Before retracing his steps, however, he allowed his gaze to range over the vast and beautiful prospect spread out beneath him, which is now hidden, from the traveller's view by the high walls of the General Cemetery, and can, consequently, only be commanded from the interior of that attractive place of burial,—and which, before it was intersected by canals and railroads, and portioned out into hippodromes, was exquisite indeed. As he looked up at the massive tower, the clock tolled forth the hour of midnight. All bad verse—originally the epigram was Lang’s, I believe—is written in a state of emotion. ‘It is of no use to try to stop me. I feel beautiful. ‘But you said—’ Gerald tutted.
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