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-office list of boxes." After which, I shall resign myself tranquilly to my fate as a unit, and glide down the stream of life under whatever skies shine or scowl above, always and forever nobody but MATILDA MUFFIN. BLANK, _67 Smith Street_. SOME ACCOUNT OF A VISIONARY. "Dear old Visionary!" It was the epithet usually applied to Everett Gray by his friends and neighbors. It expresses very well the estimation in which he was held by nineteen-twentieths of his world. People couldn't help feeling affection for him, considerably leavened by a half-pitying, half-wondering appreciation of his character. He was so good, so kind, so gifted, too. Pity he was so dreamy and romantic, _et cetera, et cetera_.