So long as the Adelphi remains 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.
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