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•l'

^'Teoo.'T^^

Letters from Hell

GIVEN IN ENGLISH BY L. W. J. S.

WITH A PREFACE BY

GEORGE MacDONALD, LL.D.

That he may testify onto them, leat they alto eome into this place of torment.

THIRD CANADCAN EDITION.

.-^"

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J. THEO. EOBINSON", Publisher.

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Mirttd at tfi9

COlOiBROIAL VRL^^ISa HOUSB.
MONTREAL

■'ST'': .1. \'i » .

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; PREFACE.

THE book, of which this is an English rendering, ap-
peared in Denmark eighteen years ago, and was
speedily followed by an English translation, now long out
of print. In Germany it appeared very recently in a some-
what modified form, and has there ai used almost un-
paralleled interest, running, I am told, through upwards of
twelve editions in the course of a year. The present Eng-
lish version is made from this German version, the trans,
lator faithfully following the author's powerful conception,
but pruning certain portions, recasting certain others, and
omitting some less interesting to English readers, in the
hope of rendering such a reception and appreciation as the
book in itself deserves, yet more probable in this country.

It may be interesting to some to know that the title is not
quite a new one, for just before the death of Oliver Crom-
well a book was published entitled Messages from Hell; or
Letters from a Lost Soul. This I have not had the oppor-
tunity of looking into ; but it must be a remarkable book, I
do not say if it equals, but if it comes halfway towards the
fearful interest of this volume. , ,

My sole motive towards offering to write a preface to the
present form of the work was my desire to have it read in
this country. In perusing the German a few months ago, I
was so much impressed with its imagmative energy, and the

^sIS-^-^

PREFACE.

1 1

power of truth in it, that I felt as if, other duties per^
xnitting, I would gladly have gone through the no slight
labour of translating it myself; — labour I say, because no
good work can be done in any field of literature without
genuine labour ] and one of the common injuries between
countries is the issue of unworthy translations. That the
present is of a very different kind, the readers of it will not
be slow to acknowledge.

I would not willingly be misunderstood : when I say the
book is full of truth, I do not mean either truth of theory
or truth in art, but something far deeper and higher — the
realities of our relations to God and man and duty — all, in
short, that belongs to the conscience. Prominent among
these is the awful verity, that we make our fate in unmaking
ourselves ; that men, in defacing the image of God, in
themselves, construct for themselves a world of horror and
dismay; that of the outer darkness; owe own deeds and
character are the informing or inwardly creating cause;
that if a man will not have God, he never can be rid of his
weary and hateful self.

Concerning the theological formis into which the writer's
imaginations fall, I do not care to speak either for or against
them here. My hope from the book is, that it will rouse in
some the prophetic imagination, so that even from terror
they may turn to the Father of Light, from whom alone
comes all true theories, as well as every other good and per-
fect gift. One thing, in this regard, alone I would indicate —
the faint, all but inaudible tone of possible hope, ever and
anon vanishing in the blackness of despair, that now and
then steals upon the wretched soul, and a little comforts the
heart of the reader as he gathers the frightful tale.

PREFACE.

HI.

But there is one growing persuasion of the present age
which I hope this book may somewhat serve to stem — not
by any argument, but by such a healthy upstirring, as I have
indicated already, of the imagination and the conscience.
In these days when men are so gladly hearing afresh that
■* in Him is no darkness at all, that God therefore could not
have created any man if He knew that he must live in tor-
ture to all eternity ; and that his hatred to evil cannot be
expressed by injustice, itself the one essence of evil, — for
certainly it would be nothing less than injustice to punish
infinitely what was finitely committed, no sinner being
capable of understanding the abstract enormity of what he
does, — in these days has arisen another falsehood — less,
yet very perilous : thousands of half-thinkers imagine that,
since it is declared with such authority that hell is not ever-
lasting, there is then no hell at all.

* I confess that, while I hold the book to abound in right
genuine imagination, the art of it seems to me in one point
•defective ; — not being cast in the shape of an allegory, but
in that of a narrative of ac^rml facts — many of which I feel
might, may be .true — the pi t jence of pure allegory in parts,
and forming inherent portion cf the whole, is, however good
the allegory in itself, distinctly an intrusion, — the presence
of a foreign body. For instance, it is good allegory that
the uttering of lies on earth is the fountain of a foul river
flowing through hell ; but in the presentation of a teal hell
of men and women and misery, the representation of such a
river with such an origin, as actually flowing through the
frightful region, is a discord, greatly weakening the just
verisimilitude. But this is the worst fault I have to find
with it, and cannot do much harm ; for the virtue of the
book will not be much weakened thereby ; and its mission

IV.

PREFACE.

18 not to answer any question of the intellect, to please the
fancy, or content the artistic faculty, but to make righteous
use of the element of horror ; and in this, so far as I know,
it is unparalleled. The book has a fearful title, and is for
more fearful than its title ; but if it help to turn any away
from that which alone is really horrible, the doing of un-
righteousness, it will prove itself the outcome of a divine
energy of deliverance. '

For my part, believing with my whole heart that to know
God is, and alone is, eternal life, and that he only knows
God who knows Jesus Christ, I would gladly even by a
rational terror of the unknown probable, rouse any soul to
the consciousness that it does not know Him, and that it
must approac)]^ Him or perish.

The close of the book is in every respect, — in that of im-
agination, that of art, that of utterance,— altogether admi-
rable, and in horror supreme. Let him who shuns the
horrible as a thing in art unlawful, take h^ed that it be not
a thing in fact by him cherished ; that he neither plant nor
nourish that root of bitterness whose fruit must be horror —
the doing of wrong to his neighbour ; and least of all, if
llifference in the unlawful there be, that most unmanly of
wrongs whose sole defence lies in the cowardly words r
* Am I my sister's keeper.*

George MAcDoNALa

'"■"-.w*- i.

Letters from Hell.

LETTER I.

I FELT the approach of death. There had been a
time of unconsciousness following upon the shiver-
iQgs and wild fancies of fever. Once more I seemed to
be waking ; but what a waking ! The power of life was
gone : I lay weak and helpless, unable to move hand
or foot ; the eyelids which I had raised, closed again
paralyzed; the tongue had grown too large for the
parched mouth ; the voice — my own — ^voice sounded
strange in my ears. I heard those say that watched
D^e — they thought I understood not— *Heispa3tsuflfer-
ing. Was I ? Ah me ! I suffered moi^ than human
soul can imagine, t had a terrible conviction that I
lay dying, death creeping nearer. I had always shrunk
from the bare thought of it, but I never knew what it
meant to be dying, never before that hour. Hour ?—
nay, the hours drifted into days and the days seemed
one awful hour of horror and agony, at the boundary
line of life.

Where was faith ? I had believed once, but that was
long ago. Vainly I tried to call back some shred of be-
lief; the poorest, remnant of faith would have seemed

,MI

LETTERS FROM HELL.

a wealth of comfort in the deep anguish of soul that
compassed me about. There was nothing I could cling
to — nothing to uphold me. Like a drowning man I
would have snatched at a straw even ; but there was
nothing — nothing! That is a terrible word; one word
only in all human utterance being more terrible still —
too late I too late I Vainly I struggled ; an agonizing:
fear consumed what was left of me.

And that which I would not call back stood up be-
fore my failing perception with an unsought clearness
and completeness of vision — the life which lay be-
hind me, and now was ebbing away. But little good
had I done in that life and much evil. \ saw it : it
stood out as a fearful fact from the background of con*
sciousness. I had lived a life of selfishness, ever pleas-
ing my own desire. It was true, awfully true, that I
had not followed the way of life, but the paths of death
since the days even of childhood. And now I lay dy-
ing, a victim of my own folly, wretched, helplessly lost !
One after another, my sins arose before me, crying for
expiation ; but it was too late now — too late for repent-
ance. Despair only was left ; the very thought of re-
pentance had faded from the brain.

Not yet fifty years old, possessed of everything that
could make life pleasant, and yet to die — it seemed im-
possible, though I felt that death even then had entered
my being. There was death within me, and death
without; it spoke from the half-light of the sick
chamber ; it spoke from every feature of the watchers
about me ; it spoke from the churchyard silence that
curtained my couch. It was a fearful hour, a!nd I, the
chief person, the centre of all that horror — every eye
upon .me, every ear listening for my parting breath. A
shudder went through me j I felt as one already buried
—buried alive I

One thought of comfort seemed left — I snatched at it :
it won't go worse with you than with most people ! Is-

LETTERS FROM HELL,

there anything that could have shown the depth of my
wretchedness more clearly than the fact that I could
comfort myself with such miserable assurance ? Was
it not the very cause of all my misery that I had come
by the broad way chosen by the many ?

But what avails it now to depict the horrors of my
last struggle, since no living soul could comprehend my
sufferings, or understand what I felt, on entering the
gates of death. Hell was within me. No, no ; it was
as yet but approaching.

The end grew nigh. Once more I raised my eyes,
and beheld the terror distorting my own features re-
flected from the faces that watched lue. A deep drawn
sigh, a gurgling moan, a last convulsive wrench — and I
was gone. . . .

An unknown sensation laid hold of me. What was
this I felt ? Death had clutched my very fibre, but I
seemed released, free, strangely free ! Consciousness
had been fading, but was returning even now, waking
as from a swoon. Where was I ? Mist and night, deso-
lation and emptiness, enveloped me; but the dismal
space could not be called dark, for I could see, although
there was not a ray of light to aid me. The first feeling
creeping through me was a sensation of cold, of inward
cold, rising from the very roots of being ; chill after
chill went through me ; I shuddered with chattering
teeth. And an indescribable loathing seized me, born of
the nauseous vapours that wrapt me about. Where
was I ? My mind reverted to the story of the rich man,
who having died, lifted up his eyes in hell. Was I the
rich man ? But that could not be ; for of him the story
tells that he longed for a single drop of water to cool
his tongue, and it says he was tormented in flame. Now
I was shivering — shivering with a fearful cold. Yet it is
true, nevertheless — terribly true — about the tormenting
fire, as I found out ere long.

But consciousness, at first, seemed returned chiefly to

LETTERS FROM HELL,

■ I,

experience an indescribable feeling of nakedness, whiciv
indeed, might explain the terrible cold assailing me. I
still believed in my personal identity, but I was merely
a shadow of myself. The eye which saw, the teeth
which chattered, did not exist any more than the rest of
my earthly body existed. All that was left of me was
a shade uncloth3d to the skin — nay, to the inmost soul.
No v/onder I shivered ; no wonder I felt naked. But
the feeling of nakedness, strong as it was, excluded
shame.

It did not exclude a sense of utter wretchedness. All
the manliness, my pride of former days, had left me.
Men despise abject cowards, I know, but I had sunk
below the contempt even of such a name. Wretched,
unutterably wretched, I was making my entry into hell
at the very time when my obsequies, no doubt, were
about to be celebrated on earth with all the pomp
befitting the figure I had played. What booted it that
some priest with solemn chant should count me blessed,
assuring the mourners that I had gained the realms of
glory ,where tears are wiped away and sorrow is no more ?
what booted it, alas! since 1, miserable I, was eventheu
awaking to the pangs of hell ? Woe is me— ^ah, woe in-
deed J

I hastened onward. Was that earth, or what, that
touched my feet ? It was soft, spongy — a queer pave-
ment ! Possibly it consisted of those good intentions
with which, as some one has pointed out, the road to
hell is paved. Walking felt strangely unpleasant, but
I got along, walking or flitting, I know not which, nor
yet how fast; on I went through mist or darkness, or
whatever it was. In the far distance, it might be some
thousands of miles away, I perceived a glimmering light,
and instinctively towards that light I directed my
course. The mist seemed to grow less dense, forms took
shape about me, but they might be merely the work of
imagination ; shadowy outlines of castles, palaces,^ and

LETTERS FROM HELL, 7

'houses appearing through the mist. Sometimes it was
as if my blind haste carried me right through one of
these ghostly structures. After a while I began to dis-
tinguish human phantoms flitting along, singly e"* ^rst,
but soon in great number. I viewed them with horror,
fully aware at the same time that they were merely be-
ings like myself. Suddenly a troop of these spirits sur-
rounded me. I burst from them, tremblingly, but only
to be seized upon by another troop. I say seized upon,
for they snatched at me eagerly as if each one meant to
hold me fast, shade though I was. Vainly they tried to
detaai me, raising their cries incessantly. But what
cries ! their voices fell on my ear as a miserable wheez-
ing, a dismal moaning. In my horror I gave a scream,
and lo ! it was the same puny frightful sound. There
was such a whirr of voices, I could not possibly make
them out; not, at least, beyond certain constantly re-
peated questions, like, * Whence do you come ?' or
* What is the news t Poor me, what cared I for the
news left behind 1 And it was n^*". so much the ques-
tion, w;Ae?w;e; but rather its awful opposite, whith&r
hoitnd f that filled my soul.

Luckily there were other miserable wanderers speed-
ing along the same road, and while the swarming troops
tried to stop them I managed to escape. On I went,
panting, not for bodily, but spiritual distress, till at last
I reached a lonely spot where I might try to collect my-
self.

Collect myself ! What was there left to collect ? —
what availed it to consMer, since I yr^ lost, hopelessly
lost? ,^

Overpowered with that thought I sank to the'ground.
This, then, was what I had come to. I had died and
found myself in hell, in the place of weeping and gnash-
ing of teeth, of torments, alas! beyond conception. This,
then, was the end of life's enjoyment. Why, ah why,
had I been satisfied to halt between faith and unbelief,

LETTERS FROM HELL.

between heaven and hell to the last moment? A few
short months ago, or, who knows, perliaps even a few
days before the terrible end, it might have been time
still to escape so dire a fate. But bHndly I had walked
to destruction ; blindly? — nay, open eyed, and I deserved
no better.

This latter thought was not without a touch of bitter
satisfaction. After all even hell had something left that
resembled satisfaction ! But in truth, I hated myself
with a burning, implacable hatred in spite of the self
love which had accompanied me hither unimpaired.
And remembering the many so-called good intentions
of my sinful life, I felt ready to tear myself to pieces.
In sooth, I myself had assisted diligently in paving the
road to hell !

But that feeling was void of contrition. I felt sad : I

felt ruined and miserably undone. I condemned, I

cursed myself ; but repentance was far from me. Oh,

could I but repent ! I know there is such a thing, but

the power of repenting is gone, gone for ever. I did not

at first see myself and my positiob as I do now. I only

felt miserable and hopelessly lost. And though I hated

myself, at the same time I pitied myself most deeply.

Would that I could have wept ! Poor Dives sighed for

a drop of water ; I kept sighing for a tear, a poor human

tear, for somehow I felt that tears could unbind me from

all my grief. I consumed my powe.3 in vain efforts to

weep, but even tears were of the good things beyond me

now. The effort shook my soul, but it was vain, vain !

I startled sudddenly ; there was a voice beside me,

a young woman with a babe on her arm.

' It is liopeless trying,' she said, almost tenderly, her
features even more than her voice bespeaking sympathy.
L myself have tried it, and tried again ; but it's no use.
There is no water here, not as much even as a
tear.'
Alas, I felt she spoke the truth. The time was

single

■.^v- ■■e-A.j^taak^.'.l'.i.: ««■>.- „ ... , ■■ .■^>^■^...;..-

■i > «

LETTERS FROM HELL,

I thought the child was dead, but
to grieve the poor creatnre, so I

when I might have wept, bnt I would not ; now I
longed to weep, but could not.

The young woman — she was hardly more than a girl
— sat down beside me. Indescribably touching was
the expression of sorrowing fondness with which she
gazed upon thv3 babe in her lap, a tiny thing which
apparently had not lived many days.

After a pause she turned again to me. It was not
I, but the child which occupied her attention.

'Don't you think my babe is alive ? * she said. * It is
not dead, tell me, though it lies so still and never gives
a cry.*

To tell the truth
I had it not in me
said —

• It may be asleep — babies do sleep a good deal.'

* Yes, yes, it is asleep/ she repeated rocking the child
softly.

But I sat trembling at the sound of my own voice,
which for the first time had shaped itself lio words.
, ' They say I killed my child, my own little babe, she
continued. * But don't you think they talk foolishly ?
How should a mother find it in her heart to kill her
jBhild, her very own child?* and she pressed the little
thing to her bosom with convulsive tenderness.

The sight was more than I could endure. I rose and
left her. Yet it soothed my own misery that for a
moment I seemed filled with another's grief rather than
with my own. Her grief I could leave behind. I rose
and fled, but my own wretchedness followed on my
heels.

Away I went, steering toward the distant light. It
was as though a magic power drove me in that direction.
To the right and left of me the realms of mist appeared
cultivated and inhabited. Strange, fantastic shapes and
figures met my view, but they seemed shadows only of
things and men. Much that I saw filled me with

■Ji^

LETIERS FROM HELL.

terror, while everything added to my pain. By degrees, .
however, I began to understand that wretched negative-
ness of existence. I gathered experience as I went on,
but what experience ? Let me bury it in silence. One
incident I will record, since it explains how I first came
to comprehend that hc)rror-teeming state of things.

I was stopping in front of one of those transparently
shadowy structures ; it appeared to be a tavern. In the
world I used to despise such localities, and would
never have demeaned myself by entering one. But now
it was all the same to me. They were making merry
within, I saw, — drinking, gambling, and what not. But
it was an awful merriment in which these horrible
shades were engaged. One of th6m, to all appearance
the landlord, bedconed me to enter ; an inviting fire
was blazing on the hearth, and, shivering as I was, I
went towards it straightway. ' Can't you come in by
the door?' snarled the landlord, stopping me rudely.

Abashed I stamoiered, ' I am so cold, so miserably
cold!'

' The more fool you for going naked 1 ' cried the fel-
low, with an ugly grin. *We admit well-dressed people
as a rule.

Involuntarily I thought of my soft Turkish dressing-
gown and its warm belongings, when, lo ! scarcely had
the idea been shaped in my brain than I found myself
clothed in dressing-gown, smokiug-cap, and slippers.
At the same time my nakedness was not covered, and I
felt as cold as before.

I moved towards the hearth, putting my trembling
hands to the grate ; but the blaze emitted no warmth —
it might as well have been painted on canvas.

I turned away in despair. The merry-making shades
laughed harshly, calling me a fool for my pains. One
of them handed me a goblet. Now I had never been a
drunkard, but that feeling of indescribable emptiness
within me prompted me to seize the cup, lifting it to my

LETTERS FROM HELL,

lips eagerly that I might drain it on the spot. But alas
the nothingness ! my burning desire found it an empty
cup, and I felt ready to faint.

My horror must have expressed itself in my features,
for they laughed loudfcr than ever, grinning at my dis-
appointment. I bore it quietly. There was something
frightfully repulsive in their unnatural merriment,
cutting me to the soul.

The carousal continued; I, with wildly confused
ideas, watching the strange revelry.

Eecovering myself, I turned to the churlish landlord:

' What house is this ? I asked, with a voice as un-
pleasant and gnarling as his own.

' It's my house ! *

That was not much of information, so I asked again
after a while; 'How did it come to be here — the house
I mean — and everything ? '

The landlord looked at me with a sneer that plainly
said, * You gieenhorn, you !' vouchsafing however pres-
ently : * How came it here ? — why, I thought of it ;
and then it was.'

That was light on the subject. ' Then the house is
merely an idea ?' I went on.

* Yes, of course ; what else should it be ?'

* Ah, indeed, youngster,' cried one of the gamblers,
turning upon me, ' here we are in the true land of magic,
the like of which was never heard of on earth. We
need but imagine a thing, and then we have it. Hur-
rah, I say, * tis a merry place !' and with frightful laugh-
ter that betokened anything but satisfaction, he threw
the dice upon the table.

Now I understood. The house was imaginary, the
fire without warmth, the tapers without light, the cards,
the dice, the drink, the torn apron even of the landlord
— everything, in short, existed merely in imagination.
One thing only was no empty idea, but fearful reality
— the terrible necessity which forced these shadowy

LETTERS FROM HELL.

semblances of men to appear to be doing now in the
spirit the very things they did in the body upon earth.
For this reason the landlord was obliged to keep a low
tavern ; for this reason the company that gathered there
must gamble, drink, and swear, pretending wanton mer-
riment, despair gnawing their hearts the while.

I looked at myself. This clothing then which could
not cover me, far less warm my frozen limbs, was but
the jugglery of desiring thought. 'Lie! falsehood
away !' I cried. Oh that I could get away from myself !
Alas 1 wretch that I was, I could at best escape but the
clothing which was no clothing. I tore it fromme,rushing
away in headlong flight, conscious only of my miserable
nakedness, fiendish peals of laughter following me like
the croaking of multitudinous frogs.

How Ibng I wandered, restless spirit that I was, I
cannot tell. If there were such a thing as division of
time in hell, doubtless it would be imaginary like every-
thing else. The distant light was still my goal. But
so far from reaching it, I seemed to perceive that it
grew weaker and weaker. This, at first, I took to be
some delusion on my part, but the certainty presently
was beyond a doubt The light* did decrease till at last
it was the mere ghost of a radiance ; it was plain I
should find myself in utter darkness before long.

It was a fact, then, scarcely to be believed, but a fact
nevertheless, that, miserable as I was, I could be more
miserable still. I shrunk together within myself,
anxious, as far as lay with me, to escape the doings of
the dead. People on earth may think that even in
Hades it must be a blessing rather than a bane to occupy
one's thoughts with the affairs of others. Oh, happy
mortals, happy with all your griefs and woes, you judge
according to your earthly capacities. There is no such,
blessing here, no occupying one's thoughts against
their own dii-e drift ! And as for diversion, that
miserable anodyne for earthborn trouble, is a

LETTERS FROM HELL,

thing of the past once you have closed your eyes in
•death.

It is impossible for me to tell you, since you could not
comprehend, to what extent a man here may shrink to-
gether within himself. Be it enough to say I cowered
as a toad in a hole, hugging my miserable being, till I
)vas roused by a groan coming from somewhere beside
me. I started affidghted and looked about. The dark-
ness being still increasing I, with difficulty, distinguish-
ed another cowering figure looking at me furtively. The
face was strangely distorted, and the creature had a rope
round its neck, the hands being constantly trying to se-
cure the ends ; at times also a finger would move round
the neck as if to loosen the rope. The figure looked at me
with eyes of terror starting from the head, but" not a
word would cross the lips. It was plain I must make
the beginning.

* The light is decreasing,' I said, pointing in the di-
rection, whence the pale glimmer emanated. * I fear we
shall be quite in the dark presently.'

* Yes,' said the figure, with a gurgling voice ; * it will
be night directly.'

' How long will it last ?' . '

* How should I know ? It may be some hours, it may
be a hundred years.* - ^^

'Is there such difference of duration ?

* We don't perceive the difference ; it is always long,
frightfully long,' said the figure with a dismal.moan.

* But it is quite certain, is it not, that daylight will
re-appear. . .

*If you call that daylight which we used to call dusk
upon earth, we never got more. I strongly suspect that
it is not daylight at all ; however that matters little. I
see you are a new comer here.'

I could but answer with a sigh 'Yes, quite new; I
died but lately.' ^., ^.^

*A natural death ? queried the spectre.

LETTERS I'ROM HELL.

' To be sure ; what else ?' \

That 'what else' evidently displeased the creature;,
the distorted face looked at me with a horrible grimace>
and there was silence.

I, for my part cared little to continue so unpleasant a
conversation, but the spectre resumed ere long :

' It is hard to be doomed to carry one's life in one's
hands. There is no rest for me anywhere. I am for
ever trying to escape; there is not a creature but wanta
to hang me. Indeed you are capable of doing it your-
self, I see it in your eyes ; only being fresh here you
are too bewildered as yet with your own fate to be
really dangerous. Do you see the ends of this rope ?
It i^ my one aim to prevent people getting hold of
the^, for if once they succeed I shall be hanged in a

jiffy-'

The spectre paused, going on presently :
^ It is but foolishness and imagination, I know, for
since no one can take what I have not got, how should
anyone take my life ? But I am utterly helpless, and
whenever this loolish fear possesses me afresh, I must
run — run as though I had a thousand lives to lose —
as though hell were peopled with murderous hangmen/

The spectre moaned, again trying to loosen the rope
with a finger, and the moaning died away into silence*

We sat, but not for long. I made some movement
with the arm nearest my wretched neighbour. Evi-
dently he imagined I was for seizing the rope, the ends
of which he was tightly grasping, and, like a flash of
lightning, he vanished from my side.

LETTERS FROM HELL,

LETTER II.

T STAYED where I was, and soon found myself
I buried in darkness. Did I say soon ? Fool that
lam ! How can I tell what length of time passed be-
fore it became absolutely dark? One thing only I
know, that darkness grew with increasing rapidity and
density till it was complete at last. At last ! — when
but a moment since I called it soon / How unfit I am
to judge at all !

How shall I describe the darkness? Mortal man
could never conceive it. Of very great darkness peo-
ple are apt to say it is to be felt, or to be cut with a
knife, But even such manner of speech will not define
the night of hell. Darkness here is so dense, so heavy,
it oppresses poor souls as with the weight of centuries ;
it is as though one were wedged in between mountains,
unable to move, unable to breathe. It is a night be-
yond all earthly conception ; perhaps that is why the
Bible calls it the outer darkness, which, I take it, means
uttermost.

Thus I was sitting in the narrowest prison, shivering
with cold, trembling with terror, miserable, wretched
beyond utterance ; I, who but a short while since had
the world at my feet, enjoying life, and the riches and
pleasure thereof. Shivering with cold — yes; but, I
must add, consumed with an inward fire.

Terrible truth ! That the torment of hell should
consist in an awful contrast — cold without and a con-
suming fire within, compared to which the burning
sands of Sahara even seem cool as the limpid wave.
And what shall I say of the unutterable anguish — hell'A

LETTERS FROM HELL,

constant fear of death ? For with the growing dark-
ness a growing fear falls upon the tortured soul; agoniz-
ing^ as the pangs of death. Happy if they were but
pangs of death ! but there is no dying here, only a con-
tinuous living over again in the spirit of that most
dread of earthly conflicts, a panting for life, as it were,
a wailing and moaning, with pitiful cries for mercy,
cries lor help, but they fall back upon the soul un-
heard — unheard \

Do you know what it is to be lying on a bed of
misery night after night, courting sleep in vain, worn
with affliction, trouble, or grief ? Let me tell you, then,
that this is sheer bliss as compared with the sufferings
of a night here, endless in pain as it seems in duration.
For 'it last, poor earthly sufferer, your very sorrows
become your lullaby ; nature claims her due ; you sleep,,
and sleep drowns your woe, transfiguring it even with
rosy fingered dreams, restoring you to strength the
while. And you wake t o find that a new day has risen,
with grace and hope and smiling with fresh endeavour.

Happy mortal — ay, thrice happy — whatever your lot
may be, however poor and sorrowful you may deem it.
For remember that as compared with us here, the most
miserable beneath the sun might call themselves
blessed, if only they could free themselves from delu-
sion and take their troubles for what they are. For,
strange as it may sound, in the world, which we know
to be a world of realities, trouble more or less consists
in imagination — thinking makes it so ; whereas here,
where all is shadow and nothingness, misery alone is
real. In the world so much depends on how one takea
trouble ; in hell there is but one way of bearing it — the
hard, unyielding Mud.

Oh to be able to sleep, to forget oneself though but
for a moment, — what mercy, what bliss ! But why do
I add to my pangs by thinking of the impossible ? I
seem to be weeping, as I write this, bitter tears, but

LETIERS FROM HELL.

they blot not the unhappy record ; like leaden tears
they fall back upon the soul, adding to her weight.
Did I say tears ? Ah, believe me it is but a fashion of
speaking !

Thus I sat, spending the endless night — a night of
death I had better call it, since it differs so terribly
from the worst nights I knew on earth. I suffered an
agony of cold, but within me there burned the quench-
less torment of sin and sinful desire — a two-fold flame,
I know not v/hich was stroitgest ; it seized upon me
alternately, my thoughts adding fuel to the terrible
glow.

My sins! What boots it now to remember thom,
but I must — I must. The life of sin is behind me,
finished and closed ; but with fearful distinctness it lies
open to my vision, as a page to be read, not merely as
a whole, but in all its minutest parts. I seem to have
found it out now only, that I am a sinner, or rather
that I was one, for on earth I somehow did not know
it. The successful way in which I managed to suppress
that consciousness almost entirely seems to prove, if
not my own, at any rate the devil's consumate skill. I
say almost entirely; I could not stifle it altogether, but
I managed to keep it in a prison so close that it troubled
me rarely. And if conscience at times made efforts to
be heard, the voice was so gentle that I never hesitated
to disregard it. Yes, Satan succeeded so well with me
that I never thought of my sins ; really forgot them as
though they were not.

But now — now? that seeming forgetting truly was
the devil's deceit. My sins are all present now ; I see
them, every one of them,*and none is wanting ; and
indeed their number i^ far greater than I could have
believed possible. A thousand trivial things — not
trifles here, though I once believed them such — raise *
their front in bitter accusation. Life lies before me as an
open book, a record of minutest detail, and what seemed

LE2TERS FROM HELL

scarce worth the notice once baa now assumed its own
terrible importance — sin suc/'eeding sin, and the re-
mainder folly. My anguished soul turns hither and
thither, writhing and moaning ; not a spot is left where
she might rest — not a moment's peace to soothe her ;
«hut in with sins innumerable, she is the prey o^ d- ip(iir.

And yet I never was what the world call'; id nan,
I was selfish, but not void of natural ^ii-y * Uu^. ig a
carnal mind, but not barren of intellect ua' t^'^^s ; ruled
by strong appetites, but tAx> much of a gen'Jeman to
•giveopfen cause of offence. I wp? a good natured,
helpful and kind, where it did not clash vich some
dominant passion. Indeed I was not only a general
favorite but enjoyed universcd respect. In short, I was
a man yrhom the world could approve of, and if I cared
not to serve the world, the more was I desirous it should
serve me. Without faith, and following no aim, I lived
to enjoy the moment. Yet I was not always without
faith. There had been a time, in the far off days of child-
hood ivhen I believed lovingly, ardently ; but on enter-
ing the world, faith, having no root, faded as a flower
in the noon-day heat. And once again, having reached
•a certain point in my life, it seemed to revive, to blos-
som anew ; but everything failing, it also failed, and
never yielded fruit. At the same time I had never
quite plucked it out of the heart. To my dying hour
1 had a feeling that something of the Grod seeking
child was latent within me, of the childhood in which
I began, but never coarin lefJ.

In ohe days of ms ho/^>J i TjUowec. passion. Do you
care to inquire ? Fdoiiionable amusement, the excite-
ment of fast living, the enjoyment of beauty, piquant
adventure, the pleasure of the senses in short — that is
what I lived for.

• Oh the fire within me — kindled long ago, in the days
even of bodily life ! It did not then cause the pain it
•causes now, or rather — since fire cannot be disassociated

LE TTERS FROM HELL.

19>

from s'ffering — it burned with a pa''\ akin to-
iJeliRht. But now, alas ! there is a consuming empti-
neSvS within, desire teptiing upon imagiiuition, feeding
upon iny vary soul unappeasably. To be nrut alive
would be as nothing compared to that torm«;i)i for then
the hope would remain that there must be an e^td But
there is no end now, no hope of deliverance.

And yet I have not confessed all the pangs ^f thb ter-
rible first night. I am ashamed to own what ' nay not
hide I For, apart from all those horrorw -omii u to ill,
I have a grief, to myself alone— most of th m^ h 'e
have a load of pain pertaining to themselves only — un
aching sorrow weighing upon my soul distineth s«|)-
erate frona all general w >es ; it has not left m or a
moment since first I opei.ed my eyes in hell. T
a little story, but one of those experiences which
far deeper importance in our lives than would
credible.

/ My thirty first birthday found me in a village tH
away from home. After more than a year's absen
the journey extending as far as the Holy Land — I
returning the unhappiest of m ankind, bowed down w
mourning, and ill bearing the hurt of disappointed pas
sion. Three we had been on setting out, two only return
ing. Journeying homeward w 2 stopped on the road, a
sudden storm obliging us to seek shelter in a common
inn.

There are strange things in li 'e. Having for months
been dead to all sympathy, it vas so ordered that I
should find here an object to rou se me from my stupor
— to call me back to life. It was but a ragged boy,
some eight or nine year§ old, whose mother had been
one of a troop of strolling actors. For some reason or
other the company had broken up, and her body
presently was found in a neighboring swamp. He was
a poor little fellow, forlorn and neglected, and as shy
as a wild thing of the field, disconsolate in his grief.

but

^ of

f^m

'^a

\k tS

■■.%. '*\'i&^

s#s-

LETTERS FRJOM HELL.

He had loved tenderly, passionately — so had I ; he had
lost all he had loved — so had I. .

But there was more. The boys nature fascinated me
strangely. His impetousity, his stand' off pride, even
his intractable wildness, somehow struck a congenial
chord in my own deepest soul. I felt as if I, I only,
could understand him ; as if I, in his place, would have
been just like him. And despite his rags he was a
lovely boy. Those dark tearful eyes had an expression
that went to the heart ; those uncombed locks overhung
features which, without being regularly handsome, were
intensely attractive. In short, it was one of those boy
faces which Murillo loved to paint. What shall I say,
but that the child from the first moment caught my
heart ? As no one cared to have him, I took him with
me.

His mother had gone by the name of Bosalind. The
boy had just called her 'mother,' and knew no other
name. But the appellation Eosalind to all appearance
pertained to the actress only, and there was nothing
left to give a clue to her identity. If there had been
anything the poor creature took it with her to her
watery grave. The only thing leaving a faint hope of
♦eventual discovery was the figure of a swan surrounded
by unintelligible hieroglyphics imperishably etched
upon the boys right arm. He went by the common
name of Martin, and spoke a jargon, a jumble rather of
several languages, but fraught with unmistakable
echoes of my own native tongue. -

I took him with me — Three we were on setting out.

three returning — but what a change!

He grew

up m my care, a nameless foundling. I
never discovered the faintest light to unravel the
mystery of his birth : but I always believed that the
swan upon his arm sooner or latter would assist in
■explaining his extraction, Martin hardly ever quitted
my presence, and people said I had adopted him by way

LE2TERS FROM HELL.

of a" plaything. Maybe there was some truth in this.
The boy's lower nature blossomed luxuriartly, at the
cost, surely of his moral Qv^velopment. Conscious of
force, and exuberant with unshaped longings, passionate
and self-willed, he was nowise easily managed. I am
ashamed to say that I sometimes took an evil delight in
playing with the child's slumbering passions, now excit-
ing them to full liberty, now reigning them up sud-
denly. Still, he was more than a plaything to me : he
ruled my heart. This may partly be accounted for by
the fact that 1 saw my ow^n nature reflected in the boy's 'y
perhaps, also, the strange affection was merely fancy-
born, the whim of a moment growing into habit. That
much is ceitain, I loved the boy. And I could count
them on my fingers, I fear, whom I loved beside my- .
self.

The child tesponded to my affection ardently, passion-
ately. It sometimes happened, when I had teased him
in ungenerous amusement, and he, stung to fury,
refused submission, that I, in assertion of power, would
place my foot upon his neck, when he would humble
himself suddenly, and, clasping my knees, would wail
for forgiveness. At such moments he would have borne
the vilest cruelty patiently, hoping for a return of ten-
derness. He whom the direst punishment at times
could not move, now spent himself in tears at my feet,
looking to me as to the one soul beside him in the uni-
verse. That love of the child's touched me deeply,
appealing to all that was best and truest in my heart.
We would make peace again and renew the bond of
affection, which was tied all the faster for such inci- ^
dents. Thus love moved between us, swelling in tides
now of wrath, now of tenderness, till suddenly I dis-
covered that the boy had grown — grown to be a man in
my likeness, strong in the flesh and of powerful self-
love.

And the time was which ripened into a crisis between

I I ''

LETTERS FROM HELL,

us, worse than anything that happened before. He had
defied me where I could never brook defiance, and 1 cast
bim from me. How could the fellow dare to rival
me in woman's favour !

He left me, insulted but unconquered, and burning
with scorn. I should never see him again, he said ;
«,nd he was a man to do as he threatened. Some time
after I received a letter from him offering me the alter-
native of yielding to him or losing him — he would go to
the Turks, to the devil, he said. I took no notice of
that ultimatum, but demanded his entire surrender,
unconditionally. Time passed and I began to think I
had lost him, Tt was a fear which troubled me, preyed
upon me ; for whatever our disagreement, I loved him
«till. And if indeed he were lost, my heart told me that
I — I had worked his ruin.

And then I fell ill of that last illness, ending in
death. There came a second letter against all expecta-
tion, mysteriously expressed but plain of import. He
wrote humbly, gently, as I had never known him.

He entreated me to see him , he would come back to
me a repentant child. He had found out that which
would heal every breach between us : a Higher Power
had spoken. There was mention of lier in the letter,
but all was so broken, so ambiguously expressed, that it
left me quite in the dark as to whether his discovery
•concerned himself or her.

The letter remained unanswered ; I was too ill to
write, and cared not to trust any third person with a
message between us.

What, then, was his discovery to have worked such
a change in him? and whom did it concern, himself or
her ? That question troubled me to my dying moment,
and who knows but that it proved a nail also in my
cofl&n. Erinijys-like it pursued me to very hell, adding
more than anything else to my torment here. As a live
<joal it burns upon my soul. What was it about him or

LETTERS FROM HELL.

about her ? And there are other questions : How did it go
with him when I had cast him off— I, whom alone he
loved and knew upon earth ? Was I indeed the cause
of his ruin ? Alas ! "

these thing are a hell in hell t

LETTER III.

HOW long I sat, shut in with myself and darkness^
how long that terrible night continued, I cannot
tell, — maybe a year, may be some hours only. This only
I know, that in the space of that single night I lived
over again the whole of my earthly life, and what incon-
ceivable horrors are included in this statement !

Light broke at last, but oh h^vw slowly ! The walls of
darkness seemed to shift, making way for the faintest
streak of dawn. This time of expectation, of hope — if
so I may call it— was the least painful time I had yet
known in hell. And as I waited, longed for the return-
ing light, a shadow, as it were, of forgetfulness wrapped
me about. Ah, surely forgetfulness is the one state of
bliss to be imagined here ! Did I speak of light ? Alas
it is only less of darkness — light there is none in hell.
Ar i forgetfulness is not real, but illusive here. '

But poor as the light was it roused me to something
like love of existence even. I gathered up my wretched
being and went my way, following, the direction of the
breaking dawn. How long I moved or how far, is of no
consequence. The terrors of hell were about me. Pres-
ently, however, I reached a spot where I could rest. Did
I say rest ? Once for all, let me beg you not to be mis-
led by such meaningless expressions — meaningless here
and proving old habit merely. In this place of anguish

LETTERS FROM HELL,

rest, in the sense you take it, naturally is impossible ;
all I meant to say is that I reached a spot where the
pressure of motion quitted me for a while, and I stopped.

It is strange how soon I came to understand my sur-
roundings, how soon I found my way among the vain
appearances and the wretched nothingness about me. In-
stinctively I adapted myself to what I saw, doing as
others did—in a manner however, shaped by my own
individuality. I knew I was only addiug my paltry
share, that hell might be, what it is, a caricature of the
world and her doings. I knew, moreover, that I was
being mocked the while, a very fool of vanities.

You must know, then, that each wretched being here
is moved by an irresistible impulse to imitate his life on
earth, to continue what in sinful folly he worked in that
life. And, strange to say, as I have already hinted, we
can all obtain hcie what we like ; one need but think of
anything, and tliere it is. Passion and wrongful desires
rule here as the;' do in the World, only the more horribly,
being void of spbstance. In the world they are clothed —
clothed in a semblance of beauty even ; lawless and per-
nicious though they are, they at least own the gar-
ment of nature. But here they are mere skele-
tons unclothed of the flesh, an insult to nature, con-
tinuing in the evil bent of former habit, yet incapable of
aught but showing their miserable nakedness. For the
imaginings of hell are hollow and empty, void of truth
and reality, bereft of all means of satisfaction, and yet
the very punishment of hell consists in this that we are
driven to conform to this maddening unreality, this death-
breathing nothingness. No matter how deeply conscious
we are of the vanity of our doings — no matter how we
loathe them — they have come to be our masters ; we are
driven, helplessly driven, to be forever trying to be what
we were on earth.

Supposing, then, that a number of spirits agree we
will have a town here, that town straightway appears on

LETTERS FROM HELL,

was

gar-

con-
ible of
lor the
truth
id yet
^e are
ieath-
Iscious
iw we
|we are

what

ie we
kars oa

the scene ; or if others say, let us have a church here
and a theatre and a public park, or woods and lakes and
mountains, it is all there as soon as imagined. And not
only that each one sees for himself what he has called
up in vain desire ; it is seen by all with whom he comes
in contact. But everything is shadowy — nay, less than
shadowy ; it is empty conceit. Such a state naturally
includes change upon change, incessant unrest ; this
also is vanity.

Neither is there any lack of assisting spirits to carry
into effect any desired show. Does any one here wish
to set up an establishment, to live in style, as the
phrase went on earth, he is straightway surroui.ded by
faithless stewards, drunken butlers, thieving servants of
all kinds. If you imagine that no one would care to be
a servant here, you are mistaken, for the inhabitants of
hell, in a mere outward way also, carry^ on the habits of
life. Is there any one here who likes to general an army,
he will find plenty of blood-thirsty ruffians to obey his
behests, provided indeed he was a gendtal in his days
gone by ; for, mind you, with6ut a naihe a man even
here could not make his way.

Upon this information you will not be surprised to
learn that I have a pleasant abode here not far from
town, the image of my own old country-house, with park
and river to please my fancy ; that t am a gentleman,
and see much company. I frequent fashionable society
now as formerly, since it yields me gratification, botii
private and public. Few men knew and drained the
sources of enjoyment more thoroughly than I did. But
now ? — ah, pity me not, for your pity, cannot alter the
fact. This then is the misery of hell for me. I am
hungering after enjoyment, pure or impure, but there is
no sense left to gratify ; reality has vanished, the greed
only remains. Is it not madness ?

And let me whisper it to you, I am daily meeting
friends and acqaintances ; but I shall not betray them,

iilMi
llilill:

LETTERS FROM HELL,

remembering how well-bred the world is. It would, be-
a shame to hurt the feelings of ladies and gentlemen of
respectable position by insinuating that any of their
relatives an here. Let them call their departed onea^
blessed ; it will not lessen the torments they endure.

Shall I venture ,upon a local description of hell ? I
doubt I shall not be able, but will make the at-
tempt.

Hell has its own geography, but no one can tell how
far its realm extends ; it is infinite — that maybe is the
most correct estimate to be given. I believe earth, sun,
and moon, and all the planets., would not nearly fill it.
But what foolish talk, there being neither space nor
time here. And as for boundaries ? — on one side only,
far, far away, hell has its boundary ; whether any one
ever reached it I cannot tell.

In the direction of that pale twilight, which decreases
and increases alternately, there is a great gulf, a fathom-
less abyss, separating hell from Paradise. It is Paradise
whence that radiance proceeds. And from the abyss, at
regular intervals apparently, dead darkness gushes forth,
repressing the faint far-off light of heaven, till the last
ghostly glimmer is gone. Then it is night with us, the
abyss appearing as a lake of molten fire, but its flames
are void of light-giving power. That is Satan's residence,
and the abode of damned souls. I speak of it with fear
and trembling. Gradually the abyss, as it were, eats up
its own darkness, the fair light reappearing and growing,,
till we see it as a tender radiance, clear as the twilight of
a summer morn. And at times, as though a curtain of
mist and cloud were suddenly rent asunder, a cataract
of light burst forth victoriously, overflowing from the
heart of glory. Hell stands dazzled, struck to the core
as it were. For in beauty and bliss eternal a vision of
Paradise is given to the damned ones — no, not the
damned ones, for though cast into hell we are not yet
judged ; it is given to those who, like the rich man, lift

LETTERS FROM HELL.

lip their eyes in torment. And it is not only Paradise
we see/ but the blessed ones who dwell there.

All this hQ,ve I learned, — as yet I have not seen it. But,
now, since dawn is increasing, we seem to be nearing
that hour, — shall I say the happy hour ? ah, no — most
•dread ! most dread! I cannot tell how long the light
:goe8 on increasing or decreasing ; there is no judging of
the length of dawn, as there is no judging of the dura-
tion of night itself. According to human ideas, it would
seem to be a space of several years. The vision of Para-
dise, I feel sure, fills but a moment, but some call it long,
fearfully long. Shall I rejoice to see that moment, or
must I dread it ?

Again, hell has a river, the waters of which are heavy
[dark and muddy. You will be thinking of the waters of
Lethe. Ah no, my friend, there is no Lethe here whence

souls might draw forgetfulness ; that is a happy myth ;
I the river I speak of is real, terribly real. It is fed by
the falsehood and injustice of the world ; every lie,
[every wrong, helps to swell it. This is why its waters

ire so turbid, so fearfully foul, looking like clotted blood

it times. And sometimes, when the world is more
Iwicked than usual, the river rises and floods its banks,
[leaving stench and pestilence behind it. It is scarcely

to be endured. But we, hardened spectres of hell, we

mdure.

Sometimes, I am told, it rains here and snows, but not
[so often as one would think. It happens when folly

md vanity upon earth overflow their measure. The
[world can stand a good deal, we know, but there are

times when even the world has too much of it. The

surplus then will drop into hell, and we say, by way of

former fashion of speech : Look, it rains ; or, Behold, it

snows !
There is in hell not only a certain natural succession

)f.time, but also something of social and political order.

'I'amilies herd together and souls of one and the same

LETTERS FROM "HELL,

century like to congregate. And there is a kind of pro-
gressive development. The most recent arrivals, as a
rule, take the lowest place, advancing to make room for
fresh troops appearing. Those who in the world were
of one way of thinking, or alike in manner of acting,
soon meet here, though of different nationality or sepa-
rate centuries. Thus there is here a town of injustice,
called also the town of politicians ; there is a town of
the Holy Inquisition ; a gigantic city of Jews, of Mor-
mons ; a town of antediluvians, and mtiny others.

I begin to understand the moving-springs of hell. It
is insatiate desire on the one hand, and remorse on the
other — I had almost said sorrow ; but that is too sweet
a giace, admitting of sorrow for sin, for opportunity
wasted, and that is unknown here ; it is a dull, flinty
grief, a mere wailing for pain. The punishment of hell
is twofold, but after all it is the self-same retribution.
Some are driven continuously to brood over the same
evil passions they indulged in on earth, satisfaction alone
being absent ; or with horror and loathing are obliged
again and again to commit in the spirit the self-same
crimes that polluted their days in the flesh. The miser
forever is dreaming of riches, the voluptuary of unclean-
ness, the glutton of fasting, the murderer of his bloody
deed. Others, on t;he contrary, are pursuing the very
things they neglected on earth ; they know it is hope-
less, but pursuis them they must. Thus men of unjust
dealing are anxiously trying to right the wrong, the un-
merciful to do deeds of charity, the unnatural parent to
live for her children, the suicide to prolong his days.

But whatever we suffer, our torment is not to be
viewed in the light of final punishment — that is coming
— we await the day of doom ; no, it is merely the natural
consequence of our life on earth. Oh, men and women,
yet walking on earth ; consider this, that all sin, great
or small, has its own irretrievable consequence, which —
ay, think of it — extends far beyond the limits of life.

' LETTERS FRO.. HELL.

even into hell. And if mere cotisequence may be so
terrible, what must be the punislinieiit to come ?

This then is thj law of hell ; we are n it tormenrod —
we torment ourselves ! Yet rememb'n' thHt in «'.ying
everythinff depeud.s 6n whether we livo-l in ihe faith of
the Son of God, who {^ave His life tliat men might be
saved. Our sins .have that dread importance in as far
as they testify tliafc we did not believe. Do you marvel
that I speak of God ? Ah, me, He is still our God \
And we know that there is a Son of God who came into-
the world to save sinners, who loved them unto death,
even the death of the Cross. But we know nothing of
the way of salvatioi^ : everything is forgotten — th^ very
name of the Saviour. We consume ourselves in terrible
efforts to remember, were it but the faintest remnant of
saving knowledge,but alas it is vain — not even His name!
Could we remember that name, c^l it , back to our
hearts ; I doubt nott— I doubt not — even we might be
saved. But it is gone — it is too late \ too, late !

