To speak algebraically, Mr. M. is execrable, but Mr. G. is (x + 1)- ecrable.

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!

To Helen Helen, thy beauty is to me Like those Nicean barks of yore That gently, o'er a perfumed sea, The weary, way-worn wanderer bore To his own native shore. On desperate seas long wont to roam, Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face, Thy Naiad airs have brought me home To the glory that was Greece, And the grandeur that was Rome. Lo, in yon brilliant window-niche How statue-like I see thee stand, The agate lamp within thy hand, Ah! Psyche, from the regions which Are Holy Land!

Even with the utterly lost, to whom life and death are equally jests, there are matters of which no jest can be made.

In the tale proper--where there is no space for development of character or for great profusion and variety of incident--mere construction is, of course, far more imperatively demanded than in the novel.

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

To speak algebraically, Mr. M. is execrable, but Mr. G. is (x + 1)- ecrable.