extraordinary, that even that solitary dignity—that barony by tenure in the world of British science—the chair of the Royal Society, should have been coveted for adventitious rank. It is more extraordinary, that a Prince, distinguished by the liberal views he has invariably taken of public affairs,—and eminent for his patronage of every institution calculated to alleviate those miseries from which, by his rank, he is himself exempted—who is stated by his friends to be the warm admirer of knowledge, and most anxious for its advancement, should have been so imperfectly informed by those friends, as to have wrested from the head of science, the only civic wreath which could adorn its brow.[1]
In the meanwhile the President may learn, through the only medium by which his elevated station admits
- ↑ The Duke of Sussex was proposed as President of the Royal Society in opposition to the wish of the Council—in opposition to the public declaration of a body of Fellows, comprising the largest portion of those by whose labours the character of English science had been maintained. The aristocracy of rank and of power, aided by such allies as it can always command, set itself in array against the prouder aristocracy of science. Out of about seven hundred members, only two hundred and thirty balloted; and the Duke of Sussex had a majority of eight. Under such circumstances, it was indeed extraordinary, that His Royal Highness should have condescended to accept the fruits of that doubtful and inauspicious victory. The circumstances preceding and attending this singular contest have been most ably detailed in a pamphlet, entitled "A Statement of the Circumstances connected with the late Election for the Presidency of the Royal Society, 1831, printed by R. Taylor, Red-lion-court, Fleet-street." The whole tone of the tract is strikingly contrasted with that of the productions of some of those persons by whom it was His Royal Highness's misfortune to be supported