It is incredible how much I have forgotten; indeed,.
I might say I have forgotten everything except myself.
Yes, that is it. I have not forgotten self; on the con-
trary, whatever of the past concerns my person and my
life has followed me hither with a minuteness of detail,
as strange as it is painful. But the clothes Of self, as it
were — the things I once possessed by knowledge, by in-
tellectual acquirement, — they have vanished together
with the gifts of mammon and the vanities of the tiesh.
You will not be surprised then that the feeling of naked-
ness is so terribly present with me.

I have brought nothing hither but myself And what
comprises this self but a burning remorse which can
never be stilled ; a greed of desire which can never be
satisfied ; an unquenchable longing for things left be-
hind ; innumerable recollections of sins great and small,,
causing insufferable anguish, all being equally bitter,
equally fraught with vainest regret ! This is the picture
of myself, God, — of myself in hell.

LEJTERS FROM HELL,

LETTER IV,

11'

knowing

him that he was not a man of

THE circumstances in which I grew up in the world
could not be called happy. My parent were so
unlike in character and so little suited to each other
that people were fully justified in wondering how they
could have married at ail. My father was a plain,
homely man, somfewhat retiring and unassuming ; he
was the head of a well-to-do house of business of con-
siderable mercantile importance. But he was not at
first sight credited with personal weight or influence ;
people, would easily slight him. Arid yet there was
that in the quiet expression of his face, in the calm
clearness of hi>. '^ye, which convinced those who took
the trouble of
the ordinary type.

My mother, whom I always considered the chief
person in the house, was a v/oman of rare perfections,
very handsome, very gracious, and highly esteemed.
Age even flattered her, dealing kindly by her beauty ;
but that perhaps was due to the fact that her life never
flowed in the channels of violent passion. Some
believed her cold and wanting in feeling ; but it would
be a great mistake to imagine her without the warmth
of energy. She was a clever woman, and although she
never asserted herself so as to give offence, she always
managed to have her way. Who, indeed, could have
dreamt to turn her will aside, since I, her idol and her
darling, never once succeeded in going againt it ? She
was a remarkably clever woman.

The world admired her ; whether she was loved I
cannot say. Maybe she loved no one excepting myself.

LETTERS I ROM HELL.

T)id I love lier ? Well, if I must answer the question
honestly, 1 am bound to say I also ruther admired than
love<l her. And, indeed, slie was worthy of all admir-
ation. Never anywhere did I meet a woman who was
80 tlioion^ldy what tlie world calls a lad}'' — mind you,
I mean a hu'y in the world s own ucceptution. 6he
was just perfect — perfect in beauty, in manner, in bear-
ing, in rhess, in all the ways of life prescribed by
society ; perfect, too, in the fulhlment of what she con-
sidered her duty, irreproachable in conduc:, a very pat-
tern of piety, appearing clothed iu spotlessness as with
a garment ; never saying or doing or permitting any-
thing that might breathe suspicion on her perfection.
In short, she was a lady to the least movement of her.
finger, to the minutest folds of her dress. And she ,
preserved her reputation, even adding to it daily.

Looking back now, I understand her — as indeed I
understand the whole of the sad past — with a new in-
sight. I see plainly now that to her the world was
everything ; it was her guide, its approval being the aim
of her every ambition. I do not mean to say by this
that she cared not for things good and beautiful in any
other light, and she really cultivated religion. No one
could appear more assiduously obedient to the behests
of piety than my mother, with her veneration for the
clergy, her regular attendance at church ; and no one
ever quitted her presence without feeling edified. Not
undeservedly might duty and propriety be termed the
guardian saints that watched her every step.

The stately mansion we inhabited was divided into
two, figuratively speaking, my mother presided in one
way — my father, though quietly, in another ; I, their
child, seemed to belong altogether to my mother's do-
minion. I shrank from my father, feeling afraid of his
quiet eye. Apparently he was satisfied wit.h this state
of affairs, but I feel sure now that in his heart he loved
me.^

LE TIERS FROM HELL.

My mother's rule was marked by gaiety ; tihe loved
to live in style. My father, excused by business, but
rarely took part in her doings ; and if he made his ap-
pearance at times, I, foolish child, ielt almost ashamed
of his presence — he looked so little like the master of
the house in the simplicity of his habits and unpretend-
ing ways.

There was another inmate of our house, my father's
sister, strangely contrasting with my mother. The
world had begun to call her an old maid ; and she cer-
tainly was peculiar, a mixture of unfashionableness and
singula] ity. People called her eccentric, whimsical;
and indeed one never knew what she might not be do-
ing next. She was no * lady,' like my mother, and no-
wise perfect, though she could look remarkably lady-like
whenever she thought it worth her while. She was ex-
tremely Datural, her heart always bubbling over with its
inmost thoughts ; there was something utterly naive in
her straightforward openness and the unstudied ways of
her conversation. My mother, I believe, thought her
queer ; but in truth she was the only person who ever
knew how to call up a smile in my father's face. And
this she looked upon as her own special vocation, ever
mindful of it. No ; Aunt Betty could nowise be held
up as a pattern ; and as for perfections, she had but one
. — a heart brimful of kindness, ever ready to sacrifide it-
self, making it her one delight to see others happy. In
fact she never thought of herself. And that heart of
^. hers was filled with a faith as deep and iervent and
single-minded as any child's. No doubt her Christian
life knew its times of dearth as of plenty — it could not
be otherwise with a nature like hers — but her heart,
nevertheless, was firmly grounded. She had God in her
heart. And though she might get entangled with her du-
ties,'and even blunder about God'scommandments,the one
commandmeflt, fulfilling the law, ever shone as a beacon
to her soul, that, loving God, we should love one another.

LETTERS FROM HELL,

She had hardly ever been separated from my father,
and now she seemed indispensable in his house — that
great two-parted house. If I were to call her our Cin-
derella, it would most certainly be an ill-chosen com-
parison, and yet a true one. She was queen of the
household ; but in that position she managed to be the
servant of all. Every trouble, every care, she took upon
her shoulders, wearing herself out for each and all of us.
Slie liked it. Any attempt to oppose her in this respect
roused her self-assertion, meek and mild though she was
in aught beside. My mother being the lady, never
touched domestic concerns with a finger ; everything was
given up to Aunt Betty, even the care for myself and
my father. But household worries were the least of her
vicarious burden ; she felt called to take upon herself
whatever was disagreeable to any one else, making her-
self a shield and warder-off in every possible direction,
and being the willing scapegoat even, if thereby she
could comfort blundering servant or careless child. She
appeared to consider this her life's calling, — she who,
despite her simplicity, was by far the wisest of us, — and
indefatigable were her attempts to cover the want of
harmony between my parents. She might in truth be
called the bond of union between them. It was evidently
my father for whom she thus sacrificed herself, loving
him with a sisterly devotion as beautiful as rare. How
well she understood how to brighten his home, to turn
aside the edge of disappointment, and flood the place
with her own abundant warmth. Was he sad, — how
she would cheer him, and with a show of gaiety, hiding
perhaps her own aching heart, strive to heal the breach
that separated him from his wife, and, alas ! from his
child as welL • c :, •■

And how lovingly she did her very best for me, — the

sweetest, kindest of aunts ! My mother indulged me

fondly ; I ought not to say that she spoiled me, — her

-cleverness stood in the way of that ; but I owe it to my

LETTERS EROM HELL.

aunt that, in spite of all indulgence, I was a good and
even pious child. It was she who taught me to read my
Bible, sowiog the good seed in my heart, and nothing in
after life ever did more for me than her loving and God
fearing example. The recollection of that early time is
unspeakably sweet to me even now in the bitterness of
hell. With what power of love she drew me is plainly
evident from the fact that whenever I could I stole
away from the queenly presence of my mother — though
there was never a plaything I wished for but she gave
it me — to seek Aunt Betty, trotting behind Iier to
kitchen and store-room, or spending hours in the one
little chamber she called her own. That was the
happiest time of my life.

Thanks to Aunt Betty, then, I was brought up in the
fear of God ; but though the seed was sown, and the
flower even blossomed, it never yielded fruit. As I grew
up, the power of the sensual was upon me, and I early
conformed to the ways of the world. Aunt Betty died ;
she had positively worn herself to death. At such cost
the service of love at times is given. Her loss moved
me deeply, but the impression did not last. I had be-
gun to attend at my father's counting-house. My mother
had destined me for the army, or, if possible, to some
diplomatic career. 1 was gifted with my mother's
beauty, was heir to my father's fortune, and not wanting
in ability. She took pride in me, and naturally wished
I should be a credit to her in the eyes of the world.
But although apart from Aunt Betty I had always been
left to my mother's guidance, my father strenuously
opposed her wishes in this respect ; I should follow in
his footsteps and carry on the time-honoured firm. Life,
he said, would yield its own battles apart from the
army. He was right, but a sorry soldier I proved.

I was gifted with the pleasant but dangerous talent
of making friends wherever I went — a pernicious talent
even, with a disposition like mine. Not only did the

LETTERS FROM HELL,

world open her arms to receive me, but to clasp me as
the fair nymphs of the well clasped Hylas, the beautiful
youth, dragging him helplessly to the deep. Even before
my lips wore the first downy sign of manhood, I was
already corrupted. Of misleading companions there was
no lack, those of my own sex not being the worst. Such
things, however, avenge themselves: b«ing misled at
first, I began to mislead.

But being brought under my father's immediate in-
fluence, he did his utmost to lift me from the slough,
sparing neither admonition, nor rebuke, nor even re-
straint. It availed not ; I evaded his guidance, and even
deceived him. More successful were my mother's
attempts ; for while, on the one hand, she managed to
let me see that she could condone, if not actually excuse,
she yet so powerfully pleaded the claims of prudence
and position that I promised to mend my ways. And I
did mend them. I carefully considered the extreme of ,
dissipation, avoiding discovery and scandal.

Self-restraint was not without effort, for my nature
thirsted after pleasure. But though passion-ruled, I had
a strong will to act as a curb where I chose, and the
worldly wisdom of my mother taught me the advis-
ability of exerting that will. / ^ ^

I was about one-and -twenty when my father died ;
never since we lost Aunt Betty, can I remember having
seen a smile on his face — there was no one to call it up
when she had gone. And now he left us. My mother
retired on her jointure — satisfied, as she said, to have
done her duty in the world. And I, at an early age,
was admitted to a partnership in the firm, of which my v
father's brother now was head. Soon after I fell seri-
ously ill.

This brings me to one of the darkest episodes of my
life. It is but an episode ; a draught of passing enjoy-
ment, but fraught with the origin of my deepest woe.
Could I be washed of all my sin, this one dark recollec-
tion would never leave me. v

lii

l!l!l

LETTERS FROM HELL.

iiiiiii
liiii

liiii

The illness happily had been got over, leaving me
prostrate. It was early in tie spring. My medical at-
tendant advised me to leave town as soon as possible,
for the country or the seaside. But I was a prey to ill-
humour and fretfulness, I liked the advice, and 1 did not
like it. I did not care for our own place in the coun-
try; it was not quiet enough, I said, and I hated the
sea. As it chanced a sudden whim came to the rescue.
"We had been to the lakes the previous autumn ; mem-
ory carried me back to a keeper's lodge, delightfully
situated in a leafy solitude, a very bower of clematis
and roses. Peace herself could not dream of a more
congenial retreat. If T was to go for a change of air that
was the place I should fancy.

Difficu'ties wer*) got over, and I went. An honest
old keeper lived there with his daughter Annie, she be-
ing on the verge of womanhood. Annie ! — how little
did I think that this name one day would sound so
terrible to my ears.

I recovered quickly and strength returned. But
lovely as the spot was, life without incident did not
amuse me. From sheer ennui I began to make love to
Annie. She was an inexperienced country girl; but
»the very naivete of her ignorance was enchanting. She
was as free and natural as the birds of the dell, a very
outcome of her surroundings, fresh as the dewy mom
and fragrant as the woodland air. Wild and untaught,,
yet sweetly delicate, that child of nature soon cast a
spell over my fancy. We were left alone fearlessly. Her
father saw but a child in her — she was barely seventeen
— and she was engaged to wait on me.

But Annie, at first, w^as proof to flattery ; light-footed
and light-hearted, she turned its edge unconsciously,
and I made no way with her. Always merry and al-
ways happy, full of kindness and grace, she flitted about
me, helpful as an angel, but coy and unapproachable.
Not that she saw danger — she did not even suspect it \

LE7TERS FROM HELL,

it was merely the instinctive dread holding all children
of nature aloof from snares. The bird on the sunny
bough will look at you, even sing to you, but you shall
not touch it. Brimming with life's enjoyment she was
easily delighted, and sprightly as a squirrel in the wood.
She knew affection, but what we call love had at that
time not entered her consciousness. Kever had I seen
a happier mind, a fresher and more charming disposition;
the sky of her soul was as clear as the blue vault above,
her singing as blithe as the lark's on the wing, and she
<}ared not whether the sun shone or not.

But in my selfish soul I said, * Thou coy little bird,
see if I don't catch thee ! Not that I loved her — the
difference of rank was too great ; but I was for plucking
the liower, though I should throw it away after awhile.

And I did succeed, working a pitiful change in the
child; she was like a faded blossom or a bird with
broken wing. Her singing and laughter were silenced,
the fearlessness of innocence was gone. Sadly and^
silently she moved about, scarcely lifting her tearful
eye. But from that moment she clung to me with
tender resignation, as touching as it was true, — to me
who had ruined her in idle sport. She felt, and felt
rightly, that henceforth her life was mine, and in her
own way loved me, wronged as she was. It was I who
had murdered her soul.

Even then repentance with poignant sting had seized
upon my heart — ^there was some good left in me as yet ;
I felt deeply touched, moreover, by the child's entire
love and humble surrender. Was she bewitching be-
fore, she was not less so now ; not to be known again,
but lovely still in sorrow. Free and fearless she had
been in tlie pride of her beauty ; now with chaplet de-
flowered and robbed of her glory, ruefully kissing the
hand which broui^ht her so low.

I began to love her, or to believe I loved her, and
thought of a possible marriage. J

LETTERS FROM HELL,

Ilii

lliiii

But it fell out different. My mother had been in«
formed, and set herself to bring me to reason. How
cleverly she did it ! — not rousing opposition, but none
the less efifectively showing me the utter foolishness of
my intention. There was not a shade of derision in her
manner, yet I felt ridiculed. She never called it a silly
freak, but she brought me to view it as such. Had I
really loved Annie, no doubt my mother could not so
easily have influenced me. As it was, I suddenly seemed
to come to my senses, it was not love — only pity for the
girl.

My mother spoke about it freely; and presently she
succeeded in directing my attention elsewhere. She had
adopted an orphan child, of American parentage, dis-
tantly related to her own family. Lily might be about
nine or ten years old now, and so far 1 had scarcely be-
stowed any notice upon her. My mother would hint
now and then at the rare flower of beauty slumbering
in the buds of promise. And presently, in so many
words, she pointed out to me that in some seven or
eight years Lily might not only have ripened to match-
less charms, but as an heiress of no ordinary kind could
not fail to draw the eyes of men. If, then, I would give
up Annie, and think of lily instead, she would try to
keep her for me. When Lily should have reached
maturity, it would be just about the right time for me
to settle in life, and I might hunt the world over, and
not find her equal anywhere. That was true enough,
and imagination had been set to work. Since that time
I loved to think of the promising little Creole.
: Lily was undeniably a lovely creature, as harmless as
a dove, but with me anticipating fancy revelled in pos-
session. It was easy for my mother therefore to win me
to her plan. There was something indescribably charm-
ing in this new relationship. To look upon Lily as my
own property, though she knew it not ; to watch her
unfolding charm upon charm in sweetest innocence; to

LETTERS FROM HELL.

•call her mine — mine in the very care that guarded her ;
to gather up treasure, as it were, for my own delightful
harvest, — call it unnatural if you like, but to a nature
like mine it was irresistibly tempting.

I allowed my mother full liberty to bring the affair
with Annie to a satisfactory end, as she termed it, hav-
ing given my word not to see the girl again. A real
sacrifice, was it not ? Hell shows it now in its own true
light.

LETTER V. *

I BEGIN" to feel at home'here. At home? How full
of sweetest echoes is this .word. It's very sound
would warm one's heart on earth : it is bitter here —
doubly bitter for memories gone. It does not lessen
hell to get used to it ; we are even forced to make our-
selves at home here, just as we are obliged to be what
once we were. .

That irresistible impulse to be continuously doing the
works of our earthly life, to pursue with a burning greed
a vain and shadowy exstence, may well be termed hell's
daily bread. The evil desire alone is real : the sense
that might lend it expression is dead, You have heard
of Tantalus and Sisyphus — it may help you to conceive
our state. All is illusion here, the very fire I told you
of, raging in imagination merely — within us that is — and
yet what an awful reality !

You understand, then, that I have resumed old habits,
not willingly, but under compulsion, following the old

IMTTERS FROM HELL,

1 !i

il III

iill"

bent with a helpless disgust. However, I cannot but
add that I have been tolerably fortunate, falling on my
feet in society, as it were, and a very nice set I have
joined. I have been lucky in renewing many an old
acquaintance, and have made friends with people whom
one would have been glad to know on earth. You would
be indeed surprised if I were indiscreet enough to men-
tion names ! But I shall content myself with generalis-
ing. It is strange how many of the so-called respectable
people one meets here ; in fact they form tlie neuclus of
society in hell as they do on earth. I might even say
good people, meaning those worthy folk whose one desire
it is to go through life comfortably, quite willing that
no one else should hunger, provided they themselves
have all they need: satisfied with their lot in the world,
not perhaps a grand one, and caring for nothing beyond
it — never dreaming that the less fortunate might be their
brothers and sisters after all. Just look about you wher-
ever you please — the world is full of such. The^ are good
to themselves and good to their children, thanking God for
the means of being so.' They spend their years as if
this life's business were all that need to be thought of,
living for their families, their home concerns, whether
in drudgery or in ease, both men and women. You
little think that daily life, with its legitimate cares, —
ay, even what you cadi your duty by house and home,
— may be the snare to bring your soul to hell ! There
are men who rush through life in the whirl of amuse-
ment ; others sleep through it ; others again wear them-
selves out for its paltry amenities, calling that to live
forsooth ; and before they are aware of it their race is
run, they close their eyes to open them again, surprised
perhaps, in the pangs of hell. ' . U ^ '

Oh could I live over again but a single year of my
earthly span — I do not mean for my own sake merely !
I might perhaps be able to warn some few of those
excellent men whose ideas of life are wrapped up in the

LETTERS FROM HELL,

counting-house on the one hand, and in the prosperity
of their family on the other — of those devoted wives and
mothers who spend themselves for the comfort of home.
I say some few of them, well knowing that not many
would believe me.

May, even as regards so-called philanthropists I have
made the unexpected discovery that sjme of them — I
say some — who have really one way or the other
benefited thousands, have lived to their own ruin. Has
the world been loud in their praises ? — learn wisdom,
my friend, and overrate not the world's approval.

It is, indeed, a strange fancy, prevalent among men,
that only the wicked go to hell. You poor deluded ones^
listen to my words : it is incredible, I assure you, how
little is needed to take a man to hell — that is to say, if he
dies without having found his Saviour. For without
Him the soul is unable to bear the smallest weight of
wrong ; while with Him — yes, with Him — she will
wing herself to heaven in the face of mountains of sin.
Do you know that Saviour ? I ask you as OLie who can
never know Him now !

There are many here, I assure you, who have never
committed any particular crime. The world with it»
notions of right and wrong, would cry out for justice if
it were but known ! And why ar§ they here ? They
never felt the sting of conscience, leading respectable
lives, laying the unction of goodness to their souls,—
but they died and went to hell. No demon of evil ruled
their lives, and yet they are here — oh heaven, where ia
thy justice? — in a like damnation with ourselves. The
torment of hell for such people consists in having nothing
to do here, no counting-house to attend, no families to
provide for. Not ruled by passion they are slaves to
life's habit, and the latter may be as terrible a task-
master as the former.

Thus much is certain, if having nothing to live for
could kill people, and if one coidd die in hell, many here

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LETTERS FROM HELL,

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would die of sheer hankering after their earthly
drudgery.

My own existence, once I was properly introduced,
was speedily filled with amusement. Are you surprised
that I should say * introduced ?' But we are no Goths
here, and society with us also attends to its rules. If it
needs little to bring one to hell, it is not so easy to make
one's way into the fashionable circles of this place of
woe. It is with us just as with you, with this difference
only : the world asks who a man is, the question here
being who he was.

Now I, in the world, was allowed to be handsome and
refined, a man who could pride Mmself on his gentle-
manly qualities, not to mention a considerable fortune.
Here I no longer am this man, but I affect his semblance.
Yet I must warn you against imagining that there is any
pretence ; no, it is nature, downright nature.

At first I was positively overwhelmed with calls and
invitations. Here also novelty is much sought after. If
I had brought nothing with me but the news of some
foolish fashion lately adopted in the world, I should have
been considered an acquisition. But, without flattering
myself, I may say I brought more — a fashionable finish
of the most faultless description having ever been the
very essence of my aims. Shall I tell you of a merry
club dinner to which I was asked lately ? The party
assembled was of doubtful reputation — high living,
drink, and gluttony seemed their watchword ; nor was
it complimentary to my antecedents to be invited, for
with me the beautiful maxim, * moderation in all things,'
had ever covered a multitude of sins, and I had always
been careful to avoid vulgarity. However, there I was ;
the fare was exquisite, the wine splendid. A jovial com-
pany they appeared, to judge from the loose jokes and
ribsdd anecdotes passing between the pleasures of the
table. And what shall I say of the temptations born of
surfeit, coursing through the heated veins ? Ah, they

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LE7TRRS FROM HELL,

"weij tiot wanting, but satisfaction was an illusion. I
refrain — there was nothing real in all that banquet save
its incitement to sin; we preyed on our miserable selves,
eating and drinking, leaving a nauseating feeling of
emptiness, the very jokes being unbearably stale. Men
of all kinds are found here, but vainly you look for one
capable of producing anything to refresh the mind by
genuine mirth or novelty. However, eat and drink we
must, and laugh and joke we must ; we were obliged, I
mean, whether we liked it or not. Now you understand,
perhaps, though faintly, what it means to join in
festivity in hell.

At that club dinner, where nothing was wanting that
gluttony could dream of, the thought of some poor
man on earth eating his crust in the sweat of his brow
again and again presented itself to my mind. The dry
bread that satisfies his hunger, the beer or tea that
quenches his thirst, what a royal feast is his as com-
pared with ourselves. For he does eat, and is satisfied,
but we — oh vainest deception !

Was it not that excellent hero, Achiles, who in Hades
exclaimed mournfully, he would rather be the most
miserable man on earth than king of the realm below?
This is but wisdom of the Greeks, but how true ! how
true 1 I too would far rather spend my days upon earth
amid the most overwhelming difficulties, battling with
care, want, or suffering, than occupy any favoured posi-
tion here,^ be it of king or epicure. Of all the fools of
the world's training, he, surely, is the greatest who takes
away his own life, thinking that he could never ba
worse off than he is. In sooth, whatever a man's earthly
lot may be, be sure it may be a paradise to what he
goes to meet. He may find himself yearning for the
misery he quitted : indeed, if you could give him back
that misery tenfold, he would seize it eagerly and bless
you for the gift.

Still the number of actual suicides, comparatively

LE2TERS FROM HELL,

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speaking, is small ; a far larger class of men content
themselves with shortening their days by continuous
grumblings and a dismal unsatisfied frame of mind. If
shortening their days were but all, and if thereby they
did at least better themselves for the time being 1 But
the fact is, they all but kill life with discontent, they
are dissatisfied with themselves, with their fellows, with
all the world, with the very air which they breathe and
the day which is given them. Poor fools, the day is
short and night is at hand 1 And why are they dis-
satisfied ? Because health is not all it should be, or the
world at times crosses them ; because their position in
life but imperfectly suits their nature and liking, and
they would desire a better lot ; because perhaps their
battle is harder than other people's, or, at worst, their
whole life a failure, falling short of dearest hope ?

I do not mean to underrate these things — on the con-
trary, I do own that life to most men is fraught with
sorrow ; but I say this : Could you but view matters
from the vantage-ground of hell, you who lessen life by
discontent, you would gain that much of wisdom, that
our days on earth, whatever of trouble, of care and vexa-
tion be bound up with them, are yet capable of yielding
very . ^al happiness. So much depends on how we take
things. If instead of fixing upon trouble as something
foreign to yourselves or hostile to your being, lookiqg
.upon yourselves as miserable in consequence, you could
but open your soul to that trouble, and, rising from in-
ertness, accept it as a very part of your existence, how
different things would appear ! Many a trouble, more-
over, is but imaginary, and if dealt with sensibly would
dwindle away ; while ?^any a real trouble, on the other
hand, by your striving to take it aright, might become
an impulse of new endeavour, changing the very face of
your life and leading you to a better happiness than be-
fore you aimed at. Ah, indeed, if you could bui view
matters from hell you would come to see that man is

LETTERS FROM HELL,

able to bear a load of trouble, and that confronting want
and misery, he may yet attain a state of happiness worth
the having ! You would find that every day of that life
which now you make a burden to yourselves and to
•others, is precious beyond words, a gracious gift of God
for which you cannot be grateful enough. You would
understand that I, hungering and longing, .would wish
to be in your place — ay, and count myself blessed to
bear the burden which you consider so grevious. But
what boots it that / see it all so plainly now ; it is too
late for me, — too late.

That fashionable people in hell have their so-called
grand evening parties will hardly surprise you ; we have
dances, ' at homes,' and all those things set store by in
the world. But if this sort of stylish living even on
earth is unutterably hollow, what must it be here where
the very air we breathe is vanity and nothingness ?
Looking back I can scarcely credit now how I could
wrong my better self for the sake of that vile habit of
attending parties. What is a party in the very society
which calls itself polite ? Is it not as if some vicious
goblin had a hand in it, bringing together some twenty,
fifty, even a hundred people, each of whom has his own
cosy fireside — men and women who for the most part
have little or nothing in common, but needs must meet
beneath staring chandeliers, the spirit of falsehood
among them? Vanity rules, and when the goblin has
thoroughly fooled them and lights turn pale, they each
go home fagged and tattered. Host and hostess say,
* What a mercy it's over !' Each visitor says, * I am
thankful to go to bed, — are you, poor fools of fashion ?

But it seems a marvel now how I also, in days gone
by, could sacrifice myself to the so-called claims of so-
ciety, I need not marvel that I do so here. It was by
choice then, — it is under compulsion now ; it is as if
ten thousand goblins fooled us— ^ve know it but cannot
withstand.

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LETTERS FROM HELL.

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The object of parties with U8 is just the same as with
you : to be seen, to be admired, to make oneself agree*
able — not so much in order to please your neighbour as
to be thought pleasant yourself — and to hide it amiably
if you think people a bore. There is one marked differ-
ence, however, placing us often in a position both pain-
ful and ridiculous. What should you say if at any of your
great social gatherings you could look through people's
clothes — those fine clothes put on so carefully — through
them, I say, to the very piece of humanity they hide,
and not only through them, but deeper still, to the oore
of the heart beneath ? It is so here ! Supposing, then,
you walk up to some old crone, saying, with your most
engaging smile — 'Delighted to see you!' thinking
to yourself at the same time — 'I wish she were at
Jericho !' — I leave you to imagine the figure you cut. I
give this as an example only — as a clue, rather ; think
it out further and see where it leaves you ! But even
to this one gets used in hell, fortifying oneself with a
kind of frivolous impudence, without which intercourse
would be simply unbearable. The incident I quoted
of course leaves the advaiitage with the old crone; but
the moment she opens her lips her interlocuter has the
best of it, lor he can see through her clothes. as she saw
through his. They are quits then.

However, as I said, it is not merely ridiculous but
painful — offering, moreover, an unsurmountable obstacle
to all courtship. It is utterly impossible here to fool
a woman) be she ever so frail. All the fine words of
hell cannot delude her, for she sees through them. From
this point of view we form a most virtuous company.
Indeed flattery and compliments with us are exceed-
ingly difficult to pass, the heart betraying the man in
quite another sense than with you.

You can hardly picture to yourself how much of the
truly surprising, if not interesting, may be experienced
here in a single day. The world, as seen from hell, is

LETTERS FROM HELL,

the land of dreams and imaginings, appearing beautiful
and pleasant none the less. And, absurdly paradoxical as
it may sound, here only, where all reality has vanished,
reality in uncompromising nakedness is upon us. Are
they friends or foes that meet, they soon speak the
truth to one another. Such mutual confessions, on the
whole, are little edifying, and, since there are no secrets
here, at once flit from circle to circle for general merri-
ment. Do you care to have examples t Here are some
recent tid-bits.

A had been killed in a duel which he fought to
avenge an insult offered to his handsome young wife.
Quite recently he somewhat unexpectedly met his late
opponent, who, having gone the way of all flesh, had
come to hell. WrathfuUy he taxed him with former
wrong, but the latter made answer quite cooly ;

' Silly man, do you mean to fight me again for nothing
whatever ? Let bygones be bygones ; we had better be
friends.'

' 1 ui nothing whatever !* reiterjited A., hotly. ' Do
you call it nothing that you insulted my wife, and
killed me, moreover, when I tried to vindicate her ?'

* I suppose I must tell you the plain fact,' replied his
I opponent. * I see you still labour under a delusion. The
1 matter is simply this : I had been the lover of your
wife, but broke with her. That was the insult. That
is why she got you to challenge me. However, these
[are bygones ; we'll be fuends now.*

Whether they were friends after that I cannot tell. I
Jrather think that A. felt ready to hide himself.

Two friends — in fact they were cousins — sat together
|in pleasant intercourse. Said the one: „

' To tell the truth, I was born to be a poet. I did
[write novels, and my first publications made quite a sen-
sation.*

• Don't I know that,' says the cousin, * since it was I
?ho wrote half the reviews about them ? It was I,

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LET7ERS FROM HELL.

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sweet coz, who brought you into fashion. That is easilj
managed, if one has a few connections and sufficient wit
to let the review be racy : people are easily caught.*

' What — you ? Surely you are but joking ? Why I
owe you everlasting thanks.'

'Thanks — no,' replied the cousin. Did we not love
one another as very brothers ?'

The would-be poet grew thoughtful, continuing after
a while :

But it was short-lived fame. I had jumped into
fashion with one leap, as it were, and a great future
seemed to await me, when, as if by magic, there was a
change which I never understood. Eeviews from
panegyrics turned to spite, cutting me up so merci-
lessly that no publisher presently had courage to launch
my works, and I was constrained to turn my back upon
the literary career.'

* Well, I can solve that mystery also. It was I who
cut you up so mercilessly as you say, not leaving you the
faintest pretence to talent. I had set myself to persecute
you into silence. As soon as you opened your mouth down
came the lash. What could you do but turn your back
upon literature?

'You— you did that?'

' To be sure, but don't excite yourself : it was to your
own advantage. Your mother, to whom I never could
say nay, had implored me to leave no stone unturned in
trying to save you from what she considered your utter
ruin. You had no talent for poetry, she said, but a very
marked calling for the blacking manufactory, on which
your family had thriven conspicuously. Now I knew —
of course I did — that your literary fame was all hum-
bug ; and humbug could not really hold you in the
saddle, I saw that. A reviewer could fill your baloon,
but hti could not keep it sailing, and with every line you
wrote the gas escaped wofully; you were as near a
collapse as possible. So I generously resolved to antici-

, III!/'

III!'''''

LETIERS EROM HELL,

pate it, and by main force bring you from poetry to
blacking. I discharged broadsides of wit and volleys of
sarcasm whenever you dared to show yourself in print,,
success crowning my efforts; for you died rich with the
spoils of blacking — a man of worth, too, in the eyes of
respectable citizens/

' And went to hell !* cried the blacking and poesy-
monger. * Should I find myself here if my Pegasus had
not been hamstrung so vilely ?*

' That is more than I know,* returned the reviewing
cousin mildly. * But I scarcely think that literature by
itself would have carried you to Paradise, any more than
I believe that blacking alone had power to drag you to-
hell. But these are bygones. I l^oved you deaiiy, and
was your best friend after all. ;v

The poetical blacking dealer turned away disgusted..
The information was more than he could stand.

A couple of monks were holding low but earnest con-
verse.

* But tell me, brother,' said the one, 'how you came
to take the cowl ?' ' ^

* Through my own stupidity ; it was nothing else. I
fell in love with Lisella Neri ; you knew her, I think.
She was considered a beauty, and she was an heiress. .
However, I was refused, and sick of life, I entered the
monastery, — a piece of folly I rued every day till I died.
A simple story, is it not.? But what brought you to the
cloister?' ' ' ::':r'^ ---^'^^^.'y-V- :'_■■■ ■•:'. y^^'y-l -■}-.■•[-■ \-...-'J-'''-\'\.-::'

'The very opposite, strange to say. I also loved Lisella, .
and presently was her accepted suitor, but it ended in
my being the most miserable husband under the
sun. Lisella was both capricious and bad ; and she did
not care for me. I never knew a moment's peace. There
seemed but one way out of misery; leaving her mistress
of her fortune, 1 fled to the monastery, and truly I never
repented of it. If ever a moment's discontent assailed
me I had but to think of Lisella and happiness was re--
stored/ •

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LETTERS I'ROM HELL,

The first monk sat buried in silence. Presently he
said : ' Our experience shows that no one can escape his
destiny. From what you tell me I gathered that Lisella
one way or another, must have brought me to the cowl.
Still you, brother, were the most fortunate after all ; not
because for a time you owned that handsome troubler
of peace, but because, knowing her as I did not, your
disappointment ended in content.'

But enough of this. What is the use of telling these
things;

Martin, poor Martin, what may have become of you ?
He was wronged after all. Badly brought up, badly
used, he was my work.

She was very beautiful that young girl, abou^ ? ' wn
age. She was cleaning the house-steps one day wnen I
first saw her. But lowly as her occupation was, she
charmed the eye. The demon was moved. It was easy
for me to offer to educate her. She appeared not born
to her humble sphere. I placed her with a family I
knew. Simple as she was she appeared to understand
I had some object. But the flower should unfold be-
fore I plucked it. I had learned to wait.

By what chance he and she met I know not, but their
first meeting seems to have been sufficient. As in a flash
of lightning, love struck their hearts simultaneously, and
quiclily they knew that they were each other's.

Martin came to me with an o^en confession. But not
only did I refuse consent, — I cruelly taunted him, de-
frauded as I felt. He quitted me in anger to seek his
own way. As self-willed as myself, he hesitated not a
moment as to his line of action, carrying off the girl
before my very eyes so to speak.

She was nowhere to be found. But he did not hide,
facing me boldly. It was then that I thrust him from
my house ; from my heart also I believed — but in this
I was mistaken.

LETTERS FROM HELL.

What could behave been wanting to tell me that would
heal every breach between us, as he skid in that letter ?
Did it concern him or her ? A Higher Power has
spoken, he said. I am left to maddening doubt.

Doubt ? — nay, it is a burning question, consuming my
soul with the fire of hell — sufficient almost to draw me
back to earth as a wandering ghost. But shall I find,
an answer to the question — and where ?

LETTEK VI

LET me speak to you of Lily. But I fear memory
will scarcely separate the child Lily from the
woman into which she blossomed. Remember that I
see her with the knowledge of a later period. I neither
saw nor knew her aright, there being nothing so blind*
as the carnal gaze.

She was a Creole. Delicate and lovely were her
features, though not perhaps moulded after any received
type of beauty; her hair black and glossy ; her eyes like
stars, of so deep a blue that the cursory beholder be-
lieved them black, and veiled with lashes behind which
her soul at times would appear to withdraw from your
gaze as a pure nymph descending into her own limpid
depth. Her figure was slight and airy, perfectly har-
monious, not wanting in fulness, but tenderly shaped ;
not tall, with hands and feet of the smallest, and rarely
beautiful. Such was Lily. But those eyes of hers were
her greatest charm. Who does not know the soft en-
chantment of Creole eyes ? Lily's even now have a
power that penetrates my soul. Never in all eternity
shall I forget that tender brightness sparkling with

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tearful laughter, that gaze half sad and yet so full of
promise, that at any time it bound my heart.

The southern temperament is generally accredited
with caprice and passionate self-will. But nothing was
more unlike Lily than this. No doubt there was warmth
in her nature, but its glow was gentle and deep, never
kindling to passion, but always yielding its ownbenificent
radiance. Capriciousness was utterly foreign to her,
but she knew her own mind concerning anything she
considered to be right — anything her conscience had
recognized as due to truth or charity. In such things
her will was unbendable, though in aught else she was
submissiveness itself. Self-love she knew not, her soul's
deepest need being surrender. Poor child, you could not
have been placed more terribly, all but given over to
one who was an egotist to the core of his being.

She was all heart. Later on some physician dis-
covered what he called an organic defect — Lily's heart
was too large, he said. Nothing more likely than this !
• I never knew a disposition so prone to feeling, so easily
touched as hers. She was brimming with affection, love
being the only reward she claimed. As a child, a loving
word — a look even— could so move her that she would
fling herself on your neck, whispering her gratitude as
she nestled in your embrace. Her sympathy at all
times was easily roused. The trials and strivings of
others — their joys and sorrows, their happiness or mis-
fortune — were all that interested her most. She seemed
to move in love and pity.

At times I could not but tell myself how ill fitted she
was for a self seeking world. Her tender nature was
often hurt in intercourse with others, and, feeling re-
pulsed, she would shrink back within herself. That is
why after all she was a lonely child, satisfied to com-
mune with herself and with me — wretch as I was.
~ Added to this, hers was a wonderful simplicity of
nature — simplicity of spirit I ought to say. I doubt not

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LETTERS FROM HELL.

that, had she lived to extreme old age, she world .never
have departed from the heart of a child. Nothing was
more easy than to talk her over to anything, provided,
only it did not clash with her sense of right. She never
dreamt that anybody could be deceiving her. Once or
twice I frivolously put her simple-mindedness to the
test, but felt so humbled by hbr utter trust that I never
did it again. Incarnate shamelessness would have
bowed to her holy innocence. She was one of those
beautiful beings one meets with but rarely in life, who,
walking on earth, keep their skirts pure, no matter what
defilement be about them. I verily believe you might
have dragged her through slums of sin and vice, and she
would have come forth with innocence unharmed. Her
soul somehow was above offence, she never thought that
anybody could be wanting to do wron^. Her eyes never
opened to the appalling fact that it is a wicked world in
which men live. She knew what sin was, her pious
mind having its own childlike ideas concerning it ; but
she never knew vice, as with fleeting footstep, she fol-
lowed her transient course of life.

I should wrong myself if I said that I never saw this
i till now, I ielt it even then, corrupt as I was. How
I little there was in common between us — she all spirit, I
; all flesh. Again I say, poor little Lily !

She 'lid not acquire much knowledge in life, Jier learn-

j ing being restricted to the fewest of objects. That his-

jtory was her favourite pursuit Would seem natural, since

history treats of men, of their deeds and conflicts, their

j happiness and grief, moving her heart to sympathy ; and

she cared for a book only inasmuch as it spoke of her

fellows, otherwise she saw but dead letters which wearied

her. In mechanical attainments, therefore, she was

(ever backward ; it was next to impossible to teach her

[the use of a foreign tongue. Living a life of feeling, sh&

[could not but become contemplative and somewhat

[dreamy, reason inclining to sit apart in her. We seri-

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LETTERS FROM HELL

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ously endeavoured to shake her up, as the phrase goes,
but it IS a thankless task to attempt anything against
na>ture. Wanting in communicativeness she was by no
means, — to me at least she was ready to confide her
every thought.

The stories of the Bible had everbeen those she loved
above all others. They had been the first food of her
waking soul, and never anything impressed her more
deeply than the death on the Cross of the Son of God,
who loved sinful men and gave his life for them. That
love a1id that suffering formed her earliest impressions,
and the most lasting. Again and again she would read the
holy record, and surely an angel has counted the tears
she shed while so engaged. Unlike in aught else as she
was to Mary Magdalene, she was like her in burning
love for her crucified Lord.

Later on the history of the Crusades moved her. The
crucified One was her first love, and stories of the
crusaders first stirred her enthusiasm, the idea seizing
on her so powerfully that the course of a few weeks
seemed to add years to her growth. The enthusiasm
cooled but the thought remained, and thenceforth the
Holy Land, where the Son of God had lived and died,
was the object of her dearest longing. She would at
first lend expression to her feelings, but she suffered for
it. Her little girl friends nick-named her the Lady
Crusader. And even if they held their peace they could
not refrain from teasing her by signs, holding up their
fingers crosswise on meeting her; she, poor little thing,
of course understood their amiable meaning. The
Saviour's Cross thus early had become her cross. The
mockery hurt her deeply, and she was not again heard
to speak of the Holy Land. But where the lips must be
silent, the heart perhaps clings to its longing all the
more ardently.

Would it not seem that she was little fitted for this
"" world ? — not for my world at any rate. Had I not been

LE TIERS FROM HELL.

such a hopelessly miserable fellow, I must have known
it,, her very look must have told me — beautiful and pure
as an angel! Beauty and its enjoyment had ever
appeared to me as the very prizes of life; but never
have I known anything more simply beautiful than the
entire devotion of this child soul in purity and truths
and unspotted by self-love.

Some years passed away when my mother again
thought fit to interfere. ' That won't do,' she said ; * you
anticipate future happiness, and thereby will lose it..
You must separate. You had better' travel for a couple
of years. I will watch over Lily meanwhile, and do
what I can towards bringing her up for your delight.
Yes, leave us, my son ; the time will come when you,
will see the wisdom of my counsel.'

I could not but own that my mother was right, and
declared myself ready to make the eifort in the interest
of future happiness, or, more correctly, of promised en-
joyment. It had become desirable, just about that time,
that one of the partners of the firm should go to South
America ; it would be a lengthened absence. My old
uncle could not undertake it ; my cousin, junior partner
like myself, did not care for the journey ; I, therefore,
yielding to my mother's private representations, offered
to go. Lily dissolved in tears on taking leave ; my
mother's severest influence scarcely could bring her to
reason. I, too, was moved, but took comfort in selfish
thought. ' Wait, little woman ; we shall meet again, and
future delight will be greater than present loss.'

I stayed away longer even than was expected. I often
had news from home — letters, Loo, from Lily — wonder*
ful letters I An angel might have written them, those
delicately tender productions ; and nothing could be
more foreign to my own nature than the lovely thoughts
expressed in those — shall I say — ethereal letters? But
they did not sink into my heart : they only touched my
senses. Surely it was an evil delight which saidt

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"* This tender blossom, so pure and innocent, is ymirs ;
and you will teach her one day that she too is flesh and
blood and a child of earth.'

I returned at last and saw her again. I was charmed
— no, that is not the word, — I was enchanted ! Grace-
ful and slender — unutterably lovely, wi*-h maiden
blushes, and veiling her eyes — just quitting childhood ;
she was not quite fifteen.

But as I pronounced her name she raised those
wondrous eyes and looked at me. Joy trembled in
tears, and echoed through my soul. It was but a look,
but I was satisfied. I clasped her to my heart.

Shall I call them happy, the days which now had
dawned? They were happy, but not without a sting.
Seeing Lily was as though reading her letters. Again
and again I felt she was the child of another sphere.
How should she satisfy me ? Even while I clasped her
in rapture I hTiev) her aims and mine were far, far
apart. As childlike as ever, hers was the same yielding
tenderness ; but her very afifection filled me with regret.
The love in which she moved was unknown to me ; she
and I were as different as day and night, as heaven and
hell.

Some time passed away. Again my mother stepped
between us, reminding me of the calls of good sense and
propriety. The child must be left free to develop ; our
'Constant intercourse would end in her treating me as a
brother always, and that was not what I wanted. It was
desirable that I should take bachelor's rooms, and the
less I showed myself at home the better. For the rest
I could make myself as agreeable to Lily as I pleased,
and as might be compatible with the solemn promise
not to speak to her of love till she should have com-
pleted her seventeenth year.

My mother always had her way ; I promised and
took rooms. I saw she was right Lily had not un-
folded in my presence as she might have done. There

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LETTERS FROM HELL,

was a change on my leaving, and a new relationship
promised to grow out of the old one. She ceased being
the mere child, her natural surrender clothing itself
with maidenly reserve. I was obliged to be careful,
and that was well. It was a time of trial, and con-
tinued so in spite of its own share of anticipating
bliss. ...

I remembered Annie and made enquiries. Her
father had died ; what had become of her no one could
tell. My mother could tell I doubted not, but I dared
not ask her. I tried to stifle recollections, and with
Lily's unconscious assistance I succeeded. . . .

There was sorrow in the horizon. Lily drooped. She
had always been delicate, and waking womanhood
found her more delicate still. Our utmost care
gathered round her, and we resolved to winter in the
south. Lily had grown thoughtful ; the child was try-
ing to understand herself, dreamingly musing within
iher soul. She seemed more lovely than ever, beset
[with the riddles of her deepest being. But delight in
her yielded to anxiety.

Thus we three — my mother, Lily, and myself —
i moved southward. It was a time of blessing ; this
period of my life appearing steeped in lijL;ht, and show-
ing of darkness only what seemed needful to enhance
the light. Lily's state of health grew less alarming ; a
year passed rapidly, I will not say without spot or
blemish, as far as it concerned myself, yet without
leaving any real scar on the tablets of memory. It was
jail but Paradise — but now, now it is in hell !

How happy we were, we three together ! My mother
[amiability itself — I anxious to be amiable — and Lily
lifting her fair white cup to receive heaven's dew. She
was happy and she showed it. How gracefully she
[raised her drooping head ! how radiant were her looks,
drinking in the riches of beauty about her ! Not only
bodily, but mentally, she unfolded charm upon charm

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in the genial atmosphere, half a year working a marvel'
of change. Womanhood had risen in the blushes of
dawn, sweet and fragrant as a rose just opening her
chalice to the dewy kisses of morning. In her relation
te me also childhood receded ; as tender and submissive
as ever; there was an unconscious dignity about her.
She was no longer the petted darling, living only in the
affection that surrounded her ; but she had found riches
of life, fathomless and beautiful, within her own being.
And before long she, whose natural gifts of mind and
heart far surpassed my own, had gained an ascendancy
over me as complete as indescribable. Gladly I yielded
myself to this influence ; it was a new delight — nobler
and purer than any I had tasted before. Lily raised
me above myself — I hardly knew it at the time ; but
new sensations, new interests, new hopes, filled my
heart, teaching me gradually that there were better
things in life than gratifying self and pleasing the
senses. Day by day intercourse with her refined and
ennobled my nature. I was in a fair way of becoming
good, of becoming human let me say !

Her own eyes had opened to the beauty of the world
— other beauty than I had ever known, and by degrees
I learned to see things with her eyes* But her look
and longing continually soared beyond this world,
which could not satisfy her deepest desire. And can
you believe it, she drew me after her. What power,^
what influence in so tender, so fragile a creature ! It
cost her no effort. I followed, followed, as though her
soul were a beacon in darkness. I listened to her voice
as to the guidance of a prophetess, directing my sight
to a rapture of bliss. A new world, — a world of the
spirit ; — opened to my wondering gaze, a vision of life
eternal dawning slowly beyond. I do remember them
—those blissful hours lifting my soul from the dust..
Ah, God in heaven, what hours, what recollections, and
now — what despair.

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LE2IERS JfROM HELL.

But under that gentle influence I began to look back-
-ward also, and to feel ashamed — ashamed of the love I
had felt for Lily. It was love — yes, such as I could
give, disgracing that sacred name, a love which would
have frightened her to death had she known it. She
was spared the horror of that discovery.

Another spring was at hand, we were thinking of
moving homewards. Lily had suffered lately from
somewhat alarming symptoms — spasms of the heart,
the doctor said. But we would not disquiet ourselves,
hoping nothing serious would supervene. Lily within
these eighteen months had blossomed to such fulness of
life, her measure overflowing, as it were, with youth and
beauty, and adding to our happiness daily. It had ren-
dered us Tearless. But a strange anxiety took hold of
Lily, showing itself whenever we spoke of returning
home. I tried to discover what moved lier, and to my
utter astonishment it appeared that an unsatisfied long-
ing filled her heart. That old desire of her chijdhood
to see the Holy Land, had suddenly possessed her
afresh ; or perliaps the thought, as a hidden spark, had
lived within her all these years. She entreated me not
to take her home^ before she had set foot on the sacred
soil, be it for ever so short a time. She could never
rest, she thought, till she had been there, and if I would
but take her thither, she would bless me for it even in
heaven.

