Читать книгу A memoir of the life, writings, and mechanical inventions of Edmund Cartwright - Jane Margaret Strickland - Страница 3

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In contemplating the wonderful impulse which the manufactures of Great Britain have received within the last fifty years, from an unprecedented application of mechanical ingenuity, the mind is led not only to inquire into the causes that have produced such a direction of talent, but naturally awakened to an interest in the history of those enterprising men who, in departing from immemorial practice, first gave that impulse, and prepared the way, through difficulties and opposition, for the more prosperous career of their successors.

Some of the most original mechanicians of the eighteenth century were persons born in very humble stations of life. In poverty and obscurity, they encountered such impediments to their successful progress, as the force of native talent alone could not overcome; and their history but too often presents a melancholy picture of the unavailing struggles of a vigorous mind, subdued at length by the mortification of seeing others enriched by inventions which the author of them possessed not the means to introduce.

The subject of the following memoir cannot be said to come within the same description of unfortunate projectors; but though possessed of advantages which supported him through difficulties under which an humbler individual might have sunk, he was not the less exposed to the influence of that spirit of jealousy which has a tendency not only to oppose every new invention, but to dispute with the inventor his claim to originality. It is solely in the hope of doing full justice to the memory of so ingenious a man as Dr. Cartwright that these pages are offered to the public. Several years have now elapsed since his death, and as the number is daily diminishing of those whose personal recollection can throw any light on the earlier portion of his mechanical career, the very few who still survive are anxious to shew the ground on which he claimed the merit of being the original inventor of certain combinations in machinery, which, from their extensive adoption, have had no small influence on the commercial and manufacturing interests of this country. But, before any explanation or description be given of inventions that have produced most important results, or the circumstances related, which called his mechanical genius into action, a slight sketch of the pursuits and habits of his earlier life may not be uninteresting, in order to shew that, however intellectual they might be, they were not apparently calculated to develop the peculiar talent by which his later years were distinguished.

It is now precisely a century since the birth of Edmund Cartwright, on the 24th April, 1743. He was the fourth son of William Cartwright, Esq., of Marnham, in the county of Nottingham, by Anne, daughter of George Cartwright, Esq., of Ossington, in the same county.^[1] He was educated under Dr. Clarke, at the grammar-school at Wakefield, where he was early distinguished for proficiency in his studies. Had he been permitted to follow the bent of his own inclination in the choice of a profession, he would have preferred the navy; but two of his brothers being already designed for that service, it was thought advisable that Edmund should apply what were justly considered as promising abilities to one of the learned professions; and as his family connexions might be expected to promote his advancement in the church, it was decided by his parents that he should enter into holy orders. He began his academical studies at University College, in Oxford, where he was entered at fourteen years of age, and during the vacations was placed under the private tuition of the Rev. Dr. Langhorne, a name well known in the literary world, as the editor of Plutarch’s Lives, and likewise as the author of some poems, as well as several pleasing and elegant volumes in prose.

A friendship, honourable to both, seems to have arisen between the pupil and his instructor, to whose classical knowledge and literary taste Dr. Cartwright might probably be indebted for much of that neat and finished style of expression which he employed in writing, even on the most trivial and familiar occasions.

