ng and swordlike pathos, an
unexpected fragrance of all forgotten or desecrated things, in the bare
survival of that poor little pigment upon the imperishable rock. To the
strong shapes of the Roman and the Gothic I had grown accustomed; but
that weak touch of colour was at once tawdry and tender, like some
popular keepsake. Then I knew that all my fathers were men like me;
for the columns and arches were grave, and told of the gravity of the
builders; but here was one touch of their gaiety. I almost expected it
to fade from the stone as I stared. It was as if men had been able to
preserve a fragment of a sunset.

And then I remembered how the artistic critics have always praised the
grave tints and the grim shadows of the crumbling cloisters and abbey
towers, and how they themselves often dress up like Gothic ruins in the
sombre tones of dim grey walls or dark green ivy. I remembered how they
hated almost all primary things, but especially primary colours. I knew
they were appreciating much more delicately and truly than I the sublime
skeleton and the mighty fungoids of the dead Glastonbury. But I stood
for an instant alive in the living Glastonbury, gay with gold and
coloured like the toy-book of a child.

The Futurists

It was a warm golden evening, fit for October, and I was watching (with
regret) a lot of little black pigs being turned out of my garden, when
the postman handed to me, with a perfunctory haste which doubtless
masked his emotion, the Declaration of Futurism. If you ask me what
Futurism is, I cannot tell you; even the Futurists themselves seem a
little doubtful; perhaps they are waiting for the future to find out.
But if you ask me what its Declaration is, I answer eagerly; for I
can tell you quite a lot about that. It is written by an Italian
named Marinetti, in a magazine which is called Poesia. It is headed
"Declaration of Futurism" in enormous letters; it is divided off with
little numbers; and it starts straight away like this: "1. We intend to
glorify the love of danger, the custom of energy, the strengt of daring.
2. The essential elements of our poetry will be courage, audacity, and
revolt. 3. Literature having up to now glorified thoughtful immobility,
ecstasy, and slumber, we wish to exalt the aggressive movement, the
feverish insomnia, running, the perilous leap, the cuff and the blow."
While I am quite willing to exalt the cuff within reason, it scarcely
seems such an entirely new