I viewed her desire merely in the li^ht of a childish

[fancy, even a foolish whim ; yet in my secret heart I
idmired the faithful persistence with which evidently
she had clung to that early love; it touched me, and I

j resolved, as far as lay with me, that her wish should
be gratified. Indeed, she might have asked for a far more

[foolish thing, and I could not have found it in me to
leny her. When she begged for anything with that sub-

[missive angel look of hers, who coidd have resisted !
I consulted my mother; she demurred, but eventually

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agreed. We had spent those early spring days cruising^
about the Ionian Isles, and before long our faces were
set to the east. Lily thanked me with a look, a
sweet, loving look, which remained deathless in my
heart — yea, and it will burn there with a pain un-
quenchable throughout the ages of hell. But from that
hour a heavenly peace had settled on her. Silence had
fallen upon her, but she was perfectly happy.

A few words more and my story will be ended. Why
should I add to my grief by speaking about it? But re-
trospect is not the least of hell's torments.

We touched at the coast of Palestine and disembarked.
As a queen, I led lier to the land of her desire, myself
being the first of her servants. But her thoughts were
not of queenship ; to her own mind she was but a
humble pilgrim. Slowly we proceeded from one sacred
spot to another. Lily's illness was more serious than we
guessed, but she would not hear of rest. She was suffer-
ing from heart- disease, which had rapidly developed.
The end was as sudden as unlocked for. At Bethlehem,
in a convent which received us for charity's sake, she
breathed her last, a few days before she had completed
her seventeenth year. She died with tbe satisfied smile
of a saint on her face, for her desire had been given her.

Death with her had lost its terror. As one glorified
she lay — pale, but in heavenly beauty ; her hands
folded on her virgin bosom, where the world had not
entered.

Perhaps you will scarcely believe my words, that even
in those last hours, and though I sickened with the sense
of certain loss, she had power to lift me high above per-
ishable grief. A fearless trust had come to me, that, no
matter what affliction remained on earth, the place was
prepared where. I might be united with her, where there
is no more sorrow and no more pain, where death has
passed away. Terrible delusion ! ; y '

Her last words fell on my heart as a blessing from the
upper-world: : ^

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LETTERS FROM HELL,

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• Thanks, riiilip ! I am happy — God be with
you !"...'

1 WHS stricken with <;nef. Hut iiiy inmost soul was
l)uuye(l with the hope that soon I, too, niiyiht rise b jyond
the reach of sorrow, in a ln»ly kiss her last breath liail
mingled with mine.

But scarcely was slie j,'one when the old self-willed
nature within me rose. Goaded to despair, 1 was wild
with the kuowle<ijj;e of bereavement — what a treasure I
had lost, both of beauty and affection, what riches of
promise, of joys untasted. And how near 1 had been to
dreams realized — but a f^w davs and she would have
been mine I As a wild beast 1 raged, /afrauded of its
prey. She — she had escaped me ! Tt,is then was the
reward of years of patience and seif-denial In her
I had saved up treasures —pur.^ ures untold, to lose
it all by a single blow! .... And yet was it not
meet it should be so ? Should I not rejoice that she was
spared the sad future thut awaited her, the unholy touch
of my passion ? I could not rejoice then, Lily, but I
think I could now — if I were not in hell !

My mother too was {T;rieved, but she did not lose her
composure ; she sorrowed more for me, I think, than for
the loss of her we had loved. We buried Lily in the
Holy Land. She sleeps beneath a sycamore, not far
from the spot where the Saviour of men was born.

We turned homewct? a. On our journey back I found '
Martin.

Thus T became the man I was. I gave myself up to

I the world and lived only for its pleasures. I loved no
one but myseK, excepting, perhaps, my mother and the
boy I had adopted. I say perhaps, for that I really
loved them I cannot now be sure. I conformed to out-
ward Christianity, but my heart was far from it. True,

II joined not the sinners who openly sit in the seat of
[the scornful, laughing at all things sacred ; but after
[Lily's death there was in reality nothing lett I counted

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LEITERS FROM HELL.

sacred, unless it be an occasional recollection of my own
childhood left far, far behind. For at times I did re-
member those early days at Aunt Betty's knee, but I
closed my heart, driving these thoughts away from it.

Lite dealt gently with my mother. She preserved her
chaims and continued the perfect lady, admired by all.
Slie had always been pious, but she took to being saintly
now, trying hard to show me the way of life. However,
she could not bring me further than that, for her sake,
I paid proper attention to Christian observances, and,
for my own sake, to common decency in the pursuit of
pleasure. ,. .> ,

Let me slop here and rest from t!he pain of confes-
sion. L)o not imagine that confessing with us is followed
by relief. I am in hell, where there is no more repent-
ance, no more sorrow for sin.

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LIGHT increases slowly, but we never reach further
than a kind of luminous twilight — the reflection
of Paradise. Time passes amid suffering, torture, and
regret. Do not imagine that because I can write what
perchance interests you, it follows that it interests me,
or that I can fill up my time. That, too, is but imagin-
ary ; time seems to pass, but alleviation there is none.
Upon earth the worst misery yields to the consolation
that, sooner or later, it must come to an end. But here
— awful fact^time itself is endless !

Memories! memories 1 Facts long since forgotten,
here they are as though they had happened but yester-
day. I try to escape them, and once more recollections

'■".'■' *• .

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LETTERS FROM HELL.

-of Aunt Betty are something of an anodyne. In think- 1
ing of her and her invariable kindness to me throughout
the years of my childhood, I long for tears of gratitude.
But the eye is dry as a parched desert. How good she
was to me, but kindest of all to my father ! And how
loving to all whom she could serve. The humblest .was
not beneath her, if she could lend him a helping hand.
How often would slie sit up for my mother, sending the
tired maid to bed. How often would she spend an even-
ing with the servant girls, showing them how to make
their own clothes, and teaching them the art of laying by
something out of their wages. She would read to them
and amuse them to keep them steady, and was actually
going to teach the coachman his letters. But there my
father interfered, introducing him to a night-school
instead. '

Her health was anything but strong, yet she never
considered herself when the burdens of others could be
lightened. If ever anything made her angry, it was the
request to take care of herself, * / V she would say, as
if the most monstrous demand had been proffered, * / ^
— what do you mean V She had put self so far away
that the idea of caring for it appeared to her almost lu-
dicrous. Love gave her a wondrous power of self-com-
mand. When my mother had hurt her feelings — no
rare occurrence I fear — and she had brushed away the
tears, she never failed doing a special turn of sisterly
service with a face of angelic devotion; anxious to ap-
pear all the more light-hearted in my father's presence,
if perchance he had noticed it, and looked distressed.
Of course her own loving and hopeful disposition as-
sisted her in ever making the best of things ; but more
than this, it was the divine spirit moving in her. Love
had become second nature to her. And love always
helped her in doing the right thing, however strangely
she might set about it. Her education had been neg-
lected, even as regards religious knowledge. If you liad

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asked her the simplest questions about faith and hope
and charity she would probably have startled you with
ignorant answers, but she had these things, and they
made her a child of heaven.

The room she had chosen for herself was simple ; but
her« own neatness pervaded it. Yet one could not say
there was any order in her room. Every available space
was littered with objects, great and small, in wonderful
variety, offering to the obiervant mind a key to my
aunt's inmost nature ; for amid valuables of every de-
scription there were articles only fit for the dust-bin,,
apparently. But my aunt knew why she valued
them. They were a sort of land marks, in her estima-
tion, by which her life's history could be traced. Even
at an early age I had a vague notion of the sanctity of
these relics, and must own I handled them reverently.
They would set my fancy going, and I would invent
stories where auntie's authentic knowledge appeared
loth to lift the veil.

Aunt Betty, nf? a rule, dressed more than simply, de-
spising all pieteiice at f}j.shion in her daily life. Not
that she ' could not an' she would,' as she used to say.
And she valued a handsome present now and then, not
for the sake of the object itself, but as a mark of people's
regard lor her. She liked to be thus honored by those
lor whom she spent herself in service ! Both my father
and mother lost no opportunity of presenting her with
costly gifts, articles of dress, especially if my mother
was the giver. Aunt Betty would acci^ these things
with almost childish satisfaction, shutting them up forth-
with in her spacious wardrobe. And thus it came about
that she owned quite an array of millinery, shawls,
mantles, bonnets, furs, and what not, without ever
wearing them. That they grew old-fashioned did not
trouble her in the least ; but that the moth should not
«at them was her conscientious care. For this reason
she would hold regular exhibitions, when bed, table and

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LETTERS FROM HELL.

chairs were loaded with her treasures by way of giving
them an airing ; she walking about with a quiet ex-
pression of ownership, her gentle hands smoothing out
•or dusting her tinery. But her eyes seemed far away
Or if a gay mood supervened she wonld even place a
feathered bonnet on her dear old head, looking at her-
self in the glass with a peculiar smile, as though she
were comparing the once maiden Betty, whose youth
and beauty brought homage to her feet, with the aging
spinster whom the world scarcely knew now, whose lif^
had run in the narrow channel of sacrifice. * I am an
old goose,' she would say, putting up her gear with her
lavender bags.

But auntie, besides these things, owned a small li-
brary of choice works, beautifully bound. She would
dust them as lovingly as those unused garments. But
she never read them, having neither time nor quiet, she
said. * Some day when I am old, and no longer needed,
I will read them all,' she would add. Among her many
peculiarities, her habit of reading aloud deserves no-
tice. Understanding, in her case, pref^upposed hearing,
which proves that the art of reading with her never
reached beyond the rudimentary stage. Poor iVunt
Betty, keeping your books for a time when you are no
longer needed ! But that time found you
psalms with the angels.

In the dusk of the evening I would often seek her
room. I would find her sitting in silence and lost in
thought. But she was never annoyed at my disturbing
her — she loved me too much for that. And then she would
begin to tell me stories — quite a special gift with her. I
doubt not but that she mostly made up her stories as
she told them. What if they were no great literary
productions, they breathed a poetry of their own — a
warmth and loving kindness that fascinated my child-
ish heart. It was Aunt Betty who first instructed me
in religion. If her teaching was not exactly dogmatic,

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it was most truly practical. The impressions it left — so
deep, so sweet, so tender — how could they ever fade
away !

One evening we were sitting by her window. The
sky was clear and the stars were shining with unusual
brightness. The wondrous sight impressed my childish
mind. No doubt I had noticed them before ; but look-
ing back to that hour, it seems as though on that
evening I first beheld the sparkling lights of heaven. I
wanted to know what the stars were, and what was be-
hind them. Then Aunt Betty spoke to me of the-
dwelling-place of 6ur Heavenly, Father and its many
mansions of indescnbable beauty. I would go there
some day on leaving earth, if I were a good and holy
child.

The prospect pleased me, but curiosity was not satis-
fied. 1 wanted to ^ know more — I wanted a direct
answer to my question. Now, many an instructor of
youth might have been puzzled, but Aunt Betty's
imagination was far too fertile to be so easily at fault.
She continued therefore ; 'Behind the stars, my child,
there is a grand beautiful hall of glory such as eye
hath not seen, and there God sits upon His throne with
the only-begotten Son at His right hand. Eight in the
middle of the hall there is a Christmas tree, higher
than the highest mountain on earth, full of lights and
most beautiful presents. And who do you think are
gathered beneath that tree ? — why all the good chil-
dren who, having lived holy lives, have come to be
children of God and blessed angels. There they are,
always happy, always good. They rejoice at the tree
which is prepared for them, and praise God^mth
new songs, their voices ringing sweetly througll^lt^i
spaces of heaven. The presents on the tree are ell
theirs — I mean they are always being given to them^^
yet the tree is never empty.'

I thought this delightful. ' But what are the stars X
I said, reverting to my question.

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LETJERS FROM HELL,]

' The stars, child ? — well, I will tell you,* said auntie.
* Eight round that hall there are innumerable little
peep-holes through which the light of the Christmas
tree shines upon eart*i We call them stars. When-
ever the little angel-children have done singing, they go
and look through these peep-holes anxious to know
whether boys and girls on earth are trying to be good,
and likely to join them some day ; for they consider
them their little brothers and sisters, and wish them to
become as happy as they are. Whenever you see the stars
therefore you must remember that through each one of
them the eye of some angel looks down upon you. That is
why the stars twinkle, just as these big eyes of yours
twinkle as you look at me. Now you see that you
must always try to be good and obedient, else some
angers eyes would fill with tears ! and you would not
like them to be sad while watching you.'

This account so moved me that tears rose to my own
eyes, and I lay sobbing in Aunt Betty's lap. It was
the desire of knowing more which first tended to quiet
me :

' But, auntie,' I said, * tell me what happens to all the
bad children ?'

This question very nearly puzzled hei. She was too
tender-hearted to speak to me of hell and its terrors, so
she said — the bad childr' n — : well, I think they are
put into some dark corntr, far, far away from God and
His dear Son.'

Again I was not satisfied ; there must be more. '""

'Well,' she continued, — 'listen. Tiie bad children
are shuo up in an ujrly room, where the fire has gone
out, and where it i.- «30 cold and r ;>;. rable that they
chatter with their teeth. It is dark, i . o, for thii light
has been taken away, and they tr'^mble with fear.
They cry and knock at the door as hard j they can,
bnt no one pays any attention.'

I thought that dreadful. ' I am frightened, auntie,* I
whispered, pressing quite close to her.

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' Look up at the stars, iivy child,' she said ; * then you
won't be frightened. And frhe stroked my hair lov-
ingly.

, Fear left me. The sta^-s dH, t\v: i'de as though they
said * Be good, liale child/ and 1 i'elt quite ready to
be good,

* I sh' nld like io hear them sing.' I went on pres-
ently. * Do you know, auntio, hovt angels sing?'

*I will try and ^^how you,' she responded, falling in at
once with m;y drsii-e. Ar^-^ with her sweet voice she
sang to me one t.f her favounte bvmns. How beautiful
it sounded in the evennig twilight. There was nothing
grand about her voice, but something so childlike in its
gentle tones that the song sank into my heart as I kept
watching the stars ; and they seemed to look down upon
me as kind as auntie herself, twinkling again and again,
' Be good !' Another moment and my hearing was
charmed, following my gaze. Earth was not, but only
heaven, and auntie's hymn was the new song of angels.
I listened with rapt devotion that swelled my childish
soul, folding my hands unconsciously as Aunt Betty had
taught me : and 1 tried to twinkle back at the stars
with my own e}'es to let them see that with my ears,
with my heart, I was listening to their angels.

When the singing ceased and silence had carried me
back to the present, I felt quite poor and foisal'sn. but
all that night in dreams I saw the heavenly tree, and
heard the songs of glory.

Many an evening we spent like that. Aunt Betty
singing, and I watching the stars. And before long I
had learned her hymns and we sang them together I
believe it was with auntie as with myself: sinev j our
hymns to the pre' - of God, we felt be ,'i car'^ jd away
from earth, both ;« ing for that which is :«ehind th3
stars.

One evenr , . unt Betty told me th^ story of the rich
man and poor ^ zarus. It greatly aiiected me. I was

LETTERS FROM HELL, ...

-very glad for the poor beggar to have been carried right
into Abraham's bosom, where he was so happy ; but the
rich man longing in the torment of hell for a drop of
water moved my deepest pity. I grieved for him, shed-
<iing an agony of tears. Poor rich man, how hard it
was to punish him so dreadfully 1 Auntie was quite
unhappy at my distress. No doubt she meant to im-
press me, but not in this way, and she^tried her utmost
to calm my feelings.

' Don't take it to heart so much, child,' she said. * I
do not think you need. And it was very unkind of
Father Abraham to deny him a poor drop of water. God,
I dare say, did not like that at all ; indeed, if I know
Him aright, I should not be surprised if Father Abra-
ham had a scolding for it. For if a drop of water could
comfort the rich man in his torment, I don't believe
God would have refused it. And He who freely gave
His precious blood would not be so unkind about mere
water. And, moreover, didn't you hear that the rich
man even in hell remembered his brethren ? That I
I am quite certain, pleased God very much indeed. Love
to the brethren cannot but move the heart of God, even
I if it comes right from the midst of hell.'

Thus she comforted me. She would not have hesi-
itated to say a great deal more than this to still my grief.
Poor Aunt Betty ! I said she could not dogmatise ; the
[one cr^ed she was sure of was God's wonderful love, and
judging that love by her own loving heart, she believed
[it fully capable of flooding all creation with its own in-
! dwelling goodness. But why do I call her poor ? It is
»I who am poor — all the poorer for memories ! I will
|not call them painful memories, though I ache with
■them. Do you understand me ? Even in hell some-
thing pre ious is bound up with such memories, though
)n the otiier hand it caanot but add to grief — ^just as a
Jertain sweetness in some viands brings out the fact
that they are sour. I speak of childhood's memories :

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. LETTERS FRVM HELL.

those of later years, save those connected with Lily, are
all sorrow — all despair ; I would gladly forget them, but
it is part of my punishment that I cannot.

Thus I distinctly remember the religious instruction
which was to prepare me for confirmation. I was deeply
moved, and hardly know how such impressions should
\ ^ss so quickly, so entirely, as though they had not
be The clergyman in question was as godly as ven-
eraK • the animal nature was strong in me even then,
but hu knew how to keep it under. It needed but the
look of his eye, and I felt a prisoner to the divine, list-
ening anxiously to his teaching. He had a rare gift of
touching the heart and drawing it out. He spoke to us
on the words : * Be ye reconciled to God !' How could
I ever forget those words ? Alas ! I did forget them
but now they pierce the soul ; they keep ringing in the
brain: 'Be reconciled — be reconciled to God?' and
when once their memory is upon me, nothing will drive
it out, till some other recollection, some other pain,
takes their place.

I remember all he said on that occasion — I remem-
ber it now, from beginning to end, — but I could not re-
peat it, there being a great gulf between now and the
time of those words. Nor can the recollection of them
do me any good; they are barren of comfort, of instruc-
tion — barren entirely of p6ace. It is only my mind
which takes them in now ; the heart is closed. It is as
though the words were hoUow ; or perhaps I am hollow
and empty, and there is nothing left that can fill me.
I do remember that he spoke to us of God's own words
whereby salvation was offered to men, but all that is
outside of me only. I am like the riph man thirsting
for a drop of water, but there is no one to give it. I
make painful efforts to drink in, as it were, any of the
words I think of ; they are there \ I once knew ' ' \
by heart but I cannot Jay hold of them. They i ;eai
quite close at times ; but vrhen I woi d take them to

LETTERS FROM HELL,

myself, they are gone. This terribly hopeless effort i&
perhaps the worst of hell's torments.

You may understand I'rom this how it is possible
with me to speak of things pertaining to the kingdom
of God — naming the Saviour, the Crucified One, speak-
ing ot repentance and faith — without the faintest share-
in their blessing ; nay, mentioning them with my lips
merely, despair filliog the heart. Everything is vain
and empty in hell : those words are but soulless sounds
to me ; I know them outwardly, I can speak of them,
but their meaning is nothing to me. I know that there
is a Saviour, and that He is the Son of God, but Him I
know not ; it is empty knowledge ; His very name even
is gone. I hate myself, and say I have deserved it all, but
it is fruitless repentance — repentance without cleansing
tears. And as for faith, of course I believe — must be-
lieve ; but that too is empty — not faith which clings to
that which it believes. Do not the devils believe — they
must — and tremble ? ' Be reconciled to God !' What
power these words had to move me ' " felt in that
hour as though it must be man's one ui «< only object
on earth to seek reconciliation with God, and, having
found it, to go to Him through the portal of death. I
remembered the stars and their loving message, ' Be
good r and I felt ref.dy to turn my back upon the
world once for all. My first communion was as an
earnest that I had set my feet upon the path to heaven,
but I quickly turned aside ; at the very church door
the world lay waiting with its pL. • .. road to hell.

' Be reconciled to God !'— the words keep sounding
about me, not as an echo from heaven, but rather as a
i curse of hell, '^e reconciled^ — reconciled to God !'
[Why must I hear it when there is no more reconcilia-
tion—when the door of mercy is closed. C terrible re-
Itribution !

If at times I know not what to do with myself, I
show myself in the Row, for of course that too ia here-

LETTERS FROM HELL.

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— Hyde Park, Champs Elys^s, Prater, IJnter den Liu-
'en, Corso, Prado, all in one. And upon my word I do
not think there is much difference between these fash-
ionable resorts upon earth and their semblance here — I
mean so far as what the world pleases to call style is
concerned ; we could scarcely outdo the world in that
respect b"t we have far more variety. For with you
buu one lasiiion can prevail at a time, whereas here all
fashions flourish, all the nonsense of centuries com-
bined. Just think ot that — all the inventions of la
mode brought together, say of a thousand years ; could
there be a more absurd picture, taking the fashion of
dress for instance ? Whatever gloom or wretchedness
be upon me, I assure you I laugh right ont at the sight
— folly convicted out of its own mouth as it were. Just
fitop for a moment and imagine the effect — women
covered to the neck with flounces and furbelows on the
one hand, or half naked a the othei , , nffed out U) de-
formity here, tight as pump-handles '^ere. B< iiiets
1' ke coal-scuttles here, bonnets like checK. 3-plates there !
But who could name all their nonsense of farthingales
and stomachets, ruffles and laces, crinolines and high-
art-styles, fancy costumes and divided skirts )t to
mention chignons like very towers of Babei, and
simpleton fringes, and what not. Imagine them, I say,
the 1 »ols rf Leu years only brought together, and try to
think of the fools of ten centuries ! And then to be-
lieve any one fashion beautiful, any one of them dic-
tated by the * good taste' to which they all pretend. In
the world somehow they pass for beautiful, perhaps be-
cciseciilyone at a time can rule; but since every
'; lioT which has had its day straightway goes to hell,
and SL ce there is no past here, but a continuous pre-
sent, they all flourish together, and a nice medley it is !
One feels ashamed of humanity at the absurd sight.
And what is more, fashionable people here are thor-
oughly ashamed of themselves, though they try hard to

LETTERS FROM HELL,

appear very proud of their clothes. It is a show of
vanity, and we are horribly conscious of it — I say we,
since I am sure I am no better than the rest. We know
what sorry fools we are, but nevertheless we are very
anxious to dress ourselves, choosing the fashion we fol-
lowed in the world. And the worst is, our clothes do
not even clothe us, as I told you already ; we all see
through each others attire, no matter how stylish it is.
True, that painful sense of nakedness is common to all
here ; still to be naked is one thing, iind to go about
naked, pretending at the same time to be fashionably
dressed, is another ; and it is very hard to be laughed
at, knowing all the while how heartily one deserves it.

Would all the votaries of fashion, men and women
on earth, could view — were it for a moment only — its
true appearance as seen in hell, and they would never
desire to be fashionable again ? ^

It is strange — no, not strange, but sadly true — that
most people believe vanity and the love of dress no
great sin, but, at worst, one of those amiable foibles to
which one .aay plead guilty quite innocently.

Love of dress in itself perhaps need not become a sin
— I say perJmjJs ; but look at it as you please, there is
that connected with it which cannot but tend to the
soul's ruin. Its aims and the aims of the spirit lie
widely apart ; it takes the place of better things, and
vanity, clinging ; o you as a cloud, will hide tiie true
objects of life. Men or women ruled by vanity fritter
away their time, and when they die, not only good
works do not follow them, but opportunities wasted
stand round their bier. Who has the face now to say
t' at vanity, that love of dress, is harmless ?

I look upon my own life. How plainly I see it all
now, — how gladly would I improve opportunities, could
they but return !

1 am inclined to conclude this letter with a little
story I once heard somewhere in Italy, feeling loth at

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LETTERS lulOM HELL.

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the same time to do so, for there are things about which
one should not speak jestingly, least of all in hell.

However, the thing is not without its lesson, which
may be useful to you. Nor is it fear that would prevent
me, but rather an instinctive dread, a kind of repug-
nance, to appear making light of a solemn verity. It is
a sort of burlesque myth, but containing that which
should not be laughed at. Here it is:

God from all eternity had purposed in His counsel to
make man. And the devil from the beginning knew
the mind of God. God carried out His eternal purpose.
He made man, and it was easy for Him to make him
good : He simply created him in His own image. But
the devil made desperate efforts to discover how he
might mar this image of God.

' I have got it 1* said Lucifer to his grandmother, who
sat knitting in a dark corner of hell. She was always
knitting toils and looping snares to catch the unwary,
•though being a person of property, she had no need to
work so hard.

* I have got it!' repeated Lucifer. "I will put evil
:# desire into man's, heart, so that he shall love the forbid-
den, and delight in disobedience. I will make a wrong-
doer of him."

' All right, my boy — all right,* said the granddame ;
'* but that won't do it. Evil desire may be conquered,
and the Lord God is the One to do it.'
^ * The deuce !' cried Lucifer. * You may
though ; I'll think of something else.' And
went to the nethermost hell, where ho had his private
study. And there he spent a thousand years in deepest
meditation, staring into the future with burning eyes.

' I have got it !' he cried again, rushing up in a whirl-

' wind. ' I shall fill the heart of man with self-love

and self-will. I shall infatuate him so entirely that he

"will ever think himself first. I shall make a vainglo-

. dous wretch of him, more or less, as the case may be.'

be right
down he

•

LETTERS FROM HELL*

'All right my boy, all .' But here she dropped

a stitch. ' Catch up a firebrand — that'll do, I see !
* Yes, my boy, all right ; but that won't do it. Self-love
and self-will may be rooted out, and the Lord God is
the One to do it'

' Confound it,* roared Lucifer, ' that these silly crea-
tures should be so hard to ruin. They are scarcely
worth the trouble. But I shall get them, — pazienza, I
mean to get them !' And away he went to consider the
matter once more in his study.

A thousand years again had passed — he knew it not ;
and returning from his cogitation, the granddame still
sat knitting on the spot where he had left her. She was
so old that a thousand years did not add so much as a
wrinkle to her ugly skin. She seemed more intent than
ever upon her work.

' Now I have got it !* cried Satan exultingly, * I my-
self will take up my abode in man's heart and will ut-
terly pervert him. He shall take falsehood for truth,
vice for virtue, shame for honour. I'll make a fool of
him — a fool of perversity.'

'My boy,' said the grandmother, gloati"<r her

meshes, 'that won't do it, my boy. What --^ h '- 3r-
verted can be converted, and the Lord Gof 's .-e i
to do it.'

• I shall give it up,' growled the devil ' ^ .kIl^^Ij;
'it quite spoils my digestion; however, I will make one
more effort.'

Another thousand years rolled on without record or
alr^anac, and no one could tell what had become of
them.

Once more Lucifer returned to his aged relative ; he
I really did look worn and in need of a tonic. The dej^'s
grandmother, strange to say, had done k;;^*fing, nets
and snares in untold quantity being re^y for: 'ages' to- -i
I'come. She sat twiddling her thumbs f'and longing for
her hopeful progeny — loveable or haf^f u:^' he .was Uer,
[only «ne. it

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LETTERS FROM HELL.

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' Sure, I've got it now!* exclaimed Lucifer, entering
her presence. * Vanity shall be man's second nature, —
vanity and love of dress. I will make an ape of him,
and as an ape he shall delight in himself, and become a
laughing-stock to his neighbour.'

* That's it,' cried the granddame, delighted, her ugly
cat's eyes turning greener and greener. * Your former
plans were all very useful in their way, but they lacked
one thing — they were not nearly simple-seeming enough
really to beguile him. For, however evil of desire, how-
ever self-willed and pci'verse man might become, he
would always have a feeling left that something was
wrong ; there is such a thing as conscience, remember,
putting most men on their guard as regards great wick-
edness. Nor is there any saying what the Lord God in
His infinite love for human souls may not devise to-
wards keeping them straight.

' Vanity, however, is quite another thing, and love of
dress, how harmless ! A most precious invention of
yours, my boy. Vanity, I declare, will become great
upon earth ; it looks so innocent, no one will suspect it.
Poor things, why should they not amuse themselves
with their looking-glasses and their faddles ? What
more excusable than to spend the time in adorning one-
self, — in trying to look pretty and appear amiable in
socieJy ? Yes, men will all yield to vanity, for they
will not suspect it. Vanity shall be the door through
which all other wickedness, evil desire, self-love and
perversitv ^\\\. find a ready entrance ; vanity, I say,,
seemingly harmless, will take them to hell. True the
Lord God still is able to do what He pleases ; we must
not forget that. But I am not an old woman for noth-
ing, and have known a few things in my time. I can-
not see for the life of me how God should care to stop
any fool who, with the happiest conscience imaginable,
and delighting in his well-dressed appearance, goes
trotting compkcent;" to hell.

IIP Hi

LETTERS l^ROM HELL,

The old she fiend had become quite excited ; she-
shook herself, and her skin, wrinkled and loose with
age, hun«,^ about her as the skin of a snake.

1 1 am proud of you, my boy, and I will help you,*
she continued. ' It's al»out the time that I sliould cast
my skin, and it is just the thing you want. I will make
it appear very lovely, as, after all, is but natural, since
it is part of ray very own nature ; it shall be varied and
many coloured, and every fool shall delight in it. It
will remain with you to make them accept it, but that
will be easy, with their apish predilection for anything
new and startling — ^you'll see the consequences, diavo-
lioio. They'll worship a new goddess. Fashion by name ;
they'll believe her the most harmless of idols, and
they'll never suspect — ha ! ha !— that it is nothing more
nor less than my cast off skin ! Fashion will be the
prop of vanity, and men will fritter away their life in
hollow pursuit. The ape in man will have the upper
hand, and the novelty of fashion will be endless. But
now give me a hand, and I will forthwith cast my skin.
I am quite stifi' for want of exercise.

Lucifer was delighted. * Per bacho' he cried, * it's a
bright idea !'

And, catching up the old grandmother, he danced
about with her wildly, to the wonderment of hell. And
the clevil's grand-dame was beside herself with laughter,
bursting almost with merriment.

* They'll worship my skin, diawlino,' she cried, they'll
* worship my skin !'

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LE2TERS FROM HELL,

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LETTER VIII.

IT may surprise you to hear me speak of books in
hell, but you will soon perceive the fitness of
thingp, it being neither more nor less than this : what-
ever is bad must come to hell, so of printed matter
whatever is morally evil or arrogantly stupid tends
hilheiwards, the looks arriving first, the authors fol-
lowing, und their publishers along, with them. You
will understand, then, that we are well off for litera-
ture, of a certain description, that is to say.

Polite literature, for instance, has provided us with
countless novels, very popular, if trashy and sometimes
immodest. There is no civilized nation or country that
has not product d its share, varying in quantity or
quality. ' They seem represented by two species chiefly
— one can hardly call them schools — the purely sensa-
tional and the sensationally impure ; the former being
content to hint where the latter touch boldly, the for-
mer often supremely worthless, where the latter are
wickedly ingenious Many authors, and especially some
authoresses, appear to find their life's duty in pandering
to depraved taste, or worse, in fostering it. I might
mention names, buo I refrain. Only let me assure
these experts of the pen, ladies and gentlemen, that
they are well known here. No doubt it will create
quite a flutter in their bosoms, adding not a little to
their sense of fame, to learn that their talent is so ex-
tensively appreciated, and that their books are fashion-
able, not only in polite society on earth, but even in
hell ! There is this drawback, to be sure, to damp

LEllERS FROM HELL.

their spiiits, that for the present they must be satisfied
with mere liouour — pay being withheld till they them-
selves join tlieir circle of reader.-* here. Tiien their re-
ward shall be given tbeitl in this matter tdso

This branch of the yo-called hel/es lettrea, trashy
novels, is greatly in v.jguo upuii I'uith ; it is not the
good books which chiefly enrich tlie publishers, or
authors either. There are pi^ople whose intellectual
fobd consists in nothing but the former, but the soul
lives not that could testify to mental or spiritual
growth by their aid. If the use of such bonks is null
on earth, what must it, be here, where not even the
miserable object remains of whiling away the time ?

But to proceed : there is no lack here even of theo-
logical writings — especially of modern commentaries,
but also of the dogmatic and homelitical kind. To
speak plainly, how many a book of fine sermons or of
religious comfort arrives here, preceding the hireling
shepherds ! With casuistry too we are thoroughly pro-
vided. The Middle Ages are represented chiefly by a
vast amount of priestly falsehood, systematised into all
sorts of fanatical quibbles and sacredotal inventions
concerning the deep questions of religion. The more
modern school may be said to hiive reached a cliinax in
the days of Voltaire and the encyclopedists, taking a
fresh start with Kant and his followers. You observe
I speak broadly,. In a European sense, refraining from
particularising or quoting nearer home. You may judge
for yourself, and be sure that no literary means are
wanting here to advance the interests of atheism. For,
mind you, even in hell, those who 'believe and tre^^ble'
may be brought to a worse state. For the rest, 'jince I
never troubled myself about theology, either as a science
or otherwise, I arn not likely to study it here.

Besides this so called true theology, there are found
with us the writings of those puffed up, half crazy fa-
iiat/ics, — the false prophets of every degree, who make a

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■:, .V

LETTERS FROM HELL,

|!n!:!|i''

sort of trade of religion. Their literary eftusions are
generally laughed at, even here ; but in most cases the
author himself arrives before long, and laughter for him
turns to weeping. These curiovi!; divines have a special
corner assigned to them in this place, differing greatly
from the paradise they belie^ ed themselves heirs of in
virtue of their singular calling.

Philosophy too is well represented. Philosophers on
the whole are a harmless tribe. Some of them may be
groping for wisdom which includes goodness and piety,
and others are merely the victims of some peculiar
mania which hurts no one. We get the writiiigs of
those only whom conceit of intellect drives to the front.
I might quote some curious instances, showing how,
within a professor's den, some ten feet square, the uni-
verse may be grasped, the mystery of life .solved, eter-
nity guaged ; in I'act, how the ocean of the infinite may
be got into the nutshell of n finite brain.

In passing I merely mention the literature of the law.
If I ignored it altogether if might be taken for disre-
spect, and 1 am sure I would rather not offend the gen-
tlemen of the robe. Let me state the ;.>iain fact. I
reverence justice, but I feel doubtt'u' about lawyers. Did
not some sharp-witted urchin make th< discovf-^ry, that
the devil was a ' lawyer' from the beginnir/g ? i would
rather wash my hands of them, not understand! /y th<<nj
in the least.

Last, but not least, I tu"'i to the literary geniuses of
the reviewing departmer ., at th*'. risk even of most
dreadfully oftending them. No reviewer, I presume,
>^ould flatter himself with the conceit that his disserta-
tions could have any but the most ephemeral value ; I
feel loth to disabuse their laudable modesty, but I am
bound to let them know that some do live — live in hell !
J have made the startling discovery that of reviews not
a few appear to be written in ignorance, or inspired by
€nvy and even downright malice. Beviewers fofiii a

LE7TERS FROM HELL,

species apart, not nurtured in babyhood, it would seem,
with the milk of human kindness. I was assured once
that in order to review a book properly, one had need
to be something of a misanthrope — something of a
cynic, at any rate, since b&rking and biting seem to be
the great delight. Be this as it may, I have always
maintained that reviewers, as a natural curiosity, may
be divided into two classes — those who are capable of
passing judgment, and those who are not. The former,
strange to say, cautiously, and indeed rarely, advance
their criticism, and nothing of theirs is ever seen hereii

The latter may be subdivided into professionals and
amateurs. The first of these who trade, as it were, in
the reviewing line, will have to plead guilty in most
cases that they started originally with an aspiration of
book- writing, but did 4iot succeed. They have never
got over their disappointment.

The second subdivision consists chiefly— would you
believe it ? — of a set of precocious youths, as clever as
they are conceited, requiring an outlet for their exuber-
ance. I have known them of the age of twenty, and
even less, feeling grown up all of a sudden by means of
their first review: if their criticism was somewhat
green, there was audacity to cover it. They don't mean
any special harm, but they do feel themselves seated on
'A throne, duiy hidden of course, and snubbing authors —
^hmr ^grandfathers in age and expaticnce.

By dint of numerous reviews, then, we are kept an
ffntrant with the events of the book-market. Whenever
a specially mordant piece of criticism arrives here we
know that it has been called forth by a publication
whicli is probably good and certainly harmless. It is
the caricature only which reaches us ; buc it is so, alas,
with most things !

As for newspapMfs I — it stands to reason that much of
thfi (Inily food provided in these quarters cannot fare
(ill| liuLI-oi', since iimbiti »n of gain, private or public, un-

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LE ITERS FROM BELL

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blushingly presides at the board. How many a journal
has but the one object in view — the making of money ?
How many others have actually sold themselves to fur-
ther the paltry interests of this or that party, not caring
in the least, in their hardened consciences, how far
astray they lead the public mind?

And what shall I say of the appalling amount of des-
patches, notes, and official memoranda interchanged be-
tween the various Cabinets for no other reason, it would
seem, but that of misleading ? — specimens of ambiguous
•phraseology, ever appealing to truth and justice, but
heeding neither truth nor justice wherever a chance of
gain or even the interests of vulgar passion come to the
front. This sort of political documents are rarely
got hold of by newspapers even ; on earth they are of
the things that walk in secret, But they fail not to fur-
nish us down here with many a curious explanation of
historic events. I have come to suspect that nothing
is more outrageously false, and cruel, and opposed to
every will of God, than what goes by the name of
higher politics.

You see from this sketch that we are not at a loss
for reading, but you will also perceive that the vile pro-
ductions reaching us can in nowise tend to edify or even
instruct us. If they enable us to follow events in the
world, it is by a kind of inverted effect, suggesting in
fact the very opposite of what they assert. There is
here no pleasure in reading ; on the contrary, the more
one peruses, the more one sickens ; but nauseated
though we feel, we are ur.able to get out of the intel-
lectual slough, the mire of a lying literature.

I never imagined while on earth that I had need to
render thanks for anything ; that health, riches, happy
days, were gifts to be grateful for, but rather accepted
them as the natural appurtenances of my existence ;
and if I thought about them at all, it was only to wish
for more, for I was never satisfied with life as I found

i'l-:'''!'^

JliiiE :

LETTERS FROM HELL.

it, nor with the world I lived in, Now I view things
-differently ; I see now that the gifts of life are blessings
unspeakable, and all the greater for being entirely
undeserved. On looking back — and I am ever looking
back now, there being nothing before me save one
thing, awful and horrible, the judgment to come — on
looking back, I say, I am bound to confess that the
blessings of a single da37 of life on earth are innumer-
able as the stars. How rich is life ! There may be
misery and trouble on earth — and I believed I had my
full share of both — but it has all dwindled to nothing
since I have come to know the wretchedness of hell.
Let me assure you out of my own dire experience that
the most suffering creature on earth has much to be
thankful for. Man's life, whatever it be, should bring
him to his knees daily. And if you have nothing left
of earth's blessings but air and light, and a piece of
bread to satisfy your hunger, you have need to give
thanks. I see it now, but for me it is too late. In hell
there is nothing — absolutely nothing to be thankful
for ; you, however, whose sun has not yet set, may still
learn to yield your hearts in gratitude. Ah, hear me, I
beseech you ; there is no help for me, but help may
come to you !

I have told you, my friend, how continuously I am a
prey to memories, but how much so — to what extent, I
mean — you little guess. That deeds of iniquity and
particular sins should assail me, tormenting the soul as
with fire,, is natural. But this is not all. There are
other things, counted for little in the world, which
cling to conscience with a terrible vividness. Every
little falsehood and unjust dealing, every word of deceit
and breach of fealty, every evil example and want of
kindness, — they are all — all present now, piercing the
neart as with daggers of regret. I thu^ght so little of
these things in life, that I scarcely stopped to consider
them ; they seem buried on the spot, every year adding

LETTERS FROM HELL.

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its own share to the mouldering heap. They have risen
now and stand about me, I see them and I tremble.

I was just thinking of an example, out of hundreds,
which press round me. I take one at random. I have
felt haunted lately by the sorrowful eyes of a poor little
s'^reet boy. Wherever I turn I see him, or rather not
so much him as his tearful troubled gaze, rising in
judgment against me. It has all come back to my
mind how one evening I sauntered about in the park,
a poor little beggar running alongside, pressing me to
buy a halfpenny worth of matches. I did not want
them, and told him so, but he persisted in crying, 'Oily
a ha'penny, sir — only a- ha'penny.' He annoyed ii^e^
and, taking him by the arm, I rudely pushed him away.
I did not mean to hurt him, although, to tell the truth,
there was not a particle of kindness in me at the time.
Nor lay the wrong in not buying his matches ; I was
quite at liberty to refuse, had I denied him kindly. But
he annoyed me, and I was angry. The child, flung aside
roughly, fell in the road ; I heard a cry ; perhaps he
had hurt himself — perhaps it was only grief for his
matches lying about in the mud. I turned and met a
look from his eyes, full of trouble and silent accusation.
It would have been so easy for me to make good my
thoughtlessness, so little would have comforted the
child, but I walked away heedless of his grief.

Now few people would call that downright wicked-
ness — few people in the world I mean ; but here, un-
fortunately, we are forced to judge differently. Years
and years have passed since, for I was a young man at
the timfe, but the memory of that child has returned
upon me, his look of sorrowful reproof adding to the
pangs of hell. It is but an example, as I said, and
there are many — many. !

But not mere deeds — every word of evil carelessly
spoken in the days of earthly life comes back to me
with similar force. As poisoned arrows such words

LETTERS FROM HELL,

<?nce quitted my lips : as poisoned arrows they come
ack to me, piercing the heart. Oh consider it while
living voice is yours, and speak not lightly ! There is
no saying what harvest of sin may spring from a single
word. And if pity for others will not restrain you, be
advised by pity for your own selves, since requital will
come to yourselves only in the end.

And not merely deeds and words, but every harmful
thought recurs to me, to gnaw away at my heart. There
is a saying with certain philosophers in the world that
nothing ever is lost. If this be true in the material
world, how much more so is it in spiritual things — ah,
terrible truth !

And further, apart from the evil done, it is the good
left undone, the opportunities wasted, which stand
around me with pitiless scourge, and their name is le-
gion ! Thus everything, you see, both what I have done
and left undone, comes to life here i^ this place of woe,
— takes shape, I ought to say, — rising in accusation
against me. I try to escape, but there are about me
everywhere, those shapes of terror, enough to people a
world with des;. >ir ; they persecute me, they torture me,
and I am their xi^lpless prey. Memories of the good
left undone — alas, they are far more bitter than those of
the evil done ! For temptation to do wrong often was
great, and in my own strength I failed to conquer ; but
to do good for the most part would have cost little, if
any, effort. I hq it now with the new insight into life
which hell gives. The man lives not who is excused
from leaving good undone ; however poor and humbly
situated he may be, opportunity is ever at his door. It
is for him only to open his heart and take in the oppor-
tunity ; for his own heart is a well of power and of
blessing to boot. He who is the fountain of love and
purity, from whom every good and perfect gift cometh,
has wondrousl}" arranged it, that in this respect there is
but little di^" rence between the rich and the poor, the

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LETTERS J^ROM HELL,

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gentle and the simpl Let me conjure you then^
brothers and sisters, listen to the voice of your heart
while yet it is day ! Listen, I say, and obey, lest the
bitterness of repentance overtake you with the night,,
when no man can work ! Ah, let no opportunity for
the doing of good escape you, for it will rise against you
when nothing is left but to wail in anguish. »

I do not address these words to those who have grown
pitiless as flint — none but God could touch them ; but
there are well disposed hearts, which a ray of light may
help to expand. I was not hardhearted while I lived
in the world ; on the contrary, I could for the most part
easily be moved to charity if some one took the trouble
to remind me. What ruined me was that boundless,
love of self which prevented my seeing the wants of
others ; or if I did see them, I did not stop to consider
them.' I receiye now the reward of my deeds. Would
that this fearful experience of mine could work a change
in you; that might somewhat assuage my deepest suffer-
ings ! But even in that much of mercy I cannot be-
lieve; the soul in torment can doubt only — doubt
eternally.

I cannot but give you another example. I remember
a poor family living in a miserable cottage not far from
the lordly dwelling I ir habited. As often as I passed
that way I looked through the lowly window, for a bald
moving to and fro in measured intervals attracted my
attention. It was long, however, before I saw the face.
The father of a numerous family would sit there in ill-
health, gaining a troubled livelihood. It appeared to
be not necessity alone, but delight in his work also,
which kept him up. He was a wood carver of no mean
capacity, and worked for a wholesale house of children's
playthings in the city. Strange to say, he was particu-
larly clever in producing all sorts of ravenous beasts —
he, who looked like a personification of meekest mild-
ness. Lions, wolves and tigers graced his window-sill,^

.1 v4

LETTERS xROM HELL,

he bearing trouble as a patient lamb. I said he was
sickly, and the fami^\ was large. The wife took in
washing; and thcj' helped one another, each trying to
ease the other s load.

Rut misfori ^o ovc rtook them ; the wholesale busi-
ness failed ; tl. '^^ "* man lost his livelihood. The \>'«.i>\
head no longer red by the window. — The co;', f;^>i

looked a gr hal had become ol him? I once

asked inyseli th 3stion and stopped there, for you
know self scare* ^ ft me time to trouble myself with
other people's affairs.

Still, opportunity thrust itself in my way. I saw him
again — not merely his bald head, but himself. The
poor man, bowed down with ill-health, and unused to
hard labour, stood working in a brickfield with trem-
bling knees.

I could not but pity him. I knew he was working
himself to death, trying to gain food for his little ones.
Indeed, he was in as imminent danger of life as if all
the lions, wolves aud tigers whose images he had carved
had gathered round to destroy him. I witnessed a
touching scene one day. Passing about noon I saw the
wife there, who had come with her husband's dinner —
a dinner I would not have looked at. I saw how ten-
derly she wiped the weary forehead, how the children
— for they all had come — clung to the father, the young-
est climbing his knees, and how grateful he was for their
affection, which roused him to new endeavours to gain a
miserable pittance.

The sight really moved me ; and I walked away,
-thinking I ought to do something for the struggling
family. It was easy for me. to find some post for the
man which, while requiring no hard work at his hands,
would keep them all in comfort. I certainly would see
to it, but was called away on business ; other things oc-
cupied my mind, and I forgot all about it. I did re-
member it again after a while, but then it was too late.
The man had succumbed — the family was ruined.

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LETTERS J^EOM HELL.

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But there are worse ifuries than these persecutiog
souls in torment. I cannot tell whether it is by imagi-
nation only, assisting what, for want of a better word, I
must call the jugglery of hell, or whether thif) place of
damnation has its own actual second sight, but it is a
fact that sometimes I can see the entire growth of evil,,
spreading over years perhaps, and involving soul after
soul, originating <in some careless word of mine which
proved to be the seed. I turn away ; but I am driven
to look again and again at the terrible consequences^
and words cannot express what I feel.

It is appalling to think of the endless chain of sin and.
misery to which a single act, ay, a word even, may give
rise. A chain, I say, for it is a frightful truth that the
evil effect doe* toot always spring from the seed as a
single stupiendous birth, to live and die for itself; but
there is a demon power inherent in it of begetting and
conceiving, wrong bringing forth wrong in endless suc-
cession. It is by its consequences, its capability of en-
gulfing others, that the worst potency of sin becomes
apparent.

It is of direct evil example, too, I would speak ; how
fearful is its power — how far-reaching its influence!
Whatever wickedness a man may commit in the world,
what is it as compared with the wrong he may be guilty ,
of by his example ? Then sin is as a mountain torrent,
bursting its banks and carrying the unwary headlong to
destruction. You may be dead yourself, yet your sin
may live, yielding a terrible harvest.

It was in this respect that the demon ruling my life
did its worst ; I went my sinful (jourse, flinging evil
seed about me, and stopped not to consider how many I
might bring to ruin.

Do you understand ? perhaps not fully. Let nie re-
turn to memories.

I happened once to spend an evening with some dozen
youths gathered for social intercourse. I was much

iMij

LETTERS FROM HELL.

older, and it was quite by accident that I found myself
among them ; but enjoying the reputation of a boon
companion, they entreated me to remain. It flattered
me and I stayed. They evidently looked to me for in-
formation, which made me all the more willing to show
oflf my superior experience. Being a witty talker, I
added not a little to the evening's enjoyment. We made
little speeches, sang, and drank to each other. Now I
knew that these young people would take as gospel
truth almost anything I might tell them, believing any
worldly wisdom I might point to as the road to success.
The concluding word was given to me. I rose, ready to
give thenr the benefit of my knowledge. ' t)are to be
happy !* was the motto I chose. I reminded them of
the position I enjoyed in the world, averring that my life
was brimful of satisfaction ; that I always had whatever
man could wish for, and that I had had it because I
had dared. It was true in all things that faint heart
never won fair lady ; there was a treasure of wisdom in
these words beyond the treasures of Solomon. They
were just entering upon life. I could give them no
better advice to go by — no better aim to follow — than
was expressed by these words: 'Dare it — dare be
happy!'

