“Modern England was like a cloud of smoke; it could carry all colours, but it could leave nothing but a stain.  It was our weakness and not our strength that put a rich refuse in the sky.  These were the rivers of our vanity pouring into the void.  We had taken the sacred circle of the whirlwind, and looked down on it, and seen it as a whirlpool.  And then we had used it as a sink.  It was a good symbol of the mutiny in my own mind.  Only our worst things were going to heaven.  Only our criminals could still ascend like angels.

“As my brain was blinded with such emotions, my guide stopped by one of the big chimney-pots that stood at the regular intervals like lamp-posts along that uplifted and aerial highway.  He put his heavy hand upon it, and for the moment I thought he was merely leaning on it, tired with his steep scramble along the terrace.  So far as I could guess from the abysses, full of fog on either side, and the veiled lights of red brown and old gold glowing through them now and again, we were on the top of one of those long, consecutive, and genteel rows of houses which are still to be found lifting their heads above poorer districts, the remains of some rage of optimism in earlier speculative builders.  Probably enough, they were entirely untenanted, or tenanted only by such small clans of the poor as gather also in the old emptied palaces of Italy.  Indeed, some little time later, when the fog had lifted a little, I discovered that we were walking round a semi-circle of crescent which fell away below us into one flat square or wide street below another, like a giant stairway, in a manner not unknown in the eccentric building of London, and looking like the last ledges of the land.  But a cloud sealed the giant stairway as yet.

“My speculations about the sullen skyscape, however, were interrupted by something as unexpected as the moon falling from the sky.  Instead of my burglar lifting his hand from the chimney he leaned on, he leaned on it a little more heavily, and the whole chimney-pot turned over like the opening top of an inkstand.  I remembered the short ladder leaning against the low wall and felt sure he had arranged his criminal approach long before.

“The collapse of the big chimney-pot ought to have been the culmination of my chaotic feelings; but, to tell the truth, it produced a sudden sense of comedy and even of comfort.  I could not recall what connected this abrupt bit of housebreaking with some quaint but still kindly fancies.  Then I remembered the delightful and uproarious scenes of roofs and chimneys in the harlequinades of my childhood, and was darkly and quite irrationally comforted by a sense of unsubstantiality in the scene, as if the houses were of lath and paint and pasteboard, and were only meant to be tumbled in and out of by policemen and pantaloons.  The law-breaking of my companion seemed not only seriously excusable, but even comically excusable.  Who were all these pompous preposterous people with their footmen and their foot-scrapers, their chimney-pots and their chimney-pot hats, that they should prevent a poor clown from getting sausages if he wanted them?  One would suppose that property was a serious thing.  I had reached, as it were, a higher level of that mountainous and vapourous visions, the heaven of a higher levity.