began, take up some other combination of bells. The signal for such a change is given by the conductor, who calls "Bob!" or "Single!" upon which the desired change is made, and the touch lengthened. The conductor must necessarily have the whole science of change ringing at his fingers' ends, and must know exactly how to work his bells. Bobs or Singles in the wrong place would upset the whole arrangement, and the bells would get so clubbed that they would probably never get round to their proper order again; and as no good ringer ever thinks of leaving off until that state of things occurs, it is difficult to imagine what would happen. A peal consists of not less than five thousand changes, though many more can be rung, and the arranger of a given combination is said to have composed or invented it. He may, or may not, conduct and call the changes; if he do not, the conductor has to learn the peal, of course.
Until the time of one Fabian Stedman, who flourished as printer and bellringer at Cambridge about sixteen hundred and eighty, change ringing was in its infancy. Stedman greatly extended, and indeed revolutionised, the art, and his system, though far more complicated and intricate than the old method, is generally adopted by practised ringers. The old style is called the grandsire method, whether from its antiquity or no does not appear, and is tolerably simple. On eight bells, under either system, the ordinary changes are five thousand and forty, but Stedman arrives at this result by much the more tortuous path. Although it is easy enough to perceive that the peal is made by altering at stated and understood intervals the order in which the bells follow each other, and that these alterations are ruled by fixed laws, it is impossible to understand the scientific principles of change ringing without practical teaching and illustration—as impossible as it would be to attempt to explain in the same way the science of music. Enormous handbooks on the subject exist, it is true, but the endless rows of figures with which they are filled are, to the novice, bewildering in the extreme. Patient application and constant practice are the only means by which safe and steady change ringers are made. Besides the difficult task of learning to follow the windings of a peal, the technical terms are many and curious. We are told, in explanation of some of them, that doubles are rung on six bells, triples on eight, caters (or cators; there seems some doubt about the spelling) on ten, and cinques on twelve.
The touch comes to an end. Two of the ringers leave their ropes, and two novices take their places. Two older ringers stand behind them to prompt them and keep them straight; but the conductor, who this time has left the weighty tenor and taken a bell easier to handle, has his work cut out for him, and may be heard occasionally admonishing the neophytes in gruff tones.
Half a dozen boys have found their way up into the tower, and gaze at the performers with eager eyes; probably looking forward to the happy days when they, too, will be ringers. The audience has also gradually increased by the advent of stray collegians, until the room is now pretty full.
We find that change ringing is not without its dangers. We are told of a man who, the other day, in a country church, caught his foot in the loop made by the falling rope, and was presently taken up by it, and pitched across the room; we hear awful whispers of another victim, who was caught by the neck, and hung by his bell; but the date and place of this latter tragedy are not forthcoming. It is, however, a legend much in favour among frequenters of steeples, partly, perhaps, because of a wild statement with which it concludes, that "government" claimed, but without success, the manslaughtering bell. Excoriated hands are very common, and violent jerks and strains not unknown; but, on the whole, it seems safe enough.
The second touch being brought to a harmonious conclusion, the two smallest bells, hitherto idle, are brought into play, the treble sounding after the tenor, like a good-sized dinner-bell, and a third and last touch is rung with great spirit. Then, after we have received and modestly declined a polite invitation to try our hand at a bell, we file off down the corkscrew stairs, not without an uncomfortable feeling that, if we were to slip or stumble, an avalanche of college youths is behind, certain to be precipitated on to our prostrate body. Reaching the chapel again without damage, though with a good deal of dust and damp on our coats from the walls of the staircase, we find the organist still at work (we wonder how he likes the bells ringing overhead while he is practising), and passing over the stone that marks Massinger's last resting place, emerge into the churchyard. Thence, pursued by a triumphant burst of sound from the organ as if the organist were glad to get rid of us, we troop off to the meeting place of the society at the King's Head.
The first thing that strikes the visitor on opening the door, is that the ancient college youths are good and steady smokers. The smoke is so dense that for some time it is difficult to make out surrounding objects; the only way of avoiding inconvenience is to light up oneself, which, accordingly, every new comer does without loss of time.
On looking round the table and down the room, which is now quite full, it becomes evident that the bulk of the college youths present are of the working class. Our introducer is a Cambridge graduate and destined for the church, so it will be seen that the composition of the society is very catholic. It becomes soon pleasantly apparent that change ringing is by no means merely an excuse for beer. There is an excellent rule, strictly enforced, that no refreshments are allowed in the belfry; and moderation is clearly the custom in the club-room.
The iron safe is open, and the property and
