On the ‘ Leads,’ 79 
should slip, nineteen hundredweight of brazen metal 
may jam you against the framework. 
The ringers are an independent body, rustics 
though they be—monopolists, not to be lightly 
ordered about, as many a vicar has found to his cost, 
having a silent belfry for his pains, and not a man to 
be got, either, from adjacent villages. It is about as 
easy to knock this solid tower over with a walking- 
stick as to change village customs. But if towards 
Christmas you should chance to say to the ringers 
that such and such a chime seemed rung pleasantly, 
be certain that you will hear it night after night coming 
with a throbbing joyfulness through the starlit air— 
every note of the peal rising clear and distinct at the 
exact moment of time, as if struck by machinery, yet 
with a quivering undertone that dwells on the ear 
after the wave of sound has gone. Then go out and 
walk in the garden or field, for it is a noble music; 
remember, too, that it is a music that has echoed 
from the hills hundreds and hundreds of years. Rude 
men as they are, these bellringers gratefully respond 
to the least appreciation of their art. 
A few more turns about the spiral staircase, and 
then step out on the roof. The footstep is deadened 
by the dull-coloured lead, oxidised from exposure. 
The tarnished weathercock above revolves so stiffly 
as to be heedless of the light air,—only facing a 
strong breeze. The irreverent jackdaws, now wheel- 
ing round at a safe distance, build in every coign of 
