Practically, it is utterly useless; and this is its honor and its unspeakable dignity.  We cannot even climb it, as we could a tower; for it is nearly as unapproachable as the Oracle of God, save to the innocent birds, who love to flock and wheel about it in the sunshine, and build their nests in its “coignes of vantage,” or, in the night-time, to the troops of stars which touch it in their journey through the skies.  It is as beautifully idle as the lilies of the field; and yet its expressiveness touches us so nearly, the propriety of its sentiment is so striking, that, when the great test question of this living age is applied to it, and we are asked, What is its use? what is it good for? the heart is shocked at the impiety of the question, and the feelings revolt, as against an insult.  Upon the arches of Canterbury Minster is carved,

  NON * NOBIS * DOMINE * NON * NOBIS *
  SED * NOMINI * TVO * DA * GLORIAM *

Nothing can be simpler than the composition of the pure spire.  The aesthetics of its development and growth are characteristically natural and apparent.  They are like the history of a flower from bud to bloom under a warm sun.  Let us become botanists of Art for a while, and analyze those flowers of worship, as they opened “in that first garden of their simpleness.”

Considering the growth of the spire from the tower-roof, it might naturally be supposed that the earliest forms would be square or round, in plan.  But no sooner had the roof passed into this new sphere of existence, than the fine intelligence of the builders perceived that it needed refinement.  They saw that in a square spire there was so coarse a distinction between the tapering mass of light and the tapering mass of shadow, that the delicacy and lightness necessary to express the sentiment they desired to convey did not exist in the new feature;—­in a round spire, on the other hand, they found that this distinction of light and shade was too little marked; it was vapid and effeminate, and quite without that delicious crispiness of effect which they at once obtained by cutting off the corners of the square spire, and reducing it to an octagon.  With very rare exceptions, as in the southwest spire of Chartres Cathedral, this form was always used.  Now it will be seen that a difficulty arises in the beginning, how to unite the octagon of the spire with the square of the tower.  There are four triangular spaces at the summit of the tower left uncovered by the superstructure; and how best to treat these, simple as the task may seem, constitutes what may be called the touchstone of architectural genius in spire-building.  There are several general ways of effecting this, each of them subject to such modifications, in individual instances, as to give them an ever-varying character.