophic_ naturalists, now so
much talked of, shall be forgotten, or only remembered to have their
quaint theories laughed at, and their fabulous descriptions turned into
ridicule. Fortunately for Wilson, he was too poor and too humble to
attract their patronage until his book was published. Fortunately for
him he knew no great Linneus or Count Buffon, else the vast stores which
he had been at so much pains to collect would have been given to the
world under another name. Look at Bartram."

"Bartram!" exclaimed Francois; "why, I never heard the name, Luce."

"Nor I," added Basil.

"There it is, you see. Few know his name; and yet this same John
Bartram, a farmer of Pennsylvania, who lived an hundred years ago, did
more to spread, not only a knowledge of American plants, but the plants
themselves, than any one who has lived since. Most of the great gardens
of England--Kew among the rest--are indebted to this indefatigable
botanist for their American flora; and there were few of the naturalists
of that time--Linneus n