RETRIBUTION.

Dunstan Times, Issue 850, 2 August 1878, Page 3

RETRIBUTION.

A poor journalist and a ce'ebrated divine died recently on the same day. The onO was followed to the grave by a few brokenhearted Bohemians ; the other lay iu state amid thousands of lilies ami camellias, and his obsequies wore enlivened by a choir of 20 voices, while his funeral oration was delivered by his bishop and three other celebrated ministers. The one lay in an oaken coffin in a quiet corner of the churchyard; the other slept in a rosewood casket enshrined in a marble vault. The journalist's spirit arrived at the gate of heaven first, for he had been lean while in the flesh, and light of heart; but he dared not knock, and he lay on the lowest step with the eyes of his soul oast down toward the earth. And anon he heard a rustling, and the panting soul of the great divine came surging through the air, almost knocking the poor little journalist off the steps in its eagerness to enter into the joy of the Lord. The great soul lifted the knCcksrof the heavenly gate, and the outer courts resounded with the vigor of its summons. “ Who art thou ?” responded St. Peter through a golden lattice. “1, dear saint, am tire llev. Doctor , eager to occupy a large mansion in heaven,” replied the divine. “ 1 have preached eleven thousand eight hundred odd sermons, converted over three thousand sinners, and given advice and communion to countless herds of erring mortals. Please not to keep me standing here, as I am dying to see the streets paved with sapphires and listen to the angelic choir." Saiut Peter turned to his ledger and frowned an horrible frown, though he said nothing. The little journalist’s soul lay quaking on the lowest step, but the saint saw it. “ And who arc yon,” he asked. “ that lie so tremblingly below V” “ 1 am,” retorted the terrified scribbler, “ I am nothing ; I once was a paragAaramatist on tho ‘ Morning Call,’ and spent ray life in poking fun at clergymen and drinking beer wherever it was cheapest. I have written hundreds of articles ; accusing the clergy of being hypocrites and immoral, and I’ve made fun of everything from an elephant to a peanut, without the slightest regard to the principles of Christianity. I’ve libelled the angel Gabriel, and even written the socks off Henry Ward Beecher.” “Mv poor boy,” sighed Saint Peter, “ I’ll attend to you directly,” aud a diamond tear, of about -In carats weight, rolled from his eve down to whore the little journalist lay. The divine made .a grab at it as it passed him ; but he was baulked in his design bv tho stentorian voire of tha saint, who thundered forth “ Must reverend doctor, there are. eleven souls of avomcil in hell, whom you have mined, and countless penitents in heaven, whom you all blit destroyed. Go to the bottomless pit, where you belong, for ever and ever, and hear the curses of the wretched souls who await your coniine, to revenge their damnation on y.m,” There was a sirdden fall, and, as he heard it, the little journalist passed through a thousand years of purgatorial pain, lie knewnothing Wore Until he heatd a key turning j n thb glorious door. The, arras of the saint Were, round him, and he was lying on his shining breast. “My poor child,” ho said, “you had hard lines down there, and your life was not a blameless one. and it's all over now; come in and see A r emus Ward.” American paper,