Perhaps one of the young literary men will go on to say, in proof of his theory about the literary poverty of New York, that the magazines have already published a great many articles and stories about the Bowery and the east side, and have in fact quite covered the field without enriching the literature of the day to any very noticeable degree. All of which is perfectly true, but the results might have been different had the work been intrusted in each case to a writer who was familiar with the subject instead of to one whose only qualification was that he had mastered the art of writing matter suitable for magazines--or, in other words, “literature.” An exception to this rule, and a notable one too, was made in the case of Jacob A. Riis, who wrote some articles for _Scribner’s Magazine_ a few years ago on the poor of New York, and who is known as the author of _How the Other Half Lives_ and _The Children of the Poor_. Mr. Riis knows his subject thoroughly--he has been a police reporter for years--and his contributions are valuable because of the accuracy of the information which they contain, which is more than can be said of the work of some of the wiseacres and gifted story-writers who seem to stand so well in the estimation of the magazine managers. But, fortunately enough, the truth is mighty, and must, in the long run, prevail, in literature as in other forms of art: and the enduring novel of New York will be written, not by the man who, knowing his audience of editors rather than his subject, is content with a thin coating of that literary varnish known as “local color,” but by this very young man from Park Row or Herald Square, to whom I take the liberty of addressing a few words of encouragement and advice. When this young man sits down to write that novel, it will be because he is so full of his subject, so thoroughly in sympathy with his characters--no matter whether he takes them from an opium-joint in Mott Street or a ball at Delmonico’s--and so familiar with the various influences which have shaped their destinies, that he will set about his task with the firm conviction that he has a story to tell to the world. In that novel the “local color” will be found in the blood and bones: it will not be smeared over the outside surface with a flannel rag. And men and women will read the story and talk about it and think about it, just as they are reading and talking and thinking about “Trilby” now. Did you ever hear any one talk about Mr. Du Maurier’s “local color”? I never did.