what I have seen. This perfection of matter, from which no perfection of man is derived, these brilliant implements of a grievous and unredeemed life bewilder me. Beside you, Flying Scotsman, what would that blind beggar look like who sold me matches to-day? He was blind and corroded with scabies; he was a very bad and impaired machine; in fact, he was only a man.
II
Besides the machines, the exhibition at Wembley displays a twofold spectacle: raw materials and products. The raw materials are usually more attractive and interesting. An ingot of pure tin has something more perfect about it than an engraved and hammered tin dish; russet or fiery-grey timber somewhere from Guiana or Sarawak is decidedly more attractive than a finished billiard table, and stickily translucent raw rubber from Ceylon or Malaya is really far more beautiful and mysterious than rubber floor
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