my own, but confidently expects that Ann Tubbs or Susan Bucket will
appear from a long suppression, like a Jack-in-a-box, and startle the
public as she throws back the cover.

Indeed, I am told that not long since a circle of literary
experimentalists, discussing a recent number of a certain magazine, and
displaying great knowledge of _noms-de-plume_, ran aground all at once
upon "Who is Matilda Muffin?"--even as, in the innocent faith of
childhood, I pondered ten minutes upon "Who was the father of Zebedee's
children?" and at last "gave up." But these professional gentlemen,
nowise daunted by the practical difficulties of the subject, held on,
till at last one, wiser in his generation than the rest, confidently
announced that he knew Matilda Muffin's real name, but was not at
liberty to disclose it. Should this little confidence ever reach the
eyes of those friends, I wish to indorse that statement in every
particular; that gentleman does know my name; and know all men, by these
presents, I give him full leave to disclose it,--or rather, to save him
the trouble, I disclose it myself. My name, my own, that would have been
printed in the marriage-list of the "Snapdragon" before now, if it had
not appeared in the list of contributors, and which will appear in its
list of deaths some day to come,--my name, that is called to breakfast,
marked on my pocket-handkerchiefs, written in my books, and done in
yellow paint on my trunk, _is_--Matilda Muffin. "Only that, and nothing
more!" And "A. B.," which I adopted once as a species of veil to the
aforesaid alliterative title, did not mean, as was supposed, "A Beauty,"
or "Any Body," or "Another Barrett," or "Anti Bedott," or "After
Breakfast," but only "A. B.," the first two letters of the alphabet.
Peace to their ashes!--let them rest!

But, dear me! I forgot the Memorial! As I have said, all these
enumerated troubles do not much move me, nor yet the world-old cry of
all literary women's being, in virtue of their calling, unfeminine. I
don't think anybody who knows me can say that about me; in fact, I am
generally regarded by my male cousins as a "little goose," and a
"foolish child," and "a perfectly absurd little thing,"--epithets that
forbid the supposition of their object being strong-minded or having
Women's Rights;--and as for people who don't know me, I care very little
what they think. If I want them to like me, I can generally make
them,--having a knack that way.

Bu