At that period, the chief object of a liberal education was to acquire a competent portion of classical learning; and he who added a taste for poetry and the belles lettres to his proficiency as a scholar, could not fail of being distinguished as possessing more than an ordinary share of the attainments that were then most valued in polished society. Much of what is considered as general information was not always to be found even amongst well educated persons, and scientific studies were comparatively but little cultivated. Had those various sources of information been then accessible which are now within the reach of every one who can read, or those popular associations existed, which, by uniting the results of inquiring minds, serve at once to concentrate knowledge and diffuse practical instruction, it is more than probable that the peculiar bent of Dr. Cartwright’s genius would have sooner shewn itself, and that he would have aimed rather at reaping the fruits of science than culling the flowers of poetry. It seemed, however, to have been the natural, as it was the not unusual resource of the young and vigorous mind, to relieve its aspirations after distinction by an assiduous cultivation of the muses. Nor was such a dedication of the youthful faculties in this instance to be regretted. The occasional composition of poetry became to him, in after life, a frequent solace under disappointments, and contributed, with other mental exercises, to promote that cheerfulness of spirit, for which, even in his most advanced age, Dr. Cartwright was remarkable. That he had become a votary of the muses at the early age of eighteen is inferred from a letter, dated September 1761, from an old friend, Dr. Hasledine, rector of Haceby, in Lincolnshire, in which he says, “I presume your muse is very busy at this time, and I shall be glad to see your name in the collection of verses now preparing on the king’s^[2] wedding.” Whether the youthful poet adopted his friend’s suggestion, in adding to the numerous loyal effusions which so propitious an occasion could not fail to produce, cannot now be ascertained; but in the following spring he appears to have committed some of his compositions to the press, as well as submitted them to the criticism of his learned and affectionate tutor, Dr. Langhorne, who, in a letter, dated February 1762, thus expresses his opinion of the juvenile performance of his pupil:—“rejoice to find that, though you have long neglected your muse, she has not taken a final leave of you. Many of your verses are pretty; but I am less pleased with the harmony of your little poem than with that philosophical temper you seem to have been in when you wrote it—‘Sunt lachrymæ rerum et mentem mortalia tangunt.’ ” His brother John, (afterwards Major Cartwright,) then a lieutenant on board H.M.S. “Wasp,” in a letter, dated 1763, also alludes to his poetical attempts, and draws an interesting comparison between his own neglected education and his brother Edmund’s superior advantages in that respect:—

“I shall beg you will indulge me with a sight of some of those little pieces, in the composition of which you sometimes amuse yourself. Give me leave to inform you that I already rank one poet amongst my intimate correspondents, (and he^[3] of no small note either,) so you need not be shy of not getting into good company. It is my ambition to converse with the geniuses (if I may not write genii) of the age,—and learned men I honour exceedingly. Were I a potentate, they should be respected at my court before nobles, and it should be glorious from the lustre of their wisdom. Though my soil was under the care of slothful husbandmen, and has been denied the sunshine of a college; though it has also been for several seasons exposed to ruthless, inclement elements—the most inveterate enemies to erudition; yet do not altogether consider the produce of a richer one, that has had a happier cultivation bestowed upon it, as pearls cast before swine.” It appears from the following letter, that, although Mr. Cartwright had determined on publishing some of his poetical effusions, he had, at the same time, a youthful anxiety not to be known as their author.

FROM DR. LANGHORNE.

“Feb. 1764.

“My dear Cartwright,—In consequence of your letter, received this morning, I travelled through a terrible shower of rain, to the printer of the ‘Monthly Review,’ in order to scratch out your name and the name of your college. It is done, sir, and you are now a bare blank, or what, perhaps, you may like better, four stars. Magdalen^[4] College is indeed mentioned in the latter sonnet; but that is nothing to you, it being only introduced as the nurse of Addison and Collins. *** But what! are you going to turn Dutch commentator, and give us a new edition of old Politian’s old letters? Really, my friend, for your green time of life, this appears to me mal-à-propos, however wise or however learned your sage adviser may be. Had you proposed to give a translation of Politian, with notes, the public might have been the better for it, and you, too, possibly, might have had some reward for your labours; but to dig in the Bentleyan mine with your young muscles, I own, appears absurd to me, and will surely gain you no other character in your university than that of a prig.”

