You sing in tune, and you have a pretty fair organ.

But you produce your notes badly; and that music which you sing is beneath you.

It is a form of melody which expresses a puerile state of culture--a dawdling, canting, see-saw kind of stuff--the passion and thought of people without any breadth of horizon.

There is a sort of self-satisfied folly about every phrase of such melody; no cries of deep, mysterious passion--no conflict--no sense of the universal.

It makes men small as they listen to it.