Twice Told Tales

by Nathaniel Hawthorne

  SIGHTS FROM A STEEPLE.

  So! I have climbed high, and my reward is small. Here I stand withwearied knees--earth, indeed, at a dizzy depth below, but heaven far,far beyond me still. Oh that I could soar up into the very zenith,where man never breathed nor eagle ever flew, and where the etherealazure melts away from the eye and appears only a deepened shade ofnothingness! And yet I shiver at that cold and solitary thought. Whatclouds are gathering in the golden west with direful intent againstthe brightness and the warmth of this summer afternoon? They areponderous air-ships, black as death and freighted with the tempest,and at intervals their thunder--the signal-guns of that unearthlysquadron--rolls distant along the deep of heaven. These nearer heapsof fleecy vapor--methinks I could roll and toss upon them the wholeday long--seem scattered here and there for the repose of tiredpilgrims through the sky. Perhaps--for who can tell?--beautifulspirits are disporting themselves there, and will bless my mortal eyewith the brief appearance of their curly locks of golden light andlaughing faces fair and faint as the people of a rosy dream. Or wherethe floating mass so imperfectly obstructs the color of the firmamenta slender foot and fairy limb resting too heavily upon the frailsupport may be thrust through and suddenly withdrawn, while longingfancy follows them in vain. Yonder, again, is an airy archipelagowhere the sunbeams love to linger in their journeyings through space.Every one of those little clouds has been dipped and steeped inradiance which the slightest pressure might disengage in silveryprofusion like water wrung from a sea-maid's hair. Bright they are asa young man's visions, and, like them, would be realized in dullness,obscurity and tears. I will look on them no more.

  In three parts of the visible circle whose centre is this spire Idiscern cultivated fields, villages, white country-seats, the wavinglines of rivulets, little placid lakes, and here and there a risingground that would fain be termed a hill. On the fourth side is thesea, stretching away toward a viewless boundary, blue and calm exceptwhere the passing anger of a shadow flits across its surface and isgone. Hitherward a broad inlet penetrates far into the land; on theverge of the harbor formed by its extremity is a town, and over it amI, a watchman, all-heeding and unheeded. Oh that the multitude ofchimneys could speak, like those of Madrid, and betray in smokywhispers the secrets of all who since their first foundation haveassembled at the hearths within! Oh that the Limping Devil of Le Sagewould perch beside me here, extend his wand over this contiguity ofroofs, uncover every chamber and make me familiar with theirinhabitants! The most desirable mode of existence might be that of aspiritualized Paul Pry hovering invisible round man and woman,witnessing their deeds, searching into their hearts, borrowingbrightness from their felicity and shade from their sorrow, andretaining no emotion peculiar to himself. But none of these things arepossible; and if I would know the interior of brick walls or themystery of human bosoms, I can but guess.

  Yonder is a fair street extending north and south. The statelymansions are placed each on its carpet of verdant grass, and a longflight of steps descends from every door to the pavement. Ornamentaltrees--the broadleafed horse-chestnut, the elm so lofty and bending,the graceful but infrequent willow, and others whereof I know not thenames--grow thrivingly among brick and stone. The oblique rays of thesun are intercepted by these green citizens and by the houses, so thatone side of the street is a shaded and pleasant walk. On its wholeextent there is now but a single passenger, advancing from the upperend, and he, unless distance and the medium of a pocket spyglass dohim more than justice, is a fine young man of twenty. He sauntersslowly forward, slapping his left hand with his folded gloves, bendinghis eyes upon the pavement, and sometimes raising them to throw aglance before him. Certainly he has a pensive air. Is he in doubt orin debt? Is he--if the question be allowable--in love? Does he striveto be melancholy and gentlemanlike, or is he merely overcome by theheat? But I bid him farewell for the present. The door of one of thehouses--an aristocratic edifice with curtains of purple and goldwaving from the windows--is now opened, and down the steps come twoladies swinging their parasols and lightly arrayed for a summerramble. Both are young, both are pretty; but methinks the left-handlass is the fairer of the twain, and, though she be so serious at thismoment, I could swear that there is a treasure of gentle fun withinher. They stand talking a little while upon the steps, and finallyproceed up the street. Meantime, as their faces are now turned fromme, I may look elsewhere.

