For days and days—­it seemed a mortal forever—­I mounted up the great heavens, whose everlasting doors swung wide.  How the worlds and systems, stars, constellations, neared me, blazed and flashed in splendor, and fled away!  At length,—­was it not a thousand years?—­I saw before me, yet afar off, a wall, the rocky bourn of that country whence travelers come not back, a battlement wider than I could guess, the height of which I could not see, the depth of which was infinite.  As I approached, it shone with a splendor never yet beheld on earth.  Its solid substance was built of jewels the rarest, and stones of priceless value.  It seemed like one solid stone, and yet all the colors of the rainbow were contained in it.  The ruby, the diamond, the emerald, the carbuncle, the topaz, the amethyst, the sapphire; of them the wall was built up in harmonious combination.  So brilliant was it that all the space I floated in was full of the splendor.  So mild was it and so translucent, that I could look for miles into its clear depths.

Rapidly nearing this heavenly battlement, an immense niche was disclosed in its solid face.  The floor was one large ruby.  Its sloping sides were of pearl.  Before I was aware I stood within the brilliant recess.  I say I stood there, for I was there bodily, in my habit as I lived; how, I cannot explain.  Was it the resurrection of the body?  Before me rose, a thousand feet in height, a wonderful gate of flashing diamond.  Beside it sat a venerable man, with long white beard, a robe of light gray, ancient sandals, and a golden key hanging by a cord from his waist.  In the serene beauty of his noble features I saw justice and mercy had met and were reconciled.  I cannot describe the majesty of his bearing or the benignity of his appearance.  It is needless to say that I stood before St. Peter, who sits at the Celestial Gate.

I humbly approached, and begged admission.  St. Peter arose, and regarded me kindly, yet inquiringly.

“What is your name?” asked he, “and from what place do you come?”

I answered, and, wishing to give a name well known, said I was from Washington, United States.  He looked doubtful, as if he had never heard the name before.

“Give me,” said he, “a full account of your whole life.”

I felt instantaneously that there was no concealment possible; all disguise fell away, and an unknown power forced me to speak absolute and exact truth.  I detailed the events of my life as well as I could, and the good man was not a little affected by the recital of my early trials, poverty, and temptation.  It did not seem a very good life when spread out in that presence, and I trembled as I proceeded; but I plead youth, inexperience, and bad examples.

“Have you been accustomed,” he said, after a time, rather sadly, “to break the Sabbath?”

I told him frankly that I had been rather lax in that matter, especially at college.  I often went to sleep in the chapel on Sunday, when I was not reading some entertaining book.  He then asked who the preacher was, and when I told him, he remarked that I was not so much to blame as he had supposed.