These hamlet-bells are the sweetest, as to their own voices, in the world.  Then I speak of their antiquity I use the word relatively.  The belfries are no older than the sixteenth or seventeenth century, the time when Italy seems to have been generally rebuilt.  But, needless to say, this is antiquity for music, especially in Italy.  At that time they must have had foundries for bells of tender voices, and pure, warm, light, and golden throats, precisely tuned.  The hounds of Theseus had not a more just scale, tuned in a peal, than a North Italian belfry holds in leash.  But it does not send them out in a mere scale, it touches them in the order of the game of a charming melody.  Of all cheerful sounds made by man this is by far the most light-hearted.  You do not hear it from the great churches.  Giotto’s coloured tower in Florence, that carries the bells for Santa Maria del Fiore and Brunelleschi’s silent dome, does not ring more than four contralto notes, tuned with sweetness, depth, and dignity, and swinging one musical phrase which softly fills the country.

The village belfry it is that grows so fantastic and has such nimble bells.  Obviously it stands alone with its own village, and can therefore hear its own tune from beginning to end.  There are no other bells in earshot.  Other such dovecote-doors are suddenly set open to the cloud, on a festa morning, to let fly those soft-voiced flocks, but the nearest is behind one of many mountains, and our local tune is uninterrupted.  Doubtless this is why the little, secluded, sequestered art of composing melodies for bells—­charming division of an art, having its own ends and means, and keeping its own wings for unfolding by law—­dwells in these solitary places.  No tunes in a town would get this hearing, or would be made clear to the end of their frolic amid such a wide and lofty silence.

Nor does every inner village of Italy hold a bell-tune of its own; the custom is Ligurian.  Nowhere so much as in Genoa does the nervous tourist complain of church bells in the morning, and in fact he is made to hear an honest rout of them betimes.  But the nervous tourist has not, perhaps, the sense of place, and the genius of place does not signal to him to go and find it among innumerable hills, where one by one, one by one, the belfries stand and play their tunes.  Variable are those lonely melodies, having a differing gaiety for the festivals; and a pitiful air is played for the burial of a villager.

As for the poets, there is but one among so many of their bells that seems to toll with a spiritual music so loud as to be unforgotten when the mind goes up a little higher than the earth, to listen in thought to earth’s untethered sounds.  This is Milton’s curfew, that sways across one of the greatest of all the seashores of poetry—­“the wide-watered.”

POPULAR BURLESQUE