MODERN IMPROVEMENTS.
To John Bull.
Sir,—I am not one of those who snarl at modern improvements, but I admit my incapacity to find out the improvements, at which other people snarl—I consider gas and steam to be two of the most odious and abominable nuisances ever tolerated in a Christian country: I only ask the best-natured critic—the most impartial judge in Christendom—whether anything can smell more abominably than the vapour which thousands of pounds are hourly spent to produce? If ruining oil-men, and beggaring wax-chandlers, is sport, well and good—in Heaven's name stew down the wholesome coals and make smoke, and set fire to it: but don't call that an improvement.
I love the sight of a lamp-lighter—a "jolly Dick" in a greasy jacket flaring his link along the pavement, rubbing against one's sleeve, or besprinkling one's shirt with oil—I seldom see one of them now; the race is superseded by a parcel of dandies, with dark lanthorns in their hands, prowling about like so many Guy Fawkes's: up they go, and without taking off the green lamp-tops and putting them on their heads, as the jolly Dicks did, they open a door, turn a cock, introduce their lanthorn—piff, paff, poff,—out comes the light, and down goes the ladder—this is innovation, not improvement.
Then steam—what's the improvement of steam? There was an interest in a short sea voyage when I was young—contrary winds—tides against one—nature had fair play—but now Mr. This-thing or Mr. T'other-thing makes a great copper pot, and fills it with water—more coals; poking and stoking, and shovelling and raking—Nature is thrown overboard; and the pacquet-boat, uninfluenced either by her smiles or frowns, ploughs up the waves, and marches along, like a couple of wandering water-mills. There is no interest in this, sir—any fool can make a copper pot—any fool can fill a copper pot with water—any fool can make a fire, and poke it, and make water boil—there's no pleasure in this life when events are thus provided for, and that, which had all the interest of doubt and difficulty, is reduced to a certainty.
The same in land carriage—formerly, a stage coach journey was an affair—a thing to be thought about—a man took leave of his relations, left his home, in the expectation of never seeing his wife again; then there was an interest, a pleasure in the speculation, and a hope, and a fear, and a doubt, and something to keep the faculties awake. Now, sir, if you want to go sixty or seventy miles, you have hardly settled yourself comfortably in your corner, before you are at your journey's end. Why, sir, before these jigamaree things were invented, I have lived two-and-twenty days on board a Leith smack, for three pounds three shillings, and enjoyed a pleasant five days' excursion on the road to Plymouth; whereas at present I am whirled from Edinburgh to London in forty hours, and taken from Piccadilly to Dock—Devonport I mean—in about half that time. Now this, to my mind, is no improvement.
Then, sir, look at London—look what the improvers have done—pulled up the pavements, the pride of the land, and turned the streets into roads. This Muckadamizing is no improvement. Puddles for purbecks is a bad exchange—the granite grinding is no wonder—the rattle and clatter of London is at an end. One might as well be at Slough or Southall, or any of the environs, as be in the heart of the town. They have taken away Swallow-street—scene of my youthful pleasures; and, to crown all, they are pulling St. James's Park to pieces, planting trees, and twisting the water. Why did not they leave the canal straight, as the Serpentine is? Are we to come back to the days of Duck Island, with a Whig governor for it? Why are the horses and cows disturbed to make way for the people? I love to see horses and cows happy. I like to see the barracks and hospitals. I don't want to look at great big rows of high houses, filled with people who can afford to live in them, while I cannot. This is no improvement.
Then for manners and customs: in my time we dined early and sat late, and the jolliest part of our lives was that which we passed with our legs under the mahogany. Now, we see no mahogany—we dine at supper-time and the cloth stops and the wine never moves; away go our women—no healths—no toasts—no gentleman to cover a lady—no good wishes—nothing convivial—one anonymous half glass, sipped silently, and the coffee is ready. Out we go, turned adrift at eleven, with nothing on earth to do for the rest of the evening, unless one goes to a Club, where, if a man asks for anything stronger than soda water, he is looked at as a monster. Hock and Seltzer water, perhaps, if it's hot weather—wimbly wambly stuff, enough to make a cat sick, and after that, home. Why, in my time, sir, I should have laughed at a fellow who flinched before his fourth bottle, or who submitted to the degrading circumstance of finding his way to bed of his own proper discretion. But those days are past—one thing I do thank the stars for—we are getting back to the tobacco—not indeed the beautiful lily pipe, tipped rosily with sealing wax, and pure as the driven snow, but a happy succedaneum—a cigar. I do love a cigar, sir; it reminds me of the olden time, and I like the smell of my clothes in the morning, which I congratulate myself none of our modern improvements, as they are called, can ever eradicate.
Perhaps you have been lately in the Regent's Park—I will tell you what is doing there—a Mr. Somebody—I forget his name, but it is somehow connected in my mind upon Von Feinagle's principle with a Christmas pie—Horner, by Jove, that's it—he has sunk twenty thousand pounds, and raised a splendid building—a temple—a pantheon—a feature in the town—and what do you think for?—to exhibit a panorama of London from the top of St. Paul's, just within a couple of miles of St. Paul's itself—but then we are to be saved all the trouble—to be screwed up to the eminence without labour: to my mind, the whole point of a fine prospect is the trouble of getting to it—far-fetched and dear-bought are the great attractions, and all the interest is destroyed if things are made too easy of attainment. I don't like this plan.
