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AMORY, SON OF BEATRICE
SPIRES AND GARGOYLES
THE EGOTIST CONSIDERS
NARCISSUS OFF DUTY
THE DEBUTANTE
EXPERIMENTS IN CONVALESCENCE
YOUNG IRONY
THE SUPERCILIOUS SACRIFICE
THE EGOTIST BECOMES A PERSONAGE

vigorously for the twenty minutes that was left of the hour. Then he 

walked up to the desk and deposited a page torn out of his note-book. 

 

"Here's a poem to the Victorians, sir," he said coldly. 

 

The professor picked it up curiously while Amory backed rapidly through 

the door. 

 

Here is what he had written: 

 

 

"Songs in the time of order 

You left for us to sing, 

Proofs with excluded middles, 

Answers to life in rhyme, 

Keys of the prison warder 

And ancient bells to ring, 

Time was the end of riddles, 

We were the end of time... 

 

Here were domestic oceans 

And a sky that we might reach, 

Guns and a guarded border, 

Gantlets--but not to fling, 

Thousands of old emotions 

And a platitude for each, 

Songs in the time of order-- 

And tongues, that we might sing." 

 

 

***** 

 

THE END OF MANY THINGS 

 

Early April slipped by in a haze--a haze of long evenings on the club 

veranda with the graphophone playing "Poor Butterfly" inside... for 

"Poor Butterfly" had been the song of that last year. The war seemed 

scarcely to touch them and it might have been one of the senior springs 

of the past, except for the drilling every other afternoon, yet Amory 

realized poignantly that this was the last spring under the old regime. 

 

"This is the great protest against the superman," said Amory. 

 

"I suppose so," Alec agreed. 

 

"He's absolutely irreconcilable with any Utopia. As long as he occurs, 

there's trouble and all the latent evil that makes a crowd list and sway 

when he talks." 

 

"And of course all that he is is a gifted man without a moral sense." 

 

"That's all. I think the worst thing to contemplate is this--it's 

all happened before, how soon will it happen again? Fifty years after 

Waterloo Napoleon was as much a hero to English school children 

as Wellington. How do we know our grandchildren won't idolize Von 

Hindenburg the same way?" 

 

"What brings it about?" 

 

"Time, damn it, and the historian. If we could only learn to look 


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