Transcribed from Charles Scribner’s Sons “Works ofCharles Dickens” edition , email
OF
SOME BELLS THAT RANG AN OLD YEAR OUT
AND A NEW YEAR IN
There are not many people—and as it is desirable that astory-teller and a story-reader should establish a mutualunderstanding as soon as possible, I beg it to be noticed that Iconfine this observation neither to young people nor to littlepeople, but extend it to all conditions of people: little andbig, young and old: yet growing up, or already growing downagain—there are not, I say, many people who would care tosleep in a church. I don’t mean at sermon-time inwarm weather (when the thing has actually been done, once ortwice), but in the night, and alone. A great multitude ofpersons will be violently astonished, I know, by this position,in the broad bold Day. But it applies to Night. Itmust be argued by night, and I will undertake to maintain itsuccessfully on any gusty winter’s night appointed for thepurpose, with any one opponent chosen from the rest, who willmeet me singly in an old churchyard, before an old church-door;and will previously empower me to lock him in, if needful to hissatisfaction, until morning.
For the night-wind has a dismal trick of wandering round andround a building of that sort, and moaning as it goes; and oftrying, with its unseen hand, the windows and the doors; andseeking out some crevices by which to enter. And when ithas got in; as one not finding what it seeks, whatever that maybe, it wails and howls to issue forth again: and not content withstalking through the aisles, and gliding round and round thepillars, and tempting the deep organ, soars up to the roof, andstrives to rend the rafters: then flings itself despairingly uponthe stones below, and passes, muttering, into the vaults. Anon, it comes up stealthily, and creeps along the walls, seemingto read, in whispers, the Inscriptions sacred to the Dead. At some of these, it breaks out shrilly, as with laughter; and atothers, moans and cries as if it were lamenting. It has aghostly sound too, lingering within the altar; where it seems tochaunt, in its wild way, of Wrong and Murder done, and false Godsworshipped, in defiance of the Tables of the Law, which look sofair and smooth, but are so flawed and broken. Ugh! Heaven preserve us, sitting snugly round the fire! It hasan awful voice, that wind at Midnight, singing in a church!
But, high up in the steeple! There the foul blast roarsand whistles! High up in the steeple, where it is free tocome and go through many an airy arch and loophole, and to twistand twine itself about the giddy stair, and twirl the groaningweathercock, and make the very tower shake and shiver! Highup in the steeple, where the belfry is, and iron rails are raggedwith rust, and sheets of lead and copper, shrivelled by thechanging weather, crackle and heave beneath the unaccustomedtread; and birds stuff shabby nests into corners of old oakenjoists and beams; and dust grows old and grey; and speckledspiders, indolent and fat with long security, swing idly to andfro in the vibration of the bells, and never loose their holdupon their thread-spun castles in the air, or climb upsailor-like in quick alarm, or drop upon the ground and ply ascore of nimble legs to save one life! High up in thesteeple of an old church, far above the light and murmur of thetown and far below the flying clouds that shadow it, is the wildand dreary place at night: and high up in the steeple of an oldchurch, dwelt the Chimes I tell of.
They were old Chimes, trust me. Centuries ago, theseBells had been baptized by bishops: so many centuries ago, thatthe register of their baptism was lost long, long