Story of a Music Stool.

Cromwell Argus, Volume III, Issue 130, 7 May 1872, Page 7

Story of a Music Stool.

The following strange story recently appeared in the Paris journals : —There lately lived at “ No. 25, Thing-avenue,” New York, a gentleman of “quiet habits,” named George Cunnings. Three years ago, Mr Cunnings brought home from Switzerland a present for his young wife in the shape of a music-stool, that played the “Miserere” when sat upon. This, prejudiced persons might imagine, would be regarded rather as an inconvenience than otherwise, as one sitting down to play a piece of music would, unless great caution were exercised, have perforce to listen to the “Miserere” as an introduction. But the music-stool greatly delighted Mrs Cunnings, who lost no opportunity of producing the 11 Miserere” for the delectation of her friends and the delight of the family circle. For three months Mr George Cunnings shared the rapture of his wife, but at the end of that period he thought that the “Miserere” was becoming monotonous, and gently urged a less constant repetition. At the end of the year his objection had grown into positive dislike, and he sternly forbade his wife to sit upon the melancholy music-stool. Thus two years went by. On the 15th September last, Mr Cunnings returned home about seven o’clock in the evening. He appeared to be in a bad temper, and received but coldly the affectionate inquiries of his wife. She persisted in her caresses, and, her husband pushing her from him, she fell upon the musicstool. Instantly the solemn strains of ‘‘ Miserere” filled the room, and Mr Cunnings, moved to madness thereby, took up a hatchet —which unfortunately he found ready to hand—and cleaved open the head of his hapless wife. Removing her bleeding body from the stool, he sat himself thereon and blew out his brains. When the servants, attracted by the report, entered the room they found their master and mistress both dead, whilst the last notes of the ‘ ‘ Miserere” floated in the air. We do not desire to utter reproaches over the untimely grave of Mr Georgs Cunnings, late of Thing-avenue, New York, but we cannot refrain from giving utterance to the reflection that he wantonly brought his sad fate upon himself.