His scrap of relationship throws a glimmer of possession around the one, endowing with inherent right every act of his ministry; while his "cloth" invests the other with a halo of sanctity and Platonic freedom that disarms gossip of the usual clothes-peg whereon it hangs its scandal.

"Cousin Tom"-- by-the-way, did you ever read Mackworth Praed's lines on the same theme ?--is allowed opportunities for, and latitude in, flirtation, which poor Corydon, not a cousin never so remote, may sigh in vain for; and, who would be so despicable as to impute secular motives to the Reverend Hobplush's tender ministrations towards those sweet young "sisters," who dote on his sucking sermons and work him carpet slippers and text-markers without limit?
Certainly, not I.
I do not mean to say, however, that curates and cousins have it all their own way always.

There's a sweet little cupid who "sits up aloft," like Jack's guardian angel, to watch o'er the loves of poor laymen.
Still, it is very galling, to one of an ardent temperament especially, to mark the anxious solicitude with which "Cousin Tom" may hang over the divine creature--whom you can only look upon from afar as some distant star--without attracting any observations anent his "attentions." The confounded airs of possession he gives himself, while you are languishing "out in the cold," in the expressive vernacular, are frightful to contemplate.

As for curate Hobplush, he may drop in whenever he pleases, being treated like one of the family circle; while you, miserable creature, can only call at stated intervals, always dreading the horrid possibility of out-staying your welcome, and receiving the metaphorical "cold shoulder"-- though love may prompt you to the sacrifice.
Such was my position now.
There was Mr Mawley visiting at Mrs Clyde's house some half-a-dozen times a week, for all I knew to the contrary--and of course I imagined the worst--and having endless chances and opportunities of conversing with my darling, in the morning, at noontide, and at night; while poor, wretched _I_ had to content myself with a passing bow and smile when we chanced to meet abroad, or I should happen to see her dainty figure at the window as I promenaded past her house.
You say I ought to have considered myself lucky to get even that slight modicum of notice?
But I did _not_ so consider myself.

I was not by any means contented.
Where did you ever find a lover worth his salt who was?
To tell the truth, I was horribly jealous of Mawley.