In 1770, Mr. Cartwright published “Armine and Elvira,” a legendary tale. This poem, which passed through several editions in little more than a year, was greatly admired for the harmony of its numbers and the purity of its moral sentiment, and the author received compliments from various quarters sufficient to have satisfied the vanity of a much vainer man; but “The Prince of Peace,” an ode, published in the year 1779, must unquestionably be considered as the best of his earlier poetical productions, probably for this reason, that he felt his subject. The deep regret with which, in common with many others of the wise and good, he viewed the contest at that time subsisting between Great Britain and her American colonies, seems to have inspired his pen, and deprecating the mode in which the warfare was carried on, he describes its horrors in some very noble lines. The concluding stanzas of a poem out of print, and now but little known, may not be unacceptable to the reader:—

“Ah! surely dead to human woe

Their iron hearts, that deeds like these approve!

All future hope they surely must forego,

Nor fear a vindicating Power above:

And yet—to Heaven they bow the suppliant knee,

And breathe the formal prayer with lips defiled;

And yet—they lift their blood-stain’d hands to Thee,

To Thee, meek Saviour, merciful and mild!

And yet—to Thee those hands they dare to shew!

To Thee, who didst command affection to the foe.

Thou Friend of Man! at Pity’s call,

Once more thy Spirit in their hearts renew!

And oh may Heaven, whose mercy stoops to all,

Their crimes forgive!—they know not what they do!

In rival breasts awake thy law of love!

From Thee all human hope, all comfort, springs!

The mutual wound’s keen anguish to remove,

Arise once more, with healing on thy wings!

So may each doubt dissolve, all discord cease,

And kindred nations bow before the Prince of Peace.”

No one was more ready than Mr. Cartwright to acknowledge and admire the superior power of some of our later poets; and when, at a very advanced age, he took a pleasure in accounting himself the father of the living poets, he gave a pleasing instance of his candour in a letter to one of them,^[5] which it may not be irrelevant to introduce in this place. “You have, it seems, made repeated incursions into Parnassus, and so have I—in Arcadia ego, that is to say, about half a century ago. You probably are not aware of the relationship in which we stand; having been the father of the living poets for many years past, you consequently are one of my poetical sons. No poetical father, there is reason to believe, ever had so numerous or so illustrious a family before. When I first appeared in the poetical horizon, there were scarcely a dozen poets, good or bad: now they are as numerous as the stars of heaven; the greater part shining, not with borrowed light, as formerly, but with original splendour. You will most likely be at a loss to know how I make myself out to be the patriarch of the English Parnassus. I date my poetical paternity from the year 1762, when I first appeared in print. Not many years afterwards I published “Armine and Elvira,” a legendary tale, which went through seven editions in little more than a year, at a time when few of my poetical sons now living could have held a pen, or probably were born.”^[6]

In 1772, Mr. Cartwright married Alice, the youngest daughter and co-heiress of Richard Whitaker, Esq., of Doncaster, and, after his marriage, resided first at Marnham, and afterwards at Brampton, in Derbyshire, to the perpetual curacy of which he was presented by the Dean of Lincoln, Dr. Cust. He still continued his correspondence with his old friend, Dr. Langhorne, who in a letter, dated from Blagden, near Bristol, expresses himself in the following affectionate manner.

“I rejoice in your letter for many reasons. You might, for aught I had learnt to the contrary, have been these twenty months in the number of those Sacerdotes casti (Æn. VI. 661), who, a sone of our prophets hath spoken, wear white ribbons, and sing songs, and dine upon a grass plot surrounded with bays, at the head of the great river Eridanus. Seriously, I was a very little while since apprehensive that you were on the road before me. Amongst the arrivals at the Hotwells, I saw a Reverend Mr. Cartwright, and having never heard of any other person of that denomination, I set off from hence to Bristol, with a melancholy mind, to satisfy the most painful kind of curiosity I ever felt. I passed with horror, literally speaking, through the shades, such were the objects I saw creeping to and from the pump, and felt certainly more satisfaction in not finding a friend than I ever have known, or ever shall know, in meeting him. So much for your existence, which, if it be in any tolerable state, is a material point. Your poetical being can neither be doubted nor feared. When you favour me again, I wish you to domesticate a little. Tell me where, in what manner, and upon what, you live. I should be extremely happy in the indulgence of a hope that our never broken, though often interrupted friendship, might devolve to our little boys, and should have pleasure in concerting with you the means of promoting it; but ***** ‘The grim fury with the abhorred shears.’ I beg you will present my most respectful compliments to Mrs. E. C., Lady Tyrconnel, and the rest of the Marnham family, and believe me, ever yours,

“J. Langhorne.”

