it, 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