 | Twice-told tales |  |
SIGHTS FROM A STEEPLE.
SIGHTS FROM A STEEPLE.
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 air-ships,
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?—
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through, and suddenly withdrawn, while longing fancy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 sunbeams 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 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 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 no 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 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 spyglass
do him more than justice, is a fine young man of
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 the forest, or wild
and cool sea-beach. I see vessels unlading at the
wharf, and precious merchandise strown upon the
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. 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
apple.
In two streets, converging at right angles towards
my watchtower, I distinguish three different processions.
One is a proud array of voluntary soldiers in
bright uniform, resembling, from the height whence I
look down, the painted veterans that garrison the
windows of a toyshop. 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
ridiculously 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
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
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
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 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
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 habiliments, till
he catches a backward glance of mirth from a bright
eye, and turns away with whatever comfort it conveys.
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
dusky foam into the kennel, and disappear beneath
iron grates. Thus did Arethusa sink. 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!
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