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.

“Have you,” he went on, “ever stolen, or told any lie?”

I was able to say no, except admitting as to the first, usual college “conveyances,” and as to the last, an occasional “blinder” to the professors.  He was gracious enough to say that these could be overlooked as incident to the occasion.

“Have you ever been dissipated, living riotously and keeping late hours?”

“Yes.”

This also could be forgiven me as an incident of youth.

“Did you ever,” he went on, “commit the crime of using intoxicating drinks as a beverage?”

I answered that I had never been a habitual drinker, that I had never been what was called a “moderate drinker,” that I had never gone to a bar and drank alone; but that I had been accustomed, in company with other young men, on convivial occasions to taste the pleasures of the flowing bowl, sometimes to excess, but that I had also tasted the pains of it, and for months before my demise had refrained from liquor altogether.  The holy man looked grave, but, after reflection, said this might also be overlooked in a young man.