Now, it happened that before going there our Philomen wished to see, just a little, what was going on in hell. Since the night that he overheard the dispute between Death and Satan, he had cherished a great desire to do so. He quietly entered the abode of the condemned, and when the Devil came to meet him, and would have seized upon him, Philomen cried out: "Stop there! I am not for thee! I am of the kingdom of the elect, and come here only to see if all that is said of thee in the kingdom of the living be true. Lead me everywhere!" When, conducted by his dark guide, he had visited the bowels of the earth and witnessed all manners of torture, he proposed to him to stake his own soul against some of the most fearfully punished among the damned who were uttering most terrific shrieks. The dice were brought, and shaken by each in turn. {73} Philomen gained twelve souls; then Satan became fearful he might lose all with this mysterious partner, and refused to play on. Philomen then took the road to Paradise, and, reaching the gate, tapped gently. Saint Peter came to open for him. He at once recognized him, and, smiling, said, "Pass on, we have expected you all this time." "Oh! very well," said the acute old man, "but, like you formerly, I am not travelling alone: I have with me twelve companions, who claim your hospitality." "This is but fair," said St. Peter, once more smiling, "so come in." And so Philomen and his twelve ransomed souls all went to join the throng of the blessed who will for ever sing the glory of God. It is thus the good old man lived fifteen hundred years, and practised the holy rules of hospitality. And it is thus that our pious ancestors taught their children never to refuse entrance to those who knocked at their doors, imploring shelter; and thus we, too, see how religiously and beautifully hospitality was practised in the former ages, in the chateaux of the rich as well as in the more humble dwellings of the poor. ---------- Mine Enemy. If he could stand against me now, With other eyes and an alien brow; If I could break the spell that still My will entangles with his will; If he could laugh the while I weep; If I could wake, and he asleep; Could I uncoil the mystery Where he is I, and I am he: Then might I hide me from his face; Or strike him down within his place; And so, at last, my life be free From his tormenting company. But no; his blush my forehead burns, His the pallor my pale cheek turns, And when he sees the thing I do, 'Tis mine own eyes that he looks through. When I would hate this tiresome mate, He teaches me the way to hate; When from his presence I would flee, He, taunting, flies along with me. {74} But best I like his baser slips, His angry eyes and impious lips; For then, half-wrenched away from me, Almost it seems he leaves me free.