Mr. Hunt finds himself on the corner of Brimstone Avenue and Ripsnort Place, where he sees that type of street-car conductor who, if he did not happen to feel in the mood, would not stop his car as you stood gesticulating wildly for his attention. Chained to a red hot griddle, where the cars pass continually to and from the foot-ball games, he shouts in vain to the grip-fiend and Demon-passengers for relief. He is lucky if nothing worse is hurled at him than a hoarse mocking laugh. [Illustration] [Illustration: A HAUGHTY CONDUCTOR.] _CANTO XLV._ Coming to a spot where the plain, spoken of in the preceding Canto, terminates in an almost perpendicular steep, the traveller discovers through the thick fog hovering below the dim outline of the battlements surrounding the female department. On seeing a sign “No gentlemen admitted,” his native chivalry causes him to retire without investigating the prohibited region. [Illustration] [Illustration: ONE SECTION OF THE NEW FEMALE DEPARTMENT.] _CANTO XLVI._ Though the low moans of tormented souls disconcert him somewhat, Mr. Hunt courageously continues his journey. The next district he explores is that one where the souls are frozen in cakes of ice. It is called the Cold-Storage Pit. “People who warm up to us while we are successful, but turn cold in time of misfortune,” are occupants of this region. Mr. Hunt learns that this is the most densely crowded district in the whole Infernal Empire, and that it is being enlarged by three hundred acres to accommodate the many who unfortunately still roam the earth. [Illustration] [Illustration: THE OVERCROWDED COLD-STORAGE PIT.] _CANTO XLVII._ Passing a cave the explorer hears the “rush and shriek of winter winds.” On investigation he sees a nude soul tugging at a halter which fastens him to a post. Mr. Hunt does not need to refer to his guide book in order to identify this victim. He had known the man on earth, as a farmer who used to leave his horses unblanketed in the winter storm, while he attended prayer meeting in a warm church. [Illustration] [Illustration: HE WOULDN’T BLANKET HIS HORSE.] _CANTO XLVIII._ Mr. Hunt takes an elevated train and gets off at a street called “Big Head Boulevard,” a long deep defile in the rock where some of the conceited people of earth are made to take up their existence in cave-like shops and perform menial service for the Demons. Men who held important positions and became “puffed-up” are forced into the dignified occupation of driving tar-wagons for the “Good-Intention Street Pavement Co.” Here are the conceited men of the arts and letters--the “swelled heads” of the theatrical profession and the arrogant worshippers of ancestry. The latter are hoof-trimmers. [Illustration] [Illustration: THE CONCEIT TAKEN OUT OF THEM.] _CANTO XLIX._