IV.
You'll _pay_! These walls--these ivy-clad arcades--
These mouldering plinths--these sad and blackened shafts--
These vague entablatures--this wreck--this ruin--
Are worth the carriage o'er the Atlantic foam,
And the tall price that Italy will ask,--
_If_ she should cell you to Porkopolis!
V.
"No fear!"--Bourse Echoes answer me--"_no_ fear!"
Italy is hard up, her bare Exchequer
Forebodes financial ruin to her realm.
We many-dollared Syndicates rule all.
We rule the hearts of Ministers--we rule
With a despotic sway ambitious minds;
We are omnipotent. Shall pallid stones
Contend for power with us?--shall antique fame,
Or mere word-wizardry of old renown,
Match the gold-magic that encircles _us_,
"Rings," "Corners," "Syndicates"? Ridiculous!
Not all the mysteries that hang upon
Old Edax Rerum like a wizard's garment,
May match that Master-Mage--the Almighty Dollar!!
* * * * *
OUR PARTICULAR TIP COMES OFF RIGHT!
You may remember that last week, just before the Derby, I furnished
you with a prophecy. So that there might be no doubt about it, I named
the absolute First, Second, and Third. Said I (page 255), "We may
take it that the winner will be found out of the _Common_." But
this was not enough.
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