That's right my lads—we may boast and chat­ter of our prowesses, but love is the only goal for which we start upon the course of honour—without love our laurels would be but in a wither'd condition; and I'll bett all the world to a corn of powder, that he goes nearest to the mouth of a cannon, who has some mistress to brag of his exploits to when he returns home.

Bravo, Lively—you and the old song say the very same thing. Give it us my boy.

With all my heart: in the mean time, take care of this old gentleman here.

Thank ye, Lively; thank you.—Come, old gentleman—say here's to you.

Why, lord, I tell you, they knows no more about the respect due to us Gentlemen Soldiers—why damme they thinks us fit for nothing but a cat-o'-nine tails, and to be hired out and shot at for five­pence a day.

Why that's true, as you say, Plunder; but then who have we to thank for it?—our superiors—Merit is not [Page 4] rewarded—Come, my lads, here's confusion to the first inventor of jumping over heads. For my part, I say lit­tle; but if I had been rewarded as I ought, for my be­haviour in that there scrimmage!—Why now I suppose you have heard of poor old Blenheim.

Heard of him!—he is one of the disgraces of his country. There is no general to whom I would pay more respect; descended from an antient family, he inhe­rired only a brown musket; and after having distinguished himself in most of the Great Duke of Marlborough's▪ wars, with a bravery, the admiration of every one, is, at the age of sixty-five, nobly rewarded by a brevet for Chel­sea Hospital, whither, I am told, he is now on his way, and where his wife, a washer-woman, and his daughter a seamstress, are waiting his arrival.

Poor old Blenheim!—Why do you think if as how I had been a general, and Blenheim had served under me, that I would have broke his poor old heart, by put­ting a parcel of boys before him, because one was my Lord this thing's footman, and t'other carried my Lady that thing's lap dog—

Why to be sure there must be something wrong going on; but for my part, if they did not tax dogs, and horses, and servants, and enclose commons, they might do what they pleased, for ought I cared. What do you say, old Pedagogue?

Why, Squire, I say what I have said a hundred times, that your great people should all be sent to school.

Why to be sure, if they would sue out a writ of discretion, and join issue with common sense, they would be more likely to get a favourable verdict from their coun­try—en't I right, master Barber?

Why I'll tell you what—I thinks if as why I may speak the truth, that we are all of us shaved too close▪

You think, old Periwig!—for me, if I was commanding officer about and concerning the affairs of this nation, every rank and file should be made either co­lonel or general.

Come, come, you are too violent; those at the head of affairs know when and how to manage matters a devilish deal better than you can dictate to them.

Manage matters! why I tell you their promo­tions are interest, their manoeuvres ignorance, and their camps parties of pleasure.

Ha! ha! ha!

You seem, my old friend, to find something pleasant in our conversation.

Pleasant!—Pardon me, Sir, not very pleasant, but light and airy as may be expected at your time of life—You seem to govern the nation over your bottle, and to amend the state and legislature at every bumper: you contend that others are neglected; that you are neglected yourselves. This is a partial evil not to be lamented; and if you are soldiers, you ought to be ashamed of such pal­try considerations.

In your days, my friend, this might be good doctrine for aught I know; but now the case is altered, and every man thinks only of his own interest.

So much the worse; and if the case is altered, you are properly requited; neglect ought to be your por­tion.

How's this do you insult us in return for our hospitality?

Far from it; I deal with you as a friend, and pay you with honest truth for the shelter you afford me.

There is something like wisdom in your re­marks, old gentleman, but mix'd, I think, with rather too much spleen. This public spirit, which you require, is certainly a virtue, but by no means a duty.

In your station 'tis a duty—the very founda­tion of every military virtue.—Whoever dedicates him­self to the service of his country, should consider his country unable to requite his services; for in fact, that which he devotes to the public good, is above all price.—No more of these complaints then—'Tis una­voidable in counties like ours, that bravery must some­times fall into neglect, otherwise there would be no sub­ordination; for how could you reward as you ought an English army, unless every one could command in chief?

And pray who are you that talk to us in that stile?

Blenheim.

Blenheim!—

Blenheim—that poor old Chelsea Pensioner, for whom but now you seemed to have so much compas­sion.

And can you who have been treated so ungrate­fully, inculcate the principles of public virtue, and disin­terested love of our country?

