What is it, if you pierce through his Cants, his oft-repeated Hearsays, what he calls his Worships and so forth,--what is it that the modern English soul does, in very truth, dread infinitely, and contemplate with entire despair? What _is_ his Hell, after all these reputable, oft-repeated Hearsays, what is it? With hesitation, with astonishment, I pronounce it to be: The terror of "Not succeeding"; of not making money, fame, or some other figure in the world,--chiefly of not making money! Is not that a somewhat singular Hell? [Illustration: MAMMON GEORGE FREDERICK WATTS (_English painter, member of the Royal Academy, 1817-1904_)] [Illustration: MARRIAGE À LA MODE WILLIAM HOGARTH (_Old English artist, 1697-1764._ _Famous painting, representing an alliance between the son of a broken-down old nobleman and the daughter of a rich city merchant_)] Dipsychus BY ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH (English poet and scholar, friend of Tennyson and Matthew Arnold, 1819-1861) As I sat at the café, I said to myself, They may talk as they please about what they call pelf, They may sneer as they like about eating and drinking, But help it I cannot, I cannot help thinking, How pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho! How pleasant it is to have money. I sit at my table _en grand seigneur_, And when I have done, throw a crust to the poor; Not only the pleasure, one's self, of good living, But also the pleasure of now and then giving. So pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho! So pleasant it is to have money.... I drive through the streets, and I care not a d--n; The people they stare, and they ask who I am; And if I should chance to run over a cad, I can pay for the damage if ever so bad. So pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho! So pleasant it is to have money. We stroll to our box and look down on the pit, And if it weren't low should be tempted to spit; We loll and we talk until people look up, And when it's half over we go out to sup. So pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho! So pleasant it is to have money. The best of the tables and best of the fare-- And as for the others, the devil may care; It isn't our fault if they dare not afford To sup like a prince and be drunk as a lord. So pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho! So pleasant it is to have money. Utopia BY SIR THOMAS MORE (See page 160)