As we passed over, we looked towards the Virginia shore, and beheld the
little town of Harper's Ferry, gathered about the base of a round hill
and climbing up its steep acclivity; so that it somewhat resembled the
Etruscan cities which I have seen among the Apennines, rushing, as it
were, down an apparently breakneck height. About midway of the ascent
stood a shabby brick church, towards which a difficult path went
scrambling up the precipice, indicating, one would say; a very fervent
aspiration on the part of the worshippers, unless there was some easier
mode of access in another direction. Immediately on the shore of the
Potomac, and extending back towards the town, lay the dismal ruins of the
United States arsenal and armory, consisting of piles of broken bricks
and a waste of shapeless demolition, amid which we saw gun-barrels in
heaps of hundreds together. They were the relics of the conflagration,
bent with the heat of the fire, and rusted with the wintry rain to which
they had since been exposed. The brightest sunshine could not have made
the scene cheerful, nor have taken away the gloom from the dilapidated
town; for, besides the natural shabbiness, and decayed, unthrifty look of
a Virginian village, it has an inexpressible forlornness resulting from
the devastations of war and its occupation by both armies alternately.
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