Skip to Content

B. B. B.

The One Virile Class

 It is fairly safe to assume that never before in the history of the civilised world has such a profusion of literary slosh been printed as during the present period of human slaughter. The worker is, on one hand, lauded to the skies as a very fine fellow and on the other, roundly cursed as a drunkard and slacker. Thousands of letters bristling with puerility find place in the Press dutifully heaping up the gigantic confusion already created by their professional brethren. Hundreds of oratorial geniuses—so-called—find free expression for their doubtful eloquence; reports of their speeches being eagerly devoured by those whose mental equilibrium, never at any time strong, collapsed quite early-on under the extraordinary avalanche. To quote from such mountains of piffle extensively would serve no useful purpose, indeed, it might quite easily lay the present writer open to affront, but no actual apology is needed in introducing just one extract from the "London Mail," dated Nov.

Syndicate content