Slingsby Bethell in 1756, and in 1782 Sir Watkin Lewis, who was also member for the City. Admiral Geary, in 1725; John Hardham, the well-known tobacconist, of "Hardham's '37" snuff celebrity, and a famous ringer; Sir Watkin Wynne, Lord Dacre, and the Marquis of Salisbury, also figure in the list. The last two were joint founders with Lord Brereton and Sir Cliff Clifton. It is said that Sir Matthew Hale, Lord Chief Justice of the Common Pleas, and the great Lord Burleigh—Elizabeth's lord high treasurer—as well as other grave and learned men were fond of change ringing and patrons of the art; but their names do not appear in the list of members.
The society, flourishing enough now, has had more than one interval of something very like extinction, although it is stoutly denied that it ever really came to an end. It must have been in a bad way, however, at one time; and the fact of the peal-book having disappeared, and not being found until some time afterwards, in a butcher's shop in Bristol, undoubtedly looks awkward.
There is another society of change ringers in London, called the Cumberland, and practising at St. Martin's-in-the-Fields, which possibly sprang from the internal dissensions that at one time agitated the older society. The London scholars, who are frequently mentioned in the earlier records of the college youths, appear to have become extinct as a change-ringing society; and although there is an association of change ringers in almost every town where there is a good peal of bells, the Ancient Society of College Youths is the most important, as it is the most venerable in the kingdom. Its rules are few and simple, and its subscription and expenses low, and for this reason, no doubt, it has gradually attracted more and more members from the working class.
As the evening was pretty far advanced by the time we had possessed ourselves of these particulars, we bade farewell to the Ancient Society of College Youths without waiting for another touch on the hand-bells, and went our way, grateful for a courteous reception and a pleasant evening.
Fatal Zero.
A Diary Kept at Homburg: A Short Serial Story.
Chapter XVI.—Continued
Noon next day.—I see two letters which I did not notice last night. Yes I did. I shall not tell lies to myself, though I am sunk low enough. I did see hers, but I did not care to open it. I could guess the tune. Here it is now. O I blush as I look at the writing, and as I would, were Dora's own sweet eyes turned on me now. I saw that fellow here that is outlawed, and dare not show his face in England; but what is he to me, that have wasted the substance of those who are dear to me, and have brought ruin on them. Here is her letter. Those trembling fingers of mine may as well now go on with the farce of pasting it in:
"O my dearest, what will you think of me and my selfishness when I must again write to you and trouble your little holiday with more dismal news? O that I could suffer it all myself, but I know not whither to turn, save to that one friend, who knows what is good for us, and will assist us at the fitting time. Our little child has relapsed again, and again there is more expense, and, O my dearest, there is something else for you to bear! They tell us that the Bank is going to close its country offices and keep entirely in London—at least this is rumoured. So God knows what is to become of us all. Don't distress yourself about the rent, as I feel confident we shall find some way. I shall—I must. You know my little stock of trinkets, the gold chain dear mamma gave me, and which she made me promise I would never part with? Well, she would not mean me to be ruined and wretched for the sake of keeping that promise. Let us only keep up, and trust—something must come. Mr. Bernard was here, and to my joy tells me, he gave you more than double that would be sufficient for the journey. So stay, dearest, as long as it will last—though if you could squeeze us out a few pounds for the children,—but here is my selfishness. If you had seen our dear friend's face when I told him of your brave resolution—so splendidly kept—of the prayer that you so faithfully say. I did not show him any of the diary, you may be sure, simply, dearest, because you have given up sending it to me, a punishment I own I deserve richly. But I will coax you to show it to me all when you return, and there is a little scheme I can tell you, on foot, by which a little money might be turned, on what they call "the half profit system"—so our librarian was telling me—a little of the expense of publishing to be met at first by the author, but he shares all the clear profits after."
Wretch—villain! Again I say, what is to become of me? The other letter from Mr. Bernard. His orders, indeed! I wish I had never seen his face; it was he who sent me on this cursed journey. What words I begin to use! Yet I mean it in a proper sense. Why didn't he let me die at home?
"I wish you to go at once back to Frankfort. You seem to have quite misapprehended me, and I think it was indiscreet of you to have left such a sum at a strange