During Mr. Cartwright’s residence in Derbyshire, he made the discovery of a remedy of considerable efficacy in cases of putrid fever. The parish of Brampton was of considerable extent, the inhabitants very poor, and medical assistance frequently out of their reach. With a view to relieve the distresses of his parishioners, he applied himself to the study of medical books, and was often enabled to give advice, not the less welcome for being gratuitous. Of the circumstances that first led to the trial of yeast as a remedy for putrid fever, the following relation, published in a medical work of the year 1799, is from his own pen:—

“During my residence, upwards of twenty years ago, at Brampton, a populous parish near Chesterfield, a putrid fever broke out amongst us. Finding by far the greater number of my parishioners too poor to afford themselves medical assistance, I undertook, by the help of such books on the subject of medicine as were within my possession, to prescribe for them. I attended a boy of about fourteen years of age who was attacked by the fever. He had not been ill many days before the symptoms were unequivocally putrid. I then administered bark, wine, and such other medicines as my books directed. My exertions were, however, of no avail; his disorder grew every day more and more untractable and malignant, so that I was in hourly expectation of his dissolution. Being under the necessity of taking a journey, before I set off, I went to see him, as I thought, for the last time; and I prepared his parents for the event of his death, which I considered as inevitable, and reconciled them in the best manner I was able to a loss which I knew they would feel severely. While I was in conversation on this distressing subject with his mother, I observed in a corner of the room a small tub of wort working. The sight brought to my recollection an experiment I had somewhere met with, of a piece of putrid meat being made sweet by being suspended over a tub of wort in the act of fermentation. The idea flashed into my mind that the yeast might correct the putrid nature of the disease, and I instantly gave him two large spoonfuls. I then told the mother if she found her son better to repeat this dose every two hours. I then set out on my journey. Upon my return, after a few days, I anxiously inquired after the boy, and was informed that he was recovered. I could not repress my curiosity, and though greatly fatigued with my journey, and night was come on, I went directly to his residence, which was three miles off, in a wild part of the moors, and to my great surprise the boy himself opened the door, looking well, and he told me he had felt better from the time he took the yeast.

“After I left Brampton, I lived in Leicestershire. My parishioners there being few and opulent, I dropped the medical character entirely, and would not prescribe for my own family. One of my domestics falling ill, the apothecary was sent for. Having great reliance, and deservedly, on the apothecary’s^[7] skill and judgment, the man was left entirely to his management. His disorder, however, kept gaining ground, and the apothecary finding himself baffled in every attempt to be of service to him, told me he considered it to be a lost case, and in his opinion the man could not live twenty-four hours. On this, I determined to try the effects of yeast. I gave him two large spoonfuls, and in fifteen minutes from taking the yeast, his pulse, though still feeble, began to get composed and full. In thirty-two minutes from his taking it, he was able to get up from his bed. The expression that he made use of to describe the effect to his own feelings was, that he felt ‘quite lightsome.’ At the expiration of the second hour, I gave him sago, with wine and ginger, &c., and in another hour repeated the yeast. An hour afterwards, I gave the bark as before; at the next hour he had food, and an hour after that another dose of yeast. He continued to recover, and was soon able to go about his work as usual.

