There are two things belonging to modern civilization," the architect
began, "that fill me with amazement. This morning, at the usual hour, I
sat at my own breakfast table. During the day I have been reading and
writing, eating, drinking and making merry with pleasant acquaintances,
old and new. I have observed the architecture of a dozen cities and a
hundred villages and have seen landscapes without number. I have been
occupying an elegantly finished and furnished drawing-room all the
time, with every possible comfort and convenience at hand, and now am
sitting at your fireside, two hundred and fifty miles from home. I have
just assured the girl I left behind me of my safe arrival, and have
listened to her grateful reply. With my ten thousand companions going
in the same direction I have met ten thousand others crossing and
recrossing our path, every one of whom was as safe and comfortable as
ourselves, every one of whom knew the hour and the minute at which he
would reach his destination. To an observer above the clouds our
pathways would appear more frail than the finest gossamer; and the most
daring engineer that ever lived, seeing for the first time our mode of
travel, would stake his reputation that we were rushing to
inevitable destruction. Yet every foot of our way has been so guarded
that not one of these swiftly-moving palaces has swerved from its track
or been hindered on its course. This annihilation of space, with the
human skill, vigilance and fidelity incidental to it, are more
wonderful to me than any tales of magic, stranger than any fiction. I
believe because I see; nevertheless it is incredible. My second
amazement is that fire insurance companies should continue to live and
thrive against such apparently fearful odds, for I see whole villages
and cities composed of buildings that seem expressly designed to invite
speedy combustion, and at the same time to resist all attempts to