his chair as he spoke and peering curiously about. “Look under the table and see if he’s there taking notes. Oh yes, I read the magazines very often when I have time, and some of the things I find in them are mighty good; but when those literary ducks start in to describe New York, or at least this part of it--well, excuse _me_, I don’t want any of it. This would be a great place, though, for a story-writer to come to if he really wanted to learn anything about the town.” I am perfectly sure that if Mr. Gilder had turned up at that wedding his hands would not have been the only ones “trun up” in honor of the visit. And I firmly believe that the visit of the _Century_ editor to what is said to be the most densely populated square mile in the world will prove pregnant of great results, and may perhaps mark a distinct epoch in the history of letters. On looking back over what I have written, it seems to me that I have devoted too much of my space to that portion of the city which lies below the barbed-wire fence; but I hope my transgression will be pardoned in view of the great significance of Mr. Gilder’s recent explorations and also of the fact that the region itself is so rich in literary material of the sort that a Victor Hugo or a Dickens would have seized upon with avidity. There are young men working in newspaper offices now who will one of these days draw true and vivid pictures of modern New York as it appears in the eyes and the brains of those who know it thoroughly, and very interesting fiction it will be, too. The late Mr. Mines (Felix Oldboy) and Mr. Thomas A. Janvier have written successfully and entertainingly of the town that our fathers and grandparents knew, but the book on New York of to-day has yet to be written, and I know of no one better qualified for the task than my young friend the reporter, whom I have personally addressed in preceding chapters. It seems to me something like high treason to even hint of the possibility of a break in the present literary dynasty--an event which would be deplored by none more bitterly than by my loyal self. Mr. Johnson’s powers are still unimpaired, and his grasp on his pruning-hook is as firm as it was on the day that he suggested the reduction of the twelve flasks to two or three. I desire nothing more than that in history’s page my name shall brightly glow beside his as his Boswell. Mr. Bok has already shown such remarkable capacity for benign and progressive rule that we may look forward with a reasonable degree of confidence to his peaceful and undisputed accession to the throne, and a new impetus to the sale of his photographs, which are dirt-cheap at a quarter of a dollar.