“About a year after this, as I was riding past a detached farm-house at the outskirts of the village, I observed the farmer’s daughter standing at the door, apparently in great affliction. On inquiring into the cause of her distress, she told me her father was dying. I went into the house, and found him in the last stage of putrid fever. His tongue was black, his pulse was scarcely perceptible, and he lay stretched out like a corpse, in a state of drowsy insensibility. I immediately procured some yeast, which I diluted with water, and poured it down his throat. I then left him, with little hope of recovery. I returned to him in about two hours, and found him sensible and able to converse. I then gave him a dose of bark. He afterwards took, at proper intervals, some refreshment. I stayed with him till he repeated the yeast, and then left him, with directions how to proceed. I called upon him the next morning at nine o’clock, and found him apparently recovered. He was an old man, upwards of seventy.”

To these, and similar instances related by Mr. Cartwright himself, might be added several others, confirmed by practitioners of eminence, to whom he had communicated his discovery. The subject having been noticed by Dr. Thornton, in his interesting work on the Philosophy of Medicine, and by Dr. Beddoes, in “Considerations on the Medicinal Use and Production of Factitious Airs,” as well as by other medical writers, it is unnecessary to enlarge upon it in this place, or to trace the connexion between the principle of Mr. Cartwright’s experiment and the modern practice of administering medicine in a state of effervescence in putrid complaints. The discovery might, in some measure, be called an accidental one; but it was one of those accidents of which men of quick and intelligent minds only, in whom the habit of observation is constantly on the alert, know how to avail themselves.

Mr. Cartwright having been presented to the living of Goadby Marwood, in Leicestershire, he removed thither with his family in 1779. Here he employed part of his leisure time in cultivating his little glebe, and in this occupation appears to have yielded freely to the peculiar bent of his inquiring mind; for his whole system of farming was little else than a series of experiments. But his experiments were not ruinous, and this may be considered as having been the most happy, as it undoubtedly was the most tranquil, portion of his life.

He was at this period a contributor to the Monthly Review, and Mr. Griffiths, the respectable editor of that publication, was a much-esteemed friend. When Dr. Johnson pronounced the writers for that work to be dull men who read their books, he must be allowed to have passed no small eulogium upon them; and indeed, from the whole tenour of Mr. Griffiths’ confidential correspondence with Mr. Cartwright, it appeared to have been his earnest desire that the work should be conducted with candour and integrity, and be, what it professed to be, a review of the literary productions of the day, and not merely a medium for the diffusion of party principles. Even Dr. Johnson, although in his celebrated interview with George III. he scrupled not to represent the Monthly reviewers as enemies to the church and all establishments, was compelled to do justice to their care and impartiality. The worthy editor seems to have been duly watchful of the motives that might be supposed to influence any of the writers engaged in the work; and though his scrupulous honesty might impose some restraint on the indulgence of personal feeling as well as of party spirit, yet was the loss of entertainment that might ensue from such restraint more than compensated to the reader by the sound sense and good taste which sought to direct, and not mislead, his judgment. Mr. Griffiths, alluding, in one of his letters, to a gentleman who had formerly belonged to the corps of reviewers, observes, that “he is a learned and ingenious man, but I would not trust him when he reviews the works of a friend, nor indeed of an enemy, for in either case no impartiality is to be expected from him. Poor Langhorne was the same, and many a scuffle have we had about favour and resentment. Pray, sir, when are you and I to begin to scuffle? I see no signs of a rupture yet.”

