“Female literature seems to be all the rage now,” remarked a gentleman, who was turning over the volumes in Mr. Develin’s book store, No. 6 Literary Row. “Who are your most successful lady authors?”

“Miss Pyne,” said Mr. Develin, “authoress of ‘Shadows,’ Miss Taft, authoress of ‘Sunbeams,’ and Miss Bitman, authoress of ‘Fairyland.’”

“I have been told,” said the gentleman, “that ‘Life Sketches,’ by ‘Floy,’ has had an immense sale—a larger one, in fact, than any of the others; is that so?”

“It has had a tolerable sale,” answered Mr. Develin, coldly. “I might have published it, I suppose, had I applied; but I had a very indifferent opinion of the literary talent of the authoress. The little popularity it has had, is undoubtedly owing to the writer being a sister of Hyacinth Ellet, the Editor of ‘The Irving Magazine.’”

“But is she his sister,” said the gentleman; “there are many rumors afloat; one hardly knows what to believe.”

“No doubt of it,” said Mr. Develin; “in fact, I, myself, know it to be true. ‘Floy’ is his sister; and it is altogether owing to the transferring of her articles, by him, to the columns of his paper, and his liberal endorsement of them, that she has had any success.”

“Indeed,” said the gentleman; “why I was a subscriber both for ‘The Standard,’ when her first article appeared in it, and also for ‘The Irving Magazine,’ and I am very sure that nothing of hers was copied in the latter until she had acquired an enviable popularity all over the Union. No, sir,” said Mr. Walter, (for it was he,) “I know a great deal more about ‘Floy’ and her writings than you can tell me, and some little about yourself. I have often heard of the version you give of this matter, and I came in to satisfy myself if it had been correctly reported to me. Now, allow me to set you right, sir,” said he, with a stern look. “The Editor of ‘The Irving Magazine’ never recognized ‘Floy’ as his sister, till the universal popular voice had pronounced its verdict in her favor. Then, when the steam was up, and the locomotive whizzing past, he jumps on, and says, ‘how fast we go!’”

“I think you are mistaken, sir,” replied Mr. Develin, with a faint attempt to retain his position.

“I am not mistaken, sir; I know, personally, that in the commencement of her literary career, when one or two articles of hers were copied into his paper by an assistant in the office, he positively forbade her nom de plume being again mentioned, or another of her articles copied into the Irving Magazine. He is a miserable time-server, sir. Fashion is his God; he recognizes only the drawing-room side of human nature. Sorrow in satin he can sympathize with, but sorrow in rags is too plebeian for his exquisite organization.

“Good morning, Mr. Develin; good morning, sir. The next time I hear of your giving a version of this matter, I trust it will be a correct one,” added he with a stern look.

“Well,” exclaimed Mr. Walter, as he walked down street, “of all mean meanness of which a man can be guilty, the meanest, in my estimation, is to rob a woman of her justly-earned literary fame, and I wish, for the credit of human nature, it were confined to persons of as limited mental endowments and influence as the one I have just left.”