I go youngly through the late streets hearing a nocturne of Chopin's. Who but Chopin was able to write nocturnes? He lived by night. He is returned to Paris from some revel that has been brilliant, and is standing at this hour in his attic looking out at the open-dormer window. The huge pulse of life is lulled, darkness like a heavy cloud lowers overhead, and straddled roofs shine beneath from recent rain. A melody is awake and moves with hushed weariness through the black harmonies of night, easily, almost inaudibly, changing to higher keys till light begins to be seen. It was associated in my mind with a memory. Aunt Josephine played it for me in her house on the North Strand when long after midnight I was about to leave to come home to Cabra.