Life — February 24, 1916 — page 18: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

TABESE * “Poor in Spirit” Ss" PETER put his back against the pearly gates and shook his head defiantly at the important Soul with the long nose. “Sorry,” he said firmly, “but you can’t come in.” The Soul smiled without the slightest evidence of rancor. “Doubtless you are laboring under some misapprehen- sion,” It said, suavely. “Not at all.) I——” “However, such mistakes are only—er—heavenly, and 1 will not hold it up against you. I am William Randolph Hearst.” “T know it.” “You know it?” “Yes.” The long-nosed Soul drew Itself up with great dignity. “Do you mean to tell me, Peter, that you won't open those gates—knowing who and what I am?” “ Just that.” The Soul smiled sweetly. Turning to a celestial valet who had, like a well-trained servant, followed his master to the foyers of Heaven, It said: “ Send a wireless to Bris- bane, James. Tell him to start a campaign against the present celestial Administration. Tell him to hire a pri- vate detective agency to look up St. Peter’s past record. If there aren't any incriminating facts, he can fake some- thing. Tell him to write one of those editorial screeches on the back page, demanding an investigation of the Soul Trust. That's a good phrase—' Soul Trust’! Tell him to play it up.” “ Anything else, sir?” “Yes. Tell him to hurry three or four of his best men up here at once. Provide them with the usual allowance of dynamite. I want them to get in and show this place up; discover some compromising letters—or something.” “Yes, sir.” “Wire him to run a series of cartoons, showing St. Peter surreptitiously dining with the Devil. Have him start a few rumors of bribery—say, five hundred ‘ollars per halo.” “Very well, sir’ “ And—James!” “Yes, sir?” “You might get Dr. Parkhurst on the wire and teli him to grind out a column or so on the increasing inefficiency of Saints as a guide to Heaven. Parkhurst ought to do himself proud on that.” “Ts that all, sir?” “Yes, I think so. Mark it ‘rush’ and——" “Wait a moment,” cried St. Peter, a bit wildly. “ You can come in.” The Soul with the long nose frowned haughtily. For about two aeons It stood, tapping a cloud with Its foot and deliberating within Itself. “Very well,” It said, finally, in cold, calm tones. “ Never mind the wire, James.” The gates swung open. The Soul of William Randolph Hearst stepped forward, but paused on the threshold. Turning to the chastened St. Peter, It said, with a note in Its voice of mingled pride and regret: “T have gained my end and thus am satisfied to let the matter drop. But I want you to realize that by acquiescing in my demands you have deprived earth of a masterpiece of Higher Journalism!" GE N propagandism knows no law. “CRAFT MUST HAVE CLOTHES, BUT TRUTH LOVES TO GO NAKED” Professional Murder “The amount of professional murder that is going on all the time, under the guise of scientific medical treatment, ld cause a repudiation of the medical profession it were possible to present the truth to the lay mind and to have the truth, and nothing but the truth, accepted.” —Dr. J. H. Tilden, in “ A Stuffed Club.” UT, of course, the doctors will have an emphatic and crushing answer to this charge. They will say that Dr. Tilden is not reputable. Only those doctors are repu- table who do what they are told by orthodox professors at orthodox medical colleges. What anyone may find out elsewhere isn’t true, or, if true, it should be suppressed.