No one could bring a more cool and unimpassioned temper into the service of literary criticism than Mr. Cartwright, or a judgment less liable to be biassed by political feeling. He was, however, no compromiser of the interests of religion and morality, and has been heard in later years to express great satisfaction on reflecting that, amongst other castigations inflicted on the violation of morals and good taste, he had especially exposed the fallacy and dangerous tendency of the opinions contained in the works of certain German writers, then becoming popular. A review of “An American Farmer’s Letters, by Hector St. John,” was one of the articles in the “Monthly Review” that are now known to have been from Mr. Cartwright’s pen. These letters were published by Mr. Thomas Davies,^[8] who, in a letter to Mr. Griffiths, says—“I can ascertain their authenticity, for I am acquainted with the author. He is a man of plain and simple manners, with a strong and enlightened understanding. You will perceive that he has not argumentatively touched upon the great question which unhappily divided us from our North American colonies. His feelings upon the apprehended expulsion from his farm, which really took place, are expressed with such force and energy as cannot be feigned. He who wrote the chapter of the distresses of a frontier farmer must have felt them, or he could not so naturally have described them.” It appears that Dr. Johnson’s “Lives of the Poets” were reviewed by Mr. Cartwright; and Mr. Griffiths, in a letter relative to that publication, enters at large upon a subject, now indeed of little moment, but which seemed then to have been interesting to literary men—viz., the share that Theophilus Cibber really had had in the compilation of certain lives of the poets that were published in his name.

MR. GRIFFITHS TO MR. CARTWRIGHT.

“Turnham Green, June 16th.

“Dear Sir,—I have sent you a FEAST! Johnson’s new volumes of the ‘Lives of the Poets.’ You will observe that Savage’s life is one of the volumes. I suppose it is the same which he published about thirty years ago, and therefore you will not be obliged to notice it otherwise than in the course of enumeration. In the account of Hammond, my good friend Samuel has stumbled on a material circumstance in the publication of Cibber’s Lives of the Poets. He intimates that Cibber never saw the work. This is a reflection on the bookseller, your humble servant. The bookseller has now in his possession Theophilus Cibber’s receipt for twenty guineas, (Johnson says ten,) in consideration of which he engaged to ‘revise, correct, and improve, the work, and also to affix his name in the title-page. Mr. Cibber did accordingly very punctually revise every sheet; he made numerous corrections, and added many improvements—particularly in those lives which came down to his own times, and brought him within the circle of his own and his father’s literary acquaintance, especially in the dramatic line. To the best of my recollection he gave some entire lives, besides inserting abundance of paragraphs, of notes, anecdotes, and remarks, in those which were compiled by Shiells and other writers. I say other, because many of the best pieces of biography in that collection were not written by Shiells, but by superior hands. In short, the engagement of Cibber, or some other Englishman, to superintend what Shiells in particular should offer, was a measure absolutely necessary, not only to guard against his Scotticisms, and other defects of expression, but his virulent Jacobitism, which inclined him to abuse every Whig character that came in his way. This, indeed, he would have done, but Cibber (a staunch Williamite) opposed and prevented him, insomuch that a violent quarrel arose on the subject. By the way, it seems to me, that Shiells’ Jacobitism has been the only circumstance that has procured him the regard of Mr. Johnson, and the favourable mention that he has made (in the paragraph referred to) of Shiells’ ‘virtuous Life and pious End’—expressions that must draw a smile from every one who knows, as I did, the real character of Robert Shiells. And now, what think you of noticing this matter, in regard to truth and the fair fame of the honest bookseller!”^[9]

Mr. Griffiths to Mr. Cartwright.

“July, 1780.

“I send you the Candidate, an epistle to the Monthly Reviewers, which, on account of the peculiar compliment to us, may deserve particular attention. You will doubtless find—

‘As a friend,

Something to blame, and something to commend.’

Perhaps you will think with me that this poem will particularly call for criticism,—generous and manly criticism, as well as liberal praise where due; but at all events it must not be thought that we are to be coaxed out of our judgment; if this were the case we should soon have plenty of such compliments. I cannot guess at the writer of this Candidate for literary fame.”

