of business, need not vex his soul. He rarely
disturbs himself about law, natural science,
metaphysics, or theology. He may be out at
what hour he pleases, and yet fear no gating;
proctors are only vaguely associated in his mind
with Doctors' Commons, though haply he
may keep bulldogs of his own; and he looks
forward to an occasional rustication with
pleasure. His vacations are usually few and brief.
He lives in no "quad," though not unfrequently
in a court; and though his attendance at church
on week days is regular, it is not compulsory.
He frequently hears the chimes at midnight,
but not in Justice Shallow's sense, for he is of
a staid and steady turn.

When the Lord Mayor, in his gingerbread
coach, and all the other accompanying guys,
who seem annually to mistake their date and
come out a few days behind time, deign to
exhibit themselves to the irreverent gaze of
derisive London; when the braying of the
brass bands, the thunderings of the big drums,
and the shouts of the assembled multitude are
drowned by the merry peals from the clashing
bells, high up in the steeples of St. Mary-le-
Bow, Cheapside, or St. Michael's, Cornhill,
then the ancient youths are hard at work;
when you are delivered, cold and damp, ex-
steamer, in the port of London, you may, as
your cab-horse stumbles up the slippery hill
past the queer old church of St. Magnus the
Martyr, become distinctly aware of the fact
that the ancient youths are in the immediate
neighbourhood; and when the night
continental express whisks you over the Borough
Market, and you look down on the fine pile of
St. Mary Overy, you will—especially on
certain Tuesdays—have reason to know that the
ancient youths are diligently engaged in the
pursuit of their studies. For the Ancient
Society of College Youths are the ringers of the
bells. The churches just mentioned are their
chief places of resort, and it is from the wide
throats of the massive playthings in their
belfries that the harmonious peals of the
ancient society of collegians most frequently
ring out over the housetops.

For some years a strong desire to make
personal acquaintance with the ancient youths
possessed our mind. We were not satisfied
with the occasional intelligence respecting them
to be gleaned from the sporting paper which
usually recorded their doings, and which was
invariably to the effect, that the following
members of the society ascended the tower of St.
Somebody's; that a true and complete peal of
grandsire triples was rung in such and such
a surprisingly short time; that the peal was
composed and conducted by Mr. So-and-So,
and that the tenor weighed so much. We
became anxious to see with our own eyes what
manner of men those might be, who were in the
habit of devoting long hours to this voluntary
hard labour, and, even if we felt a sad
presentiment that a grandsire triple might prove too
much for our feeble comprehension, a lingering
hope remained that we might find the key to at
least some part of the mystery if we could only,
with our own eyes, see the thing done. It
appeared, however, as if it were not to be. The
opportunity persistently refused to offer itself,
and we had almost given up hope when chance
favoured us. A friend going to live in a town
which contains one of the most enthusiastic
devotees of the order, and where the bells are
continually ringing, became an ancient youth
—in self-defence, we opine—and the time had
come. A very dark and cold evening in
January found us crossing London-bridge,
bellward bound.

The head-quarters of change ringing are in
a long, rather low room on the first floor of
the King's Head in Winchester-street, in the
borough of Southwark. Records of distinguished
peals, in frames of all sizes and various ages,
adorn the walls, and an iron safe is fixed in a
corner. Here the business of the venerable
society is transacted, here its records and
property are kept, and here is presently to be held a
meeting at which it will be our high privilege
to assist. A large, thickly bound book with
strong brazen clasps, and a general appearance
of having been made to stand constant reference
for many years, lies on the table. This
is the second volume of the peal-book, and was
presented to the society by an enthusiastic
amateur. Here are entered all the peals rung
by the members, in records written by
professional hands, in a most ornate style and in
various bright colours. There are comparatively
few entries in the book as yet, for it has
been but recently commenced. By the time
we have turned over its pages, a sufficient
muster of college youths has come together,
and an adjournment is made to the church.

The portion of the church we have to pass
through, is dim enough by what little light
comes from the organ loft, where the organist
is practising. The lantern we have with us,
is rather more useful, however, when we reach
the narrow winding staircase leading to the
belfry, which is dark indeed, and very long and
very steep. When we reach the first halting-
place, we feel but weak about the knees and
giddy about the head, and are glad to cross
along the level flooring of the loft.

"We nearly had an accident here the other
day. Some of the boys were on in front, and
were going to cross in the dark. Fortunately
I called to them to wait until I brought the
lantern, thinking it just possible some of the
traps were open. Sure enough they were, and
somebody must have gone right down to the
floor of the church if I hadn't sung out in
time." Thus our conductor, to the derangement
of our nervous system, for the floor
appears to be all trap, and the fastenings may or
may not, be all secure.

Another spell of steep winding staircase, and
we emerge breathless in the ringers' room.

Large and lofty is the ringers' room, lighted
by a gas apparatus rather like the hoop that
serves for a chandelier in a travelling circus.
The walls are adorned by large black and gold
frames, looking at first sight like monumental
tablets to the memory of departed ringers, but
proving on further examination to refer, like
the records in the club-room, but on a larger