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
