The Eng­lish coarse­ness and rus­tic de­mure­ness is still most sat­is­fact­or­ily dis­guised by Chris­tian pan­to­mime, and by pray­ing and psalm-singing (or, more cor­rectly, it is thereby ex­plained and dif­fer­ently ex­pressed); and for the herd of drunk­ards and rakes who formerly learned moral grunt­ing un­der the in­flu­ence of Meth­od­ism (and more re­cently as the “Sal­va­tion Army”), a pen­it­en­tial fit may really be the re­l­at­ively highest mani­fest­a­tion of “hu­man­ity” to which they can be el­ev­ated: so much may reas­on­ably be ad­mit­ted. That, how­ever, which of­fends even in the hu­man­est Eng­lish­man is his lack of mu­sic, to speak fig­ur­at­ively (and also lit­er­ally): he has neither rhythm nor dance in the move­ments of his soul and body; in­deed, not even the de­sire for rhythm and dance, for “mu­sic.” Listen to him speak­ing; look at the most beau­ti­ful Eng­lish­wo­man walk­ing—in no coun­try on earth are there more beau­ti­ful doves and swans; fi­nally, listen to them singing! But I ask too much …