Instead of resting us, it presents a problem, and the last thing
for which we now have time is abstract thought. And so we prefer the
dazzling, twinkling, clashing, clamoring, death-dealing, sinking,
eruptive, insistent Broadway, where every blink of the eye catches a new
impression, where the brain becomes a passive, palpitating receptacle
for ideas which are shot into it through all the senses; and where,
between 'stepping lively' and 'watching your step,' a feat of
contradictoriness only equalled in its exaction by the absorbing
exercise of slapping with one hand and rubbing with the other,
independent thought becomes an extinct function."

Perhaps. These may be the doubts of the grown-ups and the sophisticated.
Meditate thus cantering along the bridle-path or lolling back in the
tonneau of the motor-car that has come to replace the stately, absurd
horse-drawn equipage of yesterday. Survey with _ennui_. Brood over
unpatriotic comparisons. Paraphrase Laurence Sterne to the extent of
mumbling how "they order this matter much better in Hyde Park or in the
Bois de Boulogne." Quote Mr. Henry James about "the blistered _sentiers_
of asphalt, the rock-bound caverns, the huge iron bridges spanning
little muddy lakes, the whole, crowded, cockneyfied place." In that way
jaundiced happiness lies. But the soul of Central Park is not for you.
Once upon a time there was a Central Park. The approaches to it were
along sedate avenues or by restful side streets. When the Park was
reached there were donkeys to ride, and donkey-boys, highly amusing in
their cynicism and worldly knowledge, in attendance. The "rock-work"
caverns were in fancy of an amazing vastness, and the abode of goblins,
elves, gnomes, enchanted knights, persecuted princesses--all the
creatures of delightful Fairyland. A certain dark, winding, apparently
endless tunnel was the Valley of the Shadow of Death of John Bunyan's
allegory. On the sward before the entrance Christian grappled with
Apollyon: "_And Apollyon, espying his opportunity, began to gather up
close to Christian, and wrestling with him, gave him a dreadful fall;
and with that Christian's sword flew out of his hand. Then said
Apollyon, I am sure of thee now. And with that he had almost pressed him
to death; so that Christian began to despair of life. But, as God would
have it, while Apollyon was fetching of his last blow, thereby to make
an end of this good man, Christian nimbly reached out his hand for