From whom then do you expect to hear your duty—from these gentlemen, who never saw fire but in the corner of a chimney? 'Tis true I have been wrong'd, neglected, taken up, imprisoned, accused of violating the [Page 7] King's rights, in the very moment I protected them, and that by the very man whose life I saved in battle, he who is possessed of a considerable place in the revenues, while I am groveling in this abject condition; but what signi­fies all this? the actions of my life may be effaced from the memory of a Court, but the memory of mankind will be more retentive, and if it should not, I have the conscious remembrance, and that is sufficient.

A queer old codger this!—Come my honest fellows; I believe the skittle pins wait for us; good bye old rugged and tough, we'll come and smoke a pipe with you at Chelsea.

Come, Lively, let us go and see what recruits we can pick up at Wandsworth Fair.

March on, Corporal.

Now they are gone, how can I serve you—do you want money?

No young man, I thank thee, I have where­withal to conduct me to my last retreat.

What! a retreat for such merit!—It makes me look with horror on my country, and blush for every drop of blood I've spilt in her cause.

For shame! distinguish better; my wrongs—

Are a scandal to the nation; and by Heaven I'd strangle the villain.

My poor lad! thy compassion is folly! when thou shalt have strangled all the world, will it give me the use of this arm, or make me a day younger?

No—but it would teach such miscreants how to use others.

And by what title do you pretend to execute my revenge?—Have I transferred to you a right I do not myself possess?—No, my good young man!—If I would have revenged myself, half a regiment would have de­serted under my command; but I am resigned to my fate; imitate my example, and allow me to be a judge of what is right and honourable.

At least point me out your enemies that I may hate them.

Nay, let your children hate them, let them imbibe from their very infancy a detestation for them.

They shall—who are they?

The enemies of my country.

Come, serjeant, the men are all expecting you; there are a fine parcel of raw country fellows, and one animating speech at the drum head makes them our own, my boy.

Plunder, can we spare one of the men to conduct old Blenheim to Chelsea?

Fire old Blenheim, we have no time to consider about invalids.

Come, Plunder, thou art an honest fellow; thy fortune has a similitude to mine; the only difference is, thou ran'st away, and took up a musket after ruining a poor old mother, whilst I entered in the guards, after being turn'd out of doors by a rich old father.

Well, lad, what of this?

I'll tell thee what of this, as thou art my Pylades, I must needs entrust thee with my secrets;—I love this old fellow; nay, more, I love his daughter.

Oh, oh, you do?

Ay, you rogue, and I have some reason to be­lieve I am not altogether disagreeable to her.

And do you expect governor Lively will ever consent that his son should marry the daughter of an old Chelsea Pensioner?

If he does not, I'll discard him, as he has me and chuse the old Chelsea Pensioner as the best father of the two;—but, however, I am not without hopes;—thou know'st what a perfect veneration my father has for every military relict, and I think, if I was to throw my­self at his feet, plead Blenheim's cause, and my own at the same time▪ I could get the old invalid a good employ myself re-instated into his favour▪ and thee a com­mission.—Come along,—I'll first to my duty,—that dis­charged, I'll fly to comfort my Nancy, and then to throw myself at the feet of my father.

Why, Mistress Ester, your good man makes it rather late; it begins to draw towards the heel of the evening.

I wonder, indeed, he does not come, tho' to say the truth, I am glad he staid till I had done my ironing, for if I get the money where I am to carry home these things, we'll have a comfortable bit of something for sup­per.

So we will, Mrs. Ester, I am sure I shall make one with more pleasure than ever I did at a fe [...]st upon St. Crispin's day; besides, who knows, if we should wax merry, but the thread of our discourse may turn upon my love for Miss Nancy;—dear me, I should be at home to a peg.

I'll speak a good word for thee, neighbour Lap­stone, never fear—what dost thee say, daughter, to our old friend?

Indeed, mother, his being our old friend is no very strong recommendation to me.

No, I warrant you, you can't get your fine ser­jeant out of your head;—one would imagine your mo­ther's example was enough to frighten you from ever thinking of a red coat.

I am sure, mother, I have heard you say a hun­dred times, that with all your troubles, you could live the same life over again for the love of my father.

So I could, child, so I could, and be happy enough in the main; I can safely swear, in all our marches, dustings, and famishings, a-bed early, a-bed late, I never was the woman that said a cross-grain'd word to him.

