fancy seemed to melt, like those of Icarus, now that he approached the sun of his hopes, London. The air of the narrow chamber grew more and more oppressive, and he flung open the window, which looked into a churchyard. The moonlight fell over the white stones which press so heavily on the dust beneath.
"The last churchyard I looked upon," exclaimed Walter, "how different was it from this! There the sweet influences of nature shed their own beauty over the presence of death. The wild-flowers sprung up amid the grass; the dew shone on the leaves; and the murmurs of a nameless music stirred the sweeping branches of the oak. Here, all is harsh and artificial: the palpable weight of human care seems upon the thick atmosphere. The very dead are crowded together, and crushed beneath the weight of those dreary-looking stones. "Ah!" exclaimed he, as he turned, with a cold shudder, from the window, "I hope I shall never be buried in a city."
