"The Chimes",
by Charles Dickens.

[obi/Charles.Dickens/chimes.txt]

                       THE CHIMES

                     FIRST QUARTER

  There are not many people -- and as it is desirable
that a story-teller and a story-reader should establish
a mutual understanding as soon as possible, I beg it
to be noticed that I confine this observation neither to
young people nor to little people, but extend it to all
conditions of people: little and big, young and old:
yet growing up, or already growing down again -- there
are not, I say, many people who would care to sleep
in a church. I don't mean at sermon-time in warm
weather (when the thing has actually been done, once
or twice), but in the night, and alone. A great multi-
tude of persons will be violently astonished, I know,
by this position, in the broad bold Day. But it
applies to Night. It must be argued by night, and I
will undertake to maintain it successfully on any
gusty winter's night appointed for the purpose, with
any one opponent chosen from the rest, who will meet
me singly in an old church-yard, before an old church-
door; and will previously empower me to lock him in,
if needful to his satisfaction, until morning.

  For the night-wind has a dismal trick of wander-
ing round and round a building of that sort, and
moaning as it goes; and of trying, with its unseen
hand, the windows and the doors; and seeking out
some crevices by which to enter. And when it has
got in; as one not finding what it seeks, whatever that
may be, it wails and howls to issue forth again: and
not content with stalking through the aisles, and glid-
ing round and round the pillars, and tempting the
deep organ, soars up to the roof, and strives to rend
the rafters: then flings itself despairingly upon the
stones below, and passes, muttering, into the vaults.
Anon, it comes up stealthily, and creeps along the
walls, seeming to read, in whispers, the Inscriptions
sacred to the Dead. At some of these, it breaks out
shrilly, as with laughter; and at others, moans and
cries as if it were lamenting. It has a ghostly sound
too, lingering within the altar; where it seems to
chaunt, in its wild way, of Wrong and Murder done,
and false Gods worshipped, in defiance of the Tables
of the Law, which look so fair and smooth, but are so
flawed and broken. Ugh! Heaven preserve us, sit-
ting snugly round the fire! It has an awful voice,
that wind at Midnight, singing in a churchl

  But, high up in the steeple! There the foul blast
roars and whistles! High up in the steeple, where it
is free to come and go through many an airy arch
and loophole, and to twist and twine itself about
the giddy stair, and twirl the groaning weathercock,
and make the very tower shake and shiver! High up
in the steeple, where the belfry is, and iron rails are
ragged with rust, and sheets of lead and copper
shrivelled by the changing weather, crackle and heave
beneath the unaccustomed tread; and birds stuff
shabby nests into corners of old oaken joists and
beams; and dust grows old and grey; and speckled
spiders, indolent and fat with long security, swing
idly to and fro in the vibration of the bells, and never
loose their hold upon their thread-spun castles in the
air, or climb up sailor-like in quick alarm, or drop
upon the ground and ply a score of nimble legs to
save one life! High up in the steeple of an old church
far above the light and murmur of the town and far
below the flying clouds that shadow it, is the wild and
dreary place at night: and high up in the steeple of
an old church, dwelt the Chimes I tell of.

  They were old Chimes, trust me. Centuries ago,
these Bells had been baptized by bishops: so many
centuries ago, that the register of their baptism was
lost long, long before the memory of man, and no one
knew their names. They had had their Godfathers
and Godmothers, these Bells (for my own part, by
the way, I would rather incur the responsibility of
being Godfather to a Bell than a Boy), and had their
silver mugs no doubt, besides. But Time had mowed
down their sponsors, and Henry the Eighth had
melted down their mugs; and they now hung, name-
less and mugless, in the church-tower.

  Not speechless, though. Far from it. They had
clear, loud, lusty, sounding voices, had these Bells;
and far and wide they might be heard upon the wind.
Much too sturdy Chimes were they, to be dependent
on the pleasure of the wind, moreover; for fighting
gallantly against it when it took an adverse whim,
they would pour their cheerful notes into a listening
ear right royally; and bent on being heard, on stormy
nights, by some poor mother watching a sick child,