A CENTURY HENCE. 73 



a small part of the ground on which stands that magnificent structure 

 known as the Universal Bazaar, an institution of trade not unlike the 

 Bon Marche of Paris. You remember Stewart's in its palmy days? 

 'Twas as nothing to this — this store which towers above every other 

 building in the city and commands from its roof a view of the mau- 

 soleum wherein lie generations of the Vanderbilts in their last re- 

 pose, and the great bridge spanning the East river and still a road- 

 way for countless thousands. The hills that once rose hereabout — 

 where are they ? Where the humble crossroads hotel in which the 

 giants of the law after their wrangles were wont to sit and sip their 

 brandy and wine, while the ordinary citizen, deep in litigation, event- 

 ually paid for his counsellor's tipple and often contented himself with 

 plebeian beer. Hotels there are now, it is true, but unlike those of 

 the b} T gone da} T s when mine host raised succulent vegetables and de- 

 licious fruit on the little farm that supplied his table and he person- 

 ally attended to the wants of his guests. The farm is scarce a mem- 

 ory, the inn when the century was young was levelled to the ground, 

 the host has gone and the last guest has departed. Not a stone, not 

 a timber, not a vestige of the old houses, of which this was a type, 

 remains. In their places we have the " Wimau," the "Emmons," the 

 "Norton," the "Satterlee," the "Edgar," the "Willcox," the "John- 

 stone," many roomed and splendidly furnished hotels, bearing 

 the names of men who led the Staten Island that was out of the 

 Egypt of commercial darkness or were prominent in its social life. 

 Residences in this quarter there are none. Trade demands every 

 foot of mother earth here and Trade's demand is complied with. 

 Opposite the Universal Bazaar stands the office of the Citizen, a mar- 

 vel of journalism before which the greatest newspaper achievements 

 of the last century pale into insignificance. There are no better 

 mirrors of a community's life than its newspapers. Observe this 

 sheet — its pages, twenty-eight in number, present each a surface about 

 as large as those of Harper's IVeeMij, an illustrated publication in 

 great request seventy -five years ago and discontinued then in conse- 

 quence of the retirement of Mr. George William Curtis from its edi- 

 torial management. This paper goes to press at 4 a. m., and at 5:20 

 each morning 650,000 copies, printed, cut and folded, are ready for 

 the dealers. Each of the four presses has a capacity of 175,000 copies 

 an hour. Some of its items look odd and sound queer. This about 



