The festive, untamed Chalon slashes oils
As brushman may, the product of his toils
Marring the side of an enormous room
With crass vulgarity and venal gloom.
The Salon catalogue has half a page
Where adjectives in proud profusion rage
Explaining what the brushman failed to show —
A fierce but feeble-minded overflow.

There be that judge, with solemn air and wise,
Jokes by their length, and pictures by their size.
Sweet are the uses of a Salon jury
That will accord a waking nightmare fury —
Without authentic claim to art at all —
Four hundred feet of space upon the wall.
This jury " bleats" of " soul" and " taste" in art,
And yet degrades the Salon to a mart
Where counterfeiters have the easy " right"
To bilk the public with unchastened sight.