The same struggle against nature seems to be going on everywhere—see the theatres—even at that band-box the Adelphi—there was a difficulty in getting in, and a difficulty in getting a seat when one did get in; now it is all made easy and comfortable, and for what? To see a schooner so like what any one can see any day in the river, that it is no sight at all; like Lawrence's pictures—I hate that President—his things are like life, the likenesses are identity, and so like nature that there is no merit in the painting—I like a little doubt—I love to show my quickness by guessing a portrait—the interest is destroyed if there is no question about the thing—the same with shooting—I used to hit my bird and miss my bird, and walk and walk over the furrows, and climb over the hedges and ditches, and bang away with a gun of my poor father's, which, when it did go off, was not over-certain in its performance—I liked the pursuit—now, with your Mantons and percussions, your Nocks without flints, and all that sort of thing—wet or dry, off they go—slap bang, down tumbles the bird for each barrel, and the thing is over—I never shoot now—a thing reduced to a certainty loses all interest.
Before Palmer's time I used to keep up a constant correspondence with a numerous circle of friends and acquaintance; there was no certainty about the delivery of one's letters—mail carts were robbed—post-boys were murdered—bags found in a pond all soaked to rags; then, there was an interest in it; now, a letter never miscarries; all like clockwork. I hate that Freeling—his activity and vigilance have destroyed the interest. I haven't written to a friend for the last fifteen years, nor should I write to you now, only that I send my letter by a servant lad, who is a member of an Intellectual Institution, and so stupid, that I think it is at least ten to one that you ever receive it.—Perhaps you will just acknowledge it, if it comes to hand—the expectation will, at least, serve to keep up the interest.
Yours truly,
Stephen Brown.
Baker Street, Oct. 17, 1828.
To John Bull.
Sir,—I perceived the other day in your columns a letter from a gentleman of the name of Brown, who, in the most cynical, sneering manner, thought fit, unjustly as I think, to run down all our modern improvements—I know you are impartial, and love to give upright adversaries fair play in your paper; I differ with Mr. Brown, and perhaps you will give me the opportunity of showing how and why.
In the first place, the ridicule, which not only he, but, I am sorry to say, yourself and many others, think fit to cast upon the advancement of learning, and which you have nick-named the march of intellect, is entirely misplaced—you look at things politically, because politicians of a peculiar class have adopted the institution of societies, seminaries, and universities—this is wrong—considering the matter thus, and associating men and manners, you teach us to believe the march of intellect the "rogues' march," to which all the well-disposed middling classes are to go to destruction; but you should consider the matter differently; you should recollect that almost all the political supporters of these Mechanics' Institutes and London Universities have imbibed their political principles merely because they have had little or no education themselves, and that as for instilling pride or arrogance into the minds of the lower and middling classes of the people, by sending them to the London University, the very converse must be the fact, because there is nothing that I see to be derived from the institution at all likely to induce pride or self-satisfaction in any of its members.
In the Times of Tuesday, I perceive an advertisement from Mr. Dufief, stating that nearly 300 members of a class in the London Mechanics' Institute are learning French rapidly and critically. This, I conceive, so far from being an absurdity, to be one of the most beneficial events ever announced: consider what an improvement it will be for the common run of people who frequent public places of amusement, to find the lower order well grounded in French—in that language they will, for elegance sake, carry on their future conversations, and the ears of our wives and daughters be no longer disgusted with the coarseness to which they are now subject—for you are of course aware, that as the progress of learning exhibits itself amongst the canaille, the aristocracy will abandon the ground they assume, and our belles and beaux, in less than a dozen years, will whisper their soft nonsense in Hebrew, Sanscrit, Cingalese, or Malabar.
But Mr. Brown seems not only to find fault with mental improvement, but also with mechanical and scientific discoveries—he sneers at steam and growls at gas. I contend that the utility of constructing a coach which shall go by hot water nearly as fast as two horses can draw it, at a trifling additional expense, promises to be wonderfully useful. We go too fast, sir, with horses—besides, horses eat oats, and farmers live by selling oats; if, therefore, by inconveniencing ourselves and occasionally risking our lives, we can, however imperfectly, accomplish by steam what is now done by horses, we get rid of the whole race of oat-sowers, oat-sellers, oat-eaters, and oat-stealers, vulgarly called ostlers.
Gas too—what a splendid invention—we gain a magnificent light, and ruin the oil-merchants, the whale-fisheries, and the wax-chandlers—it is as economical as it is brilliant;—to be sure we use more coals, but the coal-merchants are all worthy men, and never take advantage of a frost to advance the price of their commodity; coals are evidently, however, not so essentially necessary to the poor as wax candles; therefore, even supposing the price of coals to be raised, and their value enhanced, we light our streets more splendidly, and our houses more economically.
Mr. Brown seems to dislike the over-brilliancy of the gas in the public ways, as tending to destroy the legitimate distinction between day and night. I admit this innovation—but let me beg to say, that until gas was brought to the perfection it now is, for external illumination, we never could see the unhappy women who are driven to walk the streets at night, so plainly following their avocations, or ever were indulged with the pleasing prospect of our watchmen slumbering in their wooden sanctums, at the corners of the streets.
Mr. Brown appears to dislike Mr. Mac Adam's improvements; these I defend upon several principles; one which I conceive to be extremely important, is, the constant employment they afford to the sweepers of crossings, without whose active exertions no man could ever pass from one side of the street to the other; and another which I firmly believe to be conducive to the improvement of the mind—I mean the activity with which the eye, and the ear, and the understanding must be constantly kept, in order that the individual walking may escape being run over; superadded to which, there is the admirable manure which the sweepings provide for the land.
In short, most of the objects of Mr. Brown's vituperation are objects of my respect, and I take the liberty of writing this, in order that he may, if he chooses, enter into a public disputation upon the several points at issue; for which purpose, if he will direct a letter to me under cover to you, I will appoint a time and place where the merits and demerits of the present age may be temperately, calmly, and dispassionately discussed between us.
I am, Sir,
Your obedient servant,
Richard White.