Whilst the French were pitching their fulgara into Chasse's citadel, the bells went on ringing quite cheerfully.Whilst the scaffolds were up and guarded by Alva's soldiery, and regiments of penitents, blue, black, and gray, poured out of churches and convents, droning their dirges, and marching to the place of the Hotel de Ville, where heretics and rebels were to meet their doom, the bells up yonder were chanting at their appointed half-hours and quarters, and rang the mauvais quart d'heure for many a poor soul.This bell can see as far away as the towers and dykes of Rotterdam.That one can call a greeting to St.Ursula's at Brussels, and toss a recognition to that one at the town-hall of Oudenarde, and remember how after a great struggle there a hundred and fifty years ago the whole plain was covered with the flying French cavalry--Burgundy, and Bern, and the Chevalier of St.George flying like the rest."What is your clamor about Oudenarde?" says another bell (Bob Major THIS one must be)."Be still, thou querulous old clapper! I can see over to Hougoumont and St.John.And about forty-five years since, I rang all through one Sunday in June, when there was such a battle going on in the corn-fields there, as none of you others ever heard tolled of.Yes, from morning service until after vespers, the French and English were all at it, ding-dong." And then calls of business intervening, the bells have to give up their private jangle, resume their professional duty, and sing their hourly chorus out of Dinorah.
What a prodigious distance those bells can be heard! I was awakened this morning to their tune, I say.I have been hearing it constantly ever since.And this house whence I write, Murray says, is two hundred and ten miles from Antwerp.And it is a week off;and there is the bell still jangling its shadow dance out of Dinorah.An audible shadow you understand, and an invisible sound, but quite distinct; and a plague take the tune!
UNDER THE BELLS.--Who has not seen the church under the bells?
Those lofty aisles, those twilight chapels, that cumbersome pulpit with its huge carvings, that wide gray pavement flecked with various light from the jewelled windows, those famous pictures between the voluminous columns over the altars, which twinkle with their ornaments, their votive little silver hearts, legs, limbs, their little guttering tapers, cups of sham roses, and what not? I saw two regiments of little scholars creeping in and forming square, each in its appointed place, under the vast roof; and teachers presently coming to them.A stream of light from the jewelled windows beams slanting down upon each little squad of children, and the tall background of the church retires into a grayer gloom.
Pattering little feet of laggards arriving echo through the great nave.They trot in and join their regiments, gathered under the slanting sunbeams.What are they learning? Is it truth? Those two gray ladies with their books in their hands in the midst of these little people have no doubt of the truth of every word they have printed under their eyes.Look, through the windows jewelled all over with saints, the light comes streaming down from the sky, and heaven's own illuminations paint the book! A sweet, touching picture indeed it is, that of the little children assembled in this immense temple, which has endured for ages, and grave teachers bending over them.Yes, the picture is very pretty of the children and their teachers, and their book--but the text? Is it the truth, the only truth, nothing but the truth? If I thought so, I would go and sit down on the form cum parvulis, and learn the precious lesson with all my heart.
BEADLE.--But I submit, an obstacle to conversions is the intrusion and impertinence of that Swiss fellow with the baldric--the officer who answers to the beadle of the British Islands, and is pacing about the church with an eye on the congregation.Now the boast of Catholics is that their churches are open to all; but in certain places and churches there are exceptions.At Rome I have been into St.Peter's at all hours: the doors are always open, the lamps are always burning, the faithful are for ever kneeling at one shrine or the other.But at Antwerp not so.In the afternoon you can go to the church, and be civilly treated; but you must pay a franc at the side gate.In the forenoon the doors are open, to be sure, and there is no one to levy an entrance fee.I was standing ever so still, looking through the great gates of the choir at the twinkling lights, and listening to the distant chants of the priests performing the service, when a sweet chorus from the organ-loft broke out behind me overhead, and I turned round.My friend the drum-major ecclesiastic was down upon me in a moment."Do not turn your back to the altar during divine service," says he, in very intelligible English.I take the rebuke, and turn a soft right-about face, and listen awhile as the service continues.See it Icannot, nor the altar and its ministrants.We are separated from these by a great screen and closed gates of iron, through which the lamps glitter and the chant comes by gusts only.Seeing a score of children trotting down a side aisle, I think I may follow them.Iam tired of looking at that hideous old pulpit with its grotesque monsters and decorations.I slip off to the side aisle; but my friend the drum-major is instantly after me--almost I thought he was going to lay hands on me."You mustn't go there," says he; "you mustn't disturb the service." I was moving as quietly as might be, and ten paces off there were twenty children kicking and clattering at their ease.I point them out to the Swiss."They come to pray,"says he."YOU don't come to pray, you--" "When I come to pay,"says I, "I am welcome," and with this withering sarca**, I walk out of church in a huff.I don't envy the feelings of that beadle after receiving point blank such a stroke of wit.
