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.