But The Mere Truth Won't Do. You

Change Begets Change. Nothing Propagates So Fast. If A Man Habituated To A Narrow Circle Of Cares And Pleasures, Out Of Which He Seldom Travels, Step Beyond It, Though For Never So Brief A Space, His Departure From The Monotonous Scene On Which He Has Been An Actor Of Importance Would Seem To Be The Signal For Instant Confusion. The Mine Which Time Has Slowly Dug Beneath Familiar Objects Is Sprung In An Instant; And What Was Rock Before, Becomes But Sand And Dust.

Why Am I Always At War With Myself? Why Have I Told, As If Upon Compulsion, What I Knew All Along I Ought To Have Withheld? Why Am I Making A Friend Of This Woman Beside Me, In Spite Of The Whispers Against Her That I Hear In My Heart?

Money, Says The Proverb, Makes Money. When You Have Got A Little, It Is Often Easy To Get More.

"there Are Strings," Said Mr. Tappertit, Flourishing His Bread-and-cheese Knife In The Air, "in The Human Heart That Had Better Not Be Wibrated..."

Sadly, Sadly, The Sun Rose; It Rose Upon No Sadder Sight Than The Man Of Good Abilities And Good Emotions, Incapable Of Their Directed Exercise, Incapable Of His Own Help And His Own Happiness, Sensible Of The Blight On Him, And Resigning Himself To Let It Eat Him Away.