as a missionary among the Red Men in Canada; but I had neither heard of his death nor could conceive how his shade had found its way into a paradise so inappropriate as that in which I encountered him.  Though never very fond of Peter, my heart warmed to him, as the heart sometimes does to an acquaintance unexpectedly met in a strange land.  Coming cautiously behind him, I slapped Peter on the shoulder, whereon he leaped up with a wild unearthly yell, his countenance displaying lively tokens of terror.  When he recognized me he first murmured, “I thought it was these murdering Apaches again;” and it was long before I could soothe him, or get him to explain his fears, and the circumstance of his appearance in so strange a final home.  “Sir,” said Peter, “it’s just some terrible mistake.  For twenty years was I preaching to these poor painted bodies anent heaven and hell, and trying to win them from their fearsome notions about a place where they would play at the ba’ on the Sabbath, and the like shameful heathen diversions.  Many a time did I round it to them about a far, far other place—­

   “Where congregations ne’er break up,
   And sermons never end!”

And now, lo and behold, here I am in their heathenish Gehenna, where the Sabbath-day is just clean neglected; indeed, I have lost count myself, and do not know one day from the other.  Oh, man, it’s just rideec’lous.  A body—­I mean a soul—­does not know where to turn.”  Here Peter, whose accent I cannot attempt to reproduce (he was a Paisley man), burst into honest tears.  Though I could not but agree with Peter that his situation was “just rideec’lous,” I consoled him as well as I might, saying that a man should make the best of every position, and that “where there was life there was hope,” a sentiment of which I instantly perceived the futility in this particular instance.  “Ye do not know the worst,” the Rev. Mr. McSnadden went on.  “I am here to make them sport, like Samson among the Philistines.  Their paradise would be no paradise to them if they had not a pale-face, as they say, to scalp and tomahawk.  And I am that pale-face.  Before you can say ‘scalping-knife’ these awful Apaches may be on me, taking my scalp and other leeberties with my person.  It grows again, my scalp does, immediately; but that’s only that they may take it some other day.”  The full horror of Mr. McSnadden’s situation now dawned upon me, but at the same time I could not but perceive that, without the presence of some pale-face to torture—­Peter or another—­paradise would, indeed, be no paradise to a Red Indian.  In the same way Tertullian (or some other early Father) has remarked that the pleasures of the blessed will be much enhanced by what they observe of the torments of the wicked.  As I was reflecting thus two wild yells burst upon my hearing.  One came from a band of Apache spirits who had stolen into the Ojibbeway village; the other scream was uttered by my unfortunate friend.  I confess that I fled with what speed I might, nor did I pause till the groans of the miserable Peter faded in the distance.  He was, indeed, a man in the wrong paradise.