SIGHTS FROM A STEEPLE.

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So! I have climbed high, and my reward is small.
Here I stand, with wearied knees, earth, indeed, at a
dizzy depth below, but heaven far, far beyond me
still. O that I could soar up into the very zenith,
where man never breathed, nor eagle ever flew, and
where the ethereal azure melts away from the eye,
and appears only a deepened shade of nothingness!
And yet I shiver at that cold and solitary thought.
What clouds are gathering in the golden west, with
direful intent against the brightness and the warmth
of this summer afternoon! They are ponderous airships,
black as death, and freighted with the tempest;
and at intervals their thunder, the signal-guns of that
unearthly squadron, rolls distant along the deep of
heaven. These nearer heaps of fleecy vapor — methinks
I could roll and toss upon them the whole day
long! — seem scattered here and there, for the repose
of tired pilgrims through the sky. Perhaps —
for who can tell? — beautiful spirits are disporting
themselves there, and will bless my mortal eye with
the brief appearance of their curly locks of golden
light and laughing faces, fair and faint as the people
of a rosy dream. Or, where the floating mass so imperfectly
obstructs the color of the firmament, a slender
foot and fairy limb, resting too heavily upon the
frail support, may be thrust through, and suddenly
withdrawn, while longing fancy follows them in vain.
Yonder again is an airy archipelago, where the sun-beams
love to linger in their journeyings through
space. Every one of those little clouds has been
dipped and steeped in radiance, which the slightest
pressure might disengage in silvery profusion, like

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water wrung from a sea-maid's hair. Bright they are
as a young man's visions, and, like them, would be
realized in chillness, obscurity, and tears. I will look
on them no more.

In three parts of the visible circle, whose centre is
this spire, I discern cultivated fields, villages, white
country-seats, the waving lines of rivulets, little placid
lakes, and here and there a rising ground, that would
fain be termed a hill. On the fourth side is the sea,
stretching away towards a viewless boundary, blue
and calm, except where the passing anger of a shadow
flits across its surface, and is gone. Hitherward, a
broad inlet penetrates far into the land; on the verge
of the harbor, formed by its extremity, is a town; and
over it am I, a watchman, all heeding and unheeded.
O that the multitude of chimneys could speak, like
those of Madrid, and betray, in smoky whispers, the
secrets of all who, since their first foundation, have
assembled at the hearths within! O that the Limping
Devil of Le Sage would perch beside me here,
extend his wand over this contiguity of roofs, uncover
every chamber, and make me familiar with their inhabitants!
The most desirable mode of existence
might be that of a spiritualized Paul Pry, hovering
invisible round man and woman, witnessing their
deeds, searching into their hearts, borrowing brightness
from their felicity, and shade from their sorrow,
and retaining an emotion peculiar to himself. But
none of these things are possible; and if I would
know the interior of brick walls, or the mystery of
human bosoms, I can but guess.

Yonder is a fair street, extending north and south.
The stately mansions are placed each on its carpet of
verdant grass, and a long flight of steps descends
from every door to the pavement. Ornamental trees,
the broad-leafed horse-chestnut, the elm so lofty and

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bending, the graceful but infrequent willow, and
others whereof I know not the names, grow thrivingly
among brick and stone. The oblique rays of the sun
are intercepted by these green citizens, and by the
houses, so that one side of the street is a shaded and
pleasant walk. On its whole extent there is now but
a single passenger, advancing from the upper end;
and he, unless distance and the medium of a pocket
spy-glass do him more than justice, is a fine young
man of twenty. He saunters slowly forward, slapping
his left hand with his folded gloves, bending his eyes
upon the pavement, and sometimes raising them to
throw a glance before him. Certainly, he has a
pensive air. Is he in doubt, or in debt? Is he — if
the question be allowable — in love? Does he strive to
be melancholy and gentlemanlike? — Or, is he merely
overcome by the heat? But I bid him farewell, for
the present. The door of one of the houses, an aristocratic
edifice, with curtains of purple and gold waving
from the windows, is now opened, and down the
steps come two ladies, swinging their parasols, and
lightly arrayed for a summer ramble. Both are young,
both are pretty; but methinks the left-hand lass is
the fairer of the twain; and though she be so serious
at this moment, I could swear that there is a treasure
of gentle fun within her. They stand talking a little
while upon the steps, and finally proceed up the street.
Meantime, as their faces are now turned from me, I
may look elsewhere.

