So！ I have climbed high， and my reward is small. Here Istand with wearied knees—earth， indeed， at a dizzy depthbelow， but heaven far， far beyond me still. Oh that I couldsoar up into the very zenith， where man never breathednor eagle ever flew， and where the ethereal azure meltsaway from the eye and appears only a deepened shadeof nothingness！ And yet I shiver at that cold and solitarythought. What clouds are gathering in the golden westwith direful intent against the brightness and the warmthof this summer afternoon？ They are ponderous air-ships，black as death and freighted with the tempest， and atintervals their thunder—the signal-guns of that unearthlysquadron—rolls distant along the deep of heaven. Thesenearer heaps of fleecy vapor—methinks I could roll andtoss upon them the whole day long—seem scattered hereand there for the repose of tired pilgrims through the sky.
Perhaps for who can tell？ —beautiful spirits are disportingthemselves there， and will bless my mortal eye with thebrief appearance of their curly locks of golden light andlaughing faces fair and faint as the people of a rosy dream.
Or where the floating mass so imperfectly obstructsthe color of the firmament a slender foot and fairy limbresting too heavily upon the frail support may be thrustthrough and suddenly withdrawn， while longing fancyfollows them in vain. Yonder， again， is an airy archipelagowhere the sunbeams love to linger in their journeyingsthrough space. Every one of those little clouds has beendipped and steeped in radiance which the slightestpressure might disengage in silvery profusion like waterwrung from a sea-maid’s hair. Bright they are as a youngman’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 thisspire I discern cultivated fields， villages， white countryseats，the waving lines of rivulets， little placid lakes， andhere and there a rising ground that would fain be termed ahill. On the fourth side is the sea， stretching away toward aviewless boundary， blue and calm except where the passinganger of a shadow flits across its surface and is gone.
Hitherward a broad inlet penetrates far into the land； onthe verge of the harbor formed by its extremity is a town，and over it am I， a watchman， all-heeding and unheeded.
Oh that the multitude of chimneys could speak， like thoseof Madrid， and betray in smoky whispers the secrets ofall who since their first foundation have assembled at thehearths within！ Oh that the Limping Devil of Le Sagewould perch beside me here， extend his wand over thiscontiguity of roofs， uncover every chamber and make mefamiliar with their inhabitants！ The most desirable modeof existence might be that of a spiritualized Paul Pryhovering invisible round man and woman， witnessing theirdeeds， searching into their hearts， borrowing brightness fromtheir felicity and shade from their sorrow， and retaining noemotion peculiar to himself. But none of these things arepossible； and if I would know the interior of brick walls orthe mystery of human bosoms， I can but guess.
Yonder is a fair street extending north and south. Thestately mansions are placed each on its carpet of verdantgrass， and a long flight of steps descends from every doorto the pavement. Ornamental trees—the broadleafedhorse-chestnut， the elm so lofty and bending， the gracefulbut infrequent willow， and others whereof I know notthe names—grow thrivingly among brick and stone. Theoblique rays of the sun are intercepted by these greencitizens and by the houses， so that one side of the streetis a shaded and pleasant walk. On its whole extent thereis now but a single passenger， advancing from the upperend， and he， unless distance and the medium of a pocketspyglass do him more than justice， is a fine young manof twenty. He saunters slowly forward， slapping his lefthand with his folded gloves， bending his eyes upon thepavement， and sometimes raising them to throw a glancebefore him. Certainly he has a pensive air. Is he in doubtor in debt？ Is he—if the question be allowable—in love？
Does he strive to be melancholy and gentlemanlike， or ishe merely overcome by the heat？ But I bid him farewellfor the present. The door of one of the houses—anaristocratic edifice with curtains of purple and gold wavingfrom the windows—is now opened， and down the stepscome two ladies swinging their parasols and lightly arrayedfor a summer ramble. Both are young， both are pretty； butmethinks the left-hand lass is the fairer of the twain， and，though she be so serious at this moment， I could swearthat there is a treasure of gentle fun within her. They standtalking a little while upon the steps， and finally proceed upthe street. Meantime， as their faces are now turned fromme， I may look elsewhere.
Upon that wharf and down the corresponding street is abusy contrast to the quiet scene which I have just noticed.
