Most lives, though their stream is loaded with sand and turbid with alluvial waste, drop a few golden grains of wisdom as they flow along.
Oftentimes a single CRADLING gets them all, and after that the poor man's labor is only rewarded by mud and worn pebbles.

All which proves that I, as an individual of the human family, could write one novel or story at any rate, if I would.
-- Why don't I, then ?--Well, there are several reasons against it.
In the first place, I should tell all my secrets, and I maintain that verse is the proper medium for such revelations.

Rhythm and rhyme and the harmonies of musical language, the play of fancy, the fire of imagination, the flashes of passion, so hide the nakedness of a heart laid open, that hardly any confession, transfigured in the luminous halo of poetry, is reproached as self-exposure.

A beauty shows herself under the chandeliers, protected by the glitter of her diamonds, with such a broad snowdrift of white arms and shoulders laid bare, that, were she unadorned and in plain calico, she would be unendurable--in the opinion of the ladies.
Again, I am terribly afraid I should show up all my friends.

I should like to know if all story-tellers do not do this?
Now I am afraid all my friends would not bear showing up very well; for they have an average share of the common weakness of humanity, which I am pretty certain would come out.