There are cities, and even small towns, that present themselves to the imagination as units and are in their degree satisfying to that sane something within us that demands balance and proportion in art. They are at once comprehensive and comprehensil^le. But Manhattan is without a plan. Each building is a unit, sufficient unto itself, and the city is chaos. It is aside from the purpose of this book, and more fitting for a philosophical treatise, to suggest that there is something in the life and activit}" of the metropolis that conforms to its architectural sky-line. But mere size is impressive in its way, after all. The eye sweeps that line of jagged towers and dizzy pinnacles in search of food to satisfy the craving for the marvellous which is perhaps no more a modern than it was an ancient failing. We own to a feeling of exultation when we discover that the Park Row Building (that looks like the London Tower elongated) is three hundred and eight}- -- or is it ninety? -- feet high, and that the Manhattan Life does not touch it by forty feet or more, though this in turn overtops the Cable, St. Paul, American Surety, Tract Society, World, Empire, Gillender, and all other threehundred-footers, as they do such trumpery affairs as

New Building's and Old 39 the Produce Exchange, Bowling Green, Equitable, etc. There is old Trinit>' spire, that we used to think was in danger of tearing the silver lining from the clouds with its heavenward-pointing ti]x How dwarfed and insignificant itseems now among all its tall worldlx' neighbours! And yet, with the rush of a thousand thronging associations, how the eye seeks and dwells upon it, recognising in it a significance deeper and stronger than is suggested by all the iron mills and stone quarries of the land.