LAST DITCH OF DEMOCRACY - Majority Rights

BLAST could have been RECONSTITUTIVE, if the body of England
hadn’t been too far gone, too far descended into a state of flaccidity to be
able to react to the medicine.
A copy of Blast penetrated into the lofty purlieuws of the Beerbohm
Tree family.
Yes, Blast was out for publicity, it was not hidin’ its head like a violet. It
was made to be seen; it was said to be two foot square; which it wasn’t
but it was as large, and its typographic display was as impressive as Mr.
Leveridge, the printer, could be induced to give credit for. And the
STAGE in those days, as I suppose it still is in England, was esteemed
far more than mere art, or mere intellect; so for an ART paper to
penetrate into the upper reaches, as it were, of SIR Herbert’s ambience,
was already a proof of something or other, I won’t say vitality, but at
least visibility. Cause Herb, SIR Herb, was not only IN the limelight, but
OF it, he was as you might say, built out of limelight, constructed of
limelight, made out of limelight, as stuff and substance.
Waaal, the Tree[s] and their circle were havin’ tea on the lawn; as one
did in the upper reaches, with due paraphernalia, large silver tea urns,
etc. and up come a storm, thunder and lightenin’, and the family
naturally plunged indoors, and one of Sir Herbert’s nieces described to
me the scene, possibly prophetic scene that resulted.
Blast had been left solitary there on the lawn, and the niece and Sir
Herbert gazed elegiacally from the drawingroom window on the scene
of grass and wet dampness. A FLASH of lightening lit up the lawn.
There in its solitude, huge on the flaring magenta cover, the black letters
vivid, the word BLAST was written. Possibly someone ventured out to
rescue the treasure, now valued of second hand book sellers, but more
probably no one did. It was in many ways a languid era, so few DID.