heir utilitarian cowardice that they would die
in hundreds upon the bayonets of Austria. I can well imagine why Mr.
Marinetti in his motor-car does not wish to look back at the past. If
there was one thing that could make him look smaller even than before it
is that roll of dead men's drums and that dream of Garibaldi going by.
The old Radical ghosts go by, more real than the living men, to assault
I know not what ramparted city in hell. And meanwhile the Futurist
stands outside a museum in a warlike attitude, and defiantly tells the
official at the turnstile that he will never, never come in.

There is a certain solid use in fools. It is not so much that they rush
in where angels fear to tread, but rather that they let out what devils
intend to do. Some perversion of folly will float about nameless
and pervade a whole society; then some lunatic gives it a name, and
henceforth it is harmless. With all really evil things, when the
danger has appeared the danger is over. Now it may be hoped that the
self-indulgent sprawlers of Poesia have put a name once and for all to
their philosophy. In the case of their philosophy, to put a name to it
is to put an end to it. Yet their philosophy has been very widespread in
our time; it could hardly have been pointed and finished except by this
perfect folly. The creed of which (please God) this is the flower
and finish consists ultimately in this statement: that it is bold
and spirited to appeal to the future. Now, it is entirely weak and
half-witted to appeal to the future. A brave man ought to ask for what
he wants, not for what he expects to get. A brave man who wants Atheism
in the future calls himself an Atheist; a brave man who wants Socialism,
a Socialist; a brave man who wants Catholicism, a Catholic. But a
weak-minded man who does not know what he wants in the future calls
himself a Futurist.

They have driven all the pigs away. Oh that they had driven away the
prigs, and left the pigs! The sky begins to droop with darkness and all
birds and blossoms to descend unfaltering into the healthy underworld
where things slumber and grow. There was just one true phrase of Mr.
Marinetti's about himself: "the feverish insomnia." The whole universe
is pouring headlong to the happiness of the night. It is only the madman
who has not the courage to sleep.

Dukes

The Duc de Chambertin-Pommard was a small but lively relic of a really
aristocratic family, the members of which were