The Broken Heart. You Think You Will

Be Natural My Children. For The Writer That Is Natural Has Fulfilled All The Rules Of Art.

He Had A Certain Air Of Being A Handsome Man-which He Was Not; And A Certain Air Of Being A Well-bred Man-which He Was Not. It Was Mere Swagger And Challenge; But In This Particular, As In Many Others, Blustering Assertion Goes For Proof, Half Over The World.

It Is The Fate Of Most Men Who Mingle With The World, And Attain Even The Prime Of Life, To Make Many Real Friends, And Lose Them In The Course Of Nature. It Is The Fate Of All Authors Or Chroniclers To Create Imaginary Friends, And Lose Them In The Course Of Art. Nor Is This The Full Extent Of Their Misfortunes; For They Are Required To Furnish An Account Of Them Besides.

A Tender Young Cork, However, Would Have Had No More Chance Against A Pair Of Corkscrews, Or A Tender Young Tooth Against A Pair Of Dentists, Or A Little Shuttlecock Against Two Battledores, Than I Had Against Uriah And Mrs. Heep. They Did Just What They Liked With Me; And Wormed Things Out Of Me That I Had No Desire To Tell, With A Certainty I Blush To Think Of.

A Modest Ring At The Bell At Length Allayed Her Fears, And Miss Benton, Hurrying Into Her Own Room And Shutting Herself Up, In Order That She Might Preserve That Appearance Of Being Taken By Surprise Which Is So Essential To The Polite Reception Of Visitors, Awaited Their Coming With A Smiling Countenance.