(_Dickens once again adapted to the Season and the Situation._)
High up in the steeple of an old old Tower, of ancient foundation,
somewhat incongruous and complicated in design, but of sound
Constitution--as _everybody_, even the angriest campanological
opponents, admitted--far above the light and the noise of the town, if
far below the flying clouds that shadow it, dwelt the Chimes I tell of.
They were old Chimes, trust me. Centuries ago those Bells had been hung
by our ancestors, so many centuries ago, that the register of their
first suspension, the record of their first peal, was lost in
antiquarian mist as impenetrable as the darkness of the belfry corners
on a starless November night. They had had their donors and sponsors,
these Bells; but time had mowed down their donors, and mislaid the names
of their sponsors, and they now hung nameless and dateless, but sound
and sonorous still, in that high old Tower, time-worn but steadfast and
four-square to all winds, Party or otherwise, that have blown or that
shall blow.
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, moreover, were they, to be
dependent upon the mere pleasure of the wind, of any of the winds--Party
or otherwise--aforementioned. They had been pulled at by many
generations of ringers, pulled at sometimes skilfully, often awkwardly
and ill; sometimes in tune, and with the well-ordered harmony which was
natural to them; sometimes again, wildly and wilfully, by incompetent or
angry ringers, ringers ill-matched and ill-accordant, who did their
worst to mar their melody, and spoil their tunefulness, and upset their
time, and make them sound, in the great Singer's words:--
"Like sweet bells jangled, out of tune, and harsh."
But the fault was ever less in the Bells than in the Bell-ringers.
Cracked were they not, nor were they cacophonous; let their clappers
swing free, and keep their throats unrusted and unclogged, and in
skilled, and loyal, and well-conducted hands, they would ever sound out
strongly and sweetly, and send forth on and against the wildest and
angriest of the winds aforesaid, most excellent and inspiring music.
* * * * *
_Toby_ knew them well, those Bells, as did his great and genial Master.
_Toby_ was not a canine casuist. Being but a simple and loyal dog, he
invested them with a strange and solemn character. They were so
mysterious and mighty; often heard, and never seen; so high up, so far
off, and so full of such a deep, strong melody, that he regarded them
with a species of awe; and sometimes when he looked up at the dark
arched windows in the tower, he half expected to be beckoned to by
something which was not a Bell, and yet was what he had heard so often
sounding in the Tower, the Spirit, namely, of Loyalty and Love, of
Honour and of Home. For all this, _Toby_ scouted with doggish
disdain--being, like his Master, as sensible as loyal--a certain
occasionally flying rumour that the Chimes were haunted, as implying the
possibility of their being connected with any Evil thing. And _Toby_--no
unlicked cub, but a considerate, composed old dog,--never puppyishly
barked at the Bells. He would as soon have thought of baying the moon.
But he often had occasion to yap, warningly or reprovingly, at the
Bell-ringers!
* * * * *
Bow-wow-wow! It was the voice of _Toby_. It meant not, this time, either
warning or reproof; rather amicable acknowledgment, and just a little
surprise. Not fear, oh, no! not fear.
A Voice--was it a vision-voice, or the accents of the biggest of
the Bells, or was it, perchance, the veritable Voice of Time
himself, naturally and fitly vocal and audible at this particular
Season?--sounded strangely through the shadowy belfry. Thus it seemed to
speak, in words curiously pertinent to the moment, though _Toby_ seemed
to have heard them before in other connection and in other
circumstances.
[Illustration: THE CHIMES.
MR. PUNCH. "NOW THEN, MY LADS! ALL TOGETHER FOR ONCE!--CHRISTMAS TIME,
YOU KNOW!!"]
"The Voice of Time cries to Man, Advance! Time is for his advancement
and improvement; for his greater worth, his greater happiness, his
better life; his progress onward to that goal within its knowledge and
its view, and set there in the period when Time and he began. Ages of
darkness, wickedness, and violence have come and gone--millions
uncountable have suffered, loved, and died--to point the way before him.
Who seeks to turn him back, or stay him in his course, arrests a mighty
engine which will strike the meddler dead, and be the fiercer and the
wilder, ever, for its momentary check!"
"A rub for the reactionaries!" mused _Toby_.
"Who puts into the mouth of Time, or of its servants, a cry of
lamentation for days which have had their trial and their failure, and
have left deep traces of it which the blind may see--a cry that only
serves the present time, by showing men how much it needs their help
when any ears can listen to regrets for such a past--who does this does
us wrong."
"A flout for our Fair-Traders!" thought _Toby_.
"Who hears in us, the Chimes, one note bespeaking disregard, or stern
regard, of any hope, or joy, or sorrow, of the many-sorrowed throng; who
hears us make response to any creed that gauges human passions and
affections, as it gauges the amount of miserable food on which humanity
may pine and wither, does us wrong."
"What would the contemners of the people's claims, the deriders of the
people's miseries, make of _that_, I wonder?" meditated _Toby_.
"Who hears us echo the dull vermin of the earth, the Putters Down of
crushed and broken natures, formed to be raised up higher than such
maggots of the time can crawl or can conceive, does us wrong."
"Pity the shriekers for unlimited Suppression can't hear _this_!"
cogitated _Toby_.
* * * * *
_Bow-wow-wow!_ Again it was the voice of _Toby_. This time it did mean
warning, if not reproof. Not anger exactly; anger alone is scarce suited
to the Christmas season.
The Bell-ringers were going it. With plenty of energy, unquestionably,
but with scarcely as much discretion as might be desired. A rather mixed
lot. Each one individually an excellent hand at the rope, no doubt.
Evergreen WILL, of the leonine front, and flying silvery whisps of hair!
Black-a-vised BOB, of the broad shoulders and resolute tug. Stolid, but
sturdy HARTY, of the firmly-planted feet and granite grip! Fiery though
mild-featured JOACHIM; sombre, smug-faced, but enthusiastic JOHN! Last,
though perhaps hardly least (in his own estimation, at all events),
rattling RANDOLPH, light-weight, none too firm of footing, but full of
dash, and game to attempt a triple bob-major all by himself.
"_Pull_ away, BOB," cried impetuous WILL, eagerly.
"Steady, WILL!" exclaimed Black-a-vised BOB, sardonically.
"Keep time, for goodness sake, JOHN," said accurate JOACHIM.
"Want your bell to be heard above all the rest!" murmured sombre JOHN.
"Are you trying to hang yourself, or pull the belfry down, RANDOLPH,"
muttered stolid HARTY, beneath his moustache.
"Oh, confound it; I could lick the lot of you!" shouted little RANDOLPH,
tugging tremendously at his rope, and fairly carried off his feet by the
recoil.
"_Bow-wow-wow!_" barked _Toby_.
"Right, my dog!" said his Master. "Good Bell-ringing, my boys, requires
combination and subordination, unity of purpose as well as union of
powers. A bull-like power of pull is not enough, or, by Jove! you'd all
be crack campanologists. Come, Gentlemen, a Christmas Carillon at least
should not be all cacaphonous crash and clatter. All together, my lads,
_for once_; or, rather, keep time, and touch, and tune, with due regard
to the perfection of the peal and the credit of the glorious old
Chimes!"
* * * * *