emains to us, a microcosm of the eighteenth century is
ours. If there is any meaning in the word sacrilege--

That, I remember, was the beginning of one of the sentences I composed
while I paced my room, thinking out my letter to The Times. I rejected
that sentence. I rejected scores of others. They were all too vehement.
Though my facility for indignation is not (I hope) less than that of my
fellows, I never had written to The Times. And now, though I flattered
myself I knew how the thing ought to be done, I was unsure that I could
do it. Was I beginning too late? Restraint was the prime effect to
be aimed at. If you are intemperate, you don't convince. I wanted to
convince the readers of The Times that the violation of the Adelphi was
a thing to be prevented at all costs. Soberness of statement, a simple,
direct, civic style, with only an underthrob of personal emotion, were
what I must at all costs achieve. Not too much of mere aesthetics,
either, nor of mere sentiment for the past. No more than a brief eulogy
of 'those admirably proportioned streets so familiar to all students
of eighteenth century architecture,' and perhaps a passing reference to
'the shades of Dr. Johnson, Garrick, Hannah More, Sir Joshua Reynolds.
Topham Beauclerk, and how many others!' The sooner my protest were put
in terms of commerce, the better for my cause. The more clearly I were
to point out that such antiquities as the Adelphi are as a magnet to the
moneyed tourists of America and Europe, the likelier would my readers
be to shudder at 'a proposal which, if carried into effect, will bring
discredit on all concerned and will in some measure justify Napoleon's
hitherto-unjustified taunt that we are a nation of shopkeepers.--I am,
Sir, your obedient servant'--good! I sat down to a table and wrote out
that conclusion, and then I worked backwards, keeping well in view
the idea of 'restraint.' But that quality which is little sister
to restraint, and is yet far more repulsive to the public mind than
vehemence, emerged to misguide my pen. Irony, in fact, played the deuce.
I found myself writing that a nation which, in its ardour for beauty
and its reverence for great historic associations, has lately disbursed
after only a few months' hesitation L250,000 to save the Crystal Palace,
where the bank holidays of millions of toilers have been spoilt by the
utter gloom and nullity of the place--a nullity and gloom that will,
however and of course, be d