With this moral constitution I was alone
in the world—unwed, unmated. My hearth
was desolate. I was aloue in the world with
my violoncello.

That instrument was as much in
demand as myself, and went out with me to
all evening parties. Indeed, it was a favourite
joke to include it specially in the little pink
note of invitation, it being hoped that the
Reverend Alfred Hoblush would be kind
enough to bring with him Mrs. Alfred
Hoblush. Accordingly, when I entered silently
of an evening, beautifully robed in shining
raiment, there was borne in after me a
huge case, coffin-like in aspect, which was
set up on end in a corner of the room. It
came round with me to all the houses where
I was entertained;—to the Misses Manidrum's,
to the Misses Marjoram's, the Misses Pemjob's
and a host more too numerous to mention.
Perhaps, of all the army of virgins, the Misses
Manidrum were to my taste. They were by
far the most deeply versed in musical
entertainments, and perhaps made the strongest
tea. There were but two of them left;—an
elder and a younger sister, with no one in
the wide world to care for them, save an
ancient aunt who could do nothing beyond
sitting in a chair and trying to listen to
everything. Over the head of the elder of
the twain, I should say not more than eight
and thirty summers had passed, being comely
enough in aspect to rejoice any man's heart.
And yet there was an unaccountable
freshness of tint about her delicate nasal
conformation which was certainly a drawback to
the classic beauty of her face. It mystified
me, this local inflammation. It disturbed
me to see this tint deepened, in the course of
a night, from a gentle pink, into an angry
crimson, flaming out like heated metal.
Her frail figure, too, was wasted and
emaciated, and the anatomy of the regions about
the neck was developed extraordinarily. Her
sister, scarcely two years junior to her, had
all the liveliness and caprice attendant on
that engaging period of life, being always full
of spirits, and pouting, and fretting, if she
were crossed in anything. With them I
passed many a happy evening, travelling in
company through miles of concert and
symphony. Our music was fine—very fine, the
whole parish said, my bowing in particular,
was thought to be masterly. We were
conscientious players—both of us—working on
steadily from eight till twelve of these musical
nights, travelling through symphony after
symphony.

To the Misses Marjoram's, too, I was in the
habit of taking the coffin-shaped case. The
three fair daughters, had locks of the most
beautiful flaxen tint, running wild in clusters
of ringlets. I never saw earthly creatures so
wondrously fair; yet, strange to say, there
was that fatal singularity about their nasal
developments also, which were all high and
arched, and more conformable to ornithological
than human laws. Subject, also, to angry
irritation and incandescence, on the smallest
excitement. Cruel law this: that the youth
and beauty of our parish was to go forth
upon the earth with this Cain's mark upon
them; children, as it were, of that hapless
Slawkenburgius, we have read of in Mr.
Shandy.

From my heart I grieved for the three
Misses Marjoram, when I saw ignition
commencing. With them I could play no more
than light romances, and what are called
notturnos, facile in character, and not reaching
to the grandeur of the classical. Still, in
such light toying with music, did many other
pleasant evenings run by.

All this while, though exposed to such
sweet seductions, it never entered into the
heart of the Reverend Alfred Hoblush to
pick one flower from that fair garden and
place it in his bosom. To say the truth, he
felt thrown, as it were, among a dear
sisterhood—disporting in a sort of pastoral curacy,
ranging, Corydon-like, among so many parish
Phyllises. Marriage forsooth! What will
the world say? and such like coarse speeches,
were as naught to me. There was no such
conventional scandal abroad in Crambington.
I nourished no such notions towards them,
nor did they towards me. So I believe it
would have endured until the end of time.
So I believe I would have continued to
wander among the virgins, platonically, and
with my crook upon my shoulder. But,
alas! it was the evening of one of our great
festivals, and the church of Saint Stylites
was crowded to the porch. Never had
I seen so much Crambington youth and
beauty—so much Crambington silk and ribbon
rustling and fluttering as I looked down
from my high place and proceeded in soft
tones to dilate on the virtues and glories of
that illustrious saint.

"Dear brethren," I was saying, in that
clear, gentle voice which Miss Manidrum
always said was to her as the tinkling of
silver bells, "we should not lend ourselves
to stiffneckedness—to stiffneckedness, I say"
—on which theme I was about to dilate at
length when I felt something sawing and
rasping me unpleasantly about the region of
the neck. No doubt those parts were in a
state of extreme irritation. "For, dear
Christians, only consider, that he who is
stiffnecked "—I had discovered what it
was. Those perverse, overstarched bands
had got twisted round all awry—right under
my ear. Had been under my ear for some
time back in all probability, presenting me
in a ludicrous and irreverent aspect. The
bare notion sent the blood rushing to the
tips of my ears and extremities generally.
I felt hot and uncomfortable, and tugged
nervously at the strings to bring all straight
again. The result was only tightening of the
horrid engine almost to suspension of the
respiration. Further tugging, with further