Annual Report of the Council. 125 



to-be-forgotten Saturday nights in York Place. He had 

 the transparent and attractive egotism of a schoolboy or 

 of the "Autocrat of the Breakfast Table"; and in his 

 latest years retained the juvenility of a happy spirit. His 

 last letter to the present writer was written only a very 

 few months before his death — and was prophetic. It 

 related to the last of his memoirs sent to the Society, 

 which was published in the Volume of its Memoirs and 

 Proceedings issued last year (Fourth Series, Vol. IX.) In 

 it he alludes to a difficulty which many authors experience 

 in revising their own proof-sheets, and he utters what 

 proved to be a farewell to the Society : — 



My Dear F 



I much fear that I have given you and your printer a 

 difficult task. The fact is that, notwithstanding the acres of paper 

 that I have in my day covered with type, I am still one of the 

 worst of correctors of the press. My head is so full of the 

 essence of what I want to say, that I am apt to overlook what I 

 have said. . .......... 



My only consolation is that, being now fairly launched into my 

 79th year, the memoir now going through the press is the last one I 

 shall write alone. I have numerous others on hand or prospective, 

 but the chief manipulation of them falls upon my younger colleague, 

 Dr. Scott, of the Botanical Laboratory at Kew. Hence this will, I 

 fear, be my last single memoir with which you Mancunians will be 

 likely to be troubled. Pray remember me very kindly to all my old 

 friends at George Street. I rarely pass over a Tuesday evening 

 without thinking whether or not it is the night of your fortnightly 

 meeting and longing to be with you. 



I am, my dear F , 



As ever yours, 



W. C. Williamson. 

 Manchester will never have a more genial, a more 

 lovable, a better-known, or a worthier citizen than 

 William Crawford Williamson. His enthusiasm for his 

 science sprang from the same pure source as the hearty 

 grasp of his hand accompanied by the inevitable slap on 

 the shoulder — the joie de vivre. F. J. F. 



