excruciating nature were executed every Wednesday
evening by a private party.

His habit of humming his musical recollections of these
evenings was a source of great annoyance to Mr. James Carker,
who devoutly wished 'that he would make a bonfire of his
violoncello, and burn his books with it.' There was only a thin
partition between the rooms which these two gentlemen occupied,
and on another occasion Mr. Morfin performed an extraordinary
feat in order to warn the manager of his presence.

I have whistled, hummed tunes, gone accurately through
the whole of Beethoven's Sonata in B, to let him know
that I was within hearing, but he never heeded me.

This particular sonata has not hitherto been identified.

It is comforting to know that the fall of the House of Dombey
made no difference to Mr. Morfin, who continued to solace
himself by producing 'the most dismal and forlorn sounds
out of his violoncello before going to bed,' a proceeding
which had no effect on his deaf landlady, beyond producing
'a sensation of something rumbling in her bones.'

Nor were the quartet parties interfered with. They came round
regularly, his violoncello was in good tune, and there was
nothing wrong in _his_ world. Happy Mr. Morfin!

Another 'cellist was the Rev. Charles Timson, who, when
practising his instrument in his bedroom, used to give strict