are, and a precious mess they make, when some thousands of splinters, alike of cabs, train-busses, or human bodies, bundle down, all in some unexpected moment, upon the full tide of countless humanity beneath. This is certainly one of the disadvantages of our modern circumstances and superiorities, and of all that dense population of whose powers of progress we are so proud. But, after all, it is marvellous how little all these disasters to the few disturb us, the surviving many. The wreckage of such occasional catastrophes is promptly removed, the gaps it makes filled up on the instant, and so the daily tide rolls on imperturbably as before.
As we loll comfortably on our cab sofa, we are not unimpressed with the dignity of even our friend Cabbie in these days of advanced science. There he sits at his ease in front of us, a model of well-practised skill, and mind-master of the situation, as he perfectly regulates the speed-energy, looks to his guiding comparative-altitude barometer for his exact level, and pilots his little ship withal through countless colliding dangers of the crowded scene. We could see, too, that he was using, as his locomotive power, a portion of the little Leyden accumulator which, on starting, we had paid to him as his fare. This is not uncommon—is indeed the practice, at least with cabbies, who either don't possess much means, or don't carry their capital about them, or may have permanently invested their spare cash. This leads me into saying a word or two upon—
