elect lady of Dunderhed Van Nudel, Esquire, that wealthy
Dutch gentleman, aged seventy, whom we all know. It is true, that, as I
am young and gay and intelligent, while he is old and stupid and very
low Dutch indeed, such an announcement would be equivalent to saying
that I was bought by Mr. Van Nudel for half a million of dollars; but
then that is customary, and you would all congratulate me.

Also, I should stand a better chance of finding favor in your eyes, if I
declared myself to be an indigent tailoress; for no woman should use her
head who can use her hands,--a maxim older than Confucius.

Or even if I were a school-ma'am! (blessed be the man who has brought
them into fashion and the long path!) In that case, you might say, "Poor
thing! isn't she interesting? quite like _the_ school-mistress!"--And I
am not averse to pity, since it is love's poor cousin, nor to belonging
to a class mentioned in Boston literary society. I really am not!

But the plain truth is, I earn my living by writing. Sewing does not
pay. I have no "faculty" at school-keeping; for I invariably spoil all
the good children, and pet all the pretty ones,--a process not
conducive, as I am told, to the development of manners or morals;--so I
write: just as Mr. Jones makes shoes, Mr. Peters harangues the jury, Mr.
Smith sells calico, or Mr. Robinson rolls pills.

For, strange as it may seem, when it is so easy to read, it is hard work
to write,--_bona fide_, undeniable hard work. Suppose my head cracks and
rings and reels with a great ache that stupefies me? In comes Biddy with
a letter.

"The editor of the 'Monthly Signpost' would be much obliged to
Miss Matilda Muffin for a tale of four pages, to make up the
June number, before the end of next week.

"Very respectfully, etc., etc."

Miss Muffin's head looks her in the face, (metaphorically,) and says,
"You can't!"--but her last year's bonnet creaks and rustles from the
bandbox, finally lifts the lid and peeps out. Gracious! the ghost in
Hamlet was not more of an "airy nothing" than that ragged, faded,
dilapidated old structure of crape and blonde. The bonnet retires to the
sound of slow music; the head slinks back and holds its tongue; Miss
Muffin sits down at her table; scratch, scratch, scratch, goes the old
pen, and the ideas catch up with it, it is so shaky; and the words go
tumbling over it, till the _t_s go out without any hats on, and the
eyes--no,