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Imagine painted a lofty, golden gateway, not down on the level ground but above the earth on a hill; the slope is long and steep and slippery, so that many a time those who hoped soon to be at the summit have ‘broken their necks by a slip of the foot. Within, let Wealth himself be sitting, all golden, seemingly, very beautiful and fascinating; and let his lover, afler ascending with great toil, draw near the door and gaze spellbound at the gold. Let Hope, herself tair of face and gaily dressed, take him in charge and conduct him within, tremendously impressed by his entrance. Then let Hope keep always in advance of him, and let other women, Deceit and Servitude, receive him successively and pass him on to Toil, who, after breaking the wretch with hard labour, shall at length deliver him, now sickly and faded, to Old Age. Last of all, let Insolence lay hold of him and drag him along to Despair; let Hope then fly away and vanish, and instead of the golden portal by which he entered, let him be ejected by some remote and secret postern, naked, paunchy, pale, and old, screening his nakedness with his left hand and throttling himself with his right; and on the way out, let him be met by Repentance, weeping to no avail and helping to make an end of the poor man.
