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.