Upon that wharf, and down the corresponding
street, is a busy contrast to the quiet scene which I
have just noticed. Business evidently has its centre
there, and many a man is wasting the summer afternoon
in labor and anxiety, in losing riches, or in
gaining them, when he would be wiser to flee away
to some pleasant country village, or shaded lake in

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the forest, or wild and cool sea-beach. I see vessels
unlading at the wharf, and precious merchandise
strown upon the ground, abundantly as at the bottom
of the sea, that market whence no goods return, and
where there is no captain nor supercargo to render
an account of sales. Here, the clerks are diligent
with their paper and pencils, and sailors ply the block
and tackle that hang over the hold, accompanying
their toil with cries, long-drawn and roughly-melodious,
till the bales and puncheons ascend to upper
air. At a little distance, a group of gentlemen are
assembled round the door of a warehouse. Grave
seniors be they, and I would wager — if it were safe,
in these times, to be responsible for any one — that
the least eminent among them might vie with old
Vincentio, that incomparable trafficker of Pisa. I
can even select the wealthiest of the company. It is
the elderly personage, in somewhat rusty black, with
powdered hair, the superfluous whiteness of which
is visible upon the cape of his coat. His twenty ships
are wafted on some of their many courses by every
breeze that blows, and his name — I will venture to
say, though I know it not — is a familiar sound among
the far-separated merchants of Europe and the Indies.
But I bestow too much of my attention in this
quarter. On looking again to the long and shady
walk, I perceive that the two fair girls have encountered
the young man, and, after a sort of shyness in
the recognition, he turns back with them. Moreover,
he has sanctioned my taste in regard to his companions
by placing himself on the inner side of the
pavement, nearest the Venus to whom I — enacting,
on a steeple-top, the part of Paris on the top of Ida —
adjudged the golden apple.

In two streets, converging at right angles towards
my watch-tower, I distinguish three different

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processions. One is a proud array of volunteer soldiers in
bright uniform, resembling, from the height whence
I look down, the painted veterans that garrison the
windows of a toy-shop. And yet, it stirs my heart;
their regular advance, their nodding plumes, the
sun-flash on their bayonets and musket-barrels, the
roll of their drums ascending past me, and the fife
ever and anon piercing through — these things have
wakened a warlike fire, peaceful though I be. Close
to their rear marches a battalion of schoolboys,
ranged in crooked and irregular platoons, shouldering
sticks, thumping a harsh and unripe clatter from an
instrument of tin, and unfortunately aping the intricate
manœuvres of the foremost band. Nevertheless,
as slight differences are scarcely perceptible from a
church spire, one might be tempted to ask, “Which
are the boys?” — or, rather, “Which the men?” But,
leaving these, let us turn to the third procession,
which, though sadder in outward show, may excite
identical reflections in the thoughtful mind. It is a
funeral. A hearse, drawn by a black and bony steed,
and covered by a dusty pall; two or three coaches
rumbling over the stones, their drivers half asleep; a
dozen couple of careless mourners in their every-day
attire; such was not the fashion of our fathers, when
they carried a friend to his grave. There is now no
clang of passing bell, to proclaim sorrow to the town.
Was the King of Terrors more awful in those days
than in our own, that wisdom and philosophy have
been able to produce this change? Not so. Here is
a proof that he retains his proper majesty. The
military men, and the military boys, are wheeling
round the corner, and meet the funeral full in the face.
Immediately the drum is silent, all but the tap that
regulates each simultaneous foot-fall. The soldiers
yield the path to the dusty hearse and unpretending

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train, and the children quit their ranks, and cluster
on the sidewalks, with timorous and instinctive
curiosity. The mourners enter the churchyard at
the base of the steeple, and pause by an open grave
among the burial stones; the lightning glimmers on
them as they lower down the coffin, and the thunder
rattles heavily while they throw the earth upon its
lid. Verily, the shower is near, and I tremble for
the young man and the girls, who have now disappeared
from the long and shady street.

