Well, then, what is it?
Patience for ten lines, and you shall know. Growl, amiable reader, but read.
It is, you must know, a curious instrument, or rather a collection of instruments, that go at once to the bosoms of all Englishmen. It subdues discord, and substitutes pleasant harmony for it. No sooner is a note of it heard than off flies every hat, the whole assembly rises; fifty thousand bare heads—if there are so many present—instantly respect the majesty of the appeal, and fifty thousand voices—if you can only count them—join in glad response to it.
But what is it?
Foreigners even respect it, and take off their hats.
Once more—What is it?
Well, that which has most hats taken off to it, is—
Stop! I have it (cries a young musician, who had the signal honour of beating the big drum in the Drury Lane orchestra on the stormy nights of Monte Christo): It's—
Be quiet, sir. It's no such thing. Learn, young man, that you've no right to rob any one of his secret. Sit down, sir, and allow us to say—
Well, then, say it, and be—