There was one friend whose expanding versatility of mind and rare colloquial talents made him a most welcome visitor at Stathern — and he was a very frequent one. I allude to Dr. Edmund Cartwright, a poet and a mechanist of no small eminence, who at this period was the incumbent of Goadby, and occasionally lived there, though his principal residence was at Doncaster, where vast machines were worked under his direction. Few persons could tell a good story so well; no man could make more of a trite one. I can just remember him — the portly, dignified, old gentleman of the last generation — grave and polite, full of humour and spirit. In the summer of 1787, my father and mother paid Dr. Cartwright a visit at Doncaster; but when she entered the vast building, full of engines thundering with resistless power, yet under the apparent management of children, the bare idea of the inevitable hazard attendant on such stupendous undertakings, quite overcame her feelings, and she burst into tears.