heart was as brittle as a pipe stalk.  The female heart, as far as my experience goes, is just like a new India Rubber Shoe; you may pull and pull at it, till it stretches out a yard long, and then let go, and it will fly right back to its old shape.  Their hearts are made of stout leather, I tell you; there’s a plaguy sight of wear in ’em, I never knowed but one case of a broken heart, and that was in tother sex, one Washington Banks.  He was a sneezer.  He was tall enough to spit down on the heads of your grenadiers, and near about high enough to wade across Charlestown River, and as strong as a tow boat.  I guess he was somewhat less than a foot longer than the moral law and catechism too.  He was a perfect pictur of a man; you could’nt falt him in no particular; be was so just a made critter; folks used to run to the winder when he passed, and say there goes Washington Banks, beant he lovely?  I do believe there was’nt a gall in the Lowell factories, that warnt in love with him.  Sometimes, at intermission, on Sabbath days, when they all came out together, (an amasin hansom sight too, near about a whole congregation of young galls) Banks used to say, ’I vow, young ladies, I wish I had five hundred arms to reciprocate one with each of you; but I reckon I have a heart big enough for you all; its a whapper, you may depend, and every mite and morsel of it at your service.’  Well, how you do act, Mr. Banks, half a thousand little clipper clapper tongues would say, all at the same time, and their dear little eyes sparklin, like so many stars twinklin of a frosty night.

Well, when I last see’d him, he was all skin and bone, like a horse turned out to die.  He was tetotally defleshed, a mere walkin skeleton.  I am dreadful sorry, says I, to see you, Banks, lookin so peecked; why you look like a sick turkey hen, all legs; what on airth ails you?  I am dyin, says he, of A broken heart.  What, says I, have the galls been jiltin you?  No, no, says he, I beant such a fool as that neither.  Well, says I, have you made a bad speculation?  No, says he, shakin his head, I hope I have too much clear grit in me to take on so bad for that.  What under the sun, is it, then? said I. Why, says he, I made a bet the fore part of summer with Leftenant Oby Knowles, that I could shoulder the best bower of the Constitution frigate.  I won my bet, but the Anchor was so eternal heavy it broke my heart.  Sure enough he did die that very fall, and he was the only instance I ever heerd tell of A broken heart.

No.  XI

Cumberland Oysters Produce Melancholy Forebodings.