“See,”—they say—“how he has advanced.”
In that same garret where he used to sit, there is a pale youth in shabby slippers and ragged coat, dedicating to him a long poem about the exalted goal of human endeavor.
And I—I would rather write an Ode to Gold! Such an one were worthy of the age. Dershawin’s “Ode to God” is old fashioned. It has no merit for our age except the form in which the Emperor of China has preserved it—in letters of gold upon a banner of silk.
Gold is the god of the age! Heaven announces its glory; above the moon (on the dollar), and the stars (on small silver pieces) shines the giant ducat—the sun. Upon earth we pray to it—in the monstrance and the cross. Under different names we serve it; some as faith, love, right, truth,—others in sinful Mammon. For the sake of gold we preach morality, we shed blood on the fields of battle. For the sake of gold—with a dull pen—I write this satire. O! shining, mighty, divine metal—I praise you, prostrated in the dust before you. Surely, Dear Brothers in Gold, you will pardon me this diversion.
A servant resplendent in gold braid, announced to Alfred, that a dirty Jew was waiting who insisted upon coming in.
“Take him to my study”, he ordered.
It is a softly sensuous, luxurious room. From baseboard to ceiling, the walls are covered with pictures of beautiful women, gorgeously dressed.
Again Alfred and the ghostly Jew are face to face.
