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 melo-
dies, 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."

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