The Rev. Mr. B----, when residing at Canterbury, was reckoned a good
violoncello player; but he was not more distinguished for his expression
on the instrument, than for the peculiar appearance of feature whilst
playing it. In the midst of the adagios of Corelli or Avison, the
muscles of his face sympathised with his fiddlestick, and kept
reciprocal movement. His sight, being dim, obliged him often to snuff
the candles; and, when he came to a bar’s rest, in lieu of snuffers, he
generally employed his fingers in that office; and, lest he should
offend the good housewife by this dirty trick, he used to thrust the
_spoils_ into the _sound-holes_ of his violoncello. A waggish friend
resolved to enjoy himself “at the parson’s expense,” as he termed it;
and, for that purpose, popped a quantity of gunpowder into B.’s
instrument. Others were informed of the trick, and of course kept a
respectable distance. The tea equipage being removed, music became the
order of the evening; and, after B---- had tuned his instrument, and
drawn his stand near enough to snuff his candles with ease, feeling
himself in the meridian of his glory, he dashed away at Vanhall’s 47th.
B---- came to a bar’s rest, the candles were snuffed, and he thrust the
ignited wick into the usual place; _fit fragor_, bang went the fiddle to
pieces, and there was an end of harmony that evening.
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