They thanked me with cheers of enthusiasm. They
were flushed with wine, but another spirit than that of
wine lay hidden in my words ; its subtle influence was
even then upon them, intoxicating their souls. With
some of them its fumes, no doubt passed away with the
fumes of the liquor ; but with others — three or four of
them — the false maxim had caught ; they went out into
opening life armed with a rule which consisted of false-
hood mostly, and a particle of truth.. It took them to
the broad way, and not only them, but others through
them. That lying principle, which sounded so grand
and true, spread in widening circles, ruining soul after
soul ; it is still spreading, alas ! and I see no end to the:
pernicious influence.

LETTERS FROM HELL,

, •

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I (II

There is another recollection' burning as molten lead
upon my soul. I had been visiting friends in the country,
and was on the point of leaving to return to town. The
carriage was at the door, and I downstairs already, when
I remembered having forgotten something in my room.
I bounced up the stairs and came upon a littlo house-
maid tidying the apartment. She was young and beau-
tiful as Hebe ; barely eighteen she looked. What shall
I say ? Temptation was strong ; I took her into my
arms and kissed her. She tore herself away, the flushes
of shame in her face, crying : * I am a poor girl, sir, but
I am honest !* * Poor, my child ?' I said. ' With a face
and ligure like yours one is never poor ; you might buy
the heart of s^ millionaire I Beauty is a wealth of capi-
tal if well laid out'

They were the words of the moment — one of those
silly speeches which fast men abound in.

The girl was silent, blushing still ; but I continued :

' And now, my fair one, you shall give me another

kiss, of your own free will, to reward mfe fo** the useful

lesson I have taught you. I dare say \r lall never

meet again.'

She still resisted. But I was young and handsome,
and thoroughly versed in the arts of persuasion. I
presently held her in my arms again, and she did kiss
me: The girl was quite in my power. I knew it, but
opportunity was not mine ; I heard the horses pawing,
and there was the train to be caught. So I loosened
my hold, and as though beauty were indeed the capital
I had spoken of, bringing riches to the owner, I put a
tsovereign into her hand.

I saw no particular harm in what I had done.
Thousands in my place, no doubt, would have said and
done as I did. But in truth I was guilty of an awful
thing ! I had poisoned the very life-blood of the giil.
Her innocence was gone ; corruption had taken root in
her souL My spirit somehow has a knowledge of her

H&1

LETTERS FROM HELL.

future career. She had been engaged to an honest
working man ; but her beauty, it' she married him,
would not bear the interest she now coveted, so she
broke with him. He had loved her, and hardly, if ever,
got over the blow. She went her way, putting out her
capital, laying traps to the right and to the left ; but
cleverly as she laid them, she after all was caught her-
self, falling a victim where she had hoped to conquer,
and was flung aside again. She was ruined, but the
horrible lesson I liad left with her was nowise rendered
harmless ; on the contrary, she improved it all the
more. As a courtesan she continued her career, and
soon there was none more knowiiig, none morQ danger-
ous, than she. One fool after another went the way to
her house to his soul's ruin, and her capital laid out
bore interest vastly, being the fruic of that first
sovereign I had given her ! But rich she grew . not ;
the money went as it came, squandered recklessly. And
before she dreamt of it, the capital itself was gone ; she
struggled awhile, sinking deeper and deeper, and died
in utter misery. But even that is not all. The lesson
I had taught her proved not only a poison to herself,
but with it she poisoned others, teaching scores of girls
the pernicious lie : Beauty is a capital ; lay it out ! lay
it out 1

Thus it went with her with whom in life I had but a
moment's intercourse, whose name even I never knew I
What shall I say then of many others ; what of Annici
against whom 1 sinned far more grievously ? Strange
that the spirit knowledge, which tells me so much, is
entirely at fault whenever I think of her. But it is a
blessing ! What if she too were to rise before me cry-
ing : Thou didst it ! thou didst it !

The force of example — I repeat it — is terrible, ter-
rible ! and the responsibility of ail, therefore, . is great
with whom influencie rests in a special way, as it does
with those, for instance, to whom the young are taught

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LETTERS FROM HELL,

m:..\\

to look. That is why there are so many here who had
charge of children — parents, guardians, teachers, nurses
innumerable. They go to he4 first, of course they do ;
.but they are followed by many of those whom they
should have taught the way of life. And not only are
they followed by them, but by their children after
them, generation rising against generation in awful ac-
cusation. I am one of the worst of those who dare not
lift their head, so I may well speak in warning 1 I
know what awaits me. I am thinking of Martin. Poor
boy, it was I who brought him up, feeding him upon
evil example. I have made him what he is. But what
has become of him, and what will become of his chil-
dren ? I had no family in life — alas, I may have one
in hell, larger than I care to see — the children of my
iniquity ! ^ut there is hope for Martin ; he is yet in
life. May the Lord have mercy on Am. — on him and
his!

How I loved him in spite of his waywardness ! Per-
iiaps it was self-love after all ; perhaps I loved him
only inasmuch as he seemed to [b:eflect myself. Yet
there was a power in that love, in spfte of supervening
jealousy. He grew more handsome, more taking than
even I had been, ousting me by degrees out of my every
pride ! but jealous though I felt, I yet loved him. And
the time came when he was master. I remember well
how one day I was humbled by the sudden conscious-
ness of it. I had been specially careful of his bodily
development, seeing to it myself ; his mental training I
left to others. I taught him gymnastics and all sorts
of manly exercises, in which I excelled — fencing, wrest-
ling, and the like. He was tall and powerful, and ex-
quisitely proportioned. Barely twenty, he resembled
some athlete of antiquity. We practised daily, and I
found that he gained as steadily as I lost ; there was a
time at last when with difficulty I could hold my own.
And then it came — I could never speak of it calmly —

LETTERS FROM HELL,

that he floored me, standing over me, a very Hercules
of strength. From that day I knew that he had the as-
cendancy over me. It was natural, for I had passed the
zenith — he was approaching it ; but it was mortifying,
and I could not forgive it. And yet, with strange incon-
sistency, I was proud of him, loving him all the more
fondly.

My grudge against him, however, took a more real
turn when I found that he outdid me in the favour of
women as well. That was more than even my fondest
love could stand.

Will he join me here ? The beating of my heart seems
to say yes ; for he belongs to me and I am here. Then
I shall find an answer to that burning question which
filled my soul as I quitted life, and which burns with a
fire of its own here amid many fires. But ought I to
wish for an answer ? I have a, frightful foreboding at
times that the answer my soul is craving will over-
whelm me with horror. But, nevertheless, and though
it should be all horrors combined in one, I am hunger-
ing and thirsting for it, nor can I rest till 1 find it.
"W^at is it he had to tell me ?

LETTER IX.

How frightful is the deep stillness reigning in hell
among these myriads of souls ! I thought at
first I should get used to it ; but there is no getting used
to it. It is stifling and oppressive. What a contrast
with the multifarious hubbub of earth 1 life may be
ever so excited here, ever so restless, it is dead to the
ear. I do not mean to say that words passing to and

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LETJERS FROM HELL,

fro are devoid of sound, but it is unearthly, unclothed of'
its body, falling dead on the spot; I suspect that, like
most things here, it is imaginary, unreal. Probably the
meaning of anything that is said passes to the hearer
without the medium of sound , he seems to hear with
outward ears, but that is illusion.

Hell is filled with unruly souls. It is the hurly-b^rly
of existence they need, but with all their effort they can,
never create sound. If never before they longed for a
dull repose they do so now, yet are keenly alive to its
utter hopelessness. They will hunt for tumult to £dl
eternity, never hearing the sound they crave : they also
have their reward.

As light increases, so does the uneasy expectation
of my he^rt. I tremble for the hour when the glory
from the other side will flash across the gulf and strike
my blinded eyes. I shall have to see it ! And Para-
dise, as seen from hell, must be a sight most dread —
most terrible — piercing the heart. Yet I long for it — I
groan for it — though the glimpse of bliss be fraught
with exquisite torment ; I hunger for it — * Let me have
it,' I cry, * though it should kill my soul.'

Was not there something in the vanished time that
was called the Lord's Prayer, beginning, 'Our Father,'
a well of blessing to those who opened their hearts to
it ? Surely I seem to remember, but vainly I try to
call back the words ; they seem hovering about me as
though I need but say, 'Oui Father,' and all the rest must
follow. I try and say so, bijt never get beyond ; I have
sometimes repeated these two words ten, twenty times,
but it is quite hopeless — ^they are empty and meaning-
less ; I have lost the prayer— it is all nothing to me. I
just remember that there is a Father ; but He is nnt my
Father, and I am not His child. Yet I cannot refrain
from racking my spirit for the once blessed words ;
surely they are somewhere — somewhere ! My soul is
thirsting, and there is not a drop of water to cool my
tongue.

LETIERS FROM HELL

I return to the horror of existence. It is a mercy
that after all one can choose one's society here ; I
should die if I were obliged to know all the vulgar
rabble of common ruffians, thieves, murderers, card-
sharpers^ and the like. I have always been a gentle-
mn. Of course I am aware cow that I am not one
whit better than those that I call the rabble, — the only
difiference consisting in a little outward finish, what we
used to call culture on earth ; and to be sure how proud
we were of it ! Our wickedness may be as great, if not
greater than theirs ; but it is not so coarse, there is a
certain refinement about it, which flatters our notions
of superiority. I consider myself a gentleman, there-
fore, as I always did, and am very careful with whom
I associate. The rabble consists of the vulgar criminals
and their belongings ; but hell's upper ten thousand
have never soiled their hands with low wickedness. "We
ruined girls, but kept it a secret ; we grew rich upon
the spoils of others, and called it business ; we were
proud, hard hearted, and spoke of the claims of rank ;
we may have been liars and cheats, but always wore
kid-gloves and were careful as to our tailor — we were
gentlefolk, you see. The proverb * birds of a ;.' ther*
is written up everywhere in hell, — we follow ij out
naturally ; people here have an exquisitely developed
instinct that helps them to judge in a moment of those
they meet, aided — I should add — by the transparency
of clothes. It is of course not; quite easy here to carry
out such principles, still society manages very generally
to keep itself to itself. "We eschew vulgarity and turn
our back upon anything likely to shock our notions of
good breeding.

I met a charming young woman the other day who
was received in the best circles here. Her history was
known, but it did not seem to shut her out from us. She
had forsaken her widowed mother, nearly blind though
she was, eloping with a handsome actor. She died sudden-

p Jl

LETTERS FROM HELL.

ly, carried ofi'in the height of passion, and very naturally
found herself in hell. A prey to the cold which we all
experience, she was afire with a ceaseless longing for
her mother on the one hand, whom she will never meet
again, and for her lover on the other hand, whom she
awaited with arden^ desire. She ought not to have
wished for a re-union since that meant dragging hina to
hell ; but her love being what it was, she liyed and
breathed- in that cruel hope. She selfishly longed for
^im, saying they had sworn to live and die together.
But he could not have been equally anxious ; at any
rate he kept her waiting years upon years. And dur-
ing all this time her infatuated soul beheld him as she
had known him last, handsome, in the prime of life,
and the darling of the people. At length he arrives —
a decrepit man on crutches, blear-eyed, and a face that
told his life. What a meeting! — she starts back as
from an apparition. Can that be the lover of her
youth, for whom she sinned, for whom she suffered I
She loathes him, but she is driven to pursue him. So-
ciety here is well-bred, and shrinks from what ruffles
its feelings. She was a charming creature, but we
could no longer tolerate her. One after another we dis-
owned her, and she disappeared with her former lover.

Let me add that one of the greatest evils in the world
is a superabundance of love. Who would believe that
love unrestrained sends more souls to hell than al-
most anything I co ild* name ? It is not the love
which is pure and health-giving, for it is not fed by the
Love Divine and Eternal. So much depends on what
one loves and how one loves !

A woman arrived here some time ago, no longer
young, but still beautiful, blue-eyed, fair haired, and we
all thought her charming. She was amiability itself ;
we could not think what brought her to hell ; indeed
there was no reason for it, but her unchastened love
for her husband. It was quite touching to hear how

LEITERS FROM HELL.

she had given up her life to him, loving him a great
ileal more than he really deserved. She idolized him,,
forgetting everything for him, even h§r God. That was
just it ; she had give to her husband the heart's adora-
tion which belongs to God alone. How could she
have been happy in heaven ? But her love, touching as
at first sight it would appear, was after all nothhig but
a peculiar development of selfishness, and that is why
it dragged her to hell.

And in hell she continues sick of love for her hus-
band ; it was the one longing of her life, so it needs
must be the all-absorbing torment of hell. And she
had her desire, she saw him again ; he arrived one day
— with a heart full of another passion. He had never
been faithiul to her. Even hell pities the reward that
is given her.

You have long ceased to doubt, I hope, that hell
offers anything but honor. But there are moments at
rare intervals only, when all. the thousand horrors with-
in us seem congealed into one frightful sensation of
stupor. Do not imagine it as a painless moment ; feel-
ing is swallowed up in indiscribable anguish, a peculiar
horror, not known at other times. And then — it is al-
ways sudden — hell stands aghast, trembling with dread.
'AH pursuit ceases ; every soul is left to itself, shudder-
ing. Something is upon us — a spirit-deadening influ-
ence. It is not seen, but we are, each and all, aware of
it with indiscribable terror. We know what it is ; we
stand tongue-tied and trembling. Satan has come to
survey the souls in hell. Final power is not yet given
him ; for they are not yet judged. But he has learned
to wait — ^satisfied meanwhile that they are added to-
daily. They are his, he knows, though the time of carry-
ing them off is delayed. He knows the doom is coming
when the wicked, for ever separated from the good, are-
assigned their place on the left of the Son of Man, and.
that they will be his then for ever and for ever.

LETTERS FROM HELL,

II?:

How often in the young days of life I seemed full of
promise to become good, but never reached the true aim
of Christianity. The memories I have brought away of
these half-strivings are fraught with bitterest regret, and
vet they would move my tenderest tears, — if tears were
left. It was Lily especially who in those days was the in-
strumemt of grace divine. From the first it was given
her that wondrous power over me. Ah ! say not it was
«11 sinful that brought me to her feet ! No ; there was
something higher, far higher, giving her an influence
over my soul — a holy influence. All children I believe
have something of it; but Lily was fllled with that
heavenly grace.

In winter-time, after dinner, we would rest awhUe in
the dusk, the firelight casting slumbrous shadows about
the room. My mother would doze away : Lily and I
fiat dreaming. But bow different were the spheres to
which our thoughts would roam ! I could have spent
hours watching Lily as I^ did ; she sitting on a low
fender-stool, the light falling on her. I wras in the dark,
unnoticed by her, which added to my sense of enjoy-
ment. She would fold her hands on her knees, as she
loved to do in thoughtful moments. How beautiful she
was, in that half-light especially — a little pale, but spir-
itualised. The red glow was reflected in her wonderful *
•eyes, which shone marvellously. Her features seemed
transfigured ; she would sigh at times or heave a deep
breath ; I knew then that she was occupied in her mind.
I watched her, greedily delighting in her perfect beauty.
If there. is truth in what people say of magnetism and
sympathetic attraction, she must have felt my gaze.
Who can tell ? She sometimes really appeared uneasy ;
I saw from my corner how she would try to shake off
some unconscious influence. I could scarcely refrain
then from snatching her up and pressing her to my
heart But I conquered the desire — it would have
broken the charm.

LETTERS FROM HELL.

9»

But Bometimes Lily would sit down by me, and then
we passed the twilight in pleasant talk ; she never
denied me her confidence. One evening I asked her
what she was thinking of in those quiet moments on
the fender-stool.

'What 1 am thinking of?' she repeated, with her
gentle voice. 'Ah, Philip, thoughts will come tome full
of longing, sometimes happy, sometimes sad. I fancy
myself carried away at times right over the seas to an-
other land ; even to other worlds my thoughts will rise
— up, up — beyond the stars. I seem carried away to
Louisiana, that beautifvl country, where everything is
so different from here — richer, grander by far, and where
winter is not known. By the great river I see a house
with a shady verandah and a pillared hall ; trees of the
south grow about it luxuriantly. Here I was born ; my
earliest recollection twine around it. Memory carries
me now through the lofty rooms. I flit from one
chamber to another ; my poor parents are nowhere. I
roam through the garden, so rich in delight; through the
cool groves by the river ; but I am a stranger every-
where, — no one remembers the little girl. I see black
men and stop to speak to them, but they only shake
their heads mournfully.

' Sadly I quit my beautiful home — home no longer to.
me, and the spirit carries me back over the lonely sea.
Eestless I seem to wander, passing many lands, seeing
many things, meeting with kind people everywhere —
but one thing I find not. And then I rise, beyond the
clouds, beyond moon and stars. I seem jbo lose myself
— thoughts vanish. I am at rest in a beautiful garden.
' I had believed nothing could be more beautiful than
Louisiana, my own lovely home, but that garden is
better still ; tor it is the garden of God — it is Paradise,
And here I find them at last — my own dear parents ; I
knew I should find them again. And here there is rest
for my soul — nothing left to long for. I have my father

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100

LET7ERS FROM HELL.

WmM , '■',.'■':'

!^>-"': .ill

i*;lir .'ill

again, my mother again, they tell me how happy they
are, and how they love me.'

Lily's eyes were shiniog as with the light of the
Paradise she was speaking of ; she sighed, and then con-
itinued slowly :

* I am happy, too, for a moment ; but then the ser-
vant comes in with the lamp, and with a sudden pain
at the heart, I seem to be thrust down from heaven. I
look about i me bewildered, scarcely knowing where I
Am — I feel lonely and sad. Can you understand it,
Philip ?

Of course I understood her ; they were foolish dreams,
and would make her ill. These twilight roamings ought
not to be indulged in. But I did not say so.

One evening she asked me suddenly : * Philip, what
makes people happy ?'

Her question startled me, but I was not at a loss for
an answer.

* I suppose their own heart,' I said ; * good health too,
and a pleasant home, where nothing is wanting to make
one comfortable ; a few kind people also to love one, I
should say.'

* Well, I think I have all that. Am I happy ?'

* Are you not, sweetest Lily ?' I returned.

* I don't know,' she said slowly. ' Something seems
•wanting. I cannot quite express it .... No one seems
to need me in the world to make them happy — I am of
no use to any one.'

* You should not talk so, Lily ! Are you not mother's
delight, and my own ? I am sure we need you. And
you are of great use too ! But why should a little girl
like you be grieving about not being useful ? You have
nothing to do as yet but be happy yourself, learn your
lessons like a good child, and grow up as fast as you
can into a nice little woman that will be a blessing to
those who love her. But surely, Lily, you do not doubt
that even now you make mother happy, and me too ?'

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LETTERS FROM HELL.

101

* But you could do without me. And there are so
many who

* No, Lily ; I do not think we should like to do with-
out you. One is always glad of having some one to
love.'

Lily shook her head.

' I am nothing to you and her, Philip. She is your
own mother, and you are her son. But what am I ? I
do not even belong to you. You found me and were
kind to me.*

' What are you, Lily ? Why, if you are nothing else,
you are my dear little friend, whom I would not lose
for all the world.*

* A friend ? Is that something ?* she said dreamily. '

* Yes, a great deal,' I said. * A friend like you is a
loving little girl who is ready to give not only her whole
heart, but just her own self to him who loves her ; she
will smooth away his grief if he has any, and return his
smiles. The little friend I want you to be is the great-
est treasure to be found in life.*

She looked at me wonderingly. * I do not understand
you,* she said.

' Well you need not understand now. The time will
come when it will b'j all plain to you. But you might
promise me one thing, even now — will you be my little
friend T

She hesitated a moment ; then, lifting her wondrous
eyes straight to mine, she said candidly : -

' Yes, dear, I will. It is nice to be something F

* You are my all, Lily, if only you knew.'

But from that moment a pleasant consciousness
hovered between us. Often when I mef her, or took
leave to go to town, I whispered ; * Sweet little Lily
friend.* And she smiled her own angel smile, say-
ing : Yes, dear, it is nice to be somebody's friend.*

Ah, 1 love the memory of those twilight hours
when she sat by me, and I could stroke her silky hair,.

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102

LETTERS FROM HELL.

.■«■,■

.'■^''

1' ■ ■ '-f

-or hold her soft little hand in mine ! But even close
to me she would sink away into her dreams of home
«md Paradise, and I felt something like jealousy at hav-
ing no pare in these dreams.

One evening — how strange is the power of memory !
I remember every word, every look even — we had been
talking a while, and I asked her : ' But tell me, do you
care for me really V

* How should I not, Philip ? I have neither father
nor mother ; no one cares for me but aunt and your-
self. Of course I must love you for it.*

* I know, Lily. But I mean, could you love me even
more ?'

* I think so,' she said meditatively.

She was, then about twelve. At that age words fall
from the lips easily. And Lily had ^ childlike and
wonderfully spontaneous manner of uttering her
thoughts ; yet in a conversation with her elders there
was a marked difference between her and other chil-
dren. Her words showed that she thought deeply, and
the confidence with which she spoke could not but im-
press one's heart.

* I think so,' she repeated, and sat thoughtful.

* What could I do to make you love me even more ?

* There is one thing you could do, Philip. I am an
orphan child, having neither father nor mother. But I
have learned from the Word of God that of brothers
and sisters 1 have many— many. I know it, but I do
; not know them ; I cannot go in search of them. I am
onl} a little girl who is a stranger to the world, and
it is not much I can do. But you, Philip, you are
a man ; you* are clever and rich, and you go about
among the people. Will you promise me one thing ?
Whenever you meet any of my poor brothers and
sisters who are in want, will you be good to them,
pitying them for God's sake and for my sake ? Or
if you will be really kind, will you try and find

I .ITERS FROM BELL.

103

tbem out and take me with you, that together we
may comfort them and help them ? Will you pro-
mise me ? Say yes, and you shall be the very dear-
est friend I have.'

I felt the tears rise to my eyes ; I could not answer
at once, but after a while I said :

* If I do as you wish me, Lily, will you be sure to
love me always — always ?'

' Oh yes, dear ; I cannot tell you how much !*

• Well then, I promise you faithfully that I will do
it. But cheer up now, my good kind- hearted little
sister ; you must not always be thinking of things that
make you sad. There, look at me, and let me see
how brightly you can smile. ^ .

And she did look at me, and smiled as no doubt
angels smile whose measure of happiness runneth
over.

Do you not see that Lily had power over me — that I
was almost becoming good, guided by that little hand of
hers ? If it was but miserable selfishness at first which
brought me under her spell, it could not lessen the fact
that I felt and even yielded to the breath of the Spirit
moving in that holy child soul. The influence for good
that may proceed even from a little child on earth is
very marvellous.

I did begin to look about for Lily's suffering brothers
and sisters. It did not cost me any great effort to do
deeds of charity, for I was disposed to be good-natured ;
and for Lily's sake I took even a pleasure now in doing
kind things.

Again, meeting in the dusk of the evening, I would
tell her how I had succeeded here and there in making
some poor creature happy. I described to her the
miser}'^ in which I found this or that family, the way in
which I assisted them ; I told her of their joy and grati-
tude. And she listened with radiant face. Sometimes
I took her with me, and it was my delight on such oc-

104

LE2TERS FROM HELL.

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iii

-casions to let her have all the planning and giving. It
was strange how her sympathy would always hit upon
the right thing !

But — alas that T must say it 1 — in reality X was far
from heing a new creature. Lily had power to touch
my heart ; but the flesh was strong, and the world held
me fast My goodness, at most, was a mere playing at
being good.

When we separated, I going to South America, I con-
tinued for her sake to help the poor and suffering I fell
in with. But my deeds of charity were no more than
a kind of idol-worship of the memories I loved, of the
hopes I revelled in, to possess her more fully some day
who was, mine already. Besides, if I had not carried out
her wishes, I could not have written her the letters I
knew she looked for ; knowing, moreover, that she loved
me afresh for every deed of kindness I could tell her of.
It was deceiving her, — deceiving myself, perhaps, — but
there was no deceiving the riiifhteous Judge. ,

I found Lily in tears one day. She sat in silence with
folded hands, one big tear after another trickling down
. on a book before her. It was her Bible.

* What is it, my child ?' I cried. ' Why are you
troubled?*

She looked at me with her dove-like eyes, the tears
trembling in them. * I am not troubled, dear,' she said.

* But you are crving.'

* For joy — yes, for joy. Look w,hat I found !'

Her finger pointed to her Bible, and bending over her
I read:

* When my father and my mother forsake me, then
the Lord will take me up.'

I did not know at once what to say. It touched me,
but at. the same time I rather grudged her needing her
Bible for comfort, and missing her parents so much.
She had mother and me, and I wanted her to be happy.
But I could not tell her, so I said after a while :

LETTERS FROM HELL,

105

• Yes, that is beautiful, Lily, — ^just as though it were
specially written for you. But brighten up now; I can-
not have you cry, not even for joy, as you say. I'll be
back in a quarter of an hour, and then we will have a
walk.'

When I returned an expression of quiet peace had
settled on her lace, not unusual with her; but from
that day the words. * The Lord will take me up' seem-
ed continuously present in her heart. She did not hide
it. I could not shake off those words all at once, but
did so after a while.

LETTER X.

AMUSEMENT ! That is one of the common needs
nowadays ; the world requires to be amused —
rich and poor alike. I do not say that in itself, this is
altogether blameworthy ; it would be foolish to let the
river of delight flow past and never stoop to drink. But
to make amusement the one question paramount when
life is so serious, when neighbours are in trouble and
the poor in want — that surely is wrong. And yet that
seems just what the world has come to. ' How shall
we amuse ourselves ?' appears to be the great question
nowadays, the solving of which, for thousands of men
and women, seems to be the very object of living. They
do not consider it necessary to be praying for daily
bread, or to retui-h thanks when they have got it ; but
they never forget to cry out for amusement. And
even the poor, with whom daily bread is a question,
whose young may be hungry, and their aged be
buried by the parish, must needs be amused !

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106

LETJERS FROM HELL.

I'i'.'

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It was not so always. Fifty years ago the mass of
the people were satisfied with doing their work and
looking upon pleasure as a relaxation merely ; but
now amusement with many has come to be the thing
to be worked and lived for. And acknowledging this
to be a fact, history holds up an appalling precedent.
When ancient Eome made pleasure the aim of life,
the nation was approaching its doom. How shall it be
with the world ? I do not know when its end may be,,
but I know this — that those of her children who run
recklessly after pleasure are on the broad way that
leads to hell ; and the excess, which is their sin on
earth, will be their punishment here. Is the world rich
in places of amusement ? be sure so is hell. We too
have our gardens, our Tivoli— call it Vauxhall, or
Crystal Palace, or Champs Elysees, it matters not, the
thing is here. And whatever is being invented on
pleasure hunting earth, we have it to perfection. Does
the world flock by thousands to its amusements ? — hell
does so by millions. All pleasures, all passions, run
loose here in awful confusion, and helplessly you are
whirled along. Yet no matter what excess there be of
wanton gaiety, there broods over all that deatlilike still-
ness — hell's frightful atmosphere — which I have tried
to describe before. Perhaps you remember the eliects
of sounds deadened by a muffling fog ; that may give
you a faint idea of what I cannot otherwise bring home
to you. If oiie succeeds at times in breaking away from
this horrible pretence of pleasure, it leaves one panting
and spirit-broken, sick of existence and longing for rest,
but despite the loathing one is immediately after it
again, forcing the senses to what never yields them a
shadow of delight. Amusement here, let me tell you,
is a very lash of correction, driving all thoughts of plea-
sure far, far away. Ah how they long for work, those
poor souls, to whom labour on earth was so hateful, or
at best, but a means toward enjoyment. How glad they

LETTERS FROM HELL.

107

^ould even slave on a galley here, deeming the mean-
•est work a blessing. ' But the night has come when no
man can work. ,

There is a memory in this realm of death of how the
Son of Grod once descended to hell to preach to the
spirits in prison, filling the space between the great
deep and Paradise with the cry of His infinite love, and
proclaiming liberty to the captives. Then hell for a
time was light as day ; but most of those present
hardened their hearts, and fell back into darkness.

I felt a burning desire to meet someone who had
heard the voice of \he Son of God, but I own it was a
foolish wish, since it could do me no good — all being"
vanity now and nothingness ; still, in spile of that
knowledge, here one is always trying and longing for
something.

There are naturally many souls in hell who heard
that wondrous preaching, but they are all lost ; and lost
souls cannot help one to a ray of light. Had they but
remembered a single word of the Saviour's — laid it
up in their hearts, I mean — they would not now be
here. Some certainly pretend to recollect this or that,
but what they said in answer to my enquiry was cant
and blasphemy in their mouths ; it gave me no comfort,
and despairingly, I turned from my desire.

I lately ventured upon an expedition through some
outlying districts ; do not be surprised at my saying I
ventured, for I assure you it needs courage here to get
to know more than is absolutely thrust on your know-
ledge. Discovery is full of horror, even to him who has
nothing to lose.

Indeed, you must not ask me to describe to you all I
saw and heard ; it would take me too far, and it could not
possibly interest you to hear all I might say concerning
hell's inhabitants ; those crowds of thieves, murderers,
deceivers, liars, misers, spendthrifts, perjurers, forgers,

108

LETTERS FROM HELL,

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<*'

hypocrites, seducers, and slanderers. But stop ! — there
are some 1 must tell you about. Look at that tribe of
strutting turkeys in human guise ! They are the self-
conceited, a very refuse of hell ; they thought well of
themselves once, but aie a laughing-stock now.

And these miserable women flapping their arms
wildly, and going about cluck-clucking like so many
hens distressed for their brood, spreading wings of pity,
butl vainly seeking for aught to be gathered in — they
are the wicked mothers, groaning for the children they
neglected in sloth or seltishness.

And those queer creatures fawning about so meanly,
slobbering all whom they meet with i^mpathy, ofiering
assistance right and left I — they are the merciless ones.
Their hearts were too hard formerly; they are too soft
now, and no one here requires their mercy. ,

A few other figures I may single out.

I have told you of the great black river here which is
not Lethe. I was sitting one day near its bank, think-
ing of the sad past and sadder future : the turpid waves
rolled heavily by.

Groans broke upon the silence about me. I started
and perceived a strange figure, strangely occupied. It
was a man of commanding aspect, handsome even, but
in most painful plight. He sat by the river washing his
hands, which dripped with blood. But for all his wash-
ing the dead crimson would not leave his fingers; as
soon as he lifted them above the water, the red blood
trickled down afresh. It was a pitiful sight.

He seemed to oe aware of my presence, for he turned
upon me suddenly, saying, * What is truth ?' I did not
reply at once, feeling it to be a question that should not
be answered lightly ; but, raising his voice, he repeated
impatiently, 'What is truth ?'

*Well,' I said, ' it is a truth, and a sad one, that it is
too late now for us to be seeking the truth.'

This answer d^ . not appear to satisfy him. He shook

LEllERS FROM HELL.

his head, tarring away. And again he set to washing
his hands.

I endeavoured to draw him into conversation. I
seemed suddenly to know that he was one of those
doubly miserable souls who had seen the S .n of Man
face to lace and heard Him speak, and I was most
anxious to hear what he might have to tell me; but
there was no turning him from his frightful occupation.

I left him after a while. Who he was I knew with-
out the testimony of his purple -bordered toga and the
ring on liis tinger — Pontius Pilate !

He shuns the city of the Jews, and spends his time by
the liver washing his hands. But of every passer-by he
asks the question, What is truth ? Whatever answer
he receives he shakes his head : it is not general truths
he wants to know about, but the Truth— truth absolute^
and that is not known here. And do you perceive the
cutting contrast ? Pilate enquiring about truth, yet
washing his hands in the river of falsehood ! \

I went my way through desert places — uncultivated
tracts, that is, but nowise unpeopled , no spot in hell is
uninhabited, however dismal and waste it may l:)e.
There are souls whom an inward necessity drives into
the howling wilderness ; those, for instance, who in life
worked out dark plots ending in great crimes. These
places are congenial to them.

There is one terrible figure one meets at times in the
dreariest waste — a man tall and powerful, half naked,
the skin of some animal being all his clothing. The hair
hangs wildly about his temples ; there is a turtive look
in his eyes, and his brow is gloomy. There is a mark
upon his forehead, and he carries a club ; not that he
seems to require it, for he is a fugitive always, in con-
stant fear of being slain. Every one who meets him
trembles, but he is afraid of the weakest and most help-
less of creatures, fleeing them each and all for fear of
his wretched life. Always alone, he seems nowhere and

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110

LETJERS FROM HELL.

everywhere. A cursed fugitive he was on earth — a
cursed fugitive he is in hell, for the Lord has set His
mark upon him, that every one should know Cain and
not slay him.

I hurried away, anxious to get rid of the terrihle sight.
Here, then, I had found a soul that was more wretched
than myself. But the thought was poor comfort ; I
could not shake ofif the impression of the lying flattery
with which they buried me. But I forget — I have not
told you my first experience by that vile river. As I
neared it 1 was met — would you believe it — by an ac-
count of my own obsequies. It was sickening ! A mis-
erable versifier, lately come hither it seems, was hawking
about his latest production. I do not know that he really
knew me, but he insi&ted on flourishing a paper in my
face, and 1 could not help reading with my own eyes
the flaring title, to this effect :

* New and mournful ditty, in memory of Philip H.,
Esq., whose heirs could pay for the grandest funeral and
the most flattering parsons to escort him to heaven, but
could not keep him out of hell. Leading sentiment —
his Eeverence's own — ** We shall meet again !"

A funeral ditty in honour of me... staring me in the
face by the river of lies ! . . . I bit my lips, for I needs
oust read it.

It began with a panegyric on my many virtues, very
few of which I really possessed ; it next broke out into
a doleful lamentation about the loss society had sus-
tained by my untimely death, and ended with a de-
scription of the blessed life I had entered upon to receive
the reward of my deeds, joy and glory unspeakable,
which henceforth were my blessed inheritance ! Terrible
irony !

I felt as though a hundred daggers had entered my
soiil. Sick at heart I crumpled up the wretched pro-
duction and fled from the place. It was some time be-
fore I could get over the deep bitterness of this ex-

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LETTERS FROM HELL,

111

perience; and when in a measure I had conquered it,
that parson's ' leading sentiment' remained as a drop
of rankling poison. Thou fool 1 — or hypocrite — which
is it ? As though a man had but to die to go straight-
way to bliss ! I will not enlarge upon the hopeful state-
ment — you little dreamt of its possible meaning when
you said, ' We shall meet again 1'

It was about this time that I first came across a king
in this place. Pitiful sight 1 It is scarcely possible to
conceive a greater contrast between the once and the
now — kingship on earth and kingship in hell !

Of all the objects one meets with here, I do believe
emperors, kings, and princes of every description are
the poorest. There are no empires and kingdoms here,
fiave indeed Satan's, and nothing deserving the appella-
tion of government. What rules us is a kind of social
instinct and the habits of life we brought with us from
the world. So, you see, kings and princes are nowise
needed. Their rank of course entitles them to respect,
and as on earth so here, one bows involuntarily to their
exalted position ; but in truth they are too miserable to
look for respect. It is with them as with the image of
flome castaway saint, the gilding of which has worn off,
and which ends its days in the lumber-room, ignomini-
ously forgotten. Their former greatness was merely
conventional ; it was gilding, in fact, and no real gold^
It has worn off, and there is nothing left to bespeak
their majesty. The poor kings have no kingdom here
to display their greatness, no armies that will fight and
die at their bidding, no millions to be squandered ; they
have nothing left but the sad pretence of former gran-
deur. Their courtly state is represented by a few
wretched sycophants who stick to them, not for love
but for gain, illusive of course, and following former
habit merely. I said they are miserable, — vjeiglud dmvn
would be a more descriptive word, and literally true, for
they nearly sink beneath the burden of their crowns.

112

LETTERS FROM HELL.

Do vou wish to know the possible weight of a crown ?
I will meet you with another question : can you t«ll
me how great a king's responsibility may be on earth t
They weigh tons these crowns, believe me. The poor
kings, propped up as they are by ministers and satel-
lites, can scarcely more than crawl here, so heavy i&
their burden.

Worse ofl' than any are. those potentates whose names
on earth boasted of the addition ' the Great ;' alas, those
great ones are peculiarly small here, and those five
letters add an enormous weight to their crowns !

Ot truly great sovereigns, of course none arrive
here, and those others whom the world called
Great received that appellation merely becuuse
they were either great destroyers of human life^
slaughtering the people by thousands for their
own miserable renown, or perhaps because they
outdid all other men and princes in that peculiar
knavery which goes by the unme of state-craft. Some
few also may have come >^) their distinction quite by
chance ; perhaps they h:i J clever ministers working for
their glory. But these sometimes are the most con-
ceited of all crown-bearers ; nothing is left for them but
to go to hell when they have done.

"What a gain it would have been for those poor po-
tentates if, instead of striving for the appellation * the
Great,' they had been content to be called * the Good'
or * the Beloved l' Charity then, with them also, might
have covered a multitude of sins. Now nuui: ;;; \> left
but the wailing and gnashing of teeth.

You never hear them speak ; sighing uhia groaning
seems to be their one means of intercourse. But no one
car- to listen ; indeed they are scarcely fit for society..
The A 'if-wledge of this makes them shy and retiring j
on*^ 'uiii-r \iy e.'r meets them; and if they do venture
abroad, Uc_', are at once set upon as a hawk by in^
nuiiieraLle sparrov'ii — persecuted by all who suffered

him

LElThRS FROM HELL,

113

through them in life, .is many aa half a nation some-
times.

How enviable might have been their days on earth !
Blessed beyond their fellows, all was theirs to make
thoraselves and others happy ; but ambition prevent^
i ii. m from seeing that their crown might — ay, should—
i»a I well of blessing for the people. They were always
«pe iking of their right divine, calling themselves kings
'by the grace of God ; they forgot that it would have been
far better to own themselves poor sinners through the
grace of God than kings by right divine, and by that
Tight be cast into hell.

I spoke of destroyers of human life, but one ided not
be a king or emperor for that ; some of the rao t ruth-
less slaughterers of humanity the world has known
"were only generals, admirals, marshals, and the li ke.

These also continue their career in hell — in vaia en-
deavour. There are plenty here to flock to their
standards — all those, namely, who on earth were for-
getful of the peace and goodwill which the God of love
proclaimed to mankind. They meet here, hundreds of
thousands of them, and like so many sjrinning skeletons,
at once prepare for battle. Vainest show ! Their artillery
produces mere smoke. The spectre phalanx charges :
one expects a great onslaught, but it is nothing : they
merely change sides^ as it were, and begin the battle
afresh. They are unable to shed blood now, bat they
•are forever spending their soul's energy in miserable
bloodthirstiness.

I thought of the warriors of Walhalla — foolish com-
parison ! for there is nothing in common between the
heroes there and the would be heroes fiere. The war-
riors of Walhalla are said to be resplendent with
strength a ad glory, living not only a real but a perfect
life; liereas their wretched semblances here are only
fit to move laughter and pity.

You know that we are always suffering thirst — an
■agonizing, burning thirst — ever longing for a drop of

114

LE2TERS FROM HELL,

water to cool the tongue. No one, one would imagine,
would willingly come to try and slack his thirst with
the stagnant water of the horrible river ; nevertheless
there are some who do try it, quite secretly though, as
if that could be kept a secret ! For their whole body
swells and is puffed out with the slimy falsehood, which
breaking through their every pore, turns them into posi-
tive lepers of lying. Having drunk once they always
drink again, but their thirst is never quenched.

As I am thinking of ending this letter, the shadow of
a saying crosses my memory, that of good things therb
are al.ways three. I forget which of earth's tongues has
moulded this into a proverb, but .something more than
a proverb often troubles me now ; I remember that I
used to be taught to believe in the Trinity in Unity, but
I never get beyond the two now— I know something of
a Father, and something of a Saviour; but was not there
a third to help one to say * our Father' and ' my Sa-
viour' ? Alas the idea is a blank now, leaving a shadow
to haunt me! ' ■._

There are other three I am vainly trying to recall to
my heart-r— faith, hope, and charity. I know nothing
of faith now, and nothing of hope. I might have known
chaiity, and I once believed I knew love: but now, alas,
I know only what it might, what it shtuld have been ?

Oh that 1 could warn you who , still walk in hope !
Love is no light thing, but the deepest outcome of the
soul. Had I known it truly, faith and hope now would
stand by my side.

Be warned my brothers, my sisters ! My heart yearns
for you ; it yearns for thee, my silent friend, who never
with a word even hast answered any of these letters \
for thee, mother, who never understoodst my deepest
need ; for thee, Martin, who in just retribution art as
the lash now adding torment to torment. I love thee
still, — what is it thou wouldst have told me ? My heart
is yearning, my brothers, my sisters ; but vain, vain, is
the longing ; it leaves me in hell !

I!. )■;.,

LL'ITERS FROM HELL,

115

LETTER XI.

■(,■,'>.?

WOULD you believe it — not only my sins, but
even the * good deeds' of my life come back to
me in torment 1 I can but add, it is very natural! For
even our best actions are full of blemish. Every one of
them leaves a sting behind, and if it did not prick con-
science then, it has power to enter the soul now, wound-
ing it deeply.

There was a clerk in our counting house, a young
man, in whom I was interested. I trusted him entirely;
he tilled a responsible position, acting as cashier. Va-
rious little things coming under my notice first caused
me to doubt his honesty. I watched hiai, and dis-
covered that he had contracted a habil of gambling.
Chance ofifered me an opportunity of taking him in the
act.

He frequented a low gammg house ; I had been di-
rected to the place. The adventure was not without
risk to myself, but that was nothing to me. It was a
wintry evening, dark and blustering, when, wrapped in
an ordinary overcoat, I approached the apparently un-
inhabited house. In answer co a peculiar knock, how-
ever, the door was opened, and having passed a low
dark passage, I entered a well-lit room. I found a com-
pany of gamblers assembled, as numerous as varied,
evidently enjoying themselves, though tlie place reeked
with the fumes of tobacco and gin. Several tables were
going, one of them was kept by my young scapegrace,
who apparently enjoyed his dignity of banker. Acting
on a sudden impulse, I faced him and staked a small
sum. ^ / '_ '■ ^ •

116

LETTERS i-RQM ^MM*

The sudden sight of me had a terrible effect on him.
He grew ashy, and the cards fell from his hand. Having
regained some self-command, he seemed about to rise,
either to rush from the place or sink down at my feet.
But a look from me was sufficient to rivet him to his
«eat. One of those present, perceiving his confusion,
handed him a glass of port ; be seized it eagerly and
drained it. His palor yielded to a flush ; he looked me
in the face. But coldly I disowfied bimrrstanding be-

^ fore him as a stranger naerely, who desired the co^jjliu-
ation of the game. So xjid the rest of the company.

, l^one of them suspected the peculiar relation between
myself and the upfortunate croupier. I was determined
the r^si^al should suffer : J compelled liim tp play, "\yiih
trembling haiids, scarcely knowing what he did, he d^alt
the cards, gave and received cash. The g^e went on,

"and as chance woiild iiave it, the younffster bad aU the
luck. But I could abide a turn of tpi^ tide ; 1 kn^w

; it would <?ome, s^id presently I began to force the game.
I could aftbrd to play higher th^n any pf them probajbly
ihad ever done beiore. The esfcitement grew to in^eo-
isity ! with the croupier it appeared simply maddening ;
his eyes started from his head. Another stake, and I
had broken the banl^ ! , , ;. -

With a yell of despair the unhappy youtii sprang to
his feetj and crying, .'AU is lost i' w*is about to jiish
past' me and break from the place. ' Not all !' 1 ^aid
' under my breathj seizing hold of his arm; more still
niight be to'st, Stop a minute ; we leave this house to-
getherl^^ ^ .^j, j,^: ,j ;.,,.,,..,, ^^^^, ioob yci,: i;v .

He was obligi^a to t9ke his hat and coat and follow
line, the coinpany stared of course, but all was dope
■so quietly theit nf}n^.i;#J.vs^0,efi,b d^aflydHi^ ai|,.93i^-
'planation. ^^.^./J-'' ,;:..'■(.<<, : ■ ^v-'-il. ^;,m:;m ^h', jIT^'
' t took him :with me, walpng l:^y B^^yaidea^d tremb-
ling^ yibibly. l^ot a word w6a spokeci till we, ehj^j^^d
tfe library of my house. There I confronted hfm, and

'V-

LETTERS FROM HELL,

117

•did not spare him. He who had been trusted beyond
ills age — trusted entirely — a gambler and a thief !

He stood before me crushed and overwhelmed with
shame. He ceased praying for mercy for himself, but
entreated me to spare his widowed mother, whose only
stay he was.

I did not relent so easily, although, considering that
he had had a lesson, I determined to pardon him ; but
I also determined that he should remember that night
as long as he lived.

In agony he lay at my fefet when I promised mercy
at last, saying I would keep the matter to myself, and
allow him the opportunity of making up for his wrong ;
he might do so, and thank me for not ruining his pros-
pects.

He prepared to take his leave, and staggered to the
door, scarcely able to stand on his feet. It had been
too much for him. I saw I could not let him go, or
his miserable secret would at once become known to
his mother. I rang for my valet, and ordered him to
give the young man a bed in my house.

The following morning found him in delirium, brain
fever supervened. I thought of the poor widow, and
how anxious he had been she should not know. I re-
solved to keep his secret ; the servant, I knew, could be
trusted. So I wrote to his mother that I had been
obliged to send him aw..y on business suddenly; it
would be a several weeks' absence — meanwhile she
might be at rest about him.

Thus his fate, next to God, was left with me entirely.
He was seriously ill ; I had him nursed conscientiously,
dividing nearly all my time between him and his
mother. I acted as a brother by him, as a son by
her. When recovery had set in and he knew me
again, I surrounded him with kindness, doing my ut-
most to bring him back to health and self-respect.

Spme six weeks elapsed before he could go back

118

LETTERS FROM HELL,

'^- -•'

to his mother. She was told he had been ill on his-
joumey. On a journey indeed he had been, returning
from the very gates of death. His mother never learned
the true cause of his absence. I placed him in another
branch of the business ; he rose by degrees, and I ever
found him a faithful servant.

Now to the point. You think perhaps that I had
every reason for being thoroughly satisfied with myself
for once. I should have thought so at the time ! But
here, where the scales fall from one's eyes, where every-
thing appears in uncompromising nakedness, one learns
to judge differently.

There was no wrong in catching the bird by the wing
as I did, and holding him tight tjll he dropped, thor-
oughly frightened. I had saved him from his sin. But
looking back now I see that pride and self-conscious-
ness guided my hand. Vanity was flattered by the
moral ascendancy I had over the youth ; a look of mine
had sufficed to force him to continue awhile in hia
wicked course, and then I could have staked my soul
that he would not again touch a card to his dying
day. I knew it, I mean, even at the moment, 'and
felt elated by the knowledge.

My subsequent kindness to him, I fear, sprang
from a feeling that I had been hard on him. I had
taken a cruel delight in his utter humiliation. What
was left then, I ask, to make the deed a good one.?
Judge for yourself, my friend ! Humiliation is for me
now — I feel it deeply whenever I think of his contri-
tion and suffering.

That night, in fact, left its traces on his life. The
brightness was wiped out of it. H e had been a light-
hearted youth ; he was a sad browed man. A shy^
almost timorous look, witnessed to the memory of
that occurrence, although it remained a secret be-
tween him and me.

You see, then, that even our so-called good deeds may

LETTERS I' ROM HELL.

119^

weigh on our souls ; is it not terrible ? But how little
do they deserve to be called good, since few of them,
I fear me, if thoroughly examined, will stand the
test I Not that I would deny there being such
things as good works ; though, it viewed aright, what
are they but the mere doing of our duty ? How indeed
could they be more, if we have the means and power of
doing them !

Was not there something we used to call the articles
of belief ? I have a faint recollection. Did they not
refer to the mystery of the Trinity, and wer^ they not,,
like the Lord's Prayer, a support to Christian souls ?

I have tried to remember them, driving the brain to the
verge of madness ; but I have given it up now. What
would be the use if I could remember, if I could repeat
those articles, and the whole of the catechism besides ?
It would be words — words only, as empty and hollow as
everything about me. It is faith only which could give
them their true meaning. Faith ? — what is faith ? I
know about it. I know that its object is the Son of
God. The very devils know as much as that. I know
that He is the Saviour. But»how He saves, and how a
lost soul can come to have part in Him, woe is me, I
cannot tell.

