of the tower.  The ribs are fretted throughout the whole height with elegant crockets, thus imparting to the sky-line an appearance similar to the gusty spray on the borders of a rain-cloud.  An admirer has said of it, “It seems as though it had drawn down the very angels to work over its grand and feeling simplicity the gems and embroidery of Paradise itself!” England once boasted the loftiest spire in the world, that of old St. Paul’s, London, whose summit, five hundred and twenty feet from the ground, seemed to sail among the highest clouds; but the great fire of 1666 destroyed it, and Sir Christopher’s stately metropolitan dome now rises in its place.

One could believe in the “merrie” days of Old England, were her abundant spires their only evidence.  The ardent zeal that kindled so many thousand answering beacons throughout the length and breadth of the land is the best proof of that concord of souls which is true happiness.  We know that the decision of the Council of Clermont about the Crusades was believed to have been instantly known through Christendom, and that the great cry, God willeth it! which shook the council-roof, was echoed from hill to hill, and at once struck awe and astonishment to the hearts of remotest lands.  So in the birthplaces of our Pilgrim fathers, over these cherished spots,

  “Where the kneeling hamlets drained
  The chalice of the grapes of God,”

arose the “star y-pointing” spire, like a voice of adoration; and then another would be raised in unison in some neighboring village, where they could see and communicate with each other in their silent language; and yet another close by among the hills; and presently, in full view from its summit, twenty more, perhaps,—­till the good tidings were known through the whole country, and from hamlet to hamlet, over the streams and tree-tops, was thus echoed the great Te Deum of the land.  For it was said among the people, in that antique spirit of worship, as Milton exhorted the birds in his Hymn of Thanksgiving,—­

  “Join voices, all ye living souls! ye spires,
  That singing up to heaven’s gate ascend,
  Bear on your wings and in your notes His praise!”

It is a beautiful proof of the spirit of sacrifice which actuated the Masonic builder of the Middle Ages, that his fairest and most precious works were not confined to the great metropolitan churches and cathedrals, where they could be seen of men, but were frequently found in quiet and secluded villages, nestled among pastoral solitudes, far away from the gaze and admiration of the world.  Though the spire of Salisbury was, perhaps, an epic in Masonic poetry, yet in humble hamlets of England, beyond her most distant hills, and amid many an unnamed “sunny spot of greenery,” were idyls sung no less exquisite than this.  Many a village-spire, of conception no less beautiful, arose above the tree-tops among the most untrodden ways.  All day long its shadow lingers in the