these papers, Christopher Morley, the well-beloved "Kit" of his many friends, shakes the dust of Philadelphia from his ample feet and betakes himself to "fresh woods and pastures new," or to drop the elegance of Milton, he goes to New York, there to create in the columns of the Evening Post that atmosphere of amiability which we have come to regard as inseparable from him.
Of course, some of us will resolve to submit to the inconvenience of awaiting at Broad Street Station the arrival of the four o'clock train from New York which usually brings to us the afternoon edition of the Evening Post, but I fear that after a time our resolution will go the way of good resolutions generally, and that we will force ourselves to be content with second best. For after Morley, whatever comes will be second best. Where else shall we find simplicity, the gayety, the kindly humor, and the charm of this gentle essayist? Who, other than Morley, could make a walk out Market street of interest and a source of fun? His little skit in the manner of Karl Baedeker is inimitable. Who, but he, would think of calling Ridge Avenue, that diagonal that passes over the shoulder of Philadelphia, "the Sam Brown belt"? Who, but he, could find in the commonplace, sordid, and depressing streets of our city, subjects for a sheaf of dainty little essays, as delightful as they are unique? For say what you will, to most of us the streets of Philadelphia are dirty and depressing. But
