  By J. Marion Shull Silent are the church towers of Flanders and Artois, the belfries of Douai and Bruges. They have been robbed of their treasures, those bells that for hundreds of years have pealed forth the hopes and aspirations of the surrounding countryside. These bells have suffered desecrations, their noble metal recast for purposes of war and their erstwhile melodious tongues constrained to speak the raucous tones of battle in behalf of barbarian hosts. But now that it is within our power let us give them back to civilization. From the metal of captured enemy cannon let there be cast the most wonderful carillon of bells of which the world's best makers are capable, and let these be duplicated in sufficient numbers that the capital city of each of the great allied nations may be provided with a set of these "peace bells." The architects of all the world would vie with one another to see that in each of these cities should arise a magnificent bell tower to house this carillon, a splendid example of fitting architecture, worthy of the theme commemorated. No doubt, some modern Giotto would emerge to give the world a masterpiece in stone, which would gather to itself tradition from the past and build tradition for the years to come. Incorporate within its walls, perhaps, some block from shattered Rheims, from Amiens and Arras; another from the ruined treasures of Louvain, and so perpetuate the glory of those sacred heaps of stone now tumbled in confusion by the ruthless hand of hate. Then, too, some village on the Marne, where first the invading hosts were halted and turned back, might honor thus and in its turn be honored by one memorial stone in this great monument to peace. Bells have been cast from cannon in the past. More than two hundred years ago, in 1710, the Emperor Joseph I, of Austria, had a great bell cast from Turkish cannon and placed in the tower of St. Stephen's at Vienna. This, known as the emperor bell, weighed seventeen tons. But this, although it symbolized a triumph of the Christian over the Turk, was also meant to glorify the emperor's military might. It spoke of insolent pride, not peace and good will, and furnished an example for Emperor William in 1873. Read now the arrogant inscription that winds in three encircling lines about this later emperor bell, so named in honor of Emperor William, who had it cast from twenty cannon taken from the French in 1870, and hung in the tower of Cologne Cathedral. The original is in Latin, but is translated thus: "William, the most illustrious Emperor of Germany and King of Prussia, in pious remembrance of the heavenly aid granted him in the fortunate course and conclusion of the last French war, has ordered, after the restoration of the German empire, a bell to be cast from the captured cannon, of the weight of 50,000 pounds, which is to be suspended in the house of God, now nearly completed. In accordance with this pious desire of the victorious prince, the society formed for the completion of the cathedral has caused it to be cast, under Roman Pontiff Pius IX and the Archbishop of Cologne, Paul Melchers, in the year of our Lord 1874." And underneath the German imperial coat of arms occurs this verse, here freely translated:
Was it with something of intuitive appreciation of Prussian character on the part of the designer of this bell that the six arms that form the crown are decorated with angels' heads above, and end where they join the bell in lions' feet? Why, a whole sermon could be preached on this alone! The saintly, sacred, outward seeming, but, underlying all, the Beast! And did those lions' claws but typify the grasping spirit of the Prussian war-lord? And the bell, France, that he would grasp entire and sway or strike at will? Perhaps even then some Fate foresaw the jangling discord of the last few years and as a symbol and a prophecy caused the great bell to come from the founder's hand C-sharp instead of C, and, therefore, not in tune with the other bells of the cathedral! Again, in 1887, no less than twenty-two French guns were used to cast the "Gloriosa," another great bell that was raised with much ceremony to its place in Cologne Cathedral, there to join the "Emperor" bell in a clangorous derision of defeated and humiliated France. We hold Cologne, at least until the acceptance of our terms of peace by the now defeated Germany. Why should we not exact the restitution of these bells to now triumphant France? War-lust created them, and thus far they have known no other theme than praise of their creator. Let's melt them down and give them back to France, recast for nobler use and given tongues of peace; or break them into bits and let a portion go to each and every one of our Peace carillons, there to proclaim throughout the world the triumph of a great and glorious cause. Imagine, then, these carillons complete and carried high aloft within their towers, there to speak forth from year to year the nation's joys and sorrows; a pÆan of thanksgiving now; again a vesper service soft and sweet, or, when we pay our loving tribute to the nation's dead, a solemn dirge shall waft across the river and like a benediction fall upon the hushed and reverent throng. On every state occasion they would serve; at our inaugurals, give farewell thanks to the departing president and loyal greetings to the newly chosen chief; do homage to the great of foreign lands and ring glad welcome when they come to us from overseas; would celebrate the nation's birth with jubilant peal on peal; and on the anniversary of that November day that marked the final triumph of Humanity, let there be rung from all the capitals a grand Te Deum of World Brotherhood. And so in fancy let us dedicate these carillons to Peace, and say with Tennyson:
[*] Published originally in the Boston Transcript for Nov. 29, 1918, and subsequently appearing in many other publications, including the Washington Star, Dec. 1, and the Literary Digest of Dec. 14, following. |
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