What makes you so averse then to my partiality for the serjeant?

Why, child, 'tis all along of his father that we have been brought to misfortunes.

Yes, Miss, I do assure you 'tis very true: when Pensioner Malplaquet came yesterday to have his shoe heel-tapped, for 'tis tore out already though he has had it but five months; however, that's not very marvel­lous; the Contractors give the poor Pensioners bad beer, or any thing now a-days; a fault somewhere to be sure there is; I wish it could be enquired out—but, as I was a saying, Pensioner Malplaquet knows the good-looking young Serjeant that comes after you—you knows who I mean, he that makes me prick my fingers with my awl so often for vexation. And he says that he is the only child of Governor Lively: now, Governor Lively is the gentleman that was the cause how and consarning your father's being taken up for a smugger.

And what a barbarous villain he must be, when all the world knows your father lost the use of his arm by saving the old rogue's life at the battle of Fontenoy!

Then make yourself easy, mother, for the au­thor of any misfortune to my father shall never impress me with one favourable sentiment.

How prettily she talks it, neighbour▪

Sharp as a pairing-knife.

Neighbour Lapstone, suppose you was to go to­wards Battersea bridge and try to meet my old man while I carry this ironing home—As to thee, daughter, I shall never consent to make thee unhappy; and, I trust, thou hast duty enough never to make me so, or thy poor fa­ther; and, as to the rest, if thou refusest our good neigh­bour here, only because he is poor, I can tell thee, wench, as there is no station ever so high but has its bitters, so there is no station ever so low but has its weets.

So, Miss, it seems I shall never be able to get the length of your foot.

I am afraid not.

What, I suppose you can't buckle too then?

I cannot, indeed.

And pray, Miss, med a body ax why?

I have many reasons which you can't possibly guess.

Why, to be sure, nobody knows where the shoe pinches so well as them that wears it.

In the first place, you are not my choice.

Why, Miss, that's true; but a ready-made shoe sometimes fits as well as a bespoke one.

Then there is such a disproportion in our ages, that I am sure—

What you thinks if we were to be married to­gether it would be all one as if I was to clap an old sole to a new upper-leather.

And how do you think we should agree then?

Why for all the world like John and Jean in the old ballad.

What, that you sing sometimes in your stall?

Yes, Miss.

I wish you'd sing it—'twould divert me.

Why, Miss, I ought to be going towards Bat tersea bridge; but I am sure I would do any thing to di­vert you.

Here she is, by heaven, and alone!—my dear Nancy, I flew to you, for a single moment, to inform you—

Sir, I have received sufficient information, in your absence, to determine me never to hear you upon any subject again.

How!

I know who you are, Sir,—why, you concealed your real name and family from me.—Perhaps you and your father were not to be satisfied, till the ruin of the daughter, was added to the ruin of the father.

By heaven I have not the most distant concep­tion of what you mean; I swear to you my intentions in relation to you proceed from the purest and most disin­terested affection.

Are you not the son of governor Lively?

I am.

That oppressor of innocence, that tyrant who sought to destroy his very preserver.

No, let me defend him;—tho' he has discarded me, driven me an alien from his house, I deserved it all, and assumed another name only that I might not be a reproach to him;—nor did I ever know him capable of an injustice;—what would you insinuate then?—what preserver do you mean?

My father, who saved his life.

Your father!—stay—it must be so—our conver­sation, every thing confirms it:—but I'll answer with my life whatever injustice poor Blenheim has suffered, my father is unconscious of the cause;—nay, I have often heard him declare he would load the old soldier with fa­vours who saved his life at Fontenoy;—this is delightful, I'll fly to him this instant.

Thou art a worthy youth—forgive my rash­ness.

Thy fault was, as thou art, amiable to perfec­tion—I go—when shall I return and demand thee of thy father?

Suffer me to speak one word to your father, and I'll away;—here he comes, take no notice that you know who I am, nor let your mother.

Come along, neighbour.

Ah, my, daughter!

My dear father!—how we have wished for you!

Where's thy poor mother?

I expect her every moment.

Ah, young man.

I took the liberty of coming to prepare your fa­mily for your reception; and once more to know if my friendship can be serviceable to you;—poor as my situa­tion is.—I have a relation powerful enough to redress your wrongs; suffer him to receive an account of them to-morrow from your own mouth.

