Then hundreds of evil spirits trembled and shivered so violently that the door creaked on its rusty hinges, and the windows of Hell rattled.
“If that is the state of things, I shall never succeed in getting inside,” said Smith, and he decided to retrace his steps, and to take the narrow path.
After walking some hours, he arrived before a splendid castle surmounted with high pointed turrets, and surrounded by a high wall, in which was a white carved doorway, on which was written in luminous letters, “This is the Gate of Paradise. Here enter the good and wise.”
Without hesitation, Smith decided to try his luck with the inhabitants of Heaven. He very carefully wiped his hands on his leather apron, and then knocked at the door. After a few minutes the grill in the door was opened, and an old man’s bearded face appeared. He asked in a pleasant but severe voice, “Your name?”
“John James Francis Lewis William Verholen,” our pilgrim replied, as he had done at the Gate of Hell.
“Smith Verholen,” cried St. Peter indignantly, “you are reckless boldness personified. How dare you come here? You sold your soul to the Devil. Your place is in the nethermost Hell.”
“That was my own idea, but they refused me admission. As I have come such a long way, I beseech you, good St. Peter, let me at least look through a crack in the door to catch a glimpse of the Divine radiance.”
“You shall never enter here,” said St. Peter, and he was about to close the grill, when a voice behind him said, “Little Peter, let that good fellow have a glimpse of Heaven.... I know him, he is very good-hearted. He gave shelter to Mary and me when we were fleeing into Egypt.”
St. Peter did not altogether approve, but dared not oppose St. Joseph’s wishes. He half opened the door, and Verholen put his head through the crack and looked in. As quick as thought our pilgrim threw his leather apron inside, and uttered all kinds of strange cries, such as “Ooh! boo! ooh! my poor head, you are crushing it. Ooh! ooh! my ear, my neck, my nose.” He pushed the door with his shoulder, and before St. Peter could stop him, he was seated on his leather apron, and cried, “Here I am, sitting on my own property, my friend. No one can turn me out.”
