Mrs. Mealy has made the tastes of mediocre people her life-study, and, as she has never for a single moment lost sight of the great literary principles which she acquired during the period of her apprenticeship, she has continued to keep herself in touch with editorial likes and dislikes, with the result that she is now a regular contributor to the leading magazines, and the author of various short stories and serials of such incredible stupidity that I often wonder what hypnotic or persuasive powers made it possible for her to dispose of them. Her neighbor, Henry Kornkrop, is a literary worker of another stamp. He goes to work every morning at nine o’clock, and from that hour until noon the click of his type-writer does not cease for a single instant. Two hours more in the afternoon complete his day’s stint; and as his contract with his publishers calls for neither punctuation, paragraphs, nor capitals, he is able to turn out a stupendous quantity of fiction from one Christmas day to another. He writes over the name of “Lady Gwendoline Dunrivers,” and deals exclusively with aristocratic life and character. Many a young shop-girl going down-town in an early elevated train with the latest “Lady Gwendoline” in her hand has been carried past Grand Street and awakened with a start from her dream of Lord Cecil, with his tawny mustache and clear-blue eyes, to find herself at the Battery terminus of the road. There is strong meat in Henry Kornkrop’s work, and his publishers gladly buy every ream that he turns out. In one sense he leads an ideal literary life, with no editors to refuse his work or alter it to suit the tastes of their readers, no vulgar publicity, no adverse criticisms to wound his feelings, and, best of all, no pecuniary care; for the “Lady Gwendoline” romances bring him in not less than $10,000 a year, which is probably twice as much as Mrs. Mealy makes. Of course neither of these writers turns out any decent work the year through, if we are to judge them by a respectable literary standard; but it is not easy to determine which of the two is the more culpable--Margaret Mealy, who puts gas-fitters to sleep, or Henry Kornkrop, who keeps dish-washers awake. I fancy, however, that there are few of my readers who will disagree with me in my opinion that, of the two, honest Henry Kornkrop is by far the more successful and prosperous. And yet Mrs. Mealy made up her mind a few years ago that she really could not afford to be on such familiar terms with the Kornkrops--not that Mrs. K. was not the very best of women, and Henry the most industrious of men--but simply because her position before the world as a literary woman made it necessary for her to be a little particular about her associates.