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Table of contents
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

it to the muckers?--raised in the ward, educated in the assembly and 

sent to Congress, fat-paunched bundles of corruption, devoid of "both 

ideas and ideals" as the debaters used to say. Even forty years ago we 

had good men in politics, but we, we are brought up to pile up a million 

and "show what we are made of." Sometimes I wish I'd been an Englishman; 

American life is so damned dumb and stupid and healthy. 

 

Since poor Beatrice died I'll probably have a little money, but very 

darn little. I can forgive mother almost everything except the fact that 

in a sudden burst of religiosity toward the end, she left half of what 

remained to be spent in stained-glass windows and seminary endowments. 

Mr. Barton, my lawyer, writes me that my thousands are mostly in street 

railways and that the said Street R.R. s are losing money because of the 

five-cent fares. Imagine a salary list that gives 0 a month to a man 

that can't read and write!--yet I believe in it, even though I've 

seen what was once a sizable fortune melt away between speculation, 

extravagance, the democratic administration, and the income tax--modern, 

that's me all over, Mabel. 

 

At any rate we'll have really knock-out rooms--you can get a job on some 

fashion magazine, and Alec can go into the Zinc Company or whatever it 

is that his people own--he's looking over my shoulder and he says it's 

a brass company, but I don't think it matters much, do you? There's 

probably as much corruption in zinc-made money as brass-made money. As 

for the well-known Amory, he would write immortal literature if he were 

sure enough about anything to risk telling any one else about it. 

There is no more dangerous gift to posterity than a few cleverly turned 

platitudes. 

 

Tom, why don't you become a Catholic? Of course to be a good one you'd 

have to give up those violent intrigues you used to tell me about, 

but you'd write better poetry if you were linked up to tall golden 

candlesticks and long, even chants, and even if the American priests are 

rather burgeois, as Beatrice used to say, still you need only go to the 


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