I feel about faith as I do about repentance. I think
if I could repent but for one short moment — repent
truly — salvation would be mine. But vain is the trying,
I cannot — cannot repent. At times I feel as if I werfr
very near that blessed experience, as if my being would
dissolve in tears, — ah vainest deception ! * for 9 tear
— a single tear !' I keep sighing, * Father of mercy,' —
but what boots the prayer ot anguish if barren of faith ?
— ' Father of mercy, oh grant me a tear !'

Time passes. Nay, this is nonsense, since there is no
time here. Something, however, appears to pass; I
infer that from the increasing glimmer of light. The
blissful moment seems to be approaching when the

i:.:

1 I
fill 1

120

LETTERS FROM HELL.

glory of Paradise will swallow up the night of hell. But
I speak of what I have not seen. It may be an awful
'moment, sublime rather than blessed, and it may be in
>the distance of unmeasured ages. . . .

Broad is the way which leads to destruction, but how
broad is not known till you see it from hell.

Men find it a pleasant road ; they go along dancing
and singing, as it were, enjoying the moment, and never
asking whether they give it to God or to the devil.
They think of the future only as far as it may concern
some pleasure they are anticipating, some ball or
play perhaps, or even the new clothes they are going to
wear. They call the hour of waiting an eternity,* and
know not the awful import of the word. 'We love to
live* they say ; but death holds them in his embrace.
Holbein's well-known ' Dance of Death' is more than a
picture, T assure you. They dance, they nlake love,
they charter, they eat and sleep through life. A sudden
wrench — and lo they wake in hell.

There are others who grovel along that road. One
would imagine them to find it irksome, but by no means.
The mole in the ground is as satisfied in his way as the
bird in the air. There are human moles. * We lead
steady lives,' they say and grovel in the dust. ' We
have eyes to see' — of course they have ; it is but a myth
which asserts that moles are blind. They have an eye,
I assure you, for the smallest advantage they can pick
up in their earthly course. Not that they look for the
small gains merely ; it is the great ones they like, and
T}urrow for them assiduously. That is what they use
their eyes for — to peer about in the dust ; they never
direct them heavenward. They do not seem aware even
of the starry sky above the clods of earth. They spend
their lives in trying to break those clods for something
that may be within ; and, grovelling along, they sooner
-or later come upon a hole in the ground. They did not
.look for it, and tumble in unawares. Death has swal-

LEIJERS FROM HELL,

lowed them up ; and recovering from the fall, they find
themselves in hell.

It is truly to be marvelled at ! All men know that
their portion is to die, but few of them ever think of
death, and fewer still prepare themselves for dying-
Death comes to most men as an unexpected visitor who
will take no denial, though one never made ready for
him. What is their left for them but a terrible waking
in hell !

It is so with most ; and more marvellous still, as I
have said already, one finds people here one would never
hav^ dared to look for. They had gained the veneration
and love of the world, even of good people in the world \
the tearful prayers of their Mends went to heaven,
mourninji their death. But they had not gone to heaven ;
they are in hell ; for God judges not with the eyes of
men. They may have been excellent people and pos-
sessed of many a virtue, but they lacked one thing
which alone avails them in the end; they had not the
heart of faith which yields itself to God entirely. They
may have gained the whole world, but they lost their
own soul.

. And again, there are others one most certainly ex-
pected here who have never arrived. Their evil repu-
tation, their works went before them, announcing them>
as it were ; but they are looked for in vain. There is
only one way of accounting for this. Great sinners
though they were, iniquitous and full of pollution, they
must yet have come to that godly sorrow which worketh
repentance to salvation. Perhaps at the very last the
Saviour stood up between them and hell, where their
place seemed prepared for a certainty.

You who have loved your dead and grieve for th6m
tenderly — with trembling hearts and tearful voice I hear
you ask : 'May we not go on loving them, helping them
perhaps with our true heart's prayers ?'

I know not. Yet pray — pray with all your soul and

ir.l

122

LETTERS FROM HELL.

t'>:

!,f ■■■'

p-i "i

<'W

;*Jl!llli

:Mi|

without ceasing. One thing I am certain of, that the
grayer of love is never vain ; the tears of love can never
be lost 1 For God is love, and His Son is the fulfil-
ment of that love to all eternity.

Looking backward and looking forward to me is
fraught with equal pain I see nothing before me but
an endless existence which knows not of hope, while all
behind me is wrapt in the wild regret of a life that is
lost.

Hell yields a terrible knowledge — how blessedly
fruitful life might have been ! Happy ye are whose
life is still in your hands. While there is life there is
hope — never was there a truer word. Do not, I be-
seech you, yield to the pernicious delusion that you
have lost your opportunity — that it is too late 1 That
lie has ruined more souls than all earth's wickedness
combined. It is not too late 1 And if death awaits you
to-morrow, it is imt too late \ Your life, though even
now it be running out its last grain of sand, may yet
bring forth fruit — the blessed fruit of peace, of joy un-
«peakable ; the crown of life may yet be yours.

If you would but repent ! Ah ! turn, turn from your
ways, and seek for peace where it is to be found 1

Could I but let you see things as I see them, you
would not deapair ! Wretched, undone and lost though
you feel yourselves, you need not be hopeless. Despair
has no right on earth — its true realm, alas, is here !
And here only it is ever too late. Do you not know
that your life on earth is but a part, an infinitesimally
small part of the existence given to you, and that little
is lost even if all earthly hopes have failed ? I need
not have said all ; for no man is left so entirely deso-
late. Wasted and ruined though life may appear to
you, there is many a spot left where the waters of con-
tent may spring — where joy even for you may be found
to be growing, if you could but trust ! And the world
is not all. Behold the stars, they are more than you

LETTERS FROM HELL,

•could number. If th« world indeed were lost and
earthly life a failure, what is it ? There are oth^r
worlds awaiting you, a better life is at hand. Look
up, I say, and despair not! It is a lie if anyone
tells you it is too late. It is iwt too late. You may
yet be fully satisfied. This is a truth as unshake-
able as the existence of God Himself. Kepent thee,
O man ! woman ! and turn from thy ways ; turn
to Him who can save thee, who will save thee ! However
late it be there is yet time for thee to begin a new life.
But delay not — ah delay not to enter upon the happy
road that may lead thee from star to star, even into
realms of joy eternal. Delay not, I say ; for if death
surprise thee on the road of despair with sins unfor-
giveu, heaven and all its stars will fade away in the
night that evermore must enwrap thy soul.

Again I say, it is not too late. Whatever be lost,
one thing is yet to be saved — thy hungering soul, her
peace, and the life to come.

Hast thou lost money and riches ? — Thy soul is worth
immeasurablv more.

Is thy past a failure, undoing even thy future .? — Be-
hold eternity, and work for that.

Wast thou deceived in love ! — Love will save thee at
last.

Is thy love degraded ? — Look upon Life exalted on
the Cross. < v

Has the world not satisfied thee ? — There is heaven ;
try it.

Have earth's joys proved faithless ? — There is an heri-
tage to come !

How little then is lost, even if it be thy all, and how
much there remains to be gained ? Take heart, I say,
for verily it is not too late I There is yet time to be-
gin a new, a holy, happy, and even joyful life !

I have seen her ! It was as though death again had

124

LETTERS FROM HELL.

clutched me. Shaken to the depth of my soul, I fell to
the ground at the dread aspect, stricken with remorse.
I saw her — her against whom I have sinned so terribly
that my own heart and conscience ever stand up to ac-
cuse me.

• I have never had courage to mention it to you, my
once truest friend ; but I have always had a frightful
foreboding that sooner or later, I should meet Annie in
hell, whose life and soul I murdered. She is here, and
I have seen her !

I was strolling about with an old acquaintance). * Do
you know Undine ? he said suddenly. • No,* I replied.
' There she is,' he continued, pointing towards a poud at
some little distance.

Add I savr a youthful figure, dressed in the airest of
garments, and with dishevelled hair. Her light robe
seemed to cling to her figure and to be dripping with
water. She was trying, now to wring her wet clothes,
now the heavy masses of her hair. S\n looked up. I
stood trembling. It was Annie !

Annie indeed ! The same lovely features, the same
enchanting figure, and yet how changed — how terribly
changed ! Tlie same features, but the light was gone.
Womanhood had fled, the merely animal had triumphed.
Passion, vice, and despair vied for the mastery. She
looked much older, though the space between her ruin
and her death comprised, I should say, a few years
only. I seemed to have a knowledge that despair had
driven her to a watery grave.

I stood rooted to the ground with horror, as a mur-

derer at the sudden sight of the gallows. She was

work, degraded and lost, yet lovely once and pure !

There she sat, wringing her garments and the tresses
of her hair — and wringing her hands in hopeless
agony; sigh upon sigh breaking as from a hea:c over-
whelmed with shame.

I thought of escaping, feeling as though a possible

I n

LEJTRRS FROM HELL.

125

word from her must be a dagger to kill me. But I
know not what power drove me towards her. Was I
going to throw myself at her feet ?

l^ow only she perceived me. Darting up, she gave
me one look of terror and loathing, and hurried away.
It was impossible for me to reach her. The power of
abhoiTence alone was sufficient to make her keep me at
a distance. And presently she escaped from my sight
altogether, lost in a troop of bewildered spirits just ar-
riving from the shores of death.

I turned and fled, followed by the furies. • '

LETTER XII. : : r

I HAVE been to the post-office. That institution
also is represented here, as I found out quite re-
cently. Truly nothing is wanting in this place except
all that one needs in order to live and to hope.

I had gone to enquire for letters. There is something
very curious about this post-office of ours. You have
heard of what befell Uriah. There have always been
people who, betraying their neighbour, have done so by
writing. But the invention is older even than that no-
torious letter, originating, no doubt, with the father of
lies in the first place. It was he who inspired that
piece of treachery, just as he inspired Judas' kiss.
Treason by writing is known all over the world now.
There are those who delight in the cleverness of such a
letter, quite priding themselves on the art of taking in
their fellows. •' . ; :-- ; t ■

Beit known, then, that every such letter goes' to hell
at the expense of the writer, to be called for sooner or
later — not by the person to whom it is addressed, but

126

LETTERS FROM H^LL.

by the sender ; some few cases excepted — King David's
to begin with — where true repentance cancels the
writing. That is the meaning of our post-office, and I
assure you it is most humiliating to be seen there; for
even here one perceives the meanness of such corres-
pondence, the writer's punishment consisting in having
to read it over and over again to his lasting confusion.

I somehow could not rest till I had been to enquire
for letters; to my great relief there were none for me 1
Bad as I was T had after all never been a downright
Judas, and I felt ready to give thanks for that assur-
ance. I liad no real satisfaction in the feeling ; still,
for a moment, it seemed I had.

But such letters are not all : there are spurious
documents, and false signatures here more than can
be counted. Let men beware how they put pen to pa-
per ; writing has a terrible power of clinging to the soul.
None but God Himself can blot it out.

i ^1

I 5

I never knew more than two people capable ot teach-
ing me patience — my mother and Lily — Lily's influ-
ence over me being the stronger by far. My mother's
props were propriety and duty ; but Lily moved me by
that wouderful goodness of hers, that sunny warmth
that emanated from her loving heart! In the exuber-
ance of masculine strength I often inclined to be vio-
lent and overbearing, ill brooking opposition and delight-
ing in conquering obstacles, yielding to the absolutely
impossible only with clenched fists ; submissiveness did
not grace my nature. That indomitable spirit of mine
would break out at times on our memorable journey to
the south ; but on that journey, also, Lily's power over
me was fully apparent. I was learning from her daily
without knowing it, nor did she know it, unconscious as
she was of her soul's beauty ; patience was one oi the
many good things to which she led me.

We had reached Lucerne, intending to go over the

•:';:'!• il

LETTERS FROM HELL.

127.

vio-
ght-
itely
did
mine
jy to
over
daily
lusas
t the

St. Gothard to Italy. I wanted Lily to have the full
enjoyment o crossing the Alps, there being to my mind
nothing more beautiful than the sudden transition from
the austere north to the genial life expanding south ;
and passing by the Gothard, or the Splugen, or the
Simplon, one can gather the fullness of all Italy into
one day as it were.

The weather at Lucerne was most unfavourable, and
kept us waiting full eight days. I chafed. Morning
after morning Lily and I went to the great bridge to
have a look at the sky, but little sky we saw ; every-
thing was mist and spray, hiding all prospect of lake or
mountain-top. My vexation was boundless ; day after
day the same miserable lookout ! I thought them
wretched, those excursions after breakfast, but their
memory is sweet. Lily was leading me up and down •
that queer old bridge — a wild animal in chains. It
needed but the pressure of her soft little hand aud my
grumblings were silenced I »

How clever she was — how ingenious even — in amu-
sing me. Travelled folk will remember that old-fash-
ioned structure spanning the Reuss ; it is covered, and
the spaces between the woodwork that supports the roof
are filled with antique paintings — both naively con-
ceived and grotesquely executed. She would suddenly
stop now in front of this picture, now in front of that,
her delightful remarks again and again restoring my
good humour.

The weather cleared at last, to our great satisfaction.
We had gone to the bridge earlier than usual, when
suddenly the mists parted, revealing the dazzling mirror
from shore to shore ; and, rolling upward, the curtain
disclosed the mountain scenery, so lovely, &o grand. We
stood, spellbound, watching the transformation: the
splendid expanse of water, from which the country
rises, height upon height, mountain upon mountain, the

128

Z£2 TEHS FROM HELL,

5,11. ,', , ,'^\

,|"V' .' 1S:Lri

'''ji: ; ■'A'.'i

great Alps behind them lifting their virgin whiteness in
the radiant air.

The following morning, then, we started at sunrise,
crossing the lake and thinking hopefully of the Gothard.
The boatmen doubted the weather, but we 'hoped for
good fortune, enjoying the present, which had steeped
all nature in floods of light. How beautiful it is, how
surpassingly beautiful, that alpine scenery, lifting you
into high regions, still and pure ! The first alpine-iose
nearly cost me my life — it was for Lily. We drove and
walked alternately. It was a day the memory ot which
sank into the soul. As the sun went down we passed
through the wild dark glens that lead to the valley of
XJrsern, the restful beauty of which, so simple yet sub-
lime, opens out before you as though earth glorified were
a fact already. We passed the night in the little town of
Andermatt. The following morning — what a change I
The boat- people had been right : snow covered the
ground ; a storm swept the valley.

My impatience was by this fresh delay stung to
frenzy. One day passed — another — a third; we con-
tinued weather-bound. To take it quietly was impos-
sible to me. I set out upon several expeditions by
myself to explore the neighbourhood, fraught with
danger to life and limb though they were. Lily, fearful
lest anything should befall me, entreated me to abstain,
and to please her I yielded. How sweetly she set her-
self to reward me I What none could have done, she
did, making the time pass pleasantly, and teaching me
patience. She took me about the little town visiting
the people. The houses and cottages seemed all open
to her, and the simple folk received her like an old
friend.

Now it had an interest of its own, no doubt, to be-
come acquainted with the home-life of this alpine re-
treat, but, after all, Lily was the centre of all I saw and
heard. And how should it have been otherwise, when

LETTERS FROM HELL,

129

she was a sunbeam gliding from house to house, unut-
terably lovely In her unconscious sympathy, calling up
smiles wherever she went, and leaving a blessing behind
her 1 I am sure the people thought so, feeling the bet-
ter for having seen her. Poverty brightened on behold-
ing her, and suffering lessened; she seemed welcome
everywhere ; it was marvellous. An ordinary observer
would have said, * Yes, such is the power of youth and
beauty.* But a deeper fascination went out from her,
since her's were higher graces, known to God.

The involuntary sojourn against all expectation
yielded its own gain, enriching life as with an idyl
brought home to our minds in that alpine solitude.

Not that I ceased fretting at the delay. One evening
I asked Lily : ' How can you make yourself so content-
edly glad in this wretched place, when we might be
spending days of delight beyond ?'

* Oh,' she said, ' it is not difficult. Even though we
are kept here against our will, and the place seems dull
and desolate with the grey mists about us, yet I know
that there is beauty awaiting us on the other side of the
mountain ; a few days only, a few hours even, and we
may be there.'

She was growing thoughtful. * Philip,' she continued
presently, 'does it not remind you of life itself ? The world
often seems cold and dreary, not yielding the sunny
warmth one craves. But then we do know that Para-
dise is beyond, — the true home prepared for us in the
house of our heavenly Father. As yet there is a moun-
tain between us and the place beyond, the mount of
crucifixion, of denying ourselves ; it is for us to pass it,
and then we shall reach home, where earth's troubles
are all left behind . . .' ^ -

And before long we did find ourselves on the other
side, resting from the journey in a charming villa on
the bank of Lago Maggiore. Lily and I were sitting in
a pillared hall, listening to the soft c'adence of the

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waters, and enjoying an indescribably enchanting view
of the island-dotted lake. Mountains framed the picture
beyond, rising higher and higher, earth vanishing into
sky — the most distant heights scarcely to be distin-
guished from the white clouds on the sunny horizon.

From seeming mid- winter we had reached the perfec-
tion of a genial clime. Lily's hands twined white roses
and myrtles, which she had gathered about the place.
She had played with the flowers, now wreathing them,
now un wreathing them. There was a biidal purity about
those children of the south, and Lily was herself the
sweetest of blossoms. My heart burned ; I longed to
seize the hands that held the flowers, and cover them
with kisses, but a holy power forbade me. Ever and
again I felt as though some angel were standing between
Lily and myself.

* What are you thinking of ?' I asked, my voice be-
traying my emotion.

* I ?' she said gently, lifting her soft gaze, and my
heart was stilled. * I am thinking about that poor dark
mountain valley we left behind. The memory of it
seems to enhance the beauty we now enjoy, deepening
its riches and our sense of them. And, feeling thus, I
cannot but bless the time spent on the other side of the
dividing mountain, though it seemed gloomy and cold,
and the longing was great.'

* Don't you think, Philip, that one day when we have
reached heaven we shall be looking back with similar

I feelings upon the troubled times we may have spent on
earth ? I think we shall, and that we shall be able to
bless them, if we now accept them in patience and in
hope, looking to God and His dear Son. Their memory
will even add to the bliss prepared for us.'

A strange sensation crept through me at these words
of Lily's — a holy tremor I might call it, but fraught
with pain. Shoiild I be looking back some day from the

LETTERS FROM HELL.

131

fields of glory, back upon life on earth ? Ah, what a
life I I would mend my ways — indeed I would I

But I never succeeded in climbing that mountain of,
which Lily had spoken — the mountain of crucifixion.
Its weight, on the contrary, is now upon me, crushing
me to all eternity.

A journey through Italy for a man of my description
may well be called a trial of patience. Custom-house
officers, luggage porters, guides, hotel keepers, and the
whole tribe of beggars swarm about you like persecut-
ing wasps. The miserable greed of that class of Italians,
with their constant attempts at cheating you, was more
tndii I could brook. I often felt ready to thrash every
mother's son of them that came in my way. But here
also Lily was my saving angel. Having frightened her
to tears once by an outbreak of passion, I felt so sorry
at having grieved her that I' was ready to submit all
travelling affairs to her decision, satisfied she should
guide me — another Una leading the lion ! She needed
only to place her hand on my arm, looking at me with
her beseeching^ eyes, and I was conquered, no matter
what had been the provocation. She understood, none
better than she, how to deal with meanness that roused
me. Blessings followed her where I met but impreca-
tion. Blessings indeed seemed to grow up about her
path wherever she went, and the blessings included me.
I was growing better — I felt it. But it must have been
a delusive feeling after all, for my heart was never
changed.

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l-l

LETTER XIII.

THERE are very aged people in hell, naturally. To
be two or three thousand years old, according to
human computation, is nothing unusual here. Thcire
are men in this place who lived in the time of Sardana-
palus, of Cyrus, of Alexander the Great ; who knew
Socrates perhaps, or Cicero, Horace, Seneca, and the
like. Indeed, who can tell, but some of these historic
personages themselves are here ! There are people here
who remember the fall of Nineveh, the sacking of Troy,
the destruction of J arusalem ! who consulted the stars
with the Chaldees of old, who tended the flocks in the
days of Abraham, who helped to build the pyramids of
Egypt ; others are here to whom Noah preached the
deluge. Hell, then, would seem to be a fine place for
the pursuit of history ; but somehow 119 one cares for
that study here, things being dead in this place and
void of interest. I myself do not care in the least to
become acquainted with historic characters — the only
longing I am conscious of in this respect, being to meet
with a contemporary of the Saviour of men — one who
saw and heard him — I mean. But it is a fruitless de-
sire. They are many here of course who lived in His
day, and even listened to his teaching ; but, although
they say they remember, they are quite incapable of
':ixparting anything ;or they speak of a false Messiah, of a
deceiver of the people. There is not a particle of truth
in all their talk, and it is truth I am thirsting for so
grievously. Is it not terrible ?

But I am wandering from my subject : I was going
to say that old people here assure you that the

LETTERS FROM HELL.

133

atmosphere of this place is fast turniug into vapour — a
pleasant prospect this if it goes on !

Now, I remember noticing that empty talk is on the
increase in the world. Thoughtful men to whom I
mentioned the observation believed cheap literature and
the so-called education of the masses to be the probable
cause.

A strange explanation of the aforenamed phenome-
non, is it not ? Vanity of speech on the increase — a
pleasant prospect truly if it continues ? To be sure the
world could never do without its talk, but the super-
abundance is alarming , a new deluge threatens ; the
spirit is lost in hollow words. The world used to be
more simple, I am sure, in olden times ; straightforward
statements, at any rate, used to be current much more
than they are now. Invention in all spheres is on the
increase, the invention of pretences remarkably so. One
feels inclined at times to call out despairingly: 'Words,
words, words !' as Hamlet did. lam sure words are the do-
minant power nowadays in so-called intellectual pur-
suits ; it is not the informing spirit, but the phrase,
which is puffed and offered for sale. It has transpired,
however, that the genius of talk is prepared to patron-
ise the genius of mind, promising to save it from utter
neglect, but the spirit will have none of it, crying : 'Let
me die rather than be the slave of words !'

Another striking observation has been made here of
late — the number of women in hell is on the increase.
Now the emptiness of talk is scarcely a sufficient ex-
planation of this fact, but a fact it is. Only half a cen-
tury ago men used to preponderate by far ; at the
present moment equality has very nearly been attained ;
before long, I doubt not, the fairer sex will outnumber
the stronger.

There is a reason for everything, and the cause of the
effect in question will appear patent to anyone looking
about him open-eyed. Education is at fault — that

184

LETTERS EROM HELL.

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y- 'dl*'\sOf't

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watchword of modern times ! We hear much nowaday s^
of woman's right to be educated. Not a doubt of it, and
some few, I believe, manage their own creditable share
of culture. It is not of those I would speak, but of the
training of girls in a general way. How, indeed, da
we educate them ? and is their mind, their heart, the
better for the teaching they get ? Do we bring them to
view in nature, for instance, or in history, the eternal
purpose of beauty and of truth ? Are we anxious that
they should learn to distinguish between the pure and
the impure, the mean and the noble, the paltry and the
truly great ? that they should seek the ideal in life — ay,,
their own ideal, the crown of their womanhood ? Is it
truth,^ is it love, we teach them ? and above all, do we
lead them to Him who is truth and love eternal^
their God, their Saviour ?

Do we, I ask ? but no, this is not the so-called first-
class education our girls get, for all their governesses
and finishing-masters ! Our girls, coming forth from
the school-room, will jabber their two or three foreign
tongues, will rattle away on the piano, or sing a song,
and happy are the ears that need not hear it ! Our girls,
moreover, are found to have a smattering of things in
general, enabling them to venture oh all sorts of topics,
concerning which they are profoundly ignorant ; our
girls are supposed to have acquired style and depoit-
meiit to boot ; the art of dress being neither last nor
least. Every fold of their garments^ assumes a vital
importance ; but concerning the bent of their hearts,
who takes the trouble to inquire ?

It is vanity, and their education a farce. Poor girls!
poor women ! You are worse off, I say, in these days of
culture than you were in the darkest of ages when no
one dreamt you needed teaching. In those days you
were looked upon as though you had no souls ; time
righted you, and it was allowed you were not
mere puppets. Now you are being varnished over

LE'lJERS FROM HELL.

13&

by way of education, till your soul lies encrusted
beneath.

The good old times, after all, were best. Our grand^
mothers were brought up for home duties chiefly, and
lesson-books were of the fewest beyond their Bibles and
their catechism. Women knew their calling ; they ac-
cepted it at the hands of God, and were happy in doing
their duty. But mr v — what of it ? the clearest notion
which girls and, I fear, many women, have of duty now-
a-days is, that it is a bore.

And what is life, as they take it ? It is not to amuse
themselves as long as possible, to play lawn tennis all
day and every day, to catch a husband and have sweet
little babies — little dears, images of their mother, of
course — to be fashionable, shining in society, till old
age overtakes them ; ^is not that it ? But there remains
one thing which is never mentioned— they may die any
day and wake up in Bell !

Earth, truly, presents a variety of schools preparatory
for hell ; those which men frequent are bad enough, but
those for women — let angels weep !

I went for a walk lately, passing by the gates of helL
Understand me aright ; I am not speaking of those aw-
ful gates of hell set up in defiance of the Lord of heaven
Himself, though they cannot prevail. They are in the
abyss 1 have spoken of, which is a far more dreadful
place than this abode of death. I only mean that I
passed near the entrance of Hades.

An entrance truly it is, for of your own free will you
never get out, wide open though you find it. I cannot
tell whether I contemplated anything like an escape. I
only know that on approaching a certain boundary line
an awful ' Stop !* resounded, and I slunk back terrified.
No one, then, passes out, save under dread compul-
sion ; but there is a flocking in continuously. I forget
what they lay of the death-rate in the world, it is every
minute or every second that a human soul goes to

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1 P ' B.

eternity ? Be it as it may, it is a terrible fact that the
greater part of those who die present themselves at
these gates of hopelessness. There is not a more apal-
ling sight in all hell than watching this entrance 1 The
space beyond is wrapt in a shadowy mist, out of which
lost souls are constantly emerging, singly or in troops,
dawning upon your vision. They are all equally naked,
differing but in sex and in age. The beggar and the
king are not to be known from one another, both ar-
riving in like miserable nakedness. That abject misery
is the common mark of unredeemed humanity, set upon
all the children of Adam coming hither,, no matter what
station was theirs in life. They have all come by the
«ame road, broad and pleasant at first, but terrible at
its latter end. As they approach the gates they are
seized with fear and trembling, and pass them in an
agony of despair.

The love of amusement now-a'days starcely stops
short of the harassing ; men love to feast upon any-
thing that excites their unhealthy fancy. But I assure
you I have not sunk to that state of callousness which
could look upon the dreadful scene unmoved. 'All
these are coming to share my misery !' I cried. Say not
it was complacency clothed in pity : there was some-
thing not altogether mean in my sympathy. I could
have wept for them, as I long to weep for myself.

Yet, after all, I felt fascinated by the sight, and tore
myself away with difficulty ; the picture, I knew, would
pursue me into whatever solitude I might plunge.

How rich is life, how full of enjoyment ! I see it now
where nothing is left to comfort the soul. My life, I
too cannot but own was overflowing with blessings ; how
many moments I can call to mind that seemed welling
over with content !

The sound of a certain bell keeps coming back to my
inward ear. I hear it ringing, ringing, and it vibrates
through my inmost soul. It is the bell of even- song.

LET2ERS FROM HELL,

137

to which I loved to listen in days gone by. And as I
hear it, the sounds call up a scene of beauty rich with
the hues of memory. I see waving cornfields, like sheets
of gold between the sombre woodlands and the winding
slream 1 I see towering mountains lifting their rocky
heights into the burnished colours of the west : I see
the sun sinking on the horizon, vanishing in a wealth of
roseate sheen. And twilight spreads her wings, a deep
holy calm, enwrapping nature. I say a holy calm, for
the sounds of the ringing bell are burdened with a mes-
sage of peace to the soul. The smoke ascends from the
cottages about, and the incense of prayer rises from
many a heart. Those whom love unites gather in unity.
The children nestle by their mother's knee awaiting the
father returning from work. And when he has come
they close the door upon the outside world, upon the
troubles and hardships too that daily life may bring.
Or if some cause of care will not be banished, there is
love at hand to deal with it ; yea, it helps to nurture
that love whose deepest roots are sunk in sorrow.

Would I were that poor labourer returning from the
field he tills in the sweat of his brow ; or that bare-
footed youth keeping the cattle on the lea !

The evening bell continues ringing, ringing, to my
ear : but the message it carries now is :

' Too late ! too late !'

Ah, little bell, my longing is turned to despair !

LETTER XIV.

IEEVEET to my childhood. It was the eve of Aunt
Betty's birthday. My present had been waiting for
ever so long ; I gloated over it in secret with distracted
feelings ; I would not for worlds have betrayed it pre-
maturely, yet I longed to let her guess at the wonderful

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LETTERS I'ROM HELL.

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ill ft

surprise in store for her. Thus divided in my childish
mind I sought her little room in the twilight.

She was not there, and I grew impatient. I must
needs look for something to amuse me. But there was
nothing that owned the charm of novelty. I gazed
about, yawning, when a large moth on the window
caught my eye. That called me to action, and forget-
ful of all Aunt Betty's pious injunctions to leave God's
creatures unmolested, I forthwith set up a chase. Nor
was it long before I had caught the hapless insect ; it
fluttered anxiously but I held it fast, bent upon examin-
ing it, when suddenly Aunt Betty entered. Overtaken
in my boyish cruelty, I closed my hand upon the little
prisoner, and stood trembling.

Aunt Betty, however, did not seem to notice th?it I
was ill at ease, and turned to me with her usual kind-
ness. I felt very miserable, and conversation would not
flow, so she told me a story, her usual device when she
thought I needed rousing. Now, whatever her stories
might be worth — and they were not by any means
always inventions of genius — they were sure to cul-
minate in some sort of moral which never failed to im-
press me. Aunt Betty's story on this occasion led up
to the statement — God seeth thee !

The words fell on me like judgment ! involuntarily I
hid my hand behind my back, my heart beating, ready
to burst.

* You must know, darling,* Aunt Betty went on un-
consciously, * that God sits upon His holy throne, an
angel on His right hand, and another on His left, each
having a book before him. And the angel to the right
marks down all the good, however little or weak, which
man strives to do w^hile he lives on earth ; that angel is
always smiling a heavenly smile. But the angel on the
left is full of weeping, as he notes down the evil deeds
of men. And at the last day, when the great reckoning
has come, a voice is heard from the throne — " Give up

• \,r.

LETTERS FROM HELL,

139

im-
up

un-

each

right

the books 1" And then our deeds are examined ; if
there is more evil than good, and we have not repented
of it humbly, and received forgiveness of sin, it will go
ill with us ! We shall be for ever wailing in the evil
place.*

This ending of Auntie's story troubled me greatly. I
pressed my hand together closer and closer, feeling at
the same time as though a live coal were burning my
palm. It was conscience which burned. The poor
moth must have been dead long before, yet I felt as
though it were still fluttering within my grasp, trying
to free itself from the unkind hold. * God seeth all
things,' said auntie ; ' and we must answer to Him for
all our deeds at the last day !' Self control was at an
end ; a flood of tears came to the rescue ; and, unable to
say a single word, I held out my palm to Aunt Betty,
the cruihed moth witnessing against me. -

She understood at once, and drawing me to her heart
she first pointed to the wrong of cruelty ; but added
her own sweet words of consolation, that God would
forgive me if my tears could tell Him I was sorry. But
I was not able at once to grasp this assurance, sobbing
piteously. Never was there anything more tender, more
full of love, than Aunt Betty's ways when comfort w. s
needed. And presently she made me kneel down and
ask God to forgive me. It was she who prayed, I re-
peating the words after her. But they came from my
heart, and never was there more sincere repentance.
. And then she told me anot'ier story, and that story,
too, must have its moral, jl^ressing me close to her
heart she exhorted me to look to God in all my doings,
and turn to Him in prayer my life long. Whenever I
had done anything amiss I should tell Him so with a
contrite heart, begging Him to forgive me, and promis-
ing Him sincerely that I would try not do so again.
Then the Lord God would pity me in His mercy, and I
•need not fear the dreadful book. *

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140

LE2TERS FROM HELL,

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As for the poor moth, we buried it sorrowfully in one
of auntie's flower-pots. We gave it a coffin of rose
leaves, so that the mangled corpse need not be touched
by the covering earth.

My heart was light again when I left the little room.
But all that night I was troubled in dreams. Again
and again I heard the dreadful words, ' Give up the
books r And, waking, I sat up in bed to find myself in
the dark. I had never known before what it was to be
afraid of the dark ; now I knew.

The following morning, as soon as I was dressed, I
ran to Aunt B^ty's door, finding it locked, contrary ta
habit. ' It is me, auntie !' I cried, and was admitted
directly. But I stood still, amazed ; the tears ran
down Aunt Betty's face. On the table before her there
was the most marvellous array of queer old things,
which I did not remember ever having seen. Indeed,
such was my amazement and, I must add, my grief,
that I forgot all about the precious present I had come
to deliver. My first clear idea was that Aunt Betty
too perchance might have crushed a moth ; but a bright-
er thought supervened. ' Auntie,' I whispered, pressing,
close to her, * didn't you say last night that God seeth
all things ? Does He see you are crying ?'

Aunt Betty started, a flood of light illumining her
features :

'Yes, darling,' she said ' thank you I He does know
all things and He knows my tears ; it is very wrong of
me to forget it. He does not only know them, but He
counts them !'

And quickly she dried them, showing me her own old
smiling face.

* Can you not see, my child, how the Lord has wiped
them away? He needs but look upon poor human
eyes and they cease crying/

* But why did you cry auntie ?'

' That is more than you could understand, dearie. I

LETTERS FROM HELL

141

am forty years old this day, but why need I cry ? why
should I, even if I were an old maid of sixty or eighty ?
ay, and if He will have me live till I am a hundred,
I will not murmur. Come and sit down by me, that
I may talk to you.' And siie be^an :

' Years ago, my child, there was a young girl as
pretty as she was foolish. She believed the world to
be indescribably beautiful, and that all its glories
were waiting to be showered into her lap. There
was no harm in this illusion in itsidf; but it was
hurtful because altogether untrue. The world is not
meant to be so delightful to any of us. The girl
herself was really pretty, and when people told her so,
she would cast down her eyes, feeling as though she
must sink into the ground for shynejss.

' There was one especially who told her so times with-
out number. And he was beautiful without a d mbt —
strong, manly, and winning. He was a sailor. It was
a time of war, and he commanded a privateer.

'She loved him dearlj^ with all her heart There
was a ball one day lo you know what a ball is? It
is a queer thing a mixture of angelic delight and
devilish inventi(.»n. One is carried along, floating, as it
were, in the airv spaces between heaven and earth and
hell — at least / think so. ... Well, when the ball was
over he entreated her for one of her gloves. There was
nothing she could have refused him at that moment 1
believe. He had it, and here you see its t» liow !'

And she showed me number one of her relics — an
ancient kid glove.

' But the young girl's parents said he was an ad-
venturer and not fit to marry into a respectable family.
That was her first grief. Still he had her heart ; she said
she would never love another, and they were permitted
at last to be engaged to one another. This is the ring
he gave her !

' Now she swam in happiness. One voice only in all

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' .V!

the universe had power over her- heart, and that voice
was his. It might have been true that he was not with-
out many and grave faults, but she loved him just as
he was. He might have sunk lower and lower, I be-
lieve she would have loved him still. For, once the
heart has been given away trul> — but that is more than
you can understand. Well, he went to sea, and returned.
It was a splendid vessel which he commanded, the
" Viking,,' they called it. One capture after another he
made, and grew rich upon the prizes taken. But people
said money never remained with him; he was careless
of it and prone to gambling. This is the ship !'

She showed me a little picture representing a
schooner skimming over the bluest of seas.

'His absence sometimes was long. But they ex-
changed letters A'henever opportunity offered — such
letters ! All her soul was in hers. And as for his —
well, here they are 1'

She pointed to a packet of faded letters, carefully tied
together with a once rose-coloured ribbon.

' And then there .came a time when news ceased.
"What she felt and suffered in those sad days I cannot
tell you. At last she heard again. He was ill — the
letter said — very ill in a foreign seaport. Winter was
approaching — but she would not be deterred. Taking
her trusted liiaid with her, she set out upon the journey,
and found him in misery. He had been wounded in a
duel — what that is you need not know, but here is the
bullet !'

* She nursed him and he recovered ; she freed him
from his liabilities, paying all his debts. Full of con-
trition, and with a new heart apparently, he returned
with her; his promises satisfied her and her family. He
would give up privateering, and take the command of a
merchantman instead. She should go with him as his
wife.
' Once more they were to separate and then be united

LETTERS FROM HELL.

143

m a
the

•ned
He

of a
his

ited

for life. He went to visit his relations and settle his
affairs.

* The weeks passed, the wedding-day approached.
Happy hour that should crown her hopes, heal her
griefs and reward her for all past suffering ! The wed-
ding-dress was ready. This is the wreath — do you know
the bridal blossoms ? Poor wreath, it is faded now and
shrivelled, but it will last, I think, while two eyes are
left to look upon it fondly, for the sake of the love that
came and went.

* There was another letter. He had set out to join
her, but turned half-way, never to see her again. Here
is that saddest of letters ; what tears it cost her — what
pangs — to answer it !

* Was he wicked ? I do not think so, but very heed-
less. He had surrounded himself with difficulties, and
there was but one way out of them ; one heart must be
broken. His uncle, who adopted him, had a daughter
— God bless her ! He had engaged himself twice over ;
men, I fear, can do such things. He could redeem his
pledge to one only. He did his duty by her, who per-
haps had suffered most for him, and who — but let that
pass. They say that he settled down and made her a
good husband. I trust the Lord has forgiven him the
sins of his youth.

' But for that other one, who gladly woilld have sac-
rificed her all for his sake, happiness was dead and
gono, her beauty fading with her hopes. She grew oki,
and people began to find her plain. She had nothing
left to live for — in herself I mean — so she lived for
others. The world is bad, but men need sympathy;
they are not all bad, but many are unhappy, suffermg
and poor. The old maid has found comfort in God, her
Lord and Saviour.'

She stopped, and carefully set herself to pack up her
treasures.

And that accomplished, she turned to me smiling :

■I

144

LETTERS FROM HELL.

BtH

*I have done for a year !' she said ; ' let us think of
breakfast now.'

1, of course had not taken in the meaning of her story,
nor was there any need. She had felt a longing to un-
burden herself to human ears ; she had done so, but her
secret was hers.

Now I remember her words, understanding them as I
did not then; 1 am able to enter into her feelings now
— those feelings of her fortieth birthday, when she, the
so-called old maid, poured out her heart to the child.

At dinner Aunt Betty appeared unusually gay, mak-
ing the funniest little speeches, and keeping us in the
best of humour all that day.

But those w;ords of hers, ' God seeth thee,' would re-
turn to me often, even in later years. They had been
words of comfort to my pious old aunt ; to me they
sounded as the trumpets of judgment, so dififerent was I
from her ! And then the time came when I learned to
disregard those words entirely — wlien it was nothing to
me to crush many a creature of God's making, that be-
cause of my touch never would lift wing again.

To pass the time seems to be one of the chief objects
in life, and how to pass it a question on which the
most ingenious inventions have been brought to bear.
Whether the \^ickedness or the folly of the endeavour
is the more deplorable is difficult to say. There are few
phrases showing the perversity of the world more fully
than this current expression to pass the time ! Time
and life are inseparable ; men want to live ; they con- c;.
sequently try to pass away the time, and yet it is time
which yields the fullness of existence, be it in sorrow
or in joy. To pass the time is considered to live; but
at the end of time stands Death, with hour-glass and ;
sickle, waiting for the last grains to run out. Passing ^
the time, then, may be tantamount to slow self-murder.
Men are anxious to pass it away as though it were a
frightful monster — an onemy to life and its enjoyment

LETTERS FROM HELL.

145

— never thinking that the real enemy may be coming
when time has vanished. If people would but under-
stand that time is their most precious gift — a grace of
heavenly fullness — and that all the treasures of the East
can never make up for a day wasted, for an hour lost !
And if a single hour may be so rich in blessing, what
then must time itself be worth, lying before us as a
shoreless ocean? 'But the entire blessedness of the gift
will come to the believing heart only in the kingdom to
come, where Love rules v/hich made the time.

In hell, where everything is seen in its own true
light, the passing of time, or rather time passed, assumes
an awful significance ; for truth and reality are upon iis.
It ''« time which, for us also, included the largeness of
lit le manifold blessings shed abroad by the hand of
Gov^. Time has passed now, and hope has fled. Ay,
we ourtelves are thrust out of it, ne\«er to enter again ;
time for us has vanished, leaving existence behind.

One of the great sources of amusement on earth for
the beguiling of dull time is the theatre. Well, we too
have a theatre, ^though time with us- needs no more
whiliug away. Old habit only is its raison dUitre.
Women need something here to incite their fancy, men
something to meet their craving — not to mention the
question of food for fashionable conversation. There is
no weather here to be talked about, so we must fall
back upon the theatre.

Acting with us is carried out in a magnificent, if
a peculiar style, the like of which is not possible in the
world, not even in Paris, that theatre of theatres. True,
we are poor in dramatic works, for not many plays of
poet's invention are so glaringly immoral that they are
fit for hell; the greater number being vapid rather than
wicked, no one cares for them here. But we have re-
ources outdoing anything dreamt of by stage managers
upon earth ; for we nearly always act life — real occur-
rences th9,t is — the actors being the very perpetrators of

146

LE2TERS FROM HELL,

if *

So the liaiassed manager rushes about
spicey occurrence, some sensational
having got it he must look for the men

the thir'zs set in scene. Tl)at is to sny, they commit
over a^.v.n on hell's stage the deeds of tlieir earthly life.
The tlieatre-going i)ublic with us then do not fe»d upon
imayinalion, hut on flat reality, the child of illusion.

Of stage managers there is no lack here, but theirs is
no enviable task. It needs their utmost exertion to
outcio one another in producing things horrible or
piquant; for people here also desire to be tickled, hlase
tijough they be. ' "
seeking h>r some
wickedness ; and

and wcmen who did it, thou»ih they be roaming in the
farthermost places of hell. Find them he must, and
having found them, there is no help for them ; they
must play their part.

Let me give an example. There is a piece' which
made a great hit here lately, called the ' Jewel liob-
bery,' a most satanic mixture of seduction, niurder, and
theft, A handsome v oman, good-natured, but silly, is
intentionally led astray, as a means only ; the object
being a famous robbery, necessitating twt) frightful
murders besides. A piece full of the most unwholesome
effect, you see, and not invented by exaggerating play-
wright's fancy ; but a reproduction, in all minutest
details even, of horrible facts. The daily papers were full
of it at the time. They are all here who were mixed up
in it, continuing to play the part that brought them
hither. You will understand from this that we could
not act virtuous pieces even if the audience desired
them ; the needful actors not being procurable !

Our theatre, nevertheless, plainly has the advantage,
since real murderers, villains, and profligates are here to
take their parts, and all the pieces given are scenes of
actual life ; our dramatis personce, then, though forced
to play, do so with singular vivacity and truthfulness.
If good people are required, by way of dupes and vic-
tims, we fall back upon hypocrites who delight in the

LETTERS FROM HELL.

147

opportunity of showing forth their special talents, and
indeed they manage their assumed character very
cleverly.

Morel laws naturally are quite out of the question ;
there is no eventual victory ot goodness, nor need the
triumph of wickedness be sustainftd. Play acting in h ell
is quite independent of rules, either moral or dramatic,
pieces simply being curried to the point they reached in
life.

The scenery is unrivalled, — illusion of course, but the
illusion is perfect. It is quite within our power to im-
agine any place, the surroundings of the original pbt,
mere jugglery, but appearing most real. These scenes
sometimes are wonderfully impressive, many a spectator,
at the unexpected sight of well-known places, falling a
prey to hopeless longing,

V Effective, then, as these representations are, they are
a torment alike to actor and audience. In this also we
are driven to own the one law paramount that mak^s
inclination here a terrible compulsion — not leaving 30
much as a desire even that it might be otherwise.

LETTER XV.

SHOULD the idea present itself to you to publish
these letters, you have my full permission for do-
ing so — not that I write them with this view primarily.
And people very likely will doubt their genuineness.
' Even supposing souls in hell to be able to write letters,'
they will say, * how should their missives reach the up-
per world ?'

People are strangely inconsistent. The man lives not
who has not heard of spirits and ghosts, while a great
many actually believe in supernatural appearances.

I'M

I.'

148

LETTERS FROM HELL,

■■ '; if

^^r.

Now supposing there are ghosts, why should not ghost
letters be conceivable ? And what more natural than
to imagine that some restless spirit, permitted to revisit
former scenes, should somehow meditate such commu-
nication ?

Such is indeed the fact in the present case. Count
the letters you have had from me, and be sure that so
many ghosts have been to your dwelling. Do not be
horrified ! I do not entrust my confessions to any wan-
dering soul, but only to respectable spirits. Indeed, if
the natural shrinking of mortal man were not in your
way,' you might find some of them worth the knowing.
In any case I pledge them to polite behaviour, that they
shall nowise harass you, but do their errand unseen.
Not all ghosts have a character for worrying mortals ;
some, on the contrary, are exceedingly trustworthy, and
could be sent anywhere.

Be it known to you, then, that whenever you find
yourself possessed of fresh news from me, some ghost
has been to your house that night. . Did you not find a
letter beneath your desk lately — on the floor I mean ?
This is how it was. On leaving off writing the even-
ing before, you left your pen and pencil crosswise on
the table — quite by accident, I dare say, but ray mes-
senger, on perceiving the holy sign, was seized with such
a fit of trembling that he dropped the letter and sped
away. And while I am about it, I would ask you to
get rid of the supernumerary cocks in your farmyard ;
the piercing call of the bird of dawn may be all very
well in your ears, but to us it bears a terrible warning,
reminding us of a day to come, the day of resurrection
and final doom, which we know must come, however
distant it be.

My handwriting I dare say is not very legible ; 1 hope
you will excuse it. There is not a pen to be had here but
what has been worn out in the service of falsehood or
injustice.^ The {paper too is wretched. I could find

LETTERS FROM HELL,

149

nothing but some old documents to serve the purpose,
and upon examining them more closely I do believe
they are nothing less than the false decretals of 853 —
nice material to write on ! As for ink, alas, my friend,
what should you say if it were my very heart-blood I
write with ? It is black enough np doubt !

I need not tell you that my letters will not bear keep-
ing. They fade away in daylight. You can only pre-
serve their contents by copying them on the spot.

This present letter I intend forwarding to you by the
hand ot a remarkable personage — one of the many in-
teresting acquaintances I have made here— who is
about to revisit the earth. He is one of the famous
knights of Charles the Bold, who met their death by the
brave Lmces of the Swiss at the battle of Murten. Proud
and noble is his bearing, and he goes fully armed, from
the spur on his heel to the plume on his helmet ; but
the spurs do not clink, and the plume will not wave.
He carefully keeps his visor closed, so that 1 have no
knowledge of his face, although I seem to knc w him in-
timately from his conversation. I believe he feels
ashamed. He cannot forget that he, the famous cham-
pion, renowned for many a victorious encounter, met his
death by the hand of an ordinary peasant.

It is the consciousness of his high dignity which pre-
vents him from mixing ireely with people. He lives like
a hermit almost, in j inured in his own pride. It was mere
acciclcMt that gained mo his notice. I was delivering a
panegyric in some public locality concerning the morits
of the wine of Beaune, stating that 1 had drunk it on
the spot. When the company had dispersed 1 found
myself alone with him of the armour.

' You have been to Burgundy ?' he queried, hollow-
voiced.

* I have sir.'. ■ -'-^ -' ■■' ■■ ' ■[\ 'l-^ ' - ■• ■. t-v^;\:-\ '^

' And to Beaune near Dijon V ' .'• ' ^i: ; -

' 1 have, sir knight.' • , , ■'''•^^S''-:'^:}-'Wy-^''-

150

LETTERS EROM HELL.

J*'

me his
sojourn

.'ilTf

*C6te d'or, thou glorious, never-to-be-forgotten coun-
try !' he murmured, beneath the visor. And turning
upon his heel he left me to my cogitations.

