Of late, I have been wishing for music. An odd chance gratified my
desire.

I had to go into Exeter yesterday. I got there about sunset, transacted
my business, and turned to walk home again through the warm twilight. In
Southernhay, as I was passing a house of which the ground-floor windows
stood open, there sounded the notes of a piano--chords touched by a
skilful hand. I checked my step, hoping, and in a minute or two the
musician began to play that nocturne of Chopin which I love best--I don't
know how to name it. My heart leapt. There I stood in the thickening
dusk, the glorious sounds floating about me; and I trembled with very
ecstasy of enjoyment. When silence came, I waited in the hope of another
piece, but nothing followed, and so I went my way.

It is well for me that I cannot hear music when I will; assuredly I
should not have such intense pleasure as comes to me now and then by
haphazard. As I walked on, forgetting all about the distance, and
reaching home before I knew I was half way there, I felt gratitude to my
unknown benefactor--a state of mind I have often experienced in the days
long gone by. It happened at times--not in my barest days, but in those
of decent poverty--that some one in the house where I lodged played the
piano--and how it rejoiced me when this came to pass! I say "played the
piano"--a phrase that covers much. For my own part, I was very tolerant;
anything that could by the largest interpretation be called music, I
welcomed and was thankful; for even "five-finger exercises" I found, at
moments, better than nothing. For it was when I was labouring at my desk
that the notes of the instrument were grateful and helpful to me. Some
men, I believe, would have been driven frantic under the circumstances;