The Cecil Whig. [volume] (Elkton, Md.) 1841-current, 1894-06-02
THE MOONLIGHT SONATA.

A man in earnest meditation was
strolling at the twilight hour, along q
street in one of the suburbs O.
Vienna, He took little notice what
was going on around him, for his
attention was centered within him.
self.
The sun had long since sunk &c
rest behind yonder mountains, upon
whose lofty peaks the faint reflection
Of the sunset glow still fingered, and
the moon had already climbed up
into the sky to reign with her cold
light for few hours over the weary
earth.
The evening air was mild and
wonderfully soft, the busy roar oi
the city grew hushed and 'ow, and
the peace ot rest from work breathed
over the whole landscape. The
man took off his hat and passed his
hand over his brow and through his
thick waving hair. Evidently he
was enjoying the peace and rest
around him. for. as he eazed up in
to the clear sky above him, the lines
seemed to die away from his tore
head and softer light to come into
his eyes.
His appearance was stately and
dignitied. His clean shaven face
showed breadth of line, and his fine
sensitive lips were tightly pressed
together.
H S clothes, while in accordance
with the fashion of the day, were
very plain. The long brown coat
he wore was open and allowed a
waistcoat to be seen embroidered
with yellow flowers. His neck rose
out Of high, stiff collar, beneath
which was tied plain white bow.
In his hand he carried stick with a
heavy gold knob, and thus stirred,
he strolled slowly onward
Presently as he passed a small one
storied house. which was separated
from the street by a small garden,
he heard sounds OF music.
1t was the tones OF a piano.
He stopped, then quickly went
nearer and listened attentively.
1t was a welIknown air that he
heard played with skilled fingers,
but what chained this man in the
street to the spot and made him
listen longer was the fact that it was
being rendered with intelligence and
feeling. Then came a woman's voice,
soft and tender singing:
No one my grief can tell,
That knows not yearning.
The listener was deeply moved by
the sweetness of the voice as he
stood there and leaned on the lattice
work of the garden. The music
poured out of the open window
of room on the ground floor
in which no lights had as yet
been lit. He tried to look in
but could only see pair OF white
curtains gently moving in the cool
night breeze, and two or three car
nations that stood on the window
sill.
Softly the sounds died into silence
but the man thought not of moving.
He stood there in the quiet street as
if lost in dreams.
You played that beautifully,
Marie, he heard the deep strong
voice Of a man say. | like to hear
you play in the evening when every
body is gone and We are alone. 1t
carries me back to our childhood,
when we used so often to listen to
our dear mothers singing. l am
glad you have developed your taste
for music.
All! l have no talent, replied the
woman's voice, complainingly. |
am never for an instant content with
myself. If only l could hear heavenly
music that fills my whole being and
raises me above all earthly pain,
played by the master hand-by the
hand OF the master himself!
You are raving again in your
enthusiasm, my child, he said kindly
Play me something more instead.
| cannot was the answer, in a
sad weary voice. | am tired.
The listener felt powerfully
affected by the simple dialogue.
With quick decision, he walked
up the stone steps which led to the