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,
but 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
manoeuvre 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