  Upon that wharf and down the corresponding street is a busy contrastto the quiet scene which I have just noticed. Business evidently hasits centre there, and many a man is wasting the summer afternoon inlabor and anxiety, in losing riches or in gaining them, when he wouldbe wiser to flee away to some pleasant country village or shaded lakein the forest or wild and cool sea-beach. I see vessels unlading atthe wharf and precious merchandise strown upon the ground abundantlyas at the bottom of the sea--that market whence no goods return, andwhere there is no captain nor supercargo to render an account ofsales. Here the clerks are diligent with their paper and pencils andsailors ply the block and tackle that hang over the hold, accompanyingtheir toil with cries long-drawn and roughly melodious till the balesand puncheons ascend to upper air. At a little distance a group ofgentlemen are assembled round the door of a warehouse. Grave seniorsbe they, and I would wager--if it were safe, in these times, to beresponsible for any one--that the least eminent among them might viewith old Vincentio, that incomparable trafficker of Pisa. I can evenselect the wealthiest of the company. It is the elderly personage insomewhat rusty black, with powdered hair the superfluous whiteness ofwhich is visible upon the cape of his coat. His twenty ships arewafted on some of their many courses by every breeze that blows, andhis name, I will venture to say, though I know it not, is a familiarsound among the far-separated merchants of Europe and the Indies.

  But I bestow too much of my attention in this quarter. On lookingagain to the long and shady walk I perceive that the two fair girlshave encountered the young man. After a sort of shyness in therecognition, he turns back with them. Moreover, he has sanctioned mytaste in regard to his companions by placing himself on the inner sideof the pavement, nearest the Venus to whom I, enacting on asteeple-top the part of Paris on the top of Ida, adjudged the goldenapple.

  In two streets converging at right angles toward my watch-tower Idistinguish three different processions. One is a proud array ofvoluntary soldiers in bright uniform, resembling, from the heightwhence I look down, the painted veterans that garrison the windows ofa toy-shop. And yet it stirs my heart. Their regular advance, theirnodding plumes, the sun-flash on their bayonets and musket-barrels,the roll of their drums ascending past me, and the fife ever and anonpiercing through,--these things have wakened a warlike fire, peacefulthough I be. Close to their rear marches a battalion of schoolboysranged in crooked and irregular platoons, shouldering sticks, thumpinga harsh and unripe clatter from an instrument of tin and ridiculouslyaping the intricate manoeuvres of the foremost band. Nevertheless, asslight differences are scarcely perceptible from a church-spire, onemight be tempted to ask, "Which are the boys?" or, rather, "Which themen?" But, leaving these, let us turn to the third procession, which,though sadder in outward show, may excite identical reflections in thethoughtful mind. It is a funeral--a hearse drawn by a black and bonysteed and covered by a dusty pall, two or three coaches rumbling overthe stones, their drivers half asleep, a dozen couple of carelessmourners in their every-day attire. Such was not the fashion of ourfathers when they carried a friend to his grave. There is now nodoleful clang of the bell to proclaim sorrow to the town. Was the Kingof Terrors more awful in those days than in our own, that wisdom andphilosophy have been able to produce this change? Not so. Here is aproof that he retains his proper majesty. The military men and themilitary boys are wheeling round the corner, and meet the funeral fullin the face. Immediately the drum is silent, all but the tap thatregulates each simultaneous footfall. The soldiers yield the path tothe dusty hearse and unpretending train, and the children quit theirranks and cluster on
the sidewalks with timorous and instinctivecuriosity. The mourners enter the churchyard at the base of thesteeple and pause by an open grave among the burial-stones; thelightning glimmers on them as they lower down the coffin, and thethunder rattles heavily while they throw the earth upon its lid.Verily, the shower is near, and I tremble for the young man and thegirls, who have now disappeared from the long and shady street.

