"I never knowed but one case of a broken heart, and that was in
t'other 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
towboat. 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
couldn't falt him in no particular; he was so just a made critter;
folks used to run to the winder when he passed, and say 'There goes
Washington Banks, bean't he lovely?' I do believe there wasn't a gal
in the Lowell factories, that warn't in love with him. Sometimes, at
intermission, on Sabbath day, when they all came out together (an
amazin' hansom sight too, near about a whole congregation of young
gals), 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; it's 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 seed him, he was all skin and bone, like a horse
turned out to die.
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