There might be a class of beings, human once, but now to humanity invisible, for whose scrutiny, and for whose refined appreciation of the beautiful, more especially than for our own, had been set in order by God the great landscape-garden of the whole earth.

That single thought is enough. The impulse increases to a wish, the wish to a desire, the desire to an uncontrollable longing, and the longing (to the deep regret and mortification of the speaker, and in defiance of all consequences,) is indulged.

And then there stole into my fancy, like a rich musical note, the thought of what sweet rest there must be in the grave.

A short story must have a single mood and every sentence must build towards it.

It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain, but, once conceived, it haunted me day and night.

And now have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but overacuteness of the senses?

The rudiment of verse may, possibly, be found in the spondee.