  How various are the situations of the people covered by the roofsbeneath me, and how diversified are the events at this momentbefalling them! The new-born, the aged, the dying, the strong in lifeand the recent dead are in the chambers of these many mansions. Thefull of hope, the happy, the miserable and the desperate dwelltogether within the circle of my glance. In some of the houses overwhich my eyes roam so coldly guilt is entering into hearts that arestill tenanted by a debased and trodden virtue; guilt is on the veryedge of commission, and the impending deed might be averted; guilt isdone, and the criminal wonders if it be irrevocable. There are broadthoughts struggling in my mind, and, were I able to give themdistinctness, they would make their way in eloquence. Lo! theraindrops 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 theearth. At intervals the lightning flashes from their brooding hearts,quivers, disappears, and then comes the thunder, travelling slowlyafter its twin-born flame. A strong wind has sprung up, howls throughthe darkened streets, and raises the dust in dense bodies to rebelagainst the approaching storm. The disbanded soldiers fly, the funeralhas already vanished like its dead, and all people hurry homeward--allthat have a home--while a few lounge by the corners or trudge ondesperately at their leisure. In a narrow lane which communicates withthe shady street I discern the rich old merchant putting himself tothe top of his speed lest the rain should convert his hair-powder to apaste. Unhappy gentleman! By the slow vehemence and painful moderationwherewith he journeys, it is but too evident that Podagra has left itsthrilling tenderness in his great toe. But yonder, at a far more rapidpace, come three other of my acquaintance, the two pretty girls andthe young man unseasonably interrupted in their walk. Their footstepsare supported by the risen dust, the wind lends them its velocity,they fly like three sea-birds driven landward by the tempestuousbreeze. The ladies would not thus rival Atalanta if they but knew thatany one were at leisure to observe them. Ah! as they hasten onward,laughing in the angry face of nature, a sudden catastrophe haschanced. At the corner where the narrow lane enters into the streetthey come plump against the old merchant, whose tortoise-motion hasjust brought him to that point. He likes not the sweet encounter; thedarkness of the whole air gathers speedily upon his visage, and thereis a pause on both sides. Finally he thrusts aside the youth withlittle courtesy, seizes an arm of each of the two girls, and plodsonward like a magician with a prize of captive fairies. All this iseasy to be understood. How disconsolate the poor lover stands,regardless of the rain that threatens an exceeding damage to hiswell-fashioned habiliments, till he catches a backward glance of mirthfrom a bright eye, and turns away with whatever comfort it conveys!

  The old man and his daughters are safely housed, and now the stormlets loose its fury. In every dwelling I perceive the faces of thechambermaids as they shut down the windows, excluding the impetuousshower and shrinking away from the quick fiery glare. The large dropsdescend 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 muddystreams bubble majestically along the pavement, whirl their dusky foaminto the kennel, and disappear beneath iron grates. Thus did Arethusasink. I love not my station here aloft in the midst of the tumultwhich I am powerless to direct or quell, with the blue lightningwrinkling on my brow and the thunder muttering its first awfulsyllables in my ear. I will descend. Yet let me give another glance tothe sea, where the foam breaks out in long white lines upon a broadexpanse of blackness or boils up in far-distant points like snowymountain-tops in the eddies of a flood; and let me look once more atthe green plain and little hills of the country, over which the giantof the storm is striding in robes of mist, and at the town whoseobscured and desolate streets might beseem a city of the dead; and,turning a single moment to the sky, now gloomy as an author'sprospects, I prepare to resume my station on lower earth. But stay! Alittle speck of azure has widened in the western heavens; the sunbeamsfind a passage and go rejoicing through the tempest, and on yonderdarkest cloud, born like hallowed hopes of the glory of another worldand the trouble and tears of this, brightens forth the rainbow.