scale, to the performances of the society. Peals of all kinds appear to have been rung on these bells; but on one occasion it seems that "the company achieved a true peal of Kent treble Bob Maximus." Bob Major we have heard of, luit Bob Maximus! Will they introduce us to Bob Maximus to-night?
The ropes of the twelve bells pass through holes in the ceiling and reach the floor. Under each is a little raised platform for the ringer to stand on, with a strap for his foot to help him in getting good purchase, and each rope half way up is covered for some four feet by a fluffy, woolly-looking covering, technically called a "sally," and intended to afford a good hold to the ringer as he checks his bell in the pull down. The case of the church clock fills up one side of the room, and from it unearthly clickings and wheezings presently come as the clock strives in vain to strike. To strike a vibrating bell suddenly from a fresh quarter is to crack it, so when the bells are rung their connexion with the clock has to be temporarily severed.
Coats are taken off, sleeves are turned up, and business is evidently about to begin. But nothing connected, however remotely, with music can be done without a quantity of tuning or other preliminary performances, and change ringing is no exception to this rule. Before the ringing can begin it is necessary to "set" the bells: to set a bell is to get it on the right balance, mouth upward. Some of the bells are set already, some consent to be set with little trouble; but the tenor, a small plaything of fifty-two hundredweight, or thereabouts, is obstinate to-night. Three youths take him in hand, and presently his deep note booms out sonorously, but he absolutely declines to assume the required position. We take the opportunity and go up, preceded by our friend with the lantern, into the belfry, and among the bells.
As we go, the tenor's voice becomes louder and louder, and the ladder and walls shake more and more, until at last, as we are going to step on to the platform of the bells, we shrink back as from a blow, from the stunning clash of sound with which he greets us. He is rather an alarming object to behold, swinging violently to and fro close to us, and we decline the invitation to step past him on to the staging beyond, for which feat there seems to us but scant space. Our conductor does not disturb himself in the least, but is presently busy among the bells, with his lantern, tightening a rope here, looking after a wheel there, sublimely indifferent to the clanging monster so close to him. And now, as we watch the bell swinging, we become painfully sensible that two of our favourite bell stories must be abandoned, if this be the customary method of ringing church bells; which, on inquiry, we find it is. There was a melodrama of thrilling interest once played—at the Victoria was it?—in the last act of which the hero was to be shot, or executed in some way, and the signal was to be given by the tolling of a bell. The heroine, bethinking herself that, if the execution were delayed for some time, her lover would be saved, ascended into the belfry, and, when the bell began to ring, herself swung by the clapper; by which ingenious gymnastic manœuvre she rendered the bell dumb. This might be all very well—although we had secret doubts about it—with a bell hanging mouth downwards and swinging only from side to side, but how about a bell the other way up, describing a circle, and sounding only when it again assumes an upright position, and the clapper falls? The story, albeit said to be founded on fact, must be given up, we fear. Quasimodo, again, however abnormal his activity, and however remarkable his familiarity with his bells, would find it difficult to ride this uncomfortable-looking tenor—Quasimodo would be dashed to pieces against the platform presently. All at once, alarming tenor comes up slowly, hovers, poises for a moment as though hesitating, and sets; his great mouth, five feet or so in diameter, turned at last the right way. All his companions have been in this position for some time, and now the ringing can begin. So, after feeling the thickness of tenor's sides and sounding him with our knuckles, we descend to the floor below, where we find ten ringers ready. A glance round from the conductor, who, with two assistants, rings the tenor, "go," and they start. The tower rocks, the bells clash, tenor booms at appointed intervals. After some little time, one gets used to the noise, which is not so great as might be expected, and begins to pick out the rhythm of the chime. The ringers all have an earnest, fixed expression; attention is written on every face. Occasionally a slight wandering look betokens that the ringer is a little vague as to his place in the change, but he soon seems to pick it up and come right again. The work is severe, especially on the arms and muscles of the back, but is done with an ease derived from long practice. The rope is pulled down at the sally, and falls in a loop to the floor; as it begins to fly up again, the ringer checks it, the bell is balanced against a wooden stay that prevents its falling over, and the clapper falls; then he lets it run up, round goes the wheel above, and with it the bell, and presently the bell's mouth comes up on the other side, and the clapper sounds again. It is a delicate operation, checking the bell on the poise; if done too late, the bell breaks away the restraining stay, the rope flies up, and probably disappears through the hole in the ceiling, drawn up round the revolving wheel, and disgrace is the portion of that youth. Disgrace and pecuniary penalty, for a fine is inflicted for a broken stay.
We are informed that a touch is being rung, and find on inquiry that anything short of a peal is called a touch. In a touch the changes are simply rung according to the recognised forms, and when the order of bells comes back to that of the first round, the touch stops. Comparatively few changes can be rung in this way, but there are many ways of introducing a fresh change, by which the ringers, instead of pursuing and completing the system in which they