That was the beginning of our acquaintance, I met
him again, and he appeared to take to me. He gave me
many a glowing description of the splendour surround-
ing Charles the Bold, of liis glorious army, of the great
future then apparently in store for Burgundy, of the
battles and tc urnaments tha^ ha(.' enriched him with
trophies. But he never mentioned either Granson or
Murten. On the other hand, he was anxious to learn
from me the present condition of the once famous Bur-
gundy, the power and exploits of France, the modern
perfections of the art ot war, and the tactics of battles.
He could listen to me for hours.

But what interested him most, and gained
confidence fully, was my tellinu: him about my
in the Cevennes, and the days I spent in exploring the
charming hill-range deserving so iuUy its appellation of
Cote d'or. Never enough of detail could I give him
concerning my knowledge of those scenes of beauty.
He would guidj me, putting question upon question ;
but it was as if one question kept hovering on his lips
which he dared "not ask. My recollections brought
me at last to Castle Eoux. He started visibly as I named
it and grew silent, waiting breathlessly for what I
might volunteer.

Much might be said concerning that ca^le. It is a
mountain fastness of ancient date, modern times having
restored it in fanciful style ; its owner being proud of it
as of a relid of antiquity, and inhabiting it for several
months in the year. The family is old, but the original
title of Koux has yielded to another name well known
in the annals of France.

The old castle, interesting in itself, is rich in curiosi-
ties besides. I gave an account of all that might be
seen within the venerable walls, describing the labyrin-

thin

all s

man

si..>k

hapL

dnyli

filler!

took

door

that (

not e]

shouh

thintr

could
guide
was in
past h
given
of nigl
Con
know {
so-calk
family
comnii
of the
the toil
stretchi
enmity,
his ban
the cro
the pre
swayed
experiei
cently,
compan
taken hi
when tl

LET2ERS FROM HELL.

151

his

thine passaf^es, the queer, old winding-stairs leading to
all sorts of secret places, the lofty battlements com-
manding,' a view of tlie fertile tracts round about ; I
s'[..)ke of the dismal keeps hewn into tlie rock, where
hapless prisoners for years might dream of the vanished
dayHjiht; I nienti(iied tlie armoury and the great hall
fille.'l with the co^rnisances of knighthood. In short I
took my visored friend right through the castle, one
door only ren)aining closed to my roaming description,
that of the so-called red chamber, which I myself had
not entered. 1 had been told that never mortal foot
should cross its threshold again. Centuries ago some-
thing terrible had happened in that room — what? I
could not learn. The old steward, who acted as my
guide on the occasion of my visit, communicative as he
was in a general way, was most reserved concei ning the
past history of the family, but some account had been
given me in the little village inn w here 1 spent a couple
of nights, and it clung my to memory.

Concerning the secret chamber no one seemed to
know anything, but I learned a wonderful story of the
so-called * Cold Hand ' Whenever the head of the
family for the time being — so the tale ran — is about to
commit some act detrimental to the honour or welfare
of the house, he is warned at the decisive moment by
the touch of a cold hand. At the very moment he
stretches forth his own hand, be it in friendship or in
enmity, an icy hand, invisible, is laid — not always upon
his hand — sometimes on his cheek, on his neck, or upon
the crown of his head. Through ceiitnriLS and up to
the present time the ' cold hand' in this manner has
swayed the fortunes of the family. The influence was
experienced last when the late owner, who died but re-
cently, was about to tie the nuptial, knot. The festive
company was gathered in the gi'eat hall ; he had just
taken hold of the pen to sign the marriage-contract,
when the icy touch of a cold hand closed upon his

152

LETTERS I^ROM HELL.

tingers. He staggered, tunieil white as a corpse, and
dropfx^d the pen. Neither prayer nor menace could
prevail with him to make hini fulfil his engagement;
the weddinj,' never took place.

I concluded by saying that it remained, of course,
M'ith the hearer to credit the story ; some believed such
family traditions — some did iiot ; one could but form
one's own opinion.

Tiie visored knight, however, did not appear to think
there were two ideas about it. His head shook slowly,
and the hollow voice madf answer:

' It is true, man, every word of it. I am the last
Count of Koux !....! am the Cold Hand !'

1 shrunk back terrified and stood trembling, for so
powerful are the instincts of mortal life that they cleave
to us still : why should one shrink from a fellow-ghost
in hell, where all hands are cold? •, .,. .
The Count stood groaning.

' Hear me,' he said, ' 1 will tell you my story.* ^
1 could but listen, and lie l>egan :
' I have never yet discovered what cause brought me
to this place of punishment, unless it be the fact that
overmuch piety governed me in life. I was ruled by
the priests, body and soul, and obeyed their behests
blindly.

' Some centuries ago a colony from Provence had
settled in the valleys of the Cevenues; they were quiet
people, anti patterns of diligence, the neighbourhood in-
deed had only gained by their iJicsence. Peaceful and
harmless, they seemed glad of the retreat they had
found. But then they were herttics, forming a religious
community, a remnant of the Albigenses in fact. At
first they kept their creed to themselves ; but by de-
grees, feeling settled in their new home, they confessetl
their heresies openly, attempting oven to gain others to
their views. They claimed the right for every Christian
to read the Bible for himself ; and repudiated anything

M'^

LETTERS FROM HELL,

IftS

that was not in keeping with the Scriptures and the
teaching of the Apostles. That was dangerous doctrine,
and could not fail to call forth the resistancp of the
clergy. The struggle reached its heij]jht about the time
I entered upon manhood. As an obedient son of the
Church I closed my (^yes to harm accruing to myself
and drove them mercilessly from my dominion. It was
a crusade in small, a repetition of Albigensian persecu-
tion. The third part of my country was laid waste ;
devastation reigned where thrift and wealth had flour-
ished, and I myself had done it. Nothing but the as-
surance that so dire a sacrifice would gain me a high
place in heaven could uphold ipe through the pangs of
loss, and the priests did their best to strengthen my be-
lief.

' And yet I lived to rue it. The Church for which I
had done so much would not do anything for me, at
least not what I wanted. I wished to marry the lovely
Lady Cyrille de Breville, but was refused dispensation
because she was a distant cousin. Endless were the
difficulties, the humiliations I underwent. Entreaty,
menace, promise of money availed not. My gracious
Liege interfered ; it was vain. I myself went on a pil-
grimage to Eome. Two years had been spent in morti-
fying endeavour when at last I gained my end.

' Indeed, had it been in my power t<^ recall the Albi-
genses, I would have done it, so wroth was I.

' Cyrille then became my wife, doubly dear for the
battle that had won her, and for the faithful endurance
with which she clave to me. For I, had had a danger-
ous rival in the Count of Tournailles. There stood noth-
ing in the way of a marriage with him, but she had
preferred to wait till I could lead her to the altar. For
five or six years I was in a heaven of bliss. Our union
had been blessed with two children, a boy and a girl.
What so few can say, we could : our happiness was
complete. Then the time came when Duke Charles

154

LETTERS FROM HELL.

\ 1

called his vasaals to arms. Knighthood loved to obey
but it was a wrench to att'ection. I went.

* You know the history of that unfortunate war, how,
havin;^ conquered Lorraine, we faced the Swiss, Gran-
gon, Murten — terrible names ! It is a mystery to me
to this day liow it ciime about ; I doubt not thac un-
earthly powers interfered. I fell at Murton,and lifting
my eyes again, found myself here,

'I, who had built upon the assurance of having a
place in heaven, to be thrust into hell by the hand of a
low-born churl ! I shuU never get over the disgrace.
And my loving wifi'.my darling children — stronger than
the feeling of shame was the longing for tnem. It drove
me back to earth, a restless, wandering soul.

' Never shall 1 forget that first spirit journey in mist
and darkness. 1 drew near my own old home, a stranger,
an outcast, sick and Icnely at heart ; feeling as those must
feel who in the dead of niglit follow the ways of sin.
Every noise made me tremble ; I shudderetl at the fall-
ing leaf. It was agony. Why did I not turn on my
path and hie me back to hell ? You well may ask — but
I was driven onward, a terrible constraint was upon
me. Slowly 1 went from place to place, every well-
known spot adding its individual pain ; I drank the
dregs of memory. At last I reached the castle, on
which the fitful moonlight cast a spectral glimmer.

'What a change? Surely I was the same I had al-
ways been, but thf>re was something that made me feel
a stranger to myself ? Oh for tears to weep ! I spurned
them in the days of life, but now, what would I not
have given for a healing tear ? Vainest longing ! I stood
and trembled, horror struck as at the sight of a ghost ; yet
I myself was the ghost — let others fear ! Was ever such
a reception ! The wind moaned in tree tops, doors
creaked, shadows glided through passages — I stood lis-
tening; the dogs whined, the cattle were restless, my
once favoured charger moved uneasily in his stall.

- - /,.

LETTERS FROM HELL,

155

' As a thief I entered my own castle, stole up the
staircase, and passed noiselessly from room to room. But
th(3 place felt forsaken, empty, and cold. My children,
I must see them first. [ found them in the sweet sleep
of innocence, cradliMJ in health and beauty. Never till
that moment had [ known tlu; despair of love. My eyes
beheld them, life of my life, yet mine no more. T longed
to embrace them, press them to my heart, but dared not
— simply dared not. I could but groan and hie me
away.

'On I went the well-known way, to my own old*
chamber with the nuptial couch. That roon^ is locked
now and never entered by mortal foot. The room of
the mystery. Overpowered with feelings unutterable,
I lingered on the threshold, so near to seeing her «cain,
he/r !

' And I saw her — asleep in the arms of anothbr, the
arms of my former rival, the Count of Tonrnailles. I
stood for a moment, rooted to the ground. How beau-
tiful she was — beautiful as ever. But oh, the depth of
torment ! I, to whom her love had been pledged for
ever and aye, forgotten, betrayed ! " Hapless woman !"
I groaned, " Is it thus thou keepest thy vow ? is it thus
thou art loyal to my memory ?"

* I stood clenching my fists in helpless rage, and
gnashing my teeth. What could I do ? T et me wake
ner at least ; she shall see me ! And .'! etching forth
my hand across the well-known bed, I laid it upon her
uncovered shoulder. She started at the icy touch ; she
saw me. I must have offered an awful sight, for she
gave a scream rousinjr echoes of horror, and lay fainting
on the pillow. I vanished.

* But my wrath was boundless. From that hour I
persecuted her ruthlessly ; when she expected it least
the touch of my hand was upon her. She never saw
me again, but I think that made my presence all the
more horrible to her. At night especially I would be

156

LETTERS JbROM HELL.

^'l\l

■ V !

iC:.:'-

i , ■■■\

near her, watching that never again she might rest in
his arms. My cold hand, forbidding, was between them.
They went about like ghosts themselves, worn and
harassed ; the grave seemed yawning to receive them.
The time came when they could not bear it any longer,
and resolved to separate. She entered a cloister, and
there my hand was powerless. In that peaceful re-
treat her child was born, and from him are descended
the present owners of Castle Eoux.
* ' My own children drooped and died. That was the
last great sorrow touching me in the upper world. I
stood by theii bier. That turned my heart ; I felt some-
thing like regret ; perhaps after all 1 had been too hard
upon her. A dead husband is no husband, and has
nothing to claim ; whereas she was in the fulness of life,
young and fitted for joy, owing duty to nature and to
the world. In voluntary penance I resolved henceforth
to watch over Cyrille's son, and his children's children
after him. It was a sacred vow, and I have kept it
since. This, then, is the " cold hand of Eoux." An un-
mistakable presentiment, akin to direct revelation, in-
forms me of any hurtful step a member of the family
may be about to take ; and then I cannot rest in hell,
but am driven back to the world to interfere at the de-
cisive moment. With few exceptions, every scion of
the family, man or woman, has felt my hand ; and it
will be so till the last of them has been gathered to his
fathers. ;■«:'■.:•■■■.■):.,:■'■>-.■ ">r'.- ..,.■'■ <^> -v';- -\,. , ■

* At the present moment the call is again upon me,
urging me to revisit the land of the living. What it is
that requires my presence I cannot tell ; but I know my
time, and the cold hand will never fail of its mission.'

Thus spoke the Count ; and having finished, he fell
a prey to silence, leaving me to myself. I expect to
meet bim again, and doubt not that he will take charge of
this letter. But thou, my friend, hast nothing to fear
from the cold hand of Eoux.

-fljj

LETTERS fROM HELL,

157

You cannot ask me, but the question would seem
natural : " Will you not return to earth yourself ; if
others are coming, why not you ?" I hardly know what
to say. It is not an impossible thought that I too
might be driven some day to revisit the upper world. I
say driven, for no one goes unless urged by an inward
necessity — unmistakable and irresistible. Should the
compelling need at any time lay hold of me, I should
have no choice but to go. I trust it may never be, for
it would be adding new pangs to the misery I endure.
I expect that the author of that need is none but Satan
himself ; for surely the Lord iu heaven has nothing to
do with it. The bare thought of such a possibility
brings back all the horrors of death, and hope cries out,
' Let me never quit hell !'

Stop and consider the awful poverty of hope that has
nothing left but this !

LETTEK XVL

* >

I'' N Italy the glories of nature reach their perfection
at eve. My mother not being much of a walker,
Lily and I would stroll about by ourselves. Venice,
Florence, Naples, — enchanting memories ! Not now, I
mean, but in the days of life.

Those Italian evenings were an indescribable mixture
of beauty and delight ; nature a very cradle of peace —
and peace speaking to my soul. For I had Lily with
me ; and no matter what scenes of humanity might sur-
round us, she and I seemed alone at such moments.

The most perfect delights I tasted at Florence. We
visited the Piaza del Gran Duca, the centre of life in
that city. Surrounded by magnificent buildings, the
place radiant with light, you feel as though you had

I' I

Iv'

lit!<

1 '

',1 "

158

LE1TERS FROM HELL,

entered some lordly hall, gigantic in size, and of royal
splendor, roofed over by the starry sky.

Here you see that ancient palace, with its grand me-
diieval tower, which has looked down upon many a
stormy gathering in the days of the republic, upon
Dante too, Michael Angelo, Savonarola. Ir front of it
are tv^ o colossal statues — David and Hercules. Not far
distant — on the very spot, tradition says, where Savo-
narola suffered death on the pyre, — a fountain sends up
her sparkling jets, guarded by Tritons and Fauns, and
surmounted by a figure of Neptune, the ruler of seas.
Again, a little farther stands tne equestrian statue of
Cosmo (li Medici, cast in bronze, a master-work by Giam-
bologna. On the opposite side a flight of steps, presided
over by a pair of antique lions, leads you into the glori-
ous Loggia dei Lanzi. Here, by the light of lamps, you
behold F^^ome of Italy's noblest treasures of art — Perseus,
the De'.iverer, by Benvenuto Cellini ; Judith and Holo-
fenies; Hercules and the Centaur; the famous marble
group by Giambologna, representing the Eape of the
Sabines ; and Ajax, with the dying i^n loclus in his
arms. In the background you see a number of Vestals
of more than human size. Tliese statues, seemingly
aUve, and breathing in the magic light, cast over you a
wondrous spell, holding you transfixed. The fact that
a collection of such priceless works of art can be open to
the public freely — entrusted to that instinctive rever-
ence for things beautiful to m hich the lowest even ....
• But fool ti-at I am, going oft' into aesthetics ! Am I
not in hell ! Nay, laugh iiot, but pity me, for I could
not join in your merriment.

So great is the power of memory , it is upon me ;
dragging me back to scenes long dead and gone. Memo-
ries ? what are they but my life — my all ! But they are
bare of enjoyment ; they are as a cup of poison that
will not kill, but which fills you with horror and unul;;-
terable despair. ' . ; . , -

V.rti'."

• V

LETTERS FROM HELL

159

It was with a deep, inward joy, lifting us as it were to
that height whete reality and enchantment meet, that
Lily and I moved slowly through that hall of art. We
hardly spoke. And when satisfaction for the moment
had her fill, we escaped to the dimly-lit arcades of the
Palazzo degli Ufifizi. There words would come ; the
charm was broken, though its spell remained. How
much we had to say to one another : how sweet, how
tender was Lily's trustful voice ! As her arm rested on
mine I seemed to hear the very beat of her heart. And
what delight to me to open her mind to the treasures
she had seen, to rouse new feelings of beauty in that
waking soul, so responsive and so pure !

When the shadows of night had deepened, we would
return home, passing the stately cathedral. Stillines
had settled, spreading wings of peace. Marid del Fiore
they call this church, and truly it is a fitting name.
Florence means the flowering city, and this sacred pile
is a very blossom of beauty in her midst. It needed one
hundred and sixty years for the cathedral's stately growth.
Her cupola overlooks not only the whole of the town, but
the whole of the radiant valley ; the splended belfry,
rich in sculpture, lifting its graceful front to a height
of three hundred feet. Not far from it stands that an-
cient baptistry, with its wondrous gate of bronze, which,
as Michael Angelo said, was worthy of being the gate of
Paradise. In front of it there is a rough hewn stone
bench. There Lily would often rest when tired by our
wanderings. There Dante had sat, dreaming about
Paradise and hell, and thinking of Beatrice.

One evening I asked Lily which part of the city
pleased her best.

'The Piazza is very beautiful,' she said, 'but after all
it is a far-off sort of beauty, carrying one back to hea-
then times ; here I feel at home, the very stones breath-
ing Christianity. The difference is very st'-ange ; at
this place the living faith takes hold of me that, roam

160

LET2ERS FROM HELL,

Ti .

if -

r, I '

rt •

where you will in the world, you must return to the
Lord for content. The world with all its gloiy cannot
satisfy us as He can.'

* Ah, Lily, would I could believe like you !' I cried
involuntarily, pressing her hand till it must have pained
her — I scarcely knew it.

Suppressing an exclamation she looked at me with
earnest surprise, saying uneasily :

* Oh, Philip, don't ! as compared to you I am but an
ignorant child.'

* Yes, Lily, but your child-like heart is the treasure I
envy. Is it not an old blessed truth that to children is
given what is hidden from the wise. Perhaps yoa can
answer me a question, Lily ; it may be all plain to you,
though many of the great and learned make it a be-
wildering riddle. What is being a Christian ?

* Dear Philip, what should it be bat having Christ in
your heart.'

These words of hers cut me to the soul. How often
had I felt that it was Satan, or at least an evil spirit
that dwelt in me.

. * Yes,' said Lily, as if to herself in quiet rapture, 'that
is it — so simple, and yet so great. Him alone I desire,
and having Him, I have father and mother and all the
world. He makes His abode with me that in Him I
may live and move, and ha^e my being. He alone is
my Saviour, my Loid, my all.' And softly she addetl
after a while : ' Lord Christ, let me be true to thee, till
thou take me home !* i / . ^ '

A deep silence followed. The memories of childhood
pressed around me, as if wrestling for my heart. 1 was
moved — unutterably moved. I lelt as though the tears
were rising to my eyes, and, hushing all other feelings,
the one thought took shape : She is the angel that is to
lead thee back to God.

' But, dearest Philip,' said Lily, after a long pause,

■';■*".'■'■'■">' ''^'- ■

imttMs prom HkLL

161

* that question could not have come from your heart ; I
do not understand you.'

I made some reply, scarcely knowing what I said. I
felt her arm tremblinsj within mine ; she stopped short ;
wa were standing in front of one of those little ma-
donnas, illumined by a lamp.

* Let me look you in the face,' she said. * I felt as if
some stranger were speaking to me. . . . No, I am
sure ; it is your own self — you could never change !'

And she laughed at her own foolish fancy, as she
called it. •

Lily's laughter, at any time as brightest music to my
ears, broke the evil spell. I felt light-hearted again,
the shadows had vanished before the health-giving sun.

' Never to you !' I cried, drawing her close, ' and you
are my own little friend, so good, so true, intended to
be a blessing to me in life and in death !'

I have met her again, I have met Annie ! She sat
apart, strangely occupied. Her long hair fell about her ;
she was taking little shells and bits of reeds out of the
dripping tresses. Her slight garment had slipped from
her shoulder. Oh, horror ! I saw the brand of shame
disfiguring the snowy skin. It was a mark red ,3 blood,
and the conscience of blood-guiltiness raised iia voice
in my soul.

As an open page her heart hy revealed to my sight.
Shame and despair dwelt therein. But her life's his-
tory was not written there. Her face, orce so lovely,
now so degraded, bore the traces of it ; ..ud with the
brand upon her shoulder ended the terrible account.
Her fault, at first, was but this, that she loved me too
fondly, trusted me too foolishly. It was I who had
wronged her, ruined her in return for that love. She
had perished in the torrent of sin, carried from shame
to shame, from despair to despair, sinking at last in a

lETikRs Prom helLs.

.»<i»a^

' i\

'■V ■

i'-.

'\\

■.. ;i ....
1 ■

watory grave. The knowledge of it was as a tiiH:; con-
suming my heart.

1 stood gazing, unable to turn away ny ev'^s, the agh
the sight should kill m«. Bu« suddenly 1 felt as if niy
soul were rent asunder; light, as a bursting Hame,
Mashed through me, leaviisg me tii inbling, a chill chas-
ing the glow. A horrible thought had possessed me ^
Those leaturoR — of whom did they romind me ? Fear-
iiil convictioiij Mardn resembled Annie- --was as }^' e
her a3 »> ^on may ^ be like his mother I Had not Mai.--
tin's mo; tier, rvir«ovei\ been a strolling actress, who
had di'owned lierseit i And Martin's secret, — that
secret whioli y;»: ould make all plain between us — recon-
cile isj, -was this it ? Yes, yes, 1 could not doubt 1

Then Martin was her child — and mine ! And I had
ruined not only her, but, him, my child, my son ! This
then, was the reason why the boy had fascinated me so
strangely. I had seen :uyself in him. That is why I
had loved him — to passion almost — in spite of his wild
and wayward temper ! This wild — ay, evil nature was
my own. It was thus !:hat God punished me in him.
Is it not written that He visits the iniquity of the
fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth
generation ? It is terrible. And the worst is this —
not the mother only, but my own child 1 'J'he night of
madness is not known in hell, else that hour must have
plunged me into it.

But the doubt remained. I must have it solved at
any cost. I hastened towards her. But she, at my
first movement, lifted her eyes, saw me, and fled, horror
winging her feet >She was gone. '

* U for mountains to cover me, to hide u ' I wailed
in. anguish i bi:*^ there is no hidiuR ir. a, not a
corner where i?, iseen solitude onem u-r vrestle with
one's grief.

i have never yet succeeded in writing e ^ ler at one

in iny
self a£

LETTERS FROM HELL.

163

at
my

, one

sitting. I take pen and paper as the longing seizes me,
an<i jot down what specially occupies my mind — the
thoughts that assail it ; then turn away, to continue
some other time at longer or shorter interval. I never
wri' nless some inward necessity prompts me ; yet if
I did not somehow court that necessity, I do not think
I ever should write. This will partly explain why these
letters are no continuous account, but broken pictures
only — a true mirror of myself, whg am but a wreck now,
shattered and undone. : , r

I remember that of all days I disliked Sunday most ;
on day I used to dine at my mother's, and, what I
thought worse, was expected to accompany her to
church. I say worse, not because I disliked hearing
sermons, but because I was never sure that some word
might not rouse unpleasant sensations within me, fol-
lowed by thoughts which I preferred keeping in mem-
ory's tomb, rather than let them run riot with fear and
regret. In the hubbub of daily life it was easy to keep
down serious thoughts ; but on Sundays and at church
they would be heard, making me feel that I had missed
my true destiny, that I was not what I should have
been. What was the use of such thoughts, since no man
can undo his past ? ; ■

HuL worst of all were Communion Sundays, for my
mother would have me attend. She was so very careful
of proprieties, and I did not like to grieve her ; so I
went, feeling all the time as though I were being dragged
to the pillory, Bad as I was, I was no scoffer ; I felt
theif! war poniethiug holy, and that I had no part in it.
I would : c ,r ratiier not have partaken. The service was
posi*-' \.iy painful to »; e. I tried to go through it un-
concerned ; but this was a f -se of the spirit being
stronger than the flesh. I knew what I was about ! It
took, me several days to get over the uneasiness created
in my mind ; I would shake off impressions — find my-
self again, as I called it — in a whirl of amusement.

aas£^- «^!

164

LETTEkS FkOM HELl.

The memory of one of these Sundays is present with
me ; and why ? I see a slender girl in the bloom of
youth, her beauty transfigured to something of unearth-
ly lustre, uplifted to the spiritual. I see her ; the fair
head drooping, the silky wealth of her hair falling about
her as a veil. Hers is a higher loveliness than mere
regularity of features, and there is that in her eye which
keeps you a prisoner to something above, beyond. That
deep gaze of hers is all worship, all adoration : it is her-
self, her soul. But there is more; that smile of hers is
as a ray of light ; you cannot tell whether it hovers on
her lips merely or shines from her eyes ; it is there, as a
beam from heaven lighting up her face.

That was Lily in her sixteenth year ; she too is about
to take the sacrament. She does not do so lightly — I
judge from the blushes on her face, from the heaving of
her tender form. Yes ; she too is uneasy, approaching
tremblingly ; but how different from me ! It was her
first communion. . - .

.V ■

^4 S
El

I had risen early against my won't ; the disquietude
of my mind would not let me rest ; somehow my heart
would beat. 1 set about dressing — what evil doer was
that looking at me from the glass ! I was quite un-
hinged, and hastened downstairs. In the breakfast-room
I met Lily ; she was alone and rather pale.

* What is it, my child ?' I said ; * are you^ not well ?'
She smiled. Ah ! that smile, it used to be my heaven.

But woe is me that I thought not of a higher heaven,
for now I am left desolate of either.

• Yes, quite well,' she said gently, and she went to
fetch my mother.

I stood lost in thought. The evident emotion in
which 1 had surprised her was a riddle to be solved. It
was always a delight to me to try and understand i-ily's
leepest bdng ; and the attempt at the present m .ment

W'f*

lEffERS PROM HklL

l6ii

was doubly welcome. I preferred reading her heart to
looking into mine.

My eye presently fell upon a little book lying open
on the table. I glanced at ic, and lo ! it explained the
mystery ! This is what 1 read :

' In the sacrament of the Lord's Table the Saviour
gives Himself to the believing soul. It is a holy com-
munion, blessed beyond utterance. The love of earthly
bride and bridegroom is a poor human type. Christ is
the heavenly Bridegroom, and the believer's heart the
bride. The love that unites them Is unspeakable, lilliug
the soul with a foretaste of heaven's perfect bliss.'

Now I understood, or at least guessed, what was pass-
ing in Lily. Her soul was moved as the soul of a bride
at the nearness of the bridegroom to whom she is will-
ing to belong. She had always loved her Saviour, but
a new love was upon her ; never had she been so happy,
and nevei so full of disquietude. She longs for Him,
but is afraid ; she stands trembling, yet knows she is
safe with the lover of her soul, and to Him f.lone will
she give herselt^ *, v ; < '

You have heard of the gardens of Jericho — at any rate
you have read of the lilies of the field which toil not aud
do not spin, and yet are more beautiful tiian Solomon
in his glory. v'

Lily and I — we used to watch these lilies growing in
the valley of Jericho — Lily, the tairest of her sistei
She told me a story one evening as we walked amid the
flowers. I never knew whence she had her stories. I
often felt as though a higher being spoke through hey,
even God Himself, and 1 would listen with a kind of
devotion, never questioning her words, as though they
were a r<> atiou. Even now her musical accents
tremble ii^ ^j ear, as I recall the story she then told
me:

' A man lay dying. The world vanished from his

?r^ -«■;■.

166

LETTERS FROM HELL

'5;

sight, and he was ^<^\' «Ioi ^ with the c[uestion, 'Whither
an thou goin^^ ; — tim! <xuestiou Hiliiig him with feai*
and trembliny;,

' He lay writhing on his bed of agony, when suddenly
he beiiela ten shapes closing hiui in, cold and pitiless —
God's iioly coiiiuiundmeiits. An*' ov^ after another they
lifted up their voice. Tl\e lli^i saying, " L^nhiippy man,
how many gods iiast thou allowed to enter into thy sin-
lul heart ?'' The second, " How many idols hast thou
set iH' in his stead ?" .The third, " How often liast tliou
taken the name of the Lord thy God in vain ?" The
ioi; rtti, " How hast thou kept the Sabbath day, and
caused others to keep it ?" Tlie fifth, " How hast thou
honoured thy father and mother, and those that were
set in authority over thee ?" The sixth, "How hast
thou acted by thy brother, cioiug unto him us thou
wouldst he should do unto thee ?" And on they • 3nt,
the ten of them, each with the voice of judgment, con-
founding hia soul. ;

* And the d>iug man, anguished and hopeless, had not
a word to say. He felt convicted, and knew he was
lost. At last he cried despairingly, " I know 1 have
sinned, but can you not leave me to die in peace ?"

' And they aaile ans.ver, " ^Ve cannot leave thee un-
less One will take our place, i > whom you shall yield
yourself body and soul to all eternity, abiding by
His judgment. Wilt you do that ?"

' The sick man considered ; he was afraid of the One
even, and his heart, beating f-^ebly, shook witli fear.
Yet at last he said, " I wo'^ 1 raciier have the One judge
me, siiice I cannot auswci u en."

' And behold at his worrt ihe iread accusers vanished,
and there appeared in their stead One, holy and com-
passionate, just and forgiving. And the dying sinner
looked to Him. Death had a hold of him already, but
he felt the breath of life. He remembered all at once
what in far-oti' days he had heard of One dying for

LEITERS FROM HELL.

l«t

many, recalling the holy lessons of his childhood at Ins
mother's kuee, when she told him of the Lord that is
mighty to save. He had forgotten it, living a life of
folly and ot sin ; but it was coming l»ack to him even
now. And looking again, behold He knew Him tliaL
stood by Ids sich;.

' x\nd faith gathered .strength, u smile"|of blessed trust
lighting up^hi-i face ; and witli dymg lips lie cried : „
;^' " Let me be thine, Lord, — thine only — now and tor
ever ! Have mercy on me, Christ, and redeem my
spirit !"

* He sankjn death, but peace^had been given him.'

ner

but

nee

for

LETTER XVIL ,

IREMEMBKli times of true contrition in my life ;
net only when 1 felt cast down, but when 1 expe-
rience Iso anguish of soul. The burden on my heart
at such mouicnts would almost crush me. 1 did see the
nothingness and wretchedness of my pursuits; 1 f<*]t 1
was on the road that would lead uic to perdition. I
seemed to hear voices crying: 'Return — ah, return,
while yet it is time !' and my soul made answer; '1
will return before it is too late.' It was not too late
while such promptings urged rae. The deep unrest with-
in was tending towai i peace. 1 might have come forth
a new creature from the conflict had 1 but taken up tlie
struggle with sincerity — but I did not ; weak endeavours
at best were all. And sometimes when I could not but
consider my sins moodily, even sorrowfully, thoughts of
levity would dart through me, pushing aside the tender
stirrings of life eternal ; and with renewed careless-
ness 1 plunged deeper than before into the whirl of

L4"

' 'It

■'AC i '

led

lETtkRS i'kOM ItEll.

f&'i-i

\\. •'"

amusement. Indeed, from my own experience, and
from what I have seen in others, I can testify to the aw-
ful truth that an evil spirit has power over human souls.
How often some otie has formed the best of resolutions ;
he lias turned from sin, and is anxious to seek the way
of life ; but the tempter enters his heart, and he falls
deeper than before.

And then to say there is no devil !

Devil ? Yes ; it is no use mincing an awful fact — it
is he who drags men to hell. There is a devil, and ttie
number of demons is legion.

But, say you, how is it that God — the strong, right-
eous, pitiful God — allows the evil one such terrible
power over human souls ? Can He be the all loving, all
merciful Father, if He does not snatch thbm from the
destroyer even at the moment of their weakness ?

Do you doubt God, my friend ? Was it not He who
sent His good angtls to watch the door of your heart ;
who put ail that trouble and anguish into you , who
made you feel, and tremble at, the burden of your sin ?
Ay, it is His spirit who is at work in us when we feel
we have done wrong ; when we long to rise to a better
life. It is He who shows us that we can rise, if only we
will!

But our will is at fault — our sincerity. That is it !
What God does for us even at such decisive moments is
immeasurably more than what the devil can do. But to
God we listen not, great as His love is ; we care not for
the riches of grace with which He tries to save us ; where-
as the devil need but pipe, and we straightway are ready
to do His bidding.

Is it to be marvelled at that there is nothing left for
us but to go to hell ?

I have more to say ; but how shall I say it ? Will
words not end in a wail of despair ?

In those happy days when I had Lily by my side, I
often gave myself up to the enchanting thought that she

li'i'i i

:*••■

LETTERS FROM HELL,

169

for

ill

was the good angel of my life, sent by God's infinite
mercy, and that through her His love would lead me to
heaven. That view of our relation was very sweet, and
often filled me with the best of intentions. But if my
heait was touched, it was but surface emotion ; I «vas
willing enough to be led by Lily ; but I cared not to be
led to God.

Lily's mission, then, failed of its object, and there was
no help for me.

Since I have come to this dreadful place my eyes have
been opened to see that if I had yielded to the strivings
of grace, and had given ray heart to God, Lily would
not have died in the flower of life ; that, on the con-
trary, God's gift of happiness was coming to me through
her.

Even in those latter days, when the shadow of death
was upon her — ay, and on me too, it would not have
been too late. A voice now says : Had I repented of
my evil course — had I turned to God even as a prodigal
— ^grace was at hand, and my Lily would not have left
me. Death would have been stayed, havii.^g done its
work of rousing the sinner. God Himself would have
given me Lily and the blessing of her love, and a new
happy life might have followed.

But no. God's means of grace could not break down
the wall I had built about my heart. I would not turn
from sin. What could she do but die ? There was no
other way of saving her from a life with me — a life that
would have wronged her lovely soul. Her pure-robed
spirit must needs wing its flight to heaven. Lily could
but die, and it was well that she did.

Well for her ! I say so with the honesty of despair.
How I hate myself ! — ready to dash myself to pieces,
were it but possible. All is fraught with regret wher-
ever I turn ; but this one thought that Lily was meant
to be mine for a lite of happiness is enough to turn all
future existence into a hell of hells. God meant to bless

170

LETTERS FROM HELL,

me hnd He but found mo worthy. Earth might have
been henvon, niul a bettor heaven to come ! Do you
understand now what hell is, and the awhil misery of
its retribution ?

I have lately been to a Imll. You know that T have
always been more or less of a ladies' man ; but T did not
frequent ballrrooms over lonj?. I soon got tired of that
sort of pleasure ; ])erhaps T was too heavy — too nmch of
an athlete, to be famous for danoinct. In early youth,
however, I loved it passionately — forgetting everything,
earth and henven, in the whirl of an intoxicating waltz.

l^ut in my riper years T raised objections to dancing.
I always looked at the a'sthetie side of things. I begnn
to urge the unbeeomingnesa of going on dancing for ten,
fifteen years, or more. Let ])eoplo dance for two or three
years and be satisfied. The pleasure might l>e compared
then to tlie fluttering of the butterfly amid the roses of
spring; there is fitness in tha^ on first quitting the chry-
salis of childhood. Let young people dance — becoming
dances that is ! For them it is a natural and even beau-
tiful pastime — nn overflowing of the exuberance of life,
and an innocent pleasure to ilieir untaught perception.
However it was a grand ball which T visited lately,
and most fashionably attended. The society, to be sure,
was mixed, but that also gave a zest. The illumination
was perfect, conpi(iering our state of light. For even
with a thousand chandeliers we cannot rise above a
crepusculo ; the tapers emit a false light only, making
no impression who^'^"'?r upon *' ^ reigning gloom. A
good band was in . .tendance, bnt all their efforts pro-
duced no sound. Everything being illusive here, music
naturally is left to imagination. One thinks one hears,
and falls to dancing.

The ladies were gorgeously attired in fashions repre-
senting several centuries ; it almost looked like a
masquerade ; but these fair ones were only true, each to
her time. And on the other hand, an otte ' pt at mask^

owe(

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Hut I

LE TTERS FROM HELL,

171

in^ would have boon poor doception, mnoo all thoir
pomp i;iiid vanity was trauspiiront I Wlmtovor tlioir
tiiiory. you Haw tho uiKilotluid wouuin bnucath— hoiuo
liowiLeliiiif^fly hoautit'ul, otliorM uiorci liko luuinuiitiH than
anytliiti},' tilao. Wo uiavclHid round \\\v\ I'ouJid tho
ppacious saloon, ox('.luiii*;injjt ladicH at ^X^wn tiuuis, so
that on(* liad tliu plftaHur(( of toucliiu;^' IuukIh with all
tho fair ouoh proHcnt, and f(jriuiii;^ thoir acquaiutanco.
. What a Hurpriao 1 In my <liiiiu<^-i'0()iii at homo I had
a fino pioturo l)y a woU known aviist It roprosont«'d a
Jlonian boj^jn'iir j^irl in iif(»-si/(», thriU'-(pjartor lon^'th.
Slio is to bo found in ojkUohh |)iotun^^, lioarin^ datoH
IVoju 18^5-1812 ; for tliat sho was in hifjjh fuvour as a
nuuh'l nood Hcarotiiy \m said. Sho was of triio Roman
blood, l)()rn at Tnistuvoro — a lino typo of lioman !)oauty
— hor i'aou and lij^iiro, her |L»raoo and lioarin}.,', Ixiinj:,'
equally admirablo. And luir \">\\*,'<, whioh sho undor-
stood how to an'a.n<';o in a mann<!r so tr'uly pif;turoH(|n(»,
woro soarcudy loss cliai'mini''. Fa.shionaldo ladios, with
all thoir j^ottin^^ up, loolcod pooi' and itisipid by thn sidt^
of that b(.'^);!U' jjfirl I And sonudiow sho sipjx'ari^d proud
of hor rags, and would not havo (!X<;han{j|;od tluHu for tho
most ohjL'ant atlivt'jfor siio kntiw that to tlmm sho
owod halt' hor attraction, lu'.r ind'-pondoucf and lihorty
bosidt'S. Waolina sho whm oallod, but aniont,,^ tho
stranj^ors at Itonu^ sho wont by thu name n)! ht rciiutdri
inend'mtndi, i\w. bo,u|L;ar (piocn, or simply L<t Udwt. lie-
hold now tho ori^^inal of my picturo — Jjo Hcvna in per-
son 1

One ovoninji', as I was walking,' thron^'h ono of tho
niort! quiet stroots of ]{omo, a young woman, hasten ijig
iq) behind nui, caught my arm trumblingly, imploring
mo to protect hor. It was La Rcina. Of ccjurso 1 ili<l
protect her, sctung her home : firm in arm we w* nt
through ibo ill-lit streets, and frieiidlini'S^ seemed
natural. I was ungenerous enough to pay court to her.
J^ut I did iu)t know La Rcina. Firmly, though gently.

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172

LETTERS FROM HELL,

she refused me. And then, with a candour found in
Italy only, she explained to me her position. She was
happy now, she said — very happy. Most people treated
her kindly, no one dared think ill of her, and she was
free as the bird in the air. But if she yielded, all that
would be lost, and she would sink to the level of the
common street-girl. So long as she could wear her rags
with honour, she would not exchange them for the vel-
vet and gold of a princess. More than this even she
told me, though without mentioning names ; she had
refused the most enticing offers, but — sia benito Iddio
— she had refused them all. Arrived at her humble
dwelling, she kissed me with a frank trustfulness, as a
child might, and we parted. I subsequently had her
painted.

After some years La Reina suddenly vanished. She
had risen, as she said, above many a temptation — the
proud beggar girl ; but of one thing she had not thought,
the possibility of love 1 Heaven seemed open ; she
loved, she yielded — and happiness was gone. In her
rags she had been a queen — in silks and jewels she was
but a slave. And worse was at hand. She was be-
trayed, and cruelly disillusioned. Then all the natural
gentleness of her disposition forsook her ; a demon
awoke instead, not shrinking even from vulgar crime.
She thirsted for revenge. She was still a marvel of
beauty, no longer gracious, but majestic. With an
icy heart, yet burning in vindictiveness, she gathered
her skirts about her, succeeding presently in making
a fool of an old rake of a prince. For a moment
only she stood at the height of spier dour, meteor-
like, but long enough to obtain the SMtisfaction she
craved. With a crash it ended, and she never rose
again.

Now she was once more beside me, resting her arm in
mine, but what a difference between the present mo-
ment and that far-off evening when I escorted her

1:1

LETTERS FROM HELL.

173

'.%.

her

through the dusky strerets of Kome. I had recognized
her on the spot and yet how she was changed ! Invol-
untarily my feelings shaped themselves to a sigh. Th«re
is no happiness but that of innocence after all ! But
when I bent to her, whispering, La Reina ! Sta sempre
in ricordanza /' she answered with trembling liaste, as
though overcome with the recollection, * state zitto,
zitto ! Nell* inferno tutt' e finito ! La gioja, V incicranza V
amor' e la speranza !'

As I was about to quit the ball, I was stopped by a
man, to all appearance a roue oi the first order, address-
ing me somewhat flippantly : ' I see you are at honw in
this sort of thing ; but have you assisted at tlw ball ?

That is quite another affair, rendering all this stupid
and tame j it will come round again presently !'

I did not understand his hint, nor did I care to ask
for an explanation. But I was to find out before long.

For as the time draws near when utter darkness sinks
upon hell, a madness of dissipation possesses the fashion-
able — a straining of all efforts to make the most of the
respite, as it were. This rage of amusement is vanity,
like everything, and fruitful of pain only. But never-
theless, the greed of pleasure abounds — plays, orgies,
and immodest pastimes succeeding one another in a per-
fect whirl : all is forgotten, save one thing, intoxicating
and stunning the senses. Nothing so wild, so frantic, so
shameless, but it in had recourse to at this period ; and
he who most successfully throws off restraint is the hero
of the day. That well-jjred society with dithculty pre-
serves its reputation, you may imagine ; for none so
well-bred but they yield to the contagion of the ball.
They only try to preserve appearances, that is all !

There is something remarkably lilce it upon earth —
I mean the revelry before Lent. The season of dead
darkness is our Lent, but alas it leads to no Easter be-
yond! The devil surely has raised up that porch by
which men enter upon a solemn time — the carnival of

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174

LETTERS FROM HELL.

fools; here then we have it to perfection, winding up
with the, ball.

And what is it like, this ball? — beginning in pro-
priety of course, the ladies all smiles, the men pictures
of ease. The dancing at first is most orderly following
a gently- swelling rhythm, but as a rising sea is its ex-
citement. Look at their eyes — at the panting mouth
half open ! More tightly they clutch one anothei.

Dead darkness is at hand ; they heed it not in mad-
dened whiil. Voluptuousness is all but one with tor-
ment; L.«fi*<y dunce as though aturtkmaster drove them on
to it — th«^ jufekniastei of sin : The greed is theirs — sat-
isfaction alone is withheld.

See the fair oneS bereft of beauty, the gracious gar-
ments draggled and soiled ! Is there a more awful sight
than unwomanly woman, hollow-eyed, corpse com-
plexioued, with dishevelled hair and tattered clothes ?
As for men — th<', wild beast nature is upon them.

It is a mercy that darkness in the end envelopes it
all — falling suddenly — and covering, like the deluge of
yore, what is only fit to be covered. See the end ot
pleasure unsanctified! The night of death engulfs
them, and what then ? — what then?

LETTEK XVIII.

YOU are aware no doubt, and have experiem d it
yourself, that the perfume of a tiov/er will wake
memories — sweet happy feelings especially ; but slum-
bering passions also obey the call. If on earth this may
mean a kind of agonipMig deHp;lit, here it is hell !

Do not imatiine that there are fiowers in this place ;
there are none hero — none whatever — no growth of any
kind. Even faded liowc.s are of the earth. foolish
men 1 yours is a flower-yielding world, and you will not
see that, with all ita trouble and sorrow, it is a blessed

LETTERS FROM HELL.

175

lace ;
any
jolish
II not
t'ssed

abode 1 It i the exceeding love of your Father in
heaven, overtiowinor continually, which creates the
flowers. Those millions of perfumed blossoms are the
vouchers of love eternal — the sparkling pearls of the cup
.which runuetli over, given by God to man.

Flowers below and stars al)ove — happy are ye who
yet walk in life. Ikit you follow your path, heedless of
tiowers and iieedless of scars, engrossed with your paltry
sqlf and its too often worthless concerns. fooli.=5h
men !

iNo there is no blossoming here ; but it is part of our
torment to be liauiited occasionally by the far off per-
fume of some flower. Imaginatiju of course, but all the
more potent is the eflrfct. The svvret incense has power
to dall up, not feerogs merely, but visions on which we
love to dwell — the spell of vanished enjoyment. Can
you conceive it ; the tullness of ])ast delight returning
upon you as by nuigic, yourself being a prey to death
kuui boundless misery ?

lo may be a rich carnation. The fragrance even now
will spe^k to me of her who wore it, and of her glowing
*<yes. I succeeded at last in being alone with her. She
sNitM. divided lietween love and anger, I kneeling at her

f fr a jasmine oi intoxicating richness. In a summer-
house, o/fM'hung wIMi the swcet-sconCed slirub, I found
the fair haH(;d beauty. My heart was full, and I longed
to clasp her, to be drowneiJ in tlie depth of her sea- blue
eyes. 1 was spell-bound, the dre.iuiy influence of the
flowers stealing throii;/li tfie noontide sun.

Or again, a luscious h«li''ti'ope. We were alone in the
garden on a summer eve, a b.ihuy twilight above us. I
was to leave her the following f/iorning; slie being tied
by uiigeriial wedlock. Her beauty was rich a^ the
SDuthem clime ; luU' i|ark eyes mourtiPul, but owning a
wondtous (•barm I llii|: Hlullu the saddest ever knew.
She plucke4 one of (-|)e HowciH Ihiii Hl.Mipud the night

176

LETTERS FROM HELL,

It'

with fi*a}>rance and gave it me — calling me her truest ,
friend. But I, lenraptured, would fain have bound her
by another name !

Such is the language of flowers to me, coming on the
waves of their perfume ; and the sweeter such memories,
the more cruelly they torture the mind, raising passion
to madness, although we are unclothed of all bodily
sense, and there is no healing for the suffering soul.

It is only the'strong-scented flowers that move me-so
powerfully ; their gentler sisters, the violet and hearts-
ease, touch me not. Yet one I may except — an only one.
It also brings pain, but I bless it. I have oftou been
followed of late by tender wafts as from a rose. It is a
particular rose, and I see it even now. A most delicate
blush suffuses its petals ; what colour there is might be
called an ethereal glow at its heart ; to the cursory
glance it is white, but I know better. Lily once gave
me that rose ; that is, 1 asked her for it ; I do not sup-
pose she would have thought of giving it to me of her
own accord. It was at Venice one day ; we were at St.
Mark's, standing in front of that altar sacred to. the
Madonna, with its famous Byzantine paintings. We
were alone ; a crippled beggar had just limped away,
having called down ' Our Lady's ' blessing upon us. A
holy feeling * stole over me — holy perhaps because the
cripple had called Lily la sua sposa. She had not heard
it, or had not understood it. There she stood with the
ruse in her hand — the blushing flower being a sweet
image of herself.

' Give me that rose, Lily !' I said ; and she handed it
at once, innocently.

' Kiss it first,' I said.

She did so, and handed it back again with the most
charming of smiles.

I took it, kissing it in my turn. Lily blushed slightly,
but not comprehending in her simplicity what that
little ceremony might be meant for. The perfume of this

LETTERS FROM HELL

177

very rose has been comiug to me of late. It seems
strange. It is possible, after all, that there is a kind of
spiritual bond between blessed souls and the lost ones
here, immaterial as the breath of a flower ? happy

thought, let me hold it fast alas it has vanisl^ed ....

transient as the wafted odour itself !

That sublime moment when the glory of Paradise
will break through the night cannot be far now ; it is
coming, coming ! I shall behold her again, and though
it be a pang of ten thousand sorrows I care not. I shall

see her in heavenly beauty but oh, the darkness

that will follow ! Yet come what may, her picture will
not quit me. . . .1 see it — shall always see it — radiant-
in bliss, though I be in the depth of hell. Can it be
utter damnation if God leaves me that much of com-
munion with one of His blessed saints ? I know, I feel,
that she is thinking of me as I think of her — loving me,
though it be with the love of a sister. . What shall I
say — dare I say it ? Qould God be a Fatlier if the sis-
ter is in heaven, and the brother for ever lost in

hell? ■:■-.'.- . •■:;. . •■ .

lis

I went to church the other day, not for the first
time ; but I have refrained from speaking about it
hitherto for very shame's sake. Indeed, I would rather
have kept away altogether, but one is forced to do a
great deal here one would prefer to leave alone.

