Vanished towers and chimes of Flanders — John Shaqi
Vanished towers and chimes of FlandersEdwards, George Wharton
Religion
Vanished towers and chimes of Flanders
Edwards, George Wharton
Change ringing; Chimes; Church buildings -- Flanders; Flanders -- Description and travel
The ascent of the tower was a formidable task, and really it seemed as
if it must have been far more than three hundred and fifty feet to the
topmost gallery, when I essayed it on that stormy August day. It was not
an easy task to gain admittance to the tower; on two former occasions,
when I made the attempt, the _custode_ was not to be found. "He had gone
to market and taken the key to the tower door with him," said the
withered old dame who at length understood my wish. On this day,
however, she produced the key, a huge iron one, weighing, I should say,
half a pound, from a nail behind the green door of the entry. She
unlocked a heavy, white-washed door into a dusty, dim vestibule, and
then proceeded to lock me in, pointing to another door at the farther
end, saying, as she returned to her savory stew pot on the iron stove,
"Montez, Montez, vous trouverez l'escalier." The heavy door swung to by
a weight on a cord, and I was at the bottom step of the winding stairway
of the tower. For a few steps upward the way was in darkness, up the
narrow stone steps, clinging to a waxy, slippery rope attached to the
wall, which was grimy with dust, the steps sloping worn and uneven.
Quaint, gloomy openings in the wall revealed themselves from time to
time as I toiled upwards, openings into deep gulfs of mysterious gloom,
spanned at times by huge oaken beams. Here and there at dim landings,
lighted by narrow Gothic slits in the walls, were blackened, low
doorways heavily bolted and studded with iron nails. The narrow slits of
windows served only to let in dim, dusty beams of violet light. Through
one dark slit in the wall I caught sight of the huge bulk of a bronze
bell, green with the precious patina of age, and I fancied I heard
footsteps on the stairway that wound its way above.
It was the watchman, a great hairy, oily Fleming, clad in a red sort of
jersey, and blue patched trousers. On the back of his shock of pale,
rope-colored hair sat jauntily a diminutive cap with a glazed peak. In
the lobes of his huge ears were small gold rings.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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