NOT DONE YET.
Reading edition
Master Arty B-lf-r (to Master Bill H-rc-t). "HA! YOU'VE BEEN PRETTY COCKY THIS HALF, BUT WAIT TILL 'MY BIG BROTHER' GETS HOLD OF YER!"
SO VERY CONSIDERATE.
Stout Coster. "Where are yer goin' to, Bill?"
Bill. "Inter the Country for a nice Drive, bein' Bank 'Olidy."
Stout Coster. "Same 'ere. I sy! don't yer think we might swop Misseses just for a few Hours? It would be so much kinder to the Hanimile!"
CONCERNING A MISUSED TERM;
viz., "Art" as recently applied to a certain form of Literature.
Is this, then, "Art"—ineffable conceit, Plus worship of the Sadi-tainted phrase, Of pseud-Hellenic decadence, effete, Unvirile, of debased Petronian ways? Is this your "Culture," to asphyxiate With upas-perfume sons of English race, With manhood-blighting cant-of-art to prate, The jargon of an epicene disgrace? Shall worse than pornographic stain degrade The name of "Beauty," Heav'n-imparted dower? Are they fit devotees, who late displayed The symbol of a vitriol-tinted flower? And shall the sweet and kindly Muse be shamed By unsexed "Poetry" that defiles your page? Has Art a mission that may not be named, With "scarlet sins" to enervate the age? All honour to the rare and cleanly prints, Which have not filled our homes from day to day With garbage-epigrams and pois'nous hints How æsthete-hierophants fair Art betray! If such be "Artists," then may Philistines Arise, plain sturdy Britons as of yore, And sweep them off and purge away the signs That England e'er such noxious offspring bore!
The Cry of the Free Library Frequenter.—A Cheap Loaf.