How various are the situations of the people
covered by the roofs beneath me, and how diversified
are the events at this moment befalling them! The
new-born, the aged, the dying, the strong in life, and
the recent dead, are in the chambers of these many
mansions. The full of hope, the happy, the miserable,
and the desperate, dwell together within the circle of
my glance. In some of the houses over which my
eyes roam so coldly, guilt is entering into hearts that
are still tenanted by a debased and trodden virtue, —
guilt is on the very edge of commission, and the
impending deed might be averted; guilt is done, and
the criminal wonders if it be irrevocable. There are
broad thoughts struggling in my mind, and, were I
able to give them distinctness, they would make
their way in eloquence. Lo! the rain-drops are descending.

The clouds, within a little time, have gathered
over all the sky, hanging heavily, as if about to drop
in one unbroken mass upon the earth. At intervals,
the lightning flashes from their brooding hearts,
quivers, disappears, and then comes the thunder,
travelling slowly after its twin-born flame. A strong
wind has sprung up, howls through the darkened
streets, and raises the dust in dense bodies, to rebel
against the approaching storm. The disbanded

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soldiers fly, the funeral has already vanished like its
dead, and all people hurry homeward — all that have
a home; while a few lounge by the corners, or trudge
on desperately, at their leisure. In a narrow lane,
which communicates with the shady street, I discern
the rich old merchant, putting himself to the top of
his speed, lest the rain should convert his hair-powder
to a paste. Unhappy gentleman! By the slow vehemence
and painful moderation wherewith he journeys,
it is but too evident that Podagra has left its
thrilling tenderness in his great toe. But yonder, at
a far more rapid pace, come three other of my acquaintance,
the two pretty girls and the young man,
unseasonably interrupted in their walk. Their footsteps
are supported by the risen dust; the wind lends
them its velocity; they fly like three sea-birds driven
landward by the tempestuous breeze. The ladies
would not thus rival Atalanta, if they but knew that
any one were at leisure to observe them. Ah! as
they hasten onward, laughing in the angry face of
nature, a sudden catastrophe has chanced. At the
corner, where the narrow lane enters into the street,
they come plump against the old merchant, whose
tortoise motion has just brought him to that point.
He likes not the sweet encounter; the darkness of the
whole air gathers speedily upon his visage, and there
is a pause on both sides. Finally he thrusts aside the
youth with little courtesy, seizes an arm of each of
the two girls, and plods onward, like a magician with
a prize of captive fairies. All this is easy to be
understood. How disconsolate the poor lover stands!
regardless of the rain that threatens an exceeding
damage to his well-fashioned habiliment, till he
catches a backward glance of mirth from a bright eye,
and turns away with whatever comfort it conveys.

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The old man and his daughters are safely housed,
and now the storm lets loose its fury. In every dwelling
I perceive the faces of the chambermaids as they
shut down the windows, excluding the impetuous
shower, and shrinking away from the quick, fiery
glare. The large drops descend with force upon the
slated roofs, and rise again in smoke. There is a
rush and roar, as of a river through the air, and muddy
streams bubble majestically along the pavement, whirl
their dusky foam into the kennel, and disappear beneath
iron grates. Thus it was that Arethusa sunk.
I love not my station here aloft, in the midst of the
tumult which I am powerless to direct or quell, with
the blue lightning wrinkling on my brow, and the
thunder muttering its first awful syllables in my ear.
I will descend. Yet let me give another glance to
the sea, where the foam breaks out in long white
lines upon a broad expanse of blackness, or boils up
in far distant points, like snowy mountain tops in the
eddies of a flood; and let me look once more at the
green plain, and little hills of the country, over which
the giant of the storm is striding in robes of mist, and
at the town, whose obscured and desolate streets
might beseem a city of the dead; and turning a single
moment to the sky, now gloomy as an author's prospects,
I prepare to resume my station on lower earth.
But stay! A little speck of azure has widened in the
western heavens; the sunbeams find a passage, and
go rejoicing through the tempest; and on yonder
darkest cloud, born, like hallowed hopes, of the glory
of another world, and the trouble and tears of this,
brightens forth the rainbow!