The Chimes HTML version

Chapter 1 - First Quarter.
HERE 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 multitude 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 churchyard, 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 wandering 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 gliding 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, sitting snugly round the fire! It has an awful voice, that wind at
Midnight, singing in a church!
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.