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