Be it known then, that hell is not without a church
establishment. We have everything, you see, yet,
nothing — nothing ! You will understand, I cannot be
speaking of the Church, in the true meaning of the
word, that is why I add establishment— disestablishment
would be as good a tc^m — and of course there is no such
thing as a worshipping congregation here, or anything
like divine service. I can only say we go to church.
Good heavens, what a farce ! , vy--

There are about as many churches here as there are

'*' vj

"V,„

■ ' ■ "ip'

17^

LETTERS FROM HELL

reverend gentlemen, and that is sayins; a good deal ! All
false and faithless ecclesiastics — all who, for the sake of
a good living or other worldly advantage, have sinned
against the gospel — all hirelings wronging the Lord's
sheep — are gathered here. Now they are eaten up with
a burning zeal for the gospel which once they slighted,
but that gospel is far from them ; they are devoured now
with love for the sheep, but there are no sheep to be
tended. They build churches upon churches, preaching
morning, noon, and night ; but never a word of God's
passes their lips. It the word of grace were yet within
their reach, they and their listeners might be saved.
But their stewardship is over and the mysteries are
taken from them. Yet are they driven — driven to
preach, for ever seeking the one pearl they so grievously
ueglected.

And so are the people — seeking 1 mer.n — but not
finding. Hell is full of professing Christians. This
may sound strange, but it is true nevertheless, since all
the thousands are here to whom Christianity in life was
but an outward thing — a habit, or even a mask, hiding
an unconverted heart ; all those who, having heard the
message of salvation, listened to it complacently, but
never strove to make sure ot it for themselves — merely
playing with God's truth, as it were, falling away in the
time of temptation. They are hungering and thirsting
now for the word once despised, but "it has passed away
for ever. They know it, fur son»e of them have been at
tlieir hopeless endeavour lor years and centuries now ;
but they cannot resist llocking to the would-be churches,
listening anxiously to ministers that cannot minister.

The cliurclies cdnsi'quently are full to overflowing,
but you always tind room ; for a spirit, a sliade, can
squeeze in anyvhere. Tliere is no need, therefore, to
take a pew, or pay for it either, as you do upon earth,
where the rich connnand tlie best places, be it at the
tlieatre or at the church. That is one advantage we have
over you.

LETTERS FROM HELL,

179

At an evening p r 'y the other day I met a certain

Eev. Mr. T . I had nearly given his name, but that

is against my principles. Who should he be but an old
acquaintance of former years ! I remember him well, a
fashionable parson of the kind the world approves of —
gentlemanly and easy-going in word and deed. Shaking
hands on leaving, he said lightly : * 1 shall be glad to
preach to you if you'll come. I have built a church in
Sensuality Square — queer name, ain't it ? — anybody can
show you the way — ^.just at the top of Infirmity street.
I've cop^octed a grand sermon for next Sunday; you'd
better come.' What could I do but go. I might as well
listen to my old acquaintance a? to any other pretender
of the cloth.

I found the church in the Square indicated. I was
late, coming in upon the singing ; but, ye ang ds, what
singing ! Instead of saintly hymns, the most horrible
songs I have ever heard — the natural utterance of the
people's own thoughts. The congregation was exceed-
ingly fashionable, .of irreproachable attitude. But old
men, apparently crowned with hoii; /r — young women,
wearing innocence as a garment — joa. >d in that shame-
less performance. Parents encouraged their children,
husbands their wives, unabashed. Alas ! and no sooner
had I entered, than I was no l)etter than the rest, having
come to sing praises, my evil thoughts bubbled over,
and I desecrated good intention wir j ribald song.

It ceased. The parson ap; eared in his pulpit with an
assumption of sanctity quite edifying — but for a moment
only, then his beautiful expression gave way to a de-
plorable grin. It was with difficulty ''oparently that he
reined in his feelings, and looked serious and sanctimo-
nious again as he began:

' My worshipping friends . . .' a proper b«^ginning, no
doubt, and I am sure he meant his Ni,rj bebt — proceeding
Vigorously for quite half an ho'^ , " should say, opening
and' shutting his mouth witL tt •' , »ost frightful grim-

■i-

180

lM:i 7EIi^ PROM HELL.

aces, tliough never a word came forth. He se -uicJ to be
aware of it and made desperate efforts at eloquence ; prefc-
ently he began again :

' My worshipping friends . . .* and now he appeared
to be in high water, dashing and splashing and flounder-
ing along, quite drenching the congregation with his
fluency, but never a thought he gave them, and the most
shallow of his listeners resented it presently. He was
just winding up his rhetoric when there was an outburst
of laughter ; he stopped short, open-mouthed, and, like
a poodle that had had a ducking, shamefacedly slunk
down his pulpit stair.

1 could tell more, but let me cast a veil over it. I
left the place heavy-hearted.

Is there anything worse than to pretend to be living,
being dead — dead !

3JETTER XIX.

\ ,

I'-

THE sweeter memories are in themselves, the greater
their bitterness in hell. Is it not strange ? nay, it is
dieadful. I am a prey to despair, not that despair which
finds an outlet in raving madness — there is life in that
— but a kind of apathy which is the sister : f death.
Despair is one's daily, bread here ; it is in us, it is about

Absorbed at times — closing my eyes, I had almost
said, but it is no use doing that here — withdrawing
within myself, however, I have the strangest fancies and
imaginings.

The other day I believed myself carried away into a
wood. It was one of those wondrous May days when
spring bursts to life not only in nature, but in the heart
as well. But the delights of spring are never so pure,
the human soul is never so uplifted, as in some genial
forest glade.

r i t

LETTERS FROM HELL.

181

The joyful carols of the feathered sonp^ters found an
echo in my heart; I felt ready to join i aieir thanks-
givinj,'. The rich fragrance of the wocd was about me,
sinking into my soul, when suddc ly 1 heard Lily's voice
somewhere between the trees

I started — shaken out of my c ful delight.

cruelty — where am T ? Therr it- birds here ; no

woodland enchantment, no love u •^hi call 1 „ . ,

We had taken a house one sumuiei ainid the scenery
of the lake country. There were splendid woods about
us. My mother had provided herself with companion-
ship, so that I could follow my own bent whenever I
chose.

Often in the early morning I would take Lily for a
row, landing now here, now there, to spend the day,
gipsy- fashion, amid * he woody glens. I delighted at
such times in having escaped from the world and its
pleasures, what sort of renunciation that was you will
readily understand. I was nowise prepared to give up
the world in order to gam heaven. I merely felt nau-
seated with the excess, young as 1 was, and glad to turn
my back upon it for a time ; but not longing for any-
thing better or higher.

Lily too, delighted in burying herself in nature, as she
called it. And aimlessly we would wander about the
livelong day, stopping where the fancy took us, and pro-
ceeding again to look for other spots of enchantment.
Now and then we would come upon a hut where frugal
fare was obtainable ; or we took with us what might
satisfy simple need. Let us live like children of the
wood, we said, and did so.

Lily might be about twelve years at that time. My
mother rather objected to our uncivilised roamings ;-but
meeting my opposition, she contented herself with the
final injunction, ' See that Lily does not get.too wild.',,.
Wild, sweet dove ! — how should she ? l\

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23 WEST MAIN STREET

WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580

(716) 872-4503

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' .1 "'■ ■ '-.:f^'--

182

LET7MRS FROM HELL,

!*-%•

Lily's company was as refreshing to me as the dewy
fragrance of the landscape. In those genial days the
graciousness of her being unfolded, and I felt a child
with her. How she could laugh and chatter, delight in a '
nothing, and call up the echoes ! How easy and free and
charming was her every movement ! She must look into
everything, peeping now here, now Jiere, finding sur- ■
prises everywhere. Hers was a marvellous gift of under-
standing the little mysteries of nature. The least and
most hidden escaped not her notice. Where others
passed heedless, she perceived wonders. It seemed as if
nature delighted in opening her secret beauty to the
pure-eyed child. The nimble deer came forth from the
cover and looked at her with trustful gaze — turning and
looking again, as though inviting her to follow. The sly
fox would quit his lair, seeking mice and beetles for his
supper, untroubled by her presence, but giving her a
furtive squint now and then as it to keep her in sight.
The birds chirped at her merrily, or, half hiding in the
leafy bowers, warbled down upon her their most gleeful
song — others running along the lichened boles, as if to
show off their special art. The little squirrels, hopping
from bough to bough, would follow her about the wood.
Eare plants and flowers seemed to grow beneath her •
footstep ; they were there at least whenever she looked
for them. Everything enchanting her added to her
charms ; as the fairy of the place she appeared in her
sylph-like loveliness, with those eyes that welled over
with a light touched by sadness, and that smile that
spoke of sunbeams sparkling through rain.

We would camp beneath some tree at times, gather-
ing sticks and fir-cones for a fire, by way of preparing
for a meal. This done, I would leave Lily to her own
devices ; and how proud she was of her assumed dignity ;
We quite feasted on such occasions ; never did I enjoy
grandest dinner more. I would call her my little wife
as I watched her busy contrivances, and truly all those

LE7TERS FROM HELL.

183

her
ced
her
her
Dver
that

nameless graces were hers with which tenderest women
will flit round the object of her care.

Having enjoyed our gipsy meal, she would read to
me, and sometimes I yielded to courting sleep ; then she
would watch by me, keeping the buzzing flies from dis-
turbing my slumbers ; and on waking ; the first thing
I grew conscious of were those radiant stars — her faith-
iui eyes.

At other times I would read by myself, or pretend to
read, listening to that mysterious rustle in the tree-tops
which is as of distant water, and to the many sounds
that break upon the stillness of the wood, making it
more solemn by contrast. Lily then would roam about
by herself, never unoccupied. Irmumerable were the
wreaths she made and the nose,i;ays she gathered ; or
she would return rich with spoils, bringing leaves full
of berries, red and ripe. But she never was out of the
reach of my voice. Life seemed a perfect idyl.

One day — we were just saying that we ought to know
the woods by heart now — having gone rather farther
than usual, we came upon a little house I had cause to
remember, though I had chosen to forget it, covered
with clematis and roses, — the charming lodge where I
had met Annie. I started, horror-struck, trembling and
no doubt white as death, frightening poor little Jily
dreadfully. She anxiously enquired what ailed me ; but
not^till some minutes had elapsed had I recovered suffi-
cii^ntly to pretend to answer her jjuestions, dragging her
away with me hastily. What explanation I gave her I
know not ; I only remember that all that day I could
not look her in the eyes again. How she pained me
with her tender inquiries, her loving sympathy — little
guessing, poor child, what a frightful memory she kept
liovering about in her innocence — little thinking that
the self-same demon tbat betrayed Annie, in a measure
was tlireatening her, and that I, her friend, her only
companion, was both master and slave of that demon !

184

LEITERS FROM HELL.

We continued our roamings, extending them farther
still — for I could not rest — but delight there was none.
Poor little Lily, she had set out full of hopes of pleasure,
and found nothing but dullness and dispiritedness ; she
was ready to sink with fatigue, but I saw it not.

Toward evening a storm broke, and as we nearpd the
lake we found it one seething mass of boiling waters. I
dared not risk the child in the boat, so nothing remained
but to follow the path by the shore, the distance to the
house, fortunately, not being beyond possibilities. But
Lily was tired out. The storm spirit flapped his angry
wings about us. I wrapped her in a cloak, saying I
would carry her home. She assured me she was able to
walk ; but no,^I would carry her.

And how light wds the burden 1 how doubly dear 1 I
felt as if I could walk on thus to the ends of ihe world.
Holding her close I went on steadily, having a couple
of miles before me. The stormy clouds were driving
overhead, the rain kept beating about me : but I
cared not, meeting force with force. How touching
was Lily's anxiety lest she should prove trouble a ;
and, finding that I was fully bent on caiTying her ^ >me,
how sweetly she would set herself to repay me, whis-
pering words of loving gratitude, as if thereby to lessen
'the burden ! I almost forgot Annie for present en-
chantment. But even at that time I could not shuto"'^
profaning fancy ; my thoughts befo e long reverted lo
the carrying off of the Sabines in the Loggia dei Lanzi at
Florence. I was ashamed of the comparison, and tried
to turn from it by an effort of will ; so, partly to punish
myself for the unworthy image, partly also to amuse
Lily, I called up another picture, which, I hoped, was
more in harmony with the occasion — the story of Ohris-
tophorus carrying the Holy Child. I told Lily the
legend of the powerful heathen who, conscious of his
strength, would serve none but the greatest, and who,
from kings and emperors, was directed at last to Christ

LETTERS FROM HELL.

185

was
thris-
the
|f his
[who,
Phrist

Crucified. Seeking for Him vainly the world over, he
dwelt at last by the side of a tempestuous torrent, satis- •
fied to carry pilgrims across. Years had passed, when
one night he heard the calling; of a child, and lifted it
upon his mighty shoulder, the burden growing and grow-
ing till he nearly broke down in the river. Yet, reach-
ing the otlier shore, the wonderful chiUl said to the
hoary giant : ' Thou shalt be called Christophorus. for
thou liHSt borne thy Lord 1' And the heathen knew
Him and suffered himself to be baptized.

My story hid rocked Lily to sleep. Her arm was
about my neck, her warm cheek resting against mine.
In silence I walked along.

But the legend had left an impression qn my own
heart. The figure of the Saviour had risen before me ;
I seemed conscious of His holy pn^seuce. I had not
thought of Him for many a day. But buried out of
sight though the faith of childhood was, it had not yet-
died; it was welling up even now from the dark depth of
my heart, followed by recollections, ' some bitter, some
sweet — the bitter ones abounding, hiding their ihead in
shame. What a weight of sin had I not heaped upon
me in the few vears of life I called mine. And the
deepest guilt of ail was that against Annie.

The sleeping child grew heavier and heavier ; but I ..
seemed bearing a burden of sin.

With uncertain footstep I staggered onward through
the darksome night. The storm increased, lashing the
waves and hurling them in masses of ♦curdled foam
against the rocky shore. More than once I felt water
about my feet, as though the maddened lake had risen
to drag me down. But on I went, heaving and panting,
the cold dews breaking from every pore. It was not so
much the physical powers, as the strength of soul giving
way. I experienced a weight of wretchedness never
known before. Tortured by regret and fear — by an
utter contempt, moreover, of self — I had reached for

186

LETTERS FROM HELL.

once a frame of mind that might enable me to turn upon
thi5 miserable I, and become a new creature perchance.
Who knows but that I was near the blessed victory,
when lo ! there was the light from my mother's window
appearing through the darkness and dispelling my
thoughts. It was all gone — grief and regret and emo-
tion. Would that the house had been a little farther, and,
the time gained might have defrauded hell of its prey !
Cold anil shivering 1 entered the well-lit room, leav-
iug outside the chastened feelings that had come to me
in the troubled night. And finding myself once more

great

sense ot

in the cosy chamber, I breathed with
relief.

And now Lily was waking from her sleep. ' What a
beautiful dream !' she whispered, with half opening eyes,
as I dropped a kiss on her forehead by way *' bidding
her good night. They were carrying her off to bed. ,
• The following morning she told me her dream :

'»! thought I was standing by the side of a river. Arid
presently 1 saw St. Christophorus coming towards me
with the Christ Child upon hia shoulder. He stopped,
and the Child sat down by me ; we pliyed with grasses
and flowers, singing songs, and 1 felt very happy. ' But
the big -Christophorus looked down upon us, leaning on
•his staff.

' We twined the flowers into wreaths, but the Child
could do more than I. It made a cross, and then a
crown of thorns, putting that upon His temples. Tiiere
were tiny red Howers between tlie stalks, hanging loose-
ly gver the forehe-^d, and reminding one of drops of
blood. And presently the Christ Child said : " We will
think of something else ; look me in the face — what is
it you see ?" I looked and seeme4 to behold, firstly
the Sower that went forth to sow ; then the good Sa-
maritan, and it was as though I heard Him speak. And
next 1 saw the Good Shepherd carrying the lamb in
His bosom. I dare say 1 might have seen more had not

LETTERS FROM HELL.

187

Jhild

a question come to me. " Is it true," 1 asked, " that
men could be so wicked as to haoir Thee upon the
Cross, piercing Thy side with a spear ?"

" Yes,'' said the Christ, " see here My hands, and see
My side !" The marks were red as blood, and I cried
bitterly. " Weep not, little Lily," said He ; "I do not
feel it now ; the love of my Fatiier iu heaven, and the
love of uiy brothers and sisters upon earth, have made
up for it long ago."

' We liad been silent awhile, when the Christ-Child
resumed : " Would you not like to be carried a little by
this kind Christophorus ? he does it so gently. Where
would you like him to take you V

' " Well,' I said, scarcely considering, " I always had a
longing for the Holy Land. But that is a long way off,
and I should have to leave Thee here."

' " No, Lily, it is not nearly so f^r as you think," re-
plied the Christ, " and you and I will never part. You
will find me Lliere if you like to go."

' I rose, and Chriistophorus took me upon his shoulder
carrying tue far, far away. By day he followed a bright
red cloud, by night a shining star. It was the star of
Bethlehem. Through many lands we went, hearing
tongues I understood not, passing mountains and rivers
and lakes, and going over the great sea at last. There
was no land to be seen now, and the waves rose high as
mountains. I grew afraid lest we should never get
through. But good Christophorus said: "Fear not,
little child ; I have borne my dear Lord Christ ; I shall
not fail to carry thee.''

* And after many days we reached the other shore —
it was the Holy Land. On he walked, with his staffin
his hand and me upon his shoulder, past Jerusalem, the
white walls of which lay sparkling in the sunshine —
the royal city looking as beautiful as ever shj^ could
have been iu the days of yore. Farther still — not far
— and he stopped in a little town nestling amid her
hills. Here the star stood still. It was Bethlehem.

188

LETIERS FROM HELL.

* Christophorus put me down before a humble inn.

' The door opened, and behold, the Holy Child was
there, taking me by the hand and leadin*^ me in.
*' There is ordy a manger here, little Lily, to make thee
welcdme But one day, when thou art weary uf life, I
will take thee to a mansion above."

' And the Christ-Child drew me close — oh so lovingly
— close, quitH close, and kissed me. . . .

' I awoke ; we had just reached home. Ah, Philip, I
would have liked to go on dreaming for ever !

' Well, lifccle sister,* I said gaily, ' I think you might
be satisfied. H iven't you been to Bethlehem and back,
and seen no end of Wonders in one short hour ? What
could you expect more ?'

* Yes,' she said thoughtfully, 'you are right. I ought
to be satisfied till Christ bids, me welcome in His man-
sion above.'

LETTER XX.

1HAD been seeking for Annie too long al-
ready, not to have all but given up the
hope of ever meeting her again. She seemed utterly
vanished. But hell is large, and its inhabitants are not
ta be numbered.

Inquiry tor her quite unsettled my mode of life. I
was but a vagabond, travelling hither and thither,
driven onward by a gnawing need. There was a fire
within me, and I thirsted ; living man — no, not the
parched wanderer in the desert ever knew such agony
— thirsted for Annie, though I knew she was but as a
broken cistern that can hold no water, and unable,
therefore, to soothe my pain. She had lost that privi-
lege of womanhood in life even — how much more so in
hell. No ; Annie could not quench my thirst. In vain
she keeps wringing her garments, her once glorious

than

LETTERS FROM HELL.

189

hair ; it is wet and dripping, though never a drop of
water sho wrings out of it. But she carries that about
with her which would solve a terrible mystery. That
is why I aru driven to seek her — thinking and dream-
ing of lier as I once did in life, when the red glow
coursed llirough my veins, and I saw in her but a flower
ill the vast realm of nature, unfolding her beauty for
my selfish delight. But how different now ! It was
not love that drew me — but the dread longing to read '
in her face concerning that awful likeness, which had
flashed through my conscience on meeting her before.
It was more than a presentiment then — it seemed an
assurance ; still I wanted proof to determine between
doubt and certainty. She — she alone could be the wit-
ness that sealed my guilt. Her features had spoken ;
but by her mouth alone could I finally be convicted.
Yet, even though I lound her, could I hope to hear her
voice ? My heart misgave me — but endeavour to find
her I must.

At last after many days, the desire seemed realized.
1 came upon her sitting by the river, motionless, and
gazing into the turbid flow, as though about to seek '
death in its embrace. Hell, after all, at times offer
what is akin to satisfaction : for a moment I forgot self
and everything beside me, anxious only to approach
her. As a gliding shadow I moved forward, scarcely to
be distinguished from the crawling mists that haunt
those blinks ol darkness,

1 was able to watch her leisurely, though in fevered
anguisii and with trembling soul, examining her count-
enance arid questioning her every feature. It was all
pain and suftering to me ; but 1 forced myself to the
task, and the result was utterly startling, an eftbrt of
the will only keeping me from jumping to my feet.
How could I have believed Martin to be her very
image ! There was a likeness certainly, but not more
than might be merely casual.

190

LETTERS FROM HELL,

It, was the first time thsit I experienced anything like
"relief in hell — strange that it came to me hy the side of «
that ominous river 1 A feeling of comfort all but super-
seded the pain of inquiry.

My eyes devouring her greedily, yielded conviction.
Ko — hers was no likeness to Martin that need trouble
me. But there was a likeness — to whoin ?

My satisfaction was short-lived, alas ! A new horror
laid hold of me, clutching my every fibre. What could
it be ? Doubt pursued by certainty darting through me
— I saw it — Yes ! Yes ! Annie was not like Martin ;
she was like that girl loved by Martin, who had been
the last object of my earthly desires — whom I had
lilted from poverty, but who had preferred poverty with
Martin to a palace with me !

It must be so — the more I gazed the more certain I
seemed. This then was Martin's secret that should have
made all straight between us — that girl, my daughter,
and he, Martin, my son !

I shook with horror ; again the words kept ringing in
my brain that the sins of the father shall be visited upon
the children. That girl my child ! So near had I been
to commit a crime at which vice itself shrinks back
appalled. My own daughter ! Oh. heavens of mercy,
where indeed shall the consequences of sin find their
limit ?

Unutterable anguish laid hold of me. There she sat,
pale, gloomy — a very image of pitiless fate. A few
words of hers would have sufficed to dispel the misery of
suspecting doubt.

But not a word she had for me ; her soul and mine
were utterly apart. The time was when she followed
ma, though I took her to the road of hell. Now she
turned from me, and had I been able to show her the
way to Paradise, I believe she would have spurned me
with loathing.

lETTERS FROM HELL,

191

she
the
me

My life seems one mass of darkness, hut I see in-
numerable lights — some heavenly — some earthly —
illumining the (^loorn. It is more especially the count-
less proofs of God's fatherly goodness I call to mind ;
like stars I see them shining through the night of my
sinful folly.

I se« now how often God was near me, how often His
hand was upon me to stop me in the downward course ;
to warn uie, move me, draw me to him in unutterable
mercy. How tender, how faithful, how long-sufifering
was He in his dealings with me, following me in pity all
the days of ray life — as indeed He follows all men. Oh,
think of it my brothers, my sisters, ye whose eyes are
not yet closed in death. He is following you, loving you
daily, continually ! But I spurned the touch of that
hand, not caring for his love, and I am lost now, having
my portion with the ungodly in the place of wailing and
gnashing of teeth.

I could not but be moved sometimes. The hand reach-
ing down from heaven was too plainly to be felt ; the
blessings it spread about my path were too great for
even me to disregard them. There were times when I
felt I ought to kiss that hand of mercy, pouring out
tears of repentant gratitude. My heart would be
softened and stirred to the depth. If sorrow for sin was
weak, yet resolutions to mend my ways seemed s rong,
and I believed I should never again forget how goo*d the
Lord had been.

But forget I did, losing sight of everything — love
gratitude, benefit, and resolve — ay, of God himself! • Nor
was it mere forgetting — no, I cared not to remember
turning away so fully, that when trouble once more
overtook me, I never even thought of Him who had
helped me and pitied me before.

Yes, let me confess it loudly, it is not the favlt ofQod
that I did not come forth from earth's besetting dangers
a redeemed and blessed soul !

192

LETTERS FROM HELL.

The parable of the Good Shepherd giving his life for
thii sheep, how simple it is, and how it speaks to the
heart ? And that love is not only for the flock as a
whole, but for each individual sheep— ever leaving the
ninety and nine to go after that which is gone astray.
And how tenderly will He look for it, and, if so be that
He find it, carry it home rejoicing !

Yes, 1 feel it now, if I did not feel it then, that all
through my sinful life there was One seeking me in
sorrow and in hope — ay, and finding me again and
again ! But I would not stay in the fold, prefering my
own dark ways to His watchful guidance. 1 would not,
and lo I am lost!

I never was visited by serious illness after that first
trouble at the outset of manhood till the days of my
final agony ; but I once suffered from inflamatiou of the
eyes, which necessitated my abiding for several weeks in
a darkened room. That was a time of misery — not
merely a trial to patience, but simply awful. I gained a
pretty clear idea of the signal punishment inflicted by
the solitary confinement system in prisons. To a heart
burdened with evil recollections there can be no greater
misery than solitude. Days and nights were crawling
past alike in gloom; and it seemed to me not only that
darkness itself increased, but that I was engulfed by it
more and more. And yet that darkness was but a feeble
foretaste of the night enclosing me here; I thought it
fearful then ; it would be mercy now.

I had plenty of so-called friends, but somehow not
many cared to visit me ; it was not pleasant, 1 suppose,
to share my confinement and listen to my dismal
grumblings. •

So I was left alone for the most part. Alone ?— nay,
I had company. My better self had a chance now of
being heard. I had forgotten it, neglected it, ban-
ished it for years. But it had found me out, seizing
upon my loneliness to confront me, darkness not being

LETTERS FROM HELL.

193

not

Lan-
sing
ting

an obstacle. I disliked it exceedingly, yet what could I
do but listen. It had come to upbraid me, contending
with me, and left me no peace.

There are two selves in every man, never at unity
with one another,althongh theirs is a brotherhood, closer
brotherhood than that of Castor and Pollux of old ;
striving continuously, not because love is wanting, but
because contention is their very nature. That duality
in man is the outcome of sin. If he could be saved from
it, sin with all its consequences would cease to enthral
him. And there is a release, as I found out in those
darkened days. We wrestled without a hope of con-
cohcilliation. There is not a more stiff-necked or in-
flexible being than what is called the better self. Not
one iota would it yield ; but I was to give up every-
thing, should strip myself entirely to the death even of
self. But I would not and perhaps I could not.

Yes I could, if I would ! For presently I perceived
that we were not two but three; two warring; and a
third one trying to mediate in earnest love. I could
oppose the better self, but Him I dared not contradict.
I felt it too plainly that He was right, and that'througli
Him only I could be at peace with myself and begin a
new life. I knew who He was, the one Mediator, not
only between me and that other self,, but between me
and the righteous God — the only-begotten Son, once
born in the flesh.

In those days I was His prisoner. There was no es-
caping in the dark comer in which He faced me — the
Good Shepherd had found the wandering sheep. His
arms were about me, and He was ready to take me h6me.
But the willingness was only on His side, I cared not,
suffering Him with a negative endurance merely, and
not wanting to be kept fast. There was something
within me waiting but for the opportunity to break
away from the Shepherd's hold.

Nor was opportunity wanting ; it is ever at hand

194

LETTERS FROM HELL,

when looked for by perversity. The evil one had nowise
yielded his part in me, and required but little eHbrt to
assert it.

He invented an amusement that needed no light.
One of my friends was his messenger, and I received
him open-armed as a very liberator. Delightful pastime
— that game of hazard — that could be played in the
dark !

We played, my friend and I — no, the enemy and my-
self ; for my companion was no other than the prince of
darkness ; the stakes — I knew it not then, but I know
it now — being nothing else than my soul's salvation.
With such an expert I could of course not compete ; he
won — 1 lost.

I remember a glorious evening on the Mediterranean.
The day had been sultry, but towards sunset a pentle
wind had risen ; a cooi air from the north-west, fresh
and balmy, fanned the deck. The waves rose and sank
in even cadence, their silvery crests sparkling far and
wide. A playful troop oi dolphins gamboled round the
vessel. .

The sun had just dipped his radiant front in the cool-
ing waters; dashes of gold, amid a deeper glow of purple
and red, burned in the western horizon, beyond the
Ionian sea, enhancing an aspect of unutterable loveli-
ness. To our left was the splendid island of Cythera,
and, rising beyond it, with clear outlines and deepening
shadows, the majestic hills of Maina, where Sparca was
of old. To our right the beauteous Candia, with the
heaven-kissing Ida, the snowy summit of which was
even now blushing in a rapture of parting light.

Lily sat silent and almost motionless, leaning against
the bulwark, her hands pressed to her bosom, gazing ab-
sently toward the coast of Morea. The wind played
caressingly with a' curl of her silky hair, I knew not
what to admire most, the glorious panorama, or the

LETTERS FROM HELL.

195

girlish figure that formed so lovely a centre. My eyes
rested on her, drinking in her beauty — ha ! what was
that ? Uneasily she breathed, her chest heaving, her
face turned to me with an expression of anguished dis-
tress. I saw that flush and pallor strove for the mas
tery in her face, and that her spirit battled against some
unknown foe.

* What is it, Lily?* I cried, repressing emotion.

' I know not,' she said, with a troubled sigh. ' I felt
a horrible weight on my soul. But be not anxious, my
friend, it is gone already.*

And indeed she looked herself again. I took her
hand, and we sat side by side, not talking. The night
descended slowly — a night of paradise. The land dis-
appeared in folds of gray, the summit of Ida only pre-
serving a faint flush, and the darkening dome above
shone forth in myriads of sparkling lights.

' What are you thinking of, Lily ?' I asked, presently
closing my hand on hers.

' Shall I tell you, Philip ?' she responded softly, look-
ing me full in the face. * I just remembered a little
story ; would you like to hear it ?' And she began :

* There was a poor man whose pious parents left him
no heritage save an honest name and a good, God-lovinu;
heart ; now although in this he had riches without
measure, yet the world accounted him poor.

* It went well with him at first, but by degrees he
tasted trouble. He lost the srn^ll fortune he had suc-
ceeded in saving by dint of work, and the people
pointed to him saying, "Poor wretch !"

' " No, not poor," he said, " God is my portion !'*

* But misfortune pursued him. Most of his so-called
friends turned their back on him, and those even whom
he had trusted most, proved faithless. He was deceived,
calumniated, misjudged.

' And people shook their heads saying : " How
wretched and miserable you are, to be sure !**

196

LETTERS FROM HELL.

* " No/' he said, though his voice trembled, " not
wretched, for God is my portion !"

* But the greatest trouble of all now laid him low ;
he lost his loving wife, and soon after his only child.
The suffering man stood alone in a heartless world.

* Again the people said, shrugging their shoulders :
" Surely now you wiH own yourself miserable and
wretched, a very butt of trouble !''

* " No,'' he cried, repressing the welling tears, " God
is yet my portion !''

'And the people turned from him, saying he was
singular and strange, and nicknaming him John Com-
fort in virtue of his peculiarity.

* But he, truly, was not wretched, nor indeed forsaken.
The last words he was heard to speak on earth were :
" God in heaven is my portion !"

' And he entered into the joy of his Lord.'

'i^

Did lily love me ? Again and again I ask myself
this question. You will think it ought to be of little
consequence to me now. But not so. Since all is vanity
and nothingness here, the past only remains to be looked

to , and even the sure

knowledge

that her love was

mine would be unspeakable comfort. But hell is void
of comfort. Shall I ever find an answer to that question ?
Again and again I have gone over the whole of my
intercourse with her, trying to understand her part of
the relation bf>tween us. Sometimes I have seemed to
arrive at a * yes,' and then a bitter * no' wipes out the
happy conviction. She knew me from childhood, seeing
a brother in me, no doubt — an elder brother, even, for
the discrepancy of years must have been against me.
And she, whose heart from her tenderest youth had been
directed to heaven, how should she, how could she, have
fastened her affections on such a clod of earth as I was ?
And she died so young, in the happiest age of ideals.

LETTERS FROM HELL.

197

But still, if I call back to mind the tenderness with
which she ever surrounded me, the entire devotion that
yielded to me with such loving surrender, and made her
look to me as to her guide and guardian; and considering
that I was the only one of my sex she wa^ brought into
close contact with, I say to myself — surely she loved
me, she cannot but have loved me ! Not with a feelinjr
like mine, but with her own sweet affection, that love
divine, passionless and pure, which so often sf)oke to
my soul in intercourse with her, but which neyer found
root in my heart.

And I cannot forget that in dying something seemed
present with her, resembling the perfect love of holiest
woman. It made efforts to flow into words, it hovered
on her lips, shining in her eyes, but it found not expres-
sion. It had not reached the ripeness which speaks, and
it died with her, as an unborn babe with the mother that
would have given it life. Is it possible that it was love
to me which, even in her last moments, glorified her
beauty ?

Did she love me — yes or no ? Alas, I keep asking,
and who shall give me an answer ? She never had any
secret from me. If indeed she loved me, that was the
one secret, hidden surely to herself even, and she took
it with her to the other life ....

As a dream I remember the days we spent at Bethle-
liem — a dream, though I hardly closed my eyes.

It was with difficulty that we obtained admittance to
a small oottage bordering upon the great cloister gar-
dens. There she lay, pale as a lily, beautiful to the last,
even in death. And the paler she grew the deeper
glowed the brightness of her wondrous eyes. It was as
it the very star of Bethlehem she loved to think of had
found a dwelling in her gaze. Nor was she white with
that livid pallor which death casts on features in which
his lingering touch has wrought havoc ; it was rather a
transparent whiteness glorifying mortality and testifying

198

LET7MRS FROM HELL.

against its victory far more loudly than health's rosiest
bloom.

Night followed day, and day succeeded night, the
time for us flowing unmeasured ; I know not liow it
passed. The cloister bell kept ringing almost continu-
ously, excruciating to my grief , for it seemed to me as
though, with heartless voice, they were tolling out the
life of my beloved. No one heeded us, but the prior
one day sent some consecrated palm branches, which
appeared to delight Lily. I fastened them above her
cOuch.

As life ebbed away her unrest increased. She asked
to be moved. She was too weak herself, and as a little
child I lilted her in my arms, my mother smoothing the
couch. Alas, it was the first time since she had quitted
childhood that I dared take her into my arms. And,
unconsciously, she clasped my neck to steady my hold.
Oh, the touch of love ! but how late it came, late be-
cause dying ! I could not keep back my tears, and they
fell on her upturned face.

' JMy friend,* she said, amid heavenly smiles— ::my heart
yet trembles at tbe memory — * tears, my friend, and 1
so happy ? I do not suffer in the least, and soon, soon,
it will all be over. There is but one thing grieving me.
I long for the Paradise of God, my soul's home, where
peace and joy await me. I shall soon be there — with-
out you, Philip I But not for long. We shall be united
again where there is no more parting.'

Her voice was nearly inaudible, and her |preatfiing
troubled. As a spirit- whisper those words touched my
ear :

' My friend,' she resumed after a .while, * how sweet
it was to call you thus ! Yes, Philip, I may tell you
now, I loved that name for the best part of my life. . .
Yet there was a depth of meaning in it which I seemed
not to fathom entirel}', however much I endeavoured to
be true and loving to you. ... I often felt that you

LETTERS FROM HELL.

199

King
my

deserved a greater and fuller affection than I was able
to give you . . . and yet those were happy moments
when I tried to understand the high meaning of that
sweet name . . . But there seemed something hidden
in it, — something I could not reach,— which, if I had
it, would make happiness perfect. I have not found
it . . . I go to God now, and there, Philip, all will be
given ... we shall be calling each other /mrirf in His
presence to all eternity . . . the measure of happiness
will be full !' -^ %

Her physical unease reached such a pitch that lying
down became impossible. I took her into my arms,
sitting down on the edge of her couch, her head leaning
against my heart, and by degrees quietude returned.

I sat holding her, hour merging into hour ; God alone
knew what I suffered. She moved not — her eyes were
closed ; the slow, faint breathing only, and the scarcely
perceptible throbbing ot her heart, showed that life had
not yet fled. I held her hand in mine — cold, alas, al-
ready — and anxiously I watched the sinking pulse. I
lived in its beating only, but oh, what hopeless living !
The hand grew icy, the pulse becoming slower and
slower , it could not last much longer.

Suddenly she raised her eyes, suffused with a light of
unearthly kiildling, and whispered gently ' My friend !'
As a fleeting breath the words escaped her lips, but I
understood them, with a holy kiss bending to her brow.

Again she moved her lips, but no further sound fell
on my ear. She had told me once that she loved the
habit of the ancient Church that joined a blessing to
the Cross, and involuntarily I made the holy sign to
her dying eyes. •

She understood it, a smile glorifying her features as
with a reflection of heaven's peace. Vision faded, the
lids closing slowly. A. gentle sigh, and she was gone.
Lily's dead body rested against my heart.

Submission I knew not. The frail maiden had up-

200

LETTERS FROM HELL.

held ^'me ; she gone, strength and self-possession
vanished. For days and weeks I was as one bereft of
reason, a prey to devouring grief. But of that I speak
not 1

LETTEK XXI.

'■A

IT is long since I wrote to you. Kepeatedly I have
taken up the pen, but only to drop it again in de-
spair. It seemed impossible to describe what I have
seen. But it weighs upon the heart, urging me to tell
you, however feebly. Having confided so much to you,
I ought not to keep this crowning experience to myself.
Listen, then, to what I have to impart to you in sorrow.

The great moment was fast drawing near. Darkness
seemed being engulfed by tlie abyss more and more rap-
idly—light with us reaching its fullness in a tianspa-
rent dawn ; but far, far away, beyond the gulf, a great day-
break was bursting the confines of night. I knew the
fair land of the blessed was about to be revealed. It
was a wondrous radiance, increasing quickly, and trans-
fusing the distant shore with hues of unknown and in-
describable 4oveliness. In dreams only, or when yield-
ing to the magic of music, a faint foretaste of such glory
may come to the human soul. |,

Hell seemt'd captivated, the whole of its existence
culminatini? in ;ui all-pervading sense of dread ; millions
of hungry-eyed sovds drawn towards a self-same goaL
Some, like pillars of salt stood motionless, gazing into
the brightening glow ; others had sunk to their knees;
others agaiif, falling to the ground, sought to hide their
faces ; while some in hopeless defiance refused to look.
But I stood in fear and trembling, forgetful of all but
the vision at hand. And suddenly it seemed as if a
great veil was rent asunder, torrents of light overflow-
ing their banks, and the wide heavens steeped in flame.

LETTERS FROM HELL,

201

Inees ;
their
look.

II but
if a
rflow-
Lame.

A sigh bursting from untold millions of lost ones ended
in a wail of sorrow that went quivering through the
spaces of hell. I heard and saw no more. As one struck
by lightning I had fallen on my face.

How long I lay tlius confounded 1 know not ; but
when again I lifted my dazzled eyes, there was a cl^ar,
steady glow, a beneHccnt radiance that admitted of my
looking into it, not blinding vision. Still I had to ac-
custom my sight to it ; it seemed a vasL ocean of light
that by degrees only assumed colour and shape ; dawn-^
ing forth to the raptured gaze as a world of beauty and
loveliness, such as eye had not seen and the mind is un-
able to grasp. But never for a moment did I doubt the
reality. I knew it was the land of bliss, even Paradise,
unfolding to my view. At first it seemed as tht)u«»h
islands and distant shores grew visible in that sea of
light, gentle harmonies of colour floating about them.
But gradually the scattered parts united, forming a per-
fect whole, a world of bliss immeasurably vast. Yet
infinite as it appeared, it formed but a single country —
a garden abounding in blessing, in beauty, in <lelight.
The loveliest spots on earth are as desert places in com-
parison. I have no other words to describe it. To do'
so fully and justly I had need to be an angel, and you
know what I am — one who mii^ht liave been a.i angel,
but lost now and foreyer undone,

• Trembling with awe and enchanttnent, 1 L;azed into
Paradise, deeper and deeper, enconi|»assin.fi, !i'» doubt,
thousands of miles. For strange as the asprcL was, the
power of vision given was straiij^er still ; my spirit
seemed roaming through vast realms of gl'ty, all their
beauties laid bare to my tranced sens(3. 1 felt Uie balmy
breezes, I heard the rustle of trees, the genth) cadence
of waters. It was given for me to see (iveiy perfect
fruit, every lovely flower, every drop of clow reflecting
the light. I saw, heard, felt, drank in the fill of beauty.
There was music everywhere, speaking the language of

202

LETTERS FROM HELL.

nature glorified. Not a dew drop sparkling, not a tree-
top rustling, not a flower opening, but it swelled the
heavenly psalm ; all sounds floating together in har-
mony, wondrous and pure. As yet I saw no living
soul; but songs of joy, aud exultant praise, resounded
everywhere, nature and spirit uniting in one perfect
hyniUk What shall I say, but that infinite bliss, un-
speakable happiness, and heavenly peace, flashed delight
into my soul with a thousand dagjjers of longing !
• This then was Eden, I seemed all bi\t in it, and yet
how far — how far ! Of all that glory not a ray of light
for me, not a flower even, or a drop of dew ! Ah gra-
cious heavens, not a drop of water — not a single tear !
But where were they, the souls whom no man hath
counted, the saved ones, redeemed from the world ? Not
one of them I had seen as yet. The garden seemed as
untrodden of human foot as on the day wben Adam and
Eve had been driven forth by him with a flaming sword.
* Where are ye, my loved ones, if not in the heaven I
see ? My heart cried out for them, longing, thirsting —
Aunt iSetty somehow rising first to my mind. Why
- she, I cannot tell, since there is another far nearer and
dearer to my soul.

But while I thought of her, behold herself ! Ytis,
there she was, I opening my sorrowful arms to clasp
her ; but, ah me, there is a great gulf fixed, and no pass-
ing across it ! Yet I suw her, dear Aunt Betty — saw
her as plainly as though I need but stretch forth my
hand to draw her to my embrace. It was she, and yet
how changed ! glorified to youth and beauty everlasting,
the same to recognising vision, but perfected and spot-
less as the white raiment she wore. Some happy
thought seemed moving in her as she walked the paths
of content, crowned with a halo of peace. I saw she
was happy ; I saw it in the light of her eyes, and in the
smile hovering about her r outh ; she had conquered,
and sorrow and grief had vanished with the world.

LETTERS FROM HELL.

203

I was deeply moved, to the pouring forth of my soul
even in weeping ; but what boots emotion if the eyes
are a dried up well ! I thought of the love and self-
forgetting kindness she had ever shown to me in the
days of her life. Now only I knew how much she had
, been to me — now only I understood her. For — mar-
vellous, yet true — I not only saw her ; I was permitted
even to read her heart. All she had suffered — hereverv
battling and victory — lay open to my view as a finished
tale. Yes, I underbtood her as 1 had never done be-
fore. Long ago when she was young, my father had
been a true brother to her in a time of bitter sorrow,
offering her the shelter of his love when she found the
world empty and cold. She had never forgotten that
— ^her grateful heart vowing to him the remainder of
her life in the service of sisterly devotion. She had
kept that vow fully, fondly. That was the key to her
life. And her beautiful sacrifice of love enriched not
only my father, but all she could help and cherish,
souls without number, of whom 1 was chief.

My father — Lily .? n)y heart was reverting to both
simultaneously.. And oh, rapture ! — I beheld them even
now emerging from a shady grove. Aunt Betty seemed
to be meeting them.

The sight of Lily was more than I could bear, a film
overspreading my senses. It seemed at first as though
• both had appeared but to vanish ; but no — in perfect
clearness and heavenly calm these beloved ones moved
in my vision. Nothing of outward beauty, nor yet of
the heart's secret history, being hid from mo. Truly I
had never known them, never seen them aright before.

Lily ! beautiful even on earth and of sweetest
womanhood, but surpassingly beautiful in the fulness
of Paradise. Mortal eye has not yet seen such loveli-
ness glorified to transcendent charm. Nay, human
imagination is too poor to reach even to the hem of her
garment. * Holy and sanctified I' seemed to be written

204

LETTERS FROM HELL.

in her every feature, surrounding hor with a halo of
praise. It spoke from her crown of «lory, from
tl;e palm of victory she carried, from her robe of
righteousness whiter than snow. And iis she li(le<l her
shining, eyes, it was as though their gaze enfolded me :
I trembled and glowed, as a Hickering ilaine touched by
a kindling breath. And that angel smile of perfect
bliss accompanying the look seemed meant for me —
even me. Hut that wiis illusion. IVoiie of tliem can ;
see us here — thank God ! I saw her; sju; was near nu)
in spirit vision, but in truth she was far, far away ; and •
the blessed ones in Paradise are saved Ironi the thought
of hell and its every horror. Yet the separating gulf
does not separate me from her inmost thought- Woe
is me 1 shall I w^eep, or dare I rejoice ? 1 can read iu
her pious heart as in an open book ! Ah me, what do
I read ? I see it — see it as in clearest writing that she
loved me with all her soul — truly, if unconsciously, with
the deepest, purest giving of virgin bride. Ay more,
she loves me still \ she is thinking of me, longing for
me with a longing as painless as pure. For it is in hell
only that pain and grief are known.

What more can 1 say ? TJopelnssncss, my daily por-
tion, is as a blazing fire feeding on my soul, sometimes
sinking in ashes, but never dying. At that moment of
sweetest, bitterest conviction, the flame seemed fostered
by denial, the very essence of hell. Bliss and delight
veerir^g round to despair, my whole miserable existence
flared up in an all-consuming agony.

' See what might have been yours, but you have losl
it — lost !' was the ever- recurring ' cry of my tortured
soul. Can you wonder 1 hardly heeded my good pious
father who walked beside her, sharing her felicity ? —
that I cannot remember a single word passing between
them— nay, heard not for very anguish 1 Had I been
quie'fe to listen, no doubt I would have heard mentiou
of my name, might have heard them speak of me in

LETTERS FROM HELL,

205

heavenly tenderness. But, having seen Lily, and read
in her very heart the assurance that she loved me, I
heard and saw no more. ' See what might have been
yours, but you have lost it — lost !' I writhed in des-
pair. Vain was my effort to lift eyes to her once more
— I could not — could not ! And with a cry of horror
I fell back upon myself.

, 4-1 •;

LETTEE XXII.

It of

rud
oiis
? —

eeii

)eeii

iou

\ in

SINCE you heard from me last — and there seems to
have been a longer pause than usual — I have
roamed about in aimless adventure. There are no accu-
rate means of estimating either distance, in hell, or the
speed of our travels ; I expect that both are astounding.
Time and space here can only be spoken of in an
abstract sort of way, as existing in thought merely.
Consequently there are hardly two souls amongst us
that would agree concerning the measure of either. But
that holds true of anything.

Since everything, then, is imaginary, unanimity is
merely accidental, and what is called harmony on earth
is not to be found here. That a number of souls, by
social instinct, and under force of habit, should unite at
a given place for a given object, by no means is proof of
concord. For concord presupposes liberty, whereas such
souls are under downright compulsion, and apart from
the instinct which drives them in a common direction,
nowise at unity among themselves.

My roamings, then, are no free-will undertaking.
Whenever I feel especially miserable and desponding,
there is a sense of relief in dashing about blindly with
no other object but that of moving. Blindly, I say,
meaning heedless of obstacles ; pushing through walls,
mountains, houses, trees — through living creatures even;

U' tiiit---.':'

206

Lj^ ^ters from hell.

if they are Id my way. The latter, >l course, is not
alt> bher pleasant ; fancy rushing through man or
beast in your aimless hurry. But one gets used to
everytli ig here. 'Oh, distracted soul I' your neighbour
ories, and is satisfied you should pass. We are always
suiting ourselves to circumstances, you see. Are you
surprised that I should yield to such madness of motion ?
True, every one here has his or her congenial abode ; so
have I, leading, as you know, a sickenmg life. But I
am helpless once the frenzy seizes me, unhinging my
very existence, and away I hie me, as driven by despair.

Yes, that it is — despair and nothing else, engendering
a need, amounting to passion almost, of tryin<T to
escape from oneself, or at least stupify oneself.

Neither the one nor the other is possible; in the
world one succeeds at times, never in hell. But that
knowledge does not restrain me ; again and again I per-
ceive the utter uselessness of endeavour, pulling up
suddenly, perhaps, to find myself in the strangest of
places.

And more horribly strange, niore dismal than any, is
the place from which I lately returned. As a maddened
fool I felt driven thither ; as a maddened fool I hurried
back, utterly confounded.