This poem is now known to have been one of the earliest publications of Mr. Crabbe, and though it must be considered as falling far short of the excellence of his later productions, it appears to have excited no inconsiderable degree of attention and curiosity on the part of those to whom it was addressed. In a subsequent letter, Mr. Griffiths observes—“As the Candidate is addressed to the corps, perhaps you may like to hear something of the general opinion of your learned associates concerning it. What I have collected is as follows: ‘that although we may not be able to speak so well of the poem as the author wishes us to do, yet it must be allowed that he possesses talents; and many lines are exceedingly good, and much in the manner of Pope, while others are flat and prosaic; that his ardour ought not to be discouraged; that the capital fault of the piece is, that it wants a subject to make a proper and forcible impression on the mind.’ On the whole, I cannot help thinking that this Candidate merits encouragement; and yet I dare say you will agree with me that the merit of his poem is not great enough for extraordinary praise.” The reception that the Candidate met with from the Reviewers, happily was not such as to repress the poetic spirit of its gifted author; and if this little poem possessed no other merit, it would be highly interesting as a sketch, however slight and imperfect, from the hand of so great a master. His own peculiar style may be traced in it along with those touches, sometimes of self-confidence, sometimes of timidity, which not unfrequently exist together in a powerful, yet susceptible mind. Notwithstanding the intimacy that afterwards subsisted between the author of the Candidate and his reviewer, there is no reason to think that they were known to each other as such. Mr. Cartwright subsequently became one of Mr. Crabbe’s warmest admirers.

One more extract from the correspondence of honest Griffiths may be permitted, as affording a useful admonition to the biographer, who, conscious how few passages in a real life are calculated to amuse the generality of readers, may be tempted to supply the deficiency by filling up his pages with insignificant or gossiping details. “We agree likewise in opinion as to the compilement of *****’s Memoirs, which are, indeed, put together in a slovenly manner; but my greatest objection lies in the minutiæ with which those two great volumes are bumped out, as the printers phrase it. Had all the frivolous, and, I may add, old womanish things which are inserted been left out, the book would have been less tedious, as well as less expensive.”

The retired habits of Mr. Cartwright’s life, as well as the profession of which he was a member, had hitherto kept him from taking any active part in politics, although his opinions were pretty much in unison with those of his brother, Major Cartwright, who already began to be well known as the advocate of parliamentary reform. In 1780, Mr., afterwards Sir William Jones, was proposed as a candidate to represent the university of Oxford; and, on this occasion, Mr. Cartwright made him a voluntary offer of his vote, explaining his reasons for so doing in the following letter to a friend and connexion of his family, who had applied for his interest in favour of another candidate:—

“Dear Sir,—I have this moment received a letter from Lady Tyrconnel,^[10] intimating that you were much interested in the success of Sir William Dolben, at the approaching election for the University of Oxford, and that you are desirous that I should embrace the same sentiments with yourself. Unfortunately it is not in my power, much as I may wish to pay attention to your recommendation, to comply with your request. Immediately when I heard that Mr. Jones, (a character for whom I have always expressed the highest esteem and veneration,) was a candidate, I voluntarily made him an offer of my vote, and I wrote also to my old tutor, Mr. Coulson, of University College, who applied to me in favour of Dr. Scott, that as far as the doctor’s interest interfered not with Mr. Jones’s, he should have the preference to every one else who might be proposed. My motive for espousing these gentlemen rather than any other competitors, was founded not only on the opinion I had formed of their integrity, which it would be criminal to overlook, but I must own also in the interest I felt in the dignity and reputation of the University. A society, principally instituted for the cultivation of letters, and which is supposed at least to consist of literary men, cannot, it is presumed, be so respectably, or indeed so properly represented, as by men who are most conspicuous for literary attainments; and it seems but just that those whose superior abilities and learning reflect honour upon the University, should have in return such honours conferred upon them as the University may have it in their power to bestow. Upon these principles, it will be no reflection upon any man to be postponed to such men as Mr. Jones and Dr. Scott. I can assure you it is a matter of considerable mortification to me, impressed as I am with the remembrance of your repeated kindness, and desirous of expressing my sense of it on every occasion that shall offer itself, that in the present instance I am prevented giving that kind of testimony which seems to be required from me of the respect with which I am, dear Sir, &c.

“Edmund Cartwright.