Thy friendship I accept with all my heart, young man;—I have a regard for youth; in that happy season, the heart is unhackney'd in the ways of men; be­sides thou art a good lad, and hast many excellent senti­ments, and as thou art pursuing the road to glory, my advice may perhaps assist thee.

Ah, my dear old man, and so thou'rt come home at last—and how dost?

Not quite so young as formerly, good wife, but as sincere believe me;—come young man, wilt thou par­take a poor supper with us?

My duty calls me hence;—I'll see you to-mor­row, and I hope, with good news.

THE inhabitants of this hospitalble asylum are consigning one of their companions to the earth, while the good-natured neighbours flock around, and with an ho­nest grief regard the old veterans, whose eyes are swollen at the remembrance of that time when young and lusty they sought glory in the field with the present object of their concern—Generous grief!—It becomes the na­tives of this beneficent country, for of all the tributes due to worth, there's none so graceful or so noble as the tear that bedews the grave of a soldier;—but the ceremo­ny is at an end and here they come.

Ah poor fellow, 'tis all over with him sure e­nough!—well, we have not buried him all, for he left behind him at the battle of Hockstet, as good a leg and as fine an arm as ever mounted a breach or poized a firelock.

Well, he was a noble, fine fellow.

Ah! I shall never forget before the breath went out of his body—he called me to him—says he, you [Page 24] see Malplaquet, what a campaign I am going to make—give me some ammunition to take with me, my boy—so with that I gave him the guzzle, he drank a good swig, shook me by the hand, cried, damme, good bye! and went off like a sucking babe.—Ah! 'twill be my turn next.

Come, come, don't take it so to heart.

There was a time to be sure—we had our day once, that nobody can deny—but now we are as useless as so many broke up mortars, or spiked cannon—ah! we are fit for nothing now but to drink and talk of what we could do formerly.

Drink—well and what can we do better?—won't you take a sup with us, brother?

With all my heart.

Who have we here?

Why, 'tis I.

You, friend Lapstone? and how came you so metamorphosed?

Why you know you was saying last night at supper, that you should like to marry your daughter to a soldier, and so what does I do—I borrows the dead gen­tleman pensioner's coat to ask you how I looks in it—don't you think I have a good milantary air?

Admirable!—but I should think your joints as well as mine are not very supple.

Oh Lord, you don't know how lissom I be, Mr. Manoeuvre, the drill serjeant in the Park, tells me, that with a little treading upon my toes, and cudgelling over the shoulders, he is sure in a week he could make me turn out in the line;—besides, we ought all to go for soldiers now.

Ay! why now friend Lapstone?

Why I am creditably informed that the French are determined this summer to evade us in four places.—They are to make a retreat in Cornwall, embark a large body of troops upon the coast of Ireland, throw succours into Portsmouth harbour, and take a diversion upon the Thames.

Indeed!

Nay more!—They are to set fire to all the shipping in the river, knock down the Tower, and sur­prize the Lord Mayor as he goes a swan-hopping.

Why indeed this business is enough to surprize any body.—But still I think you and I can do but little service; we are too old.

Old?—Why Lord love you, I am but sixty one—to be sure they scratched me off the list for malici­ous men upon the church door.

Well friend Lapstone, if I were to counsel you, while others serve their country in the field, you should endeavour to be useful to it in your stall.

I' cod I believe he's right;—if I get wounded with my pairing knife or my awl, I have no occasion for a surgeon to cure me; I can't say so much for a bay­onet or a firelock—no, I'm determined—I'll visit no re­devouses, but houses of call, nor think about quarters, except to cobble 'em.

I hope he won't know me in this disguise; I should fain hear his story without discovering myself; it will be told with more ingenuity, and I shall hear it with less confusion.—For thee, Frederick, thou hast so pleased me, that if this appears as thou hast related it, I'll forgive thee every thing.

Sir, your eagerness ever to do justice, prompted what I have done; in the relation of which, you'll find I have been faithful.

But how came your intimacy with the daugh­ter?

Passing frequently, Sir, this way, I continually noticed her at some industrious employment; I enquired who she was, got introduced, and loved her; but though her person and conversation won my very soul, yet these were nothing in my esteem, compared with the unparalleled affection for her father.

But here he comes; I have brought this gentleman to share with me the pleasure of your conversation.