I suppose every soul here is forced to perform that
journey once at least ; and in so far it might not unaptly
be called a pilgrimage, but to a frightful shrine. Whether
it is on account of a certain inexplicable mania possess-
ing us all sooner or later, or merely by dint of a (x:<.:Z
attraction exercised by that awful place, I know : .
but no one escapes the fate of going thither once, ii iiol;
ofteuer. You know wLat a ciuvvd is drawn by a public
executior., pnd that people will assist at so dire a spec-
tacle unleofv \. "itively prohibited. It is strange ! But
what shoul^. j^;.* aay 'J any one by morbid attraction
had a longiwg to rddi his own execution ? Something
yery like this takvs place hei e.

f -

LETTERS FROM HELL.

207

»ih»

■■■"I I

lat

You are aware by this tii '^, and laust be so, apart
from my inadequate account, that between this '^vil
place and Paradise a great gulf is iixed. Great, I sajr^
and would add frightful, but that words invented for
earth's needs are altogether unfit to describe that gulf.
It is tV h me of Satan. Do you understand that ? In
the ' \ ^ that abyss the quenchless fire is burning;,
fDi; Gv^r ittiided by the devil and his host. How faraway
in ' t ' I cannot tell ; I think it is in the outmost limit
of heli. How near one may approach it ? Even at a
distance of hundreds of miles one feels seize! with
giddiiiess and all the horrors of death ; but one is drawn
nevertheless. That one should ever escape it again
seems marvellous. How wide the gulf is ? When lit
up by the radiance of Paradise, the eye at a leap seems
to carry you across, but I doubt not it may be likened
to a shoreless ocean.

Light now is fast decreasing, swallowed up by the
darkness rising afresh from the abyss. Do you expect
me to describe fo you that abode of terror ? But I can
no more depict it than I was able to give a true repre-
sentation of Paradise. It is beyond human possibilities,
and I am but human, even in hell. Yet one thing I
may tell you ; believe me that more than one rich man
is to be found by the awful pit, looking across to where
they see the blessed poor in Abraham's bosom, stretch-
ing forth their arms too, and entreating for a drop of
water to cool their tongue. But that first rich man of
*he j?ospel does not appear to be among them ; there is
a rumour that perchance he was saved.

Alas ! I was among those begging rich, supplicating
with all my soul, but no one — no on^ heard me. De-
spair urged me to fXwg myself into the awful gulf, that
perchance I might lose myself amid the howling fiends
of the bottomk "^s pit. What power prevented me, and
eventually brought me back from the place, I know not.
Is it possible that God in His mercy is yet keeping me ?

1 1

\ M ;i

'". ,•»<

tfi

irj^fl^

208

LETTERS FROM HELL,

?U',

I have returned then, dreadinoj I shall be carried
thither a second time. I must tell you more, though it
be a subject of horror both to you and to me ; but then
all these revelations are fraught with horrors, and these
letters had better remain unread by those whose self-
complacent tranquility of niiud dislikes being harassed.

As I returned, shivering in every fibre, and conscious
of the thought only of Satan and his angels, I all but
fell into the arms of one coming towards me on his way
to the gulf.

But was it a human being, this creature with
mangled body and frightfully disfigured coimtenance ?
A man indeed, his very appearance bespeaking his
name — Jurias Iscariot.

A piece of rope was round his neck, and in his hand
he carried thirty pieces of silver. The rope all but
suffocatt^s him, and the money burns his fingers ; he
keeps throwing it away, but it always returns to his
grasp. I have heard that it may be absent awhile,
swelling some usurer's gain ; but Judas before long finds
it in his closed hand again, bearing the marks of blood.
And then he is heard to groan. • What is that to us ?
see thou to that !' — a fruitless repentance, which is not
repentance, eating away at his soul, and he spends him-
self in vain efforts to get behind someone and seize him
by the neck.

What he intends by this is not quite clear ; but
people think he is anxious to find a charitable soul who
will give him back the kiss he once gave t5o his Lord
and Master, and thereby free him from those horrible
pieces of silver. But the soul lives not in hell who
would care to save him at the cost even of a kiss ; he is
aa object of repugnance to everyone. I too burst away
from him horrified.

I came across a scrap of newspaper the other day,
and my eye was caught by an advertisement offering

LETTERS FROM HELL.

209

* bridal bouquets and funeral wreaths in great variety.'
And just beneath it a stationer expressed his willing-
ness to sell hand-painted cards for the menu of wed-
ding breakfasts and ' In Memoriam' of the dead. Such
is life, I said ; side by side grow the flowers for the
adorning of Brides and the crowning of corpses. Better
sometimes the latter than the former ; iDetter to be
clasped in the embrace of death than find love dying
before its time.

Memorial cards ! how touching and — how cheap !
How we love to speak of the virtues of our departed
ones, mourning them ostentatiously, and assuring the
world we shall miss them for ever. For ever ? Look
into your own heart, my friend, and expect not to be

*f, if ^1

remembered too long when you are

gone.

Love's

wreaths will fade on your grave, and the night-winds
alone will keep up their moaning around it.

What is this buzzing about me like troublesome flies
— memories? ,..;> ^''•;'-;"l'"" ■ v!'4'-''-'' '^ ■;■".''

I once had taken a youth into my service. He was
a kind of legacy of Aunt Betty's, and for her sake I in-
tended to be kind to him. But somehow I was always
finding fault with him. There are people who rouse
our evil nature, for no reason one can see. Poor fellow !
perhaps he was not over-bright, though he tried his
best. But patience was not one of my virtues. I
scolded him almost continuously, taking a kind of satis-
faction I believe in thus revenging myself on what I
considered his stupidity. I well remember the many
hard words I flung at him, provoked from bad to worse
by his meek, sorrowful countenance. At last I said I
could not bear his fool's face any longer and gave him
warning. I did help him to another place, where I
fancy he was more kindly used than with me. But it
was a disheartening beginning for one who had to make
his way in service ; and he had deserved better at my
kands. When he had left me I discovered all sorts of

210

LETTERS FROM HELL,

little proofs of his touching fidelity and grateful dis-
position. How badly I had rewarded the poor fellow
for such golden qualities I

It could not be called a great matter, but it left a
«ting.

My town residence had the rare amenity of a little
garden ; it was shut in at the farther end by a blind
wall forming the back of a humble dwelling in the rear.
But the wall was not quite blind ; it had one little
window not far from the ground — to my notion, the one
eye of the house which kept looking into my privacy.
I had no need to think so, for behind that window sat
e poor seamstress who had something more to do than
watch my movements. True, she would now and then
look up from her needle, as if she delighted in my
garden ; and she even dared sometimes to put her head
out of the window to enjoy the fragrance of my flowers.
There could be no harm in that, but I disliked it. And
availing myself of the letter of the law, I ran up a pal-
ing a few feet from the wall.

The right of doing so was mine, but it was very
wrong. The poor creature had delighted in my garden,
the proximity of which had helped her through many
a joyless day. She loved flowers, and the sight of green
things was grateful to her hard-wcrked eyes. There
were a few thrushes in the garden, and she was cheered
by their song. My fence was simply* cruel, depriving
her not only of these enjoyments, but of fresh air as
well, and of the light she sorely needed — I had shut
her out from her share of the sky.

I had acted heedlessly, and I came to see it before
long ; good-nature even was stirred, and I actually re-
solved to make amends. I went around to the back
street, but was too late, the poor girl had been obliged
to leave her little room, over which the struggles of ten
lonely years had thrown a halo of home. n <

LETTERS FROM HELL,

211

len

Neither was this a great matter; but little things
make up the sum of good or evil in life. I feel sore at
heart.

I had gone out riding one day ; it was in the country,
and I intended to look up a farmer in a small village,
but did not know his house from the surrounding home-
steads. The place seemed asleep in the noon-day sun,
not a youth within hail to whom I might have thrown

'^the bridle. Looking about I saw an open cottage door
and the figure of a young girl appearing on the threshold;
I called her and she promised to mind the animal, seem-
ing half shy, half ready to please me.

I went on my business, and, returning, came upon an

-interesting spectacle. The mare had become unman-
ageable ; the young girl could hardly hold her, feeling
evidently distressed by the creature's pranks. Her
efforts to subdue its gambols served as an admirable foil

• to her figure ; her every movement was charming, and
her pretty face reflected so delightfully both fear and

'vexation, that instead of hastening to her assistance, I
stood still behind a shrub watching complacently what
I considered an exquisite scene.

There was no danger involved. The mare was not
vicious — only frolicsome ; but the rustic beauty did not
understand that, and was evidently frightened, holding
fast by the bridle, jumping now right, now left, her lithe
figure following the capering animal. It was merely to
ingratiate herself with the damsel that the mare tossed

. its he.id, plunging again as if to snap at her kerchief,
which now slipped from her shoulders revealing the
whitest of necks. And behold, the masses of golden
hair escaped their confinement, falling in a shower of
ringlet!? as though to veil her charms. Her distress in-
creased visibly, a deep glow mantling her features, her
bosom heaving. ' * '

Now on tip-toe, now curving her outstretched arms,
bending this way, bending that, she delighted me with
her graceful movements.

:1 ' :., ■••!

212

LETTERS FROM HELL.

But there was a sudden end to my enjoyment. She
caught sight of me, and I was obliged to approach. Had
she let go the mare, it would have been no more than I
deserved ; but she held on faithfully till I was near
enough to take hold of the bridle myself. There she
stood burning with shame and anger, her eyes brimming
with tears. Before I mounted L endeavored to slip
half -a- crown into her hand; but she turned from me
proudly, the coin rolling at my feet.

Surely no great matter. I had wronged the girl, by
being unkind to her, while revelling in the sight of her
beauty ; but she came to no harm. On the contrary, I
have a sort of conviction that the little adventure proved
a useful lesson, teaching her to beware of admiring fops.

Neventheless, memories will not be silenced. Justice
is the law of life, be it in the world or in heaven, or in
hell ; and every act of man, though it contain but a
shadow of wrong, calls for atonement, unless God Him-
self in His mercy will blot it out.

I know it now — I know it — who shall free me from
even such guilt ?

Do you see that tree ? Often and often I sink down
beneath it with groans of regret, for on its branches are
gathered the opportunities of a wasted life. They keep
falling down on me, ready to crush me. I am often
driven thither by the lashes of the awful inevitable.
How happy I -might have been, how much I might have
done in the days of golden possibility.
' But I would not 1 As a blind man I walked in life»
careless of light. It is dark now, but I can see — I do
see — the failure of my days. . r v a, ^

LETTER XX III.

1" F memory takes me to the Holy Land now, I seem
to roam through its length and breadth as a broken-
harteed pilgrim, questioning every spot for the Saviour

LETTERS FROM HELL.

213

of men, but unable to find Him, with whom there is
forpiiveness of sin. In the blessed days I spent there
actually, peace was offered me daily, hourly ; but I was
too much engrossed with my own vain thoughts to be
anxious for the unspeakable gift. An angel of God
walked beside me, whose influence over me was mar-
vellous. Lily's faith and piety were as sunbeams to my
heart ; I felt the vivifying touches, and more than once
was near yielding up my sinful being, my life and all,
for so precious a Saviour — her Saviour — who was ready
to be mine ; but at the decisive moment self-love,
writhing in agony, shot up within me as a flame of hell,
blinding the eyes. I saw not Him, but only a fair girl
by my side — the aim of my earthly hopes, and all but
mine already, who, alas, should soon cost me the hardest
of all conflicts, even a wrestling with death.

Galilee, thou land of beauty ! How fine is the
contrast between Judaea, dark, wild, and waste, and
thine own fair, genial tracts. And of all places none
more sublime than Mount Tabor. In glorious solitude
it rises from the broad expanse, lifting a precipitous
front north, south, east and west. Clothed to the top
with woods and shrubberies, its evergreen oaks and
pines seem to vie in beauty. And the place is rich in
aromatic plants. Never anywhere have I met such
freshness — such exuberance of nature. From the south
only the mount is accessible, a path winding to the very
summit, revealing fresh charms of landscape at every
turn, and rising from the sunburnt plain, you enter
regions of air more pure and balmy than you ever
dreamt of. The way is longer than you expected, but
repays you amply ; and as you reach the summit behold
a tableland of some three miles in circumference, an
expanse of richest greensward and splendid groups of
trees. You enter this retreat of beauty by a ruined gate
in the west. Kemains of enclosures and turrets of
grottoes and cisterns meet the eye at every turn —

7:% I

214

LET2ERS FROM HELL.

'm%

m:i

memorials of a mysterious past which tell of an encamp-
ment or even a city that may have stood here. But now
peace has her dwelling there, if anywhere in the world,
with a sense ,of security and calm. No wonder that
Peter exclaimed, * Lord, it is good for us to be here : if
Thou wilt let us make three tabernacles ; one for Thee,
one for Moses, and one for Elias/

We had begun the ascent towards evening, and
though it was but March, the day had been oppres-
sively hot ; it was like a deep draught of refreshment,
therefore, to reach the cool balmy height. We felt as
though admitted into Paradise. Just before sunset we
gained the top ; and finding ourselves unexpectedly
upon that glorious tableland, commanding so boundless
a view, a deep silence fell upon us — the whole of
Galilee, nay, the greater part of the Holy Land, at our
feet!

I looked towards Lily, for it was through her that the
best of impressions at all times reached me. The setting
sun was weaving a halo about her, casting a roseate glow
on her beauty, which more than ever looked as though
it were not of earth. I had olten felt this, but never so
fully before. And the glory of earth and sky about us
seemed as nothing, compared to the uplifting radiance
that spoke to me from Lily's face. She stood wrapt in
worshipping delight.

Bear with me my friend, if I seem lengthy, carrying
thee back again and again to scenes dead and gone. It may
seem foolish in a poor lost one like me, but even that is
not my choice ! I am for ever driven back upon my own
past, and what was happiness then is misery now — ay,
hopeless despair.

Towards the north we looked away oyer the hills of
Galilee to the snowy peaks of Lebanon and the regions
of Damascus. Nestling at our feet were the little towns
of Galilee, Cana, Nazareth, and Nain, with their holy
memories. Westward lay the plain of Esdraelon,

Igh

LE2TERS FROM HELL,

215

steeped in charm, with Carmel beyond, and the sea suf-
fused with the light of the setting sun. Brook Kison,
winding through the valley like a ribbon of sheen,
guides the eye to the headland overhanging the Medi-
teiTanean. Turning to the east your gaze is captured
by the beauty of Lake Gennesereth, with the small town
of Tiberius, now in ruins. Not far off is Capernaum,
and beyond the lake the desert where Christ fed the
multitude. To the south are Mount Hermon and the
hills of Samaria. Farther still, beyond Jericho, the
lonely height where the Son of God fasted and was
tempted by Satan. Your eye wanders away over Jordan
to Bethabara, where John baptized ; over the Ked Sea
to Mount Nebo, in the land of the Moabites, where
Moses died; and in the distant haze you descry the
boundless desert of Arabia.

The sun was sinking — nay, it fell into the sea, glow-
ing like a ball of flame, and sudden darkness overspread
the land. But our people had been busy, a tent was
ready to receive my mother and Lily, for we intended
to spend the night on Tabor. Our mules enjoyed their
' liberty and the succulent grass. A fire had been lit
with odoriferous branches of cedar, and a simple supper
was being prepared. Every hand was busy, excepting
the Turks, our escort, who looked on, lazily contempla-
tive, enjoying their evening hookah. Those sunset
scenes making ready for the night, how soothing they
had always been to my restless soul ! But that evening
on the Mount in Galilee was one of the last restful even-
ings I knew on earth.

"When darkness had set in we lit more fires and
placed the necessary outposts, for nowhere in the Holy
Land is one safe; from an attack of Bedouins. But it
was easy to secure our position here ; the place was a
fortress in itself.

Having retired within the tent, we passed an hour by
the subdued glow of a lamp, Lily presently taking her

't'l,

''*fl(i

jiii

216

LETTERS FROM HELL.

1!^. '

Bible and reading to us the story of the Transfigura-
tion. Her voice to me was ever * as a cool hand laid
on an aching brow,' sufficient in itself to attune my
soul to worship. I listened, anxious to listen. Yet it
was but as a transient breath of even in a sultry atmo-
sphere ; my spirit soon would flag, fluttering helplessly
and unable to rise.

' Do you feel comfortable, Lily ?' said I, on wishing
her good night.

' yes/ she replied, with one of her happy smiles; * I
should like to live and die here.'

I knew from her manner, and her eyes told me, that
she had more to say. I bent my ear and she
whispered :

* Do not forget to say your prayers, Philip, on lying
down to-night 1 Eemember that our Lord prayed here
for you also !'

A breath of life to touch me — my soul raised her
wings. I went out deeply moved.

My couch was prepared just outside the tent. I laid
myself down wrapped in a burnous ; but not to dispose
myself to sleep at once. I must say my prayers. A
prayer from the heart I think I had not known since
the days of my childhood. Of late I had been trying,
but always felt that something was wanting — alas, not
merely something, but th& thing that constitutes prayer
— uplifting the heart toward God. I really endeavoured
to collect my thoughts, but hither and thither they
roamed against my will. It seemed vain for me to fold
my hands, to move my lips — the spirit of prayer was
absent. And yet I could not think of sleeping without
first having prayed ! Stillness seemed to have settled
within the tent ; but I, outside, could not rest me and
be still. I looked up, wakeful, toward the starry sky.
It seemed so near ; but there was no peace in that feel-
ing. It oppressed me — the enclosing firmament was
like a prison. The voices of night began to work on.

LETTERS FROM HELL,

217

my fancy, and restlessness fevered my blood. There
were sounds all about me — wild boars breaking through
the brushwood, and jackals howling in the plain ; the
call of a night-bird in the trees mingled with the
strange gruntings of the sleeping Turks, who in dream-
ful unease added their share to the concert of discord
that filled my ear.

It was midnight. My repeater announced it as clearly
as a church bell I thought. I tossed impatiently, gazing
into the dying embers. There was something quieting
in the sinking glow — it held me still. And presently I
thought I heard Lily's voice, reading how the Saviour
was transfigured on the Mount. Yea, and I saw Him
standing between Moses and Elias in heavenly glory.
Upon that vision I closed my eyes. And behold my
soul had been praying ! The spirit, freed for a moment
from the trammels of the flesh, had risen to Him. I
could sleep now, and slept quietly till dawn.

The glow was deepening on the heights of Ashtaroth,
beyond the sea of Galilee, as I approaehed the northern
slope. I was standing by a choked-up cistern, awaiting
the yet veiled glory, with eyes riveted on the eastern
sky, when a light figure came up behind me. It was
Lily, quietly putting her arm within mine. We spoke
not, but together we gazed toward the far shore of
morning that overflowed with light. How sacred was
its calm !

But now the sun appeared, a well-spring of splend-
our, flashing from height to height, and settling a halo
on Carmel ; for the west lay steeped in Wonder, and the
sea caught every sparkling beam.

* Oh, Philip, surely this is the beauty of holiness,*
whispered Lily ; * let us praise the Lord I' I had no
words, but wrapped my burnous about her, for a cold
wind swept the Mount.

The valleys lay yet hidden in mist and darkness, but
there seemed a fluttering movement in the cloudy

218

LETTERS FROM HELL,

■

•^-^

"^^H

i''

^H^^^B

h •

^^H

K. l^^^^H

coverlet — a sudden rent, and through it appeared a
shining cupola and the white glittering walls of a little
town, like a revelation from another world.

* Nazareth I' cried Lily, in happy surprise. * Philip,
look ! we have it all here ; sweet, gracious Nazareth and
holy Tabor. He humbled Himself, yet was the beloved
Son, in Whom the Father was well pleased,'

She only said He as the thought of Him moved in
her heslrt, filling her soul. I hud no need to ask her
meaning. How wide were her sympathies, how keen
her perception of beauty, but her deepest life owned
Him Lord, and Him alone. .

The sun having fully risen, we walked back to the
tent.

* It is here He was transfigured,' said Lily, presently,
stopping short and looking about her with reverential
awe ; * but not yet had He accomplished what He had
come to do — the will of His Father, to the death, even
on the Cross. Not yet had He drunk the bit^ur cup —
Gethsemane, Gal^batha, Golgotha I But here for a mo-
ment He was uplifted into the glory that awaited Him
at the right hand of God ; and thus strengthened He
went forth to the humiliation and suffering that lay be-
fore. 'Philip,' she added, * is not this a holy example
for all God's children ? We, too, have a path of sorrow
to tread, many a trial to go through ; but we, too, may
have a foretaste of the joy to come, the perfect liberty
promised, and it may help us to reach the end. With-
out this grace divine many a burdened soul might fail
on the road, for life seems hard at times. We have

been strengthened by a vision on this mount; my

heart is veryfuU. My spirit rejoices ;. . . .let me join
in the new «ong to the giury of the Lamb !' : :• -

Was that Lily ? Yet it was not for the first time she
had spoken out of the fulness that moved her. Every
day of late had made her more fit for heaven ; even I
saw it. But I trembled at the inward beauty she un-

j'¥v

LEITRRS FROM HELL,

219

folded, which, seemed one with her ardent desire to go
behind the veil.

* I cannot help telling you dear,' she continued, cling-
ing to me for support. ' I feel as if I could not breathe
again down there in the everyday world. It is a happy
feeling, yet fraught with pain. I do not say I would
give the rest of my life, but I would give much for a
few »iuiet days up here*!'

'Would it really make you happy, Lily ?' said I,
sadly.

* Oh yes, Philip, and well too 1 I seem to breathe
easier, and my heart is free.'

'Well, then, ask mother about it. I am satisfied with
whatever pleases you, sweetest Lily.'

The mountain seemed astir now, and the encampment
full of life. Our people were wide awake, Turks and all ;
some making coffee, others baking cakes of wheat or
maize on heated stones ; others again tending the ani-
mals or polishing their arms. The Turks looked on
complacently. Having accomplished their matutinal
devotions, they lighted their pipes and allowed others
to do the work. But there was life too beyond the camp
— herds of goats browsing far and near. A cool wind
played about the tree-tops, and the flowers looked more
gay in the light of morning.

My mother raised no objection to Lily's desire ; she
had been strangely ready of late to humour her, from a
feeling perhaps that we should not have her much
longer. ; r;

So we remaiiled, and we all liked it. It was, to tell
the truth, a charming mode of spending a few days —
camping gipsy fashion on so lovely a spot, high above
the work-a-day world, with a view over all the land —
the Holy Land — in the purest of atmostpheres, amid
scenes of nature, rich, balmy, and fragrant as Eden it-
self, and in absolute calm. It was a time of blessings
truly. And Lily revived ; there was no troubled beat-

i 'H

' 9

^'i 1

220

LETTERS FROM HELL.

K ' ■

\ I

ing of the heart, no sudden throbbing of the pulse — I
knew, for often would I hold the dear little hand quietly
nestling within mine — no tell-tale Hushes dying away
in pallor. Her face wore a delicate bloom. I almost
believed in the wonder-working power of the sacred
Mount. I was myself again, casting fears to the wind,
and adding my share to the happiness of the moment.

In the course of the forenoon pilgrims of every hue
and nation arrived, with cripples and sufferers in the
rear. Fortunately, our encampment was at some dis-
tance from the actual sanctuary, which saved us from
being overrun. It was a sad and almost sickening sight ;
but Lily did not think so. On the contrary, she was
all sympathy, yearning to help where she could. To
the poor she offered money, to the sick medicine, the
comfort of a helpful word to all. Love trembled in her
eyes, gathering sweetly at her lashes How beautiful
she was, her dress half eastern and altogether charming;
how lovely she looked, gliding about from one miserable
pilgrim to another ; and they all understood her, know-
ing never a word of her language !

Towards evening I received a visit from the chief
who had undertaken to be responsible for our safety
from Nazareth to Samaria. He had been hunting on
the Mount, and was now coming with a splendid retinue
to pay his respects to me, and present me with a wild
boar he had killed. Of course I had to return the com-
pliment, and indeed his attention to me was worthy of
an acknowledgment. True, he robbed me of the preci-
ous evening I had intended to spend alone with my
mother and Lily, instead of which I now was obliged to
play the amiable host, presiding at an extemporized
feast. I did my best — in conversation too, which helped
on by a dragoman, was a pattern of flowery speeches.
One comfort was left — Lily watched us from the dis-
tance, and seemed intensely amused. The Emir on
quitting expressed himself highly sensible of my at-

ling
her

t-- '

LETTERS I'ROM liELL,

221

tempts to do hiui honour ; and with thankworthy po-
liteness he pitched his camp half-way down the Mount,
leaviny the upper domain to ourselves.

But enough ! It is no healthy craving that urges me
to enlarge upon this sort of thing amid the horrors of
hell. You may turn for the rest of it to Chateaubriand
or Lamartine if you like. Fool — fool that I am, even
in the realms of death 1

LETTER XXIV.

ADVENTURES of. all kinds are of daily occurrence
here, but they are void of interest. Like every-
thing else in hell, they mock us with emptiness — mere
shadows of things left behind.

Not long ago, at a lonesome spot, a young woman
flung herself into my arms, not for love of me, but for
horror of another. She was being pursued, and a sensa-
tion of fear, natural to her sex, startled her into a show
of weakness. It was foolish in her ; she might have
known that she could not really be harmed, and that
whatever cause of fear there might be, I had no power
to help her. But such things will happen here ; we live
in the notions brought hither from the world, no matter
how clearly we see them to be meaningless. It was
quite conceivable, then, that the tender creature I held
in my arms should have been sufficiently distressed to
seek the protection of my manhood.

I gave her time to recover herself, and then inquired
into the nature of her alarm. She lifted a pair of eyes
to me, tenderly trustful, like a turtle dove's, but tremb-
ling afresh, as if the very question were too much for
her shy and gentle disposition. However, she found
courage to reply :

'He is always after me. I do not know his name-
he is seeking for Beatrice. He fancies t am she.'

222

LETTERS FROM HELL.

IH^

■m,-

v.. ^

I knew at once whom she meant. That man is one
of the public characters in h^U, if I may say so. It is
an ill-chosen expression, but descriptive terms acquired
in the world are apt to be inadequate here. In hell, all
are public, yet none is so in the sense you would attach
to that word. What I mean to convey is simply this,
that the man she spoke of is known throughout the
regions of hell, pointed at by yoang and old ; and that
wherever he goes he is mocked with his own constant
cry, * Where is Beatrice ? Can any one tell me where
to find her ?' This question is forever in his mouth.
Beatrice seems his one thought, and the getting hold of
her his mania. He is convinced she must be in hell ;
* for,' says he — but let me cast a veil over the poor girl's
history. Enough that he seeks her with such brutish
eagerness as I have not known even in this place. But
he looks for her in vain. Were it possible for liim to
find her, even hell would shudder at the probable deed.
He is one of the most repulsive beings I have met, and
that, sUrely, means a good deal here. He must be vice
personified ; all human feelings burnt out of him ; no-
thing remaining but the one wild inhuman passion that
has possessed him. And then the horrible wounds dis-
figuring his body, his life-blood for ever gushing through
every one of them ! He is a refuse of the vilest in hell.
No wonder that the poor shame-faced creature was
filled with horror at the sight of him.
. * Then you are not Beatrice ?' I said.

* No,' she replied, with the meekest of looks. * I am
Emily.'

Our acquaintance did nut proceed, further on that
occasion ; but I somehow felt sure I should meet her
aoaiii.

Having left her for the present, I v^ould not out occupy
my mind with her. How was it possible, I thought,
that such a creature as this Emily should have come to

hell ? She seemed an

image

of fairest womanhood.

LETTERS hROM HELL,

223

True, beauty alone is no safeguard ; on the contrary,
some of the most favoured in this respect would seem
to be here. But her utter gentleness and simple-
hearted sweetness — her modest bearing — must be
genuine I thought. A veil of purity seemed to be cast
about her, despising dissimulation. There was a grace
not only in her face and figure, but in her every move-
ment, that might well claim to be the garment of .an
innocent soul. And then so young, — a very child to the
world, surely. She might be nineteen, but one would
hardlv credit even that. 1 saw she had been married,
for she wore a ring ; but she looked hardly grown-up.
Now, the true simplicity of innocence is admired by the
the most worldly even — how justly so may be inferred
from the fact that it does not exist here. It is rare on
earth ; but some women seem to preserve the heart of
childhood in spite of the promptings of the flesh and the
devil. Emily, to all appearance, seemed to be one of
these chosen few. As a grown child she looked, whose
feet could never have been soiled with the mire of the
world. How, then, did she come to wake in hell ? In-
voluntarily I though of the awful truth that the heart
is unclean by nature, no matter* what graces may twine
about it, and though its lot be cast in the fairest of
paths.

I met her again before long, and unnoticed by her,
watched her at leisure. She sat apart, deeply engrossed,
and offering a sight both attractive and singular. Her
attire was of cloister-like simplicity, utterly white, the
ample folds enveloping her slender form, — purely white
from top to toe, with<>ut a shadow of colouring, and con-
trasting strangely with the surrounding darkness. One
thing only seemed wanting to crown the indescribable
grcic«t'uuiviS3 ol' her fippeai'uuce wilh the perfection of
beauty — peace — which, of course, she had not. Her deli-
cately 'shaped hands moved busily in her lap. I dis-
covered, after a while, that a precious necklace occupied

224

LETTERS I^JROM HELL.

'•M -

ffs

I ■

her attention, the pearls of which she kept counting,
now beginning at one end, now at the other, but always
stopping at the centre, and dropping it again to wring
her hands. I fancied I saw tears in her eyes ; but that
of course wasnot so.

I moved up to her presently.

' Are you la dame blanche V I said.

It was a stupid question, since there are so many
ladies owning this title.

But she only shook her head, saying: * No I am
Emily Fleming.'

'Fleming and Sparkman?' I ejaculated, surprised,
naming a highly respected firm.

She nodded, heaying*a deep sigh. What could she
mean ? Was she some member of a well-V.nown family ?

But she, meanwhile, had replaced the pearls on her
neck, sitting motionless with folded hands. I hasten to
add that no one ever succeeds here in folding hands
aright — that also is of the past. She appeared lost in
sorrowful thought

* Poor child !' I cried, 'you seem very unhappy.'

* Yes — yes, I am,' she sobbed. * I have sustained a
loss which I can never make good.'

* What is it you have lost, poor Emily V

' A pearl — a pearl,' she murmured, wringing her
white little hands.

' A pearl !* I echoed— ^a slight thing, surely, to be cast
into hell lor. And yet there are goodly pearls ! Was
not there a man who sold all that he had that he might
buy one pearl of great price ?

* Well, perhaps you may find it again,'. I said, anxious
to be kind; but it was foolish.

' Do you think so ?' she said, brightening. * But alas 1
I have sought it for years and years.'

The memory of a promise seemed hovering about me,
that those who seek shall find ; but I could not shape
the words, and only said, vaguely :

LETTERS FROM HELL.

225

* If you have sought so long already you may be all
the nearer thetinding.'

It was the vainest of speeches, but it broke down the
reserve about her heart She seemed to trust me, and
before long she told me the history of her life. It cost
her a real effort to do so — ^I saw that well enough ; but
the longing to unburden oneself is irresistible with us.
And, moreover, the veil of secrecy is always being lifted
here from every soul.

* You seem to be .acquainted with the house of Flem-
ing and Sparkman/ she began ; 'perhaps the present
heads of the firm were known to you. But my history
takes me back — ah, let me see — for seven generations.
How long it seems l*

'As a light-hearted girl of sixteen I became the bride
of Robert Fleming, and he brought me, a happy young
wife, to the old family house. On the day we were
married he gave me a precious necklace, worth a man's
ransom, as the saying is. And before fastening it on my
neck he spoke to me about every pearl in particular,
adding a meaning to their value, which comes back to
me now with terrible force. " The large blue pearl in
the centre — a gem rather," he said — " signifies your
wedded troth ; the deep red one your true love ; and
that white one your innocence. The lesser pearls on
both sides make up the number of wifely virtues — each
pearl for a grace— and they are many you see. And
that which holds them together, making them your own
precious adornment, is chastity and womanly honour."

'With his own hand he fastened the costly gift to my
neck. His words h^d impressed me but slightly ; I was
young and delighted in the splendid ornament. Bat
alas ! the time came when I could but remember them
in tears. . . . Look at my necklace ! The pearls are all
there, but the central gem is missing. And the loss of
that pearl has ruined me.

226

LET7ERS FROM HELL.

y^Sii

* Did I love my husband ? I do not know what to
say honestly. Perhaps I did not love him as I might
have loved another. But I must own that wedded life
at first seemed happy ; he loved me, and two sweet little
babies crowned our union.

* All went well till a friend of my husband's entered
our house — a man as false as fair. I cannot tell how it
was, but he cast a spell over me. Was it that I loved
him ? The affection I felt for my husband was quite
different, and I am sure it was true ; but he somehow
had never waked in me the intoxicating rapture which
that other one called forth. I felt it welling up in
flames of fire whenever he came near me. Was it mad-
ness ? was it witchery ? I think it was a power of evil
seizing upon the heated blood rather than on the mind
or heart. It worked as a 'i^ibvle poison ; but though a
poison it was very sweet. In vain I struggled against
it. . Yet I can hardly say that I struggled, for although
I knew those feelings to be evil, I loved to dally with
them, and the will to conquer was in abeyance.

* Being alone with him one day, he, carried away by
passion, caught me in his arms. I offered no real re-
sistance. I felt overtaken, and a sensation as of swoon-
ing seemed uppermost. Yet I must have made some
involuntary movement of escaping from his hold ; for
the string of my necklace giving away suddenly, the
pearls rolled hither and thither about the apartment.
That brought me back to myself. He too seemed sud-
denly dispassioned. It was as though an invisible hand
were attempting to part us. We started asunder.

'Yes, we had been sobered all at once, reality staring
us in the face. I drew myself up,, requesting his im-
mediate departure, and he obeyed. I was anxious to
look for my pearls, and happily I found them all, one
only remaining lost, the blue one of wedded troth.
Alas ! how earnestly I sought for it, morning, noon, and
night, but it had disappeared as by magic. I succeeded

? ;

LETTERS FROM HELL,

227

in keeping the fact from my husband for some time,
and I permitted no foot save mine to enter the fdtal
room. I 8ou«>ht and sought, but the precious pearl was
lost. And at last there was a day when my husband
saw that it was gone. It was a terrible moment ! He
said little, but from that hour a gloom rested on his
brow, which spoke more loudly than words could have
done. I understood it — "Thy troth is broken, thy
purity lost ; thou art no more for me 1"

* The false friend also seemed stirred in conscience,
he kept away. How it was with him I know not, but
in me the fire had been kindled which burned with a
hidden flame. My heart had conceived sin, and the
wicked imasje would not be banished. I strove against
it feebly ; it was stronger than I. My inward gaze fol-
lowed him spellbound ; and with him was ray every
thou2;hi. Even in dreams I was his. That moment
when he had been so near to actual deed of sin,- had
left its taint, Sin had gained an ascendancy over me,
and I yielded helplessly in the secret chamber of my
heart. And yet that heart had been pure before it
knew him, and evil thoughts had never assailed it.
Alas, how little is needed to murder innocence? The
white robe of my soul was soiled. One only could have
restored it to cleanness, — He who would not condemn
the woman that was a sinner. But for Him I looked
not, grovelling as I lay at the feet of an idol.

' 1 fell ill, and even in illness my folly was upon me,
burning within. The wild fancies of fever must have
laid bare my inmost soul to my husband. My last
thoughts on earth clanoj to that suifal moment that
robbed uie of my pearl. I was the prey of death — life
vanished, and, lifting my eyes again, I found conscious-
ness retiuning in the torment of hell. I have come to
own the justice '

There was a pause of silence, and then Emily con-
tinued:

.i;t;i

228

LETTERS FROM HELL,

fe. ?,

' Do you know what it is to go back as a restless
spirit to the upper ^world ? No ? Then you are a
stranger happily to a cruel law ruling some of us here.
/ could not rest in hell ; go back I must to seek my
pearl. I have been seeking — seeking — these centuries
past, but it is hopelessly lost

' I cannot tell you what I felt on first returning, a dis-
embodied soul, to my former home. I trembled as one
on forbidden ground.

* Not a corner of the big old house I left unhaunted ;
in passages and rooms, from cellar to garret, I have
been looking for my pearl, spreading terror everywhere.
But the horror seems to recoil upon me, filling me with
fear and trembling. Every inmate of that house, at
one time or another, has seen the white lady looking
for something with a lamp. I am more dreaded
thswi the nearness of death itself. One old servant
only of the present household seems able to bear the
sight of me. He has seen me so often that I believe
he has got used to me ; he folds his hands in silent
prayer, and heeds me not. , It happens sometimes
that we meet and meet again in the long dusky pas-
sages, he following his business, I bent on mine, with
this difference between us, that he walks in con-
fidence and I in despair. Btit it comforts my poor
trembling heart to come upon his well known figure
in the lonely halls. I have known him from his
youth upward, watched him doing his duty in up-
rightness of soul. His hair is white now and his
figure stooping ; but the nearer death he seems, the
more courageous he looks, and the greater his fear-
lessness in meeting me. He alone appears to feel no
horror at my approach, nor need he. I have as little
power to harm him as he has to stop mo. I can
only look for my pearl!

' I hasten to the well-known chamber. This is the
spot where for one fatal moment I yielded my soul

LETTERS FROM HELL.

229^

to sin and was lost in consequence. Here it was
that my jewel vanished. Here, then, I seek most
anxiously with iudescribabl« longing. But the pearl
need not be here ; someone may have found it and
taken it away. That is why I search the house,
every chamber and every closet, peeping into my
lady's jewel case, and ^nto the work-box of the
humblest servant-maid, ii is chiefly among the women
of ths household that I look for the gem I lost.

* I flit through corridors. One of them since time
immemorial has been used as a picture gallery. Here
I find the life-like image of the husband I so cruelly
wronged. I dare not lift my eyes to it, yet I seem
rooted to the ground there for hours. I keep thinking,
might there "not be an expression in his face, — the
shadow even oi" an expression, — promising forgiveness
and restoration ? But I dare not look for it ; I creep
away, guilt trailing beliind me.

* Guilt and shame, for my own picture hangs by the
side of his, filling the measure of silent reproach. I
fancy that picture to be my real self in youth and inno-
cence — myself being but-a miserable eounterfeit.

* The pictures of my children too, my. lovely babes !
My heart yearns for them who once found their heaven
at my breast. But, alas, they are strangers to me now ;
they look down upon me with eyes that know me not.
Them also I betrayed, robbing them of a mother's love,
and they need me not I I drop my eyes in bitter shame,
and hurry away.

* Some seven generations I have seen come and go,
the bonds of blood uniting us ; but not only have they
learned to look upon me as an intruding stranger, but
to shun me as a very vision of hell.

' The venerable house has fallen into evil repute as be-
ing haunted. The family have often thought of leaving it
or pulling it down, but somehow their fortunes seemed

230

LEII^RS FROM HELL.

y..

bound up with that ancient pile, and quitting becomes
Impossible. Tliey accept the trouble of my presence,
and I flit about, a lifeless shade among the living.

* The absence of mystery too enables them to put up
with me. I am known to be their ancestress, and my
sad history in all its details is a matter of gossip ; the
very echoes of the house seem to whisper about the
young wife who was so lovely but faithless.

' The fatal necklace is an heirloom in the family. But
the central peari is missing. A diamond cross has been
added in its stead — the symbol of faith, il I remember
aright.

* It is my necklace still. And whenever the owner
for the time being is about to pass, away, I appear by,
her dying bed with the solemn question, " Where is the
pearl ?"

' For several generations there was nothing but horror
by way of answer, and, dismayed at the terrible confu-
sion I created, I would hurry away in despair. But an
expedient has been found. The dying women now in-
variably place their hand on their Bible, replying boldly,
" The pearl is found ! We have this as a pledge !"

It ij not my lost pearl, you understand, but there is
no gain-saying their reply. Ah me, had / found that
pearl of great price which gives such assurance to dying
souls, I too might have had healing comfort from my
loss. But the sin remains, my pearl is gone, and I am
left to wail in torment 1'

She was silent, writhing in agony. But even now,
though filled w ith despair, her face preserved an ex-
pression 01 child like loveliness and most engaging inno-
cence. How bewitchingly beautiful she was i And i
thought to myself, were it -not that she stands con-
demned out of her own mouth, and had anotl)er told me
her story, it would seem impossible to believe it, to
credit so fair a creature with such a measure of indwell-
ing wrong.

4^« t

LETTERS FROy HELL,

231

Behold the growth of passion! It is but a passing
thought perchance, moving the heart. Whence is it —
who can tell ? Whence is the sudden cloud darkening
the fair heaven ? and whence tlie electric spark ? Your
mind conceives ; and your heart, unless you guard it,
will nurse the awful birth. The fiery influence shoots
through your being. Your nerves tremble, your blood
is aflame. And though quiet may be restored, there is
that within you which at any moment may course
through your veins afresh. For remember, if you had
an ocean of the red stream of life, one drop of poison
might vitiate it. Alas, it is more than a drop ; the
tempting thought has grown to a power of evil, possess-
ing you — a nature within your nature — wild, lawless,
and leading you capt'.ve. Sin has taken root in your
soul, innocent though it found you. How far it may
take you God alone can tell.

Watch over your thoughts, then, lest they ruin your
soul ! Watch, I say and stifle sin in its birth. It may
be a small thing at first but ho\v awful is the growth,
suffusing body and soul with poison, doubly dangerous
for its seeming sweetness ! Has it seized your heart —
ah. fly to the Physician.

Where is He ?

Alas, my friend, I know not.

LETTER XXV.

SN'ATCHES of song keep running in my head ; it is
not I who seize upon melody, but the melody
takes hold of me. You little think what power of tor-
ment there nay be bound up in music, and the.sweeter
its echoes, the more cruelly they fall upon the soul. I do
not refer to memories that may be connected with
sound ; they may be very bitter, but we are used to
that and can hardly expect it to be otherwise ; it is not

232

LETTERS FROM HELL.

Vj^

B '."!'

t If

this I mean. But there is that in music which is
utterly discordant with this place of woe, producing a
terrible jar in the soul. Harmony and hell, — the bare
thought is enough to distract you. What is music but a
longing for the infinite, filling you with a foretaste of
joy and beauty unspeakable ? But for us the truth ol
such longing has vanished, since we are for ever severed
from that promised world toward t'ae shores of which
the waves of highest melody will ever tend. Now only
I understand the full power of music ; but the know-
ledge is clothed with terrible pain, giving you a glimpse
of Paradise, and leaving you in hell ! ! ! !

What was the name of that place among the hills of
Samaria where we rested one noonday hour in the
shadow of palm trees ? Was it not Shechem or Sychar?
The people there will tell you that a certain broken cis-
tern, which still yields water, is the identical well where
Jacob wept for joy on seeing Rachel with her father's
sheep. Never have I known greener fields or more luxu-
riant vegetation than at this blessed spot, stern heights
rising about you. The whole valley seemed a garden,
rich in figs and mulberries, in pomegranates, vines and
sycamores. The date-palm, the cactUs, the aloe, grow in
profusion : olive groves at the foot of the hills, pines and
evergreen oaks climbing beyond.

But there was no rest tor us by Jacob's well. The heat
was intense, even in the deepest shade, and the plague
of insects was intolerable. We were glad, therefore, lo
shorten our siesta and seek the cooler upland air. On
the road Lily told me a story.

Let me repeat it. Two things, however, may surprise
you with regard to this narrative, which treats of faith
— a we§,k wavering faith it is true, but seeking for
strength.

You may wonder in the first place that Lily should
have told it, whose pure, steadfast, childlike faith never
knew the sorrows of tempting doubt. 01 course she

LETTERS FROM HELL,

233

may have read the story, but how she should give it
with such vividness I cannot tell.

You may be surprised, secondly, that / should repeat
it who am for ever lost to the blessedness of believing.
For had I but the poorest remnant left, this very fact, I
doubt not, would bring me within the reach of salva-
tion. It is memory only which has a hold of this little
story ; and though it may stir my feelings, the spirit is
dead — dead. Pity me, my friend ; but you cannot under-
stand the fearful mockery of speaking of things per-
taining to faith — the very life of the soul — and having
no part in them 1 They seem to rise before me, beckon-
ing me to lay hold on them. I stretch forth my hand,
and lo, there is a hopeless blank.

It is just like trying to call back a face you have
known ; you st3 now the eyes, now the mouth, now this
expression, now that; but the living whole will not
return to you.

Yea, and it is a face for which I thirst and hunger —
even the face of Him who died on the Cross. T can
speak now of this feature, now of that — of His wondrous
love, His humility, His grace ; but I cannot see Him —
the Man of sorrows — who alone could yearn over a soul
in hell.

But enough ! Whatever trouble weighed upon the
spirit of him of whom Lily's story told, it must have
been light and peace compared with the tearful darkness
enveloping me.

This is what I remember :

' When the Apostle Peter took his last leave of the
Christian people of Antioch, having set his face towards
Eome to follow his Lord in death, a great number of the
faithful, young and old, accompanied the beloved Father
beyond the city. But they had to separate, weeping as
he blessed them ; and returning to their liomes, they
yielded their hearts to the will of God. The apostle went
his way.

234

LETTERS FROM HELL,

'IF'

!,''

• But there was one, old in years, who, having shared
in the parting benedition, yet followed in the distance.
And Peter, perceiving him, beckoned him to approach.

• •* Thou art troubled, my son,!' said the aged apostle,
with winning love ; " what is it that oppresses thy
heart ?"

• " Father," replied the stranger timorously, " is il not
faith which justifies man in the sight of God, and makes
him an heir of the kingdom ?"

' " Yea, surely. Canst thou not believe?''
' " I do believe, beloved Father, but I cannot tell
whether it is saving faith. It seems so weak and waver-
ing, and yet by faith alone I may reach to heaven.
That is my grief ! I seem "to be able to believe, fully and
ardently at times, but not for long; and again I am left
troubled and doubtin3^ Faith seems to be shattered
to pieces then, robbing me of all assurance, and were
it not for the blessed name of the Saviour, I had noth-
ing left to cling to. I have known moments when I
seemed to rise as on wings of trust, when the fulness of
heaven seemed given me. At such times I tasted all
the blessedness of believing that he who seeks shall
find ; that he who knocks shall be received of Gorl ; of
believing lully that I, led and taught by the Holy
Spirit, would never again wander away from my Father
in heaven ; that I was bought with a price, even the
precious blood of Christ ; and that His love would hold
me safe to all eternity. I have known such faith as
this, and believe me, Father Peter, it was free from self-
sufficient thoughts. And yet it cannot be saving faith ;
for at the very moment, sometimes, when my heart
seemed nearest to the blessed communion of my Saviour,
sin was at hand, and T fell grievously, losing the sense
of divine accept auce, aiid iiudiug my sell in the dust,
bleeding and helpless, and more miserable than he
whom the thieves left lying on the road to Jericho ; but
the Good Samaritan was far, far away !

LETTERS FROM HELL,

23&

• " Alas, Father, my sufferings at such times are great.
The sneers of the unbelieving at the power of faith I
could have borne ; but that the experience of my own
heart should confirm suc^ doubt distresses me greatly.

' " Yet so far I have always risen to my feet again, to
renew the conflict, shutting my doors on unbelief, and
willing to be led as a little child by Him who came to
save. But woe is me, I am not saved — I think I am
standing, and lo, I fall.

* *' I am truly grieved* at this my state, but repentance
never yet gained me that power of the Spirit that might
fit me for more real fellowship with Christ. Alas,
Father Peter, ray sorest weeping avails me not. When
thou hadst fallen, thou didst weep I know ; but
thou couldst rise from tears more firmly planted than
before, never again to deny the blessed Lord. But not
so I — I fall, I weep ; I rise, I fall, denying the Master
continually.

* " You see, holy Father, what manner of faith this
is 1 There is but one thir^ ■ [ am sure of, even the
name of th3 Saviour, wis ,i alone has never left me;
aught else is waverin : and, I doubt me, no certain
foundation. Htxd I uoi been troubled already, I must
have been filled witi, fear and trembling on heariu.,' the
word lately — Show thy faith by thy works 1 For alas,
my works, if not altogether evil, are full of imperfec-
tion, testifying' against my faith. How, then, shall it
save me, if this is all my hope of acneptince ?

* " I look back on life, and lo, I see a continued
struggle — now in sorrow, now in despair. I will not
say I have lost hope entir«:'ly ; nay, I know that in spite
of defeat I must go on battling, remembering that sal-
vnti'^n i's not of mnn's striving, but of God's gi vine:. But
I am old now, fast approaching the time when no man
can work. Dare I hope for victory ? will it be given to
such weakness of faith ? I am full of fear, clinging to
the one hope only that the Good Samaