ache all by itself, when
a simple application of bread and milk or bread and meat would cure it,
that I am glad to have the apparent sum of human misery diminished, even
at the expense of being a traitor in the camp.

And still further, for your sakes, dear tender-hearted friends, who may
suppose that I am wearing this mask of joy for the sake of deluding you
into a grim and respectful sympathy,--you, who will pity me whether or
no,--I confess that I have some material sorrows for which I will gladly
accept your tears. My best bonnet is very unbecoming. I even heard it
said the other day, striking horror to my soul, that it looked literary!
And I'm afraid it does! Moreover, my only silk dress that is presentable
begins to show awful symptoms of decline and fall; and though you may
suppose literature to be a lucrative business, between ourselves it is
not so at all, (very likely the "Atlantic" gentlemen will omit that
sentence, for fear of a libel-suit from the trade,--but it's all the
same a fact, unless you write for the "Dodger,")--and, I'm likely to
mend and patch and court-plaster the holes in that old black silk,
another year at least: but this is my solitary real anguish at present.

I do assure all and sundry my reporters, my sympathizers, and my
readers, that all that I have stated in this present Memorial is
unvarnished fact, whatever they may say, read, or feel to the
contrary,--and that, although I am a literary woman, and labor under all
the liabilities and disabilities contingent thereto, I am yet sound in
mind and body, (except for the toothache,) and a very amusing person to
know, with no quarrel against life in general or anybody in particular.
Indeed, I find one advantage in the very credulous and inquisitive
gossip against which I memorialize; for I think I may expect fact to be
believed, when fiction is swallowed whole; and I feel sure of seeing,
directly on the publication of this document, a notice in the
"Snapdragon," the "Badger," or the "Coon," (whichever paper gets that
number of the magazine first,) running in this wise:--

"MATILDA MUFFIN.--We welcome in the last number of the
'Atlantic Monthly' a brief and spirited autobiography of this
lady, whose birth, parentage, and home have so long been wrapt
in mystery. The hand of genius has rent asunder the veil of
reserve, and we welcome the fair writer to her proper position
in the Blank City Directory, and post-offi