I longed to see you, Sir—you are allied to a worthy young man—but I am afraid that by visiting me you will involve yourself in a danger you are not aware of—in the ruin of a man proscribed.—If a real criminal is punished, he will soon be forgotten, but if a man of blameless integrity is injured, he will be persecuted with unrelenting hatred, for the very mention of his name is a satire on the times, and his existence is to the con­science of his enemies an unceasing remembrancer of guilt.

I fear your words have too much truth in them; and yet in the course of human contingencies it must happen, that men of worth will occasionally be plunged in misfortune.

But ought that consideration to check the no­ble ardour of a soldier? the poorest pensioner in this charity has his moments of exultation when he recollects he has fought bravely.

True, a love of glory is a noble passion!—but do you think the pleasure that springs from conquest has a sincere and lasting charm in it?—Alas! when a de­luge of human blood bids the tears of natural affection flow in rivers round the land, can the mind in that situ­ation taste of joy?

Never.—Yet surely when this blood is spilt in their defence, of whom nature intended us the guardians, though our sensibility may be shocked, our honour can never be stained.—In my mind, defence and reprisals are the only justifiable measures in war, while ambition is but another name for massacre.

You have distinguished right.—But in your pursuits after fame you will have a worse enemy to guard against than ambition—Envy!—which when you have done your duty, will make even accidents a ground of impeachment against you.—Have you done all that was possible?—You ought to have done bet­ter.—The charge is aggravated, and the good you have done dwindles into nothing—your downfall is effected, and some worthless wretch is sure to rise upon your ruins.

This is indeed a melancholy truth.

But 'tis a truth that springs from error more than injustice; I teach it to this young man that he may rise superior to it—that he may consult his own heart, and in that manly self-conference enquire—‘[Page 31] "Were I reduced to the condition of old Blenheim, would my innocence make even affliction smile?"’ If you hesitate a moment to say yes to this question, pass your life in obscurity, for you have not the materials for a public character.

What injustice have I been guilty of to this man? I would have discovered myself and remedied all, but that I wish to come provided with the means; I have thought what employ to procure him, and mean to sup­ply myself with the necessary instruments before I acquaint him with his good fortune.

Yonder comes his wife and daughter, Sir.

You tell me the old woman don't know who I am; I suppose she'll abuse me liberally; I'll humour it—and as to the daughter, I mean to make a trial of her.

Dear Sir—

Nay, I must insist, upon your duty, that you'll not interfere; assisting the father is one thing; but con­senting to my son's marriage with the daughter, is an­other; her birth, to be sure, is as good as yours; and fortune I do not regard; but—

My life on't, then, you'll find that a prince might accept her alliance without a blush—but they are here.

Nay, come along child; I am not afraid to speak to him, not I.

My anxiety makes me break through every de­corum; pray tell me—what of my father?

Ay, let us know something about my old man; they tells me, Sir, you are come to right him; I am sure 'tis high time; do you know this Governor Sir?

A little.

Is not he a sad old villain?

Hush, mother, consider this gentleman's his re­lation.

What of that? what of that? the truth's the truth.

Aye, aye, don't mince the matter, speak what you think of him; I assure you nobody would be so likely to blame him, for doing wrong, as I should.

Wrong, Sir, you shall judge yourself whether he has done wrong or no: after all poor Blenheim's suf­ferings, I am sure I shall never forget when his dear arm was shot, through and through, at Fontenoy; I was waiting, with some other gentlemen's wives, upon a bag­gage-waggon; and when he was brought home, says he, wife, this is a smart wound; but I am glad I received it, for it saved my captain's life; and don't you think, after this, that he must be the cruellest, hard▪hearted old rogue—

Oh! certainly, I never met with such an infa­mous piece of business in my life; but, now, what plan would you have me pursue to make him do justice?

Why, Sir, if you'll be so good, I'd have you go to him, tell him what a villain he is; and that, if he ever expects to sleep quietly in his bed, he'll come here di­rectly, and reward my poor husband for all he has under­gone.

You may depend upon me—he shall be righted; and I don't doubt but there are many years of happiness yet in store for you.

Why, most of my family lived to a good round age; and, for my part, I'm brave and hearty.

So you seem.

Poor woman! she's very sincere at least.

I hope you'll have the goodness to pardon her, Sir; her anxiety for my father outweighs every other consideration.

Your father has been ill-treated, matters have been falsely represented to me, and he has severely suf­fered for it; I mean to atone for my error, but I hear it is expected that I shall countenance an extravagant pas­sion which, it seems, my only son has thought proper to entertain for you.

Sir, my father's lessons and example has fortified me against the severest strokes of fortune; his happiness, [Page 35] therefore, accomplished, I shall resign myself to what­ever may be my fate without a sigh.

I am glad to hear it; this good sense seems to promise me that you'll see, very fairly, the propriety of breaking off this matter intirely.

For Heaven's sake, Sir—

Sir, I shan't hear a word from you; the girls has a hundred times your understanding; she can't, for the life of her, deny but that I talk very reasonably; can you now, young woman?

Indeed, Sir—I—I a think Sir—

As I do—I knew it well enough; well then, I suppose you won't be at all shocked when I tell you I have found out a match for my son.

Sir!

Hold your tongue, I tell you—and 'tis the sweetest girl! her person is lovely, tempting, enchanting, beautiful.

Nay, for Heaven's sake, Sir—

Will you let me go on, Sir? she has the most charming, little, delicate—you know her, Frederick.

Do I, Sir?—I wish I did not.

Yes, you do, and you'll love her, I am sure you will, when I tell you who she is.

Never.

May he be happy—let her be who she will.

You won't, hey, I'll try that; 'tis—

Who, Sir?

Oh! Heaven!

Why, that little baggage there, that stands frightened out of her wits; go to her and comfort her.

What happiness!

Well, do you wish you did not know her?

What excess of goodness!

I did not intend to have yielded so soon you jade; but I don't know how it is, I am almost as much in love with you as my son; but suppose I had not forgiven you, could you have been happy together in so low a situ­ation?

Yes, Sir, even if I had been obliged to have carried his knapsack.

You say you are old Blenheim's friends.

Yes, he's our ancient comrade as it were, and un­derstanding he is here, we are come to crack a noggin with him.

You'd be sorry to have him used ill, should not you?

I should like to see the man that dared to do it.

You see those two men going out of the gate, one of them is Governor Lively's son, and the other some friend in disguise;—I know there's mischief hatching, for I heard them say they'd have the warrants filled up, and then come and surprize them.

Hey—fire and fury, follow me.

'Tis true, my honest comrade; the grievances of people in our situation, are not attended to so much as they ought; but in the best institutions there will, of necessity, creep some abuses, and we should be more reasonable, if instead of magnifying the few we find, we were thankful we find no more;—but who have we here?

Oh, husband, a whole heap of your friends have seized the young man, and the strange gentleman that's with him, and are forcing them before you; and neigh­bour Lapstone says, 'tis well they did, for they were just going for a warrant to take you up, and carry you to prison again.

He's a meddling fool;—their intentions are the fairest depend upon it.

So, old gentleman, we are your prisoners it seems.

My prisoners—let me understand you, Sir.

Why, these men, who, I think, are a little too busy in your affairs, will needs have it that we mean you some foul play.

And do they mean to shew their friendship to me by this outrage?

Why, lookee, Master, Blenheim—you are a hearty one—I have served with you, and I honour you—and if these gemmen here means you no foul play all's well enough; but if they did, I am the man that would go through a little rough work rather than see it.

These gentlemen can mean me no ill, for I have done them none—pray, Sir, forgive them.

On one condition, I will.

Name it.

That you'll forget your wrongs and forgive me—the unfortunate, though innocent author of them.

How, Sir—are you Governor Lively?

Yes, and to shew you that the world is some­times mistaken, at the moment your friends believed I was meditating mischief against you, I was hastening to procure the means of exalting you to a situation you de­serve, and would adorn.

I do not deny, Sir, but that my heart feels proudly at this moment, and though I do not wish this for myself, I wish it as an example for the world.

But how shall I thank thee, my son?

Another mystery—your son!

Yes, my worthy son! who has pointed me out this most noble period of my life—how shall I reward him?

'Tis not in your power, Sir,—poor as old Blen­heim is, he has a treasure in his possession infinitely above all yours.

My only treasure is my daughter—and if your father consents, I know not where I could bestow her so worthily.

Take her, and don't say a word—we none of us, I am sure, know very well how to explain our present sensations—let music, therefore, express for us what we can't express for ourselves.