igh, an octagon seventy-five feet across
the base, of timber, braced with iron, and anchored at each of the eight
angles with about forty tons of stone and timber. The tower was the
design of Warren Latting, and cost one hundred thousand dollars.
Immediately over the first story there was a refreshment room, and above
three view landings, the highest being three hundred feet from the
pavement. The proprietors were as sanguine as the promoters of the
Crystal Palace and the builder of "The House of Mansions" had been. They
took a ten-year lease of the ground and counted on reaping a fortune.
But like the other ventures the Tower was a failure. It was sold under
execution and destroyed by fire August 30, 1856, twenty-five months
before the burning of the Palace. In 1862 Union troops camped on the
site of the latter building, and the ground became known in 1871 as
Reservoir Park, which name was changed to Bryant Park in 1884.

Like other world-great cities, New York has many hearts. The spot that
means the very centre of things varies according to mood, occupation,
and manner of life. To high finance and those who play feverishly with
it, the heart of the town is where Wall Street, running from Trinity
Church down to the East River, is crossed by Nassau zigzagging into
Broad. At high noon the colossal figure of Washington on the steps of
the Sub-Treasury looks down on the centre of the earth. To the swarming
thousands of the Ghetto, who seldom venture west of the Bowery, there is
a point on the East Side that represents the pivot of things. There are
descendants of the Knickerbockers who cling arrogantly to the corner
facing the Washington Arch. Profound is the belief of the pleasure
seeker in the lights, signs, theatres, and lobster palaces of Longacre
Square. To others nothing counts as the trees and fountains of Madison
Square and graceful Diana and the great clock in the Metropolitan Tower
count. But in these stirring days of the spring and early summer of
1918, for the throb of the universe climb Murray Hill to a point on the
Fifth Avenue sidewalk opposite the stone lions that guard the entrance
to the Public Library. There, as nowhere else, has the quiet of other
days been changed to the clamour of the present. To the passing
thousands the uniforms of khaki or of navy blue and the blaring band are
calling. "In this the vital hour let us show that the Spirit of '76 is
not dead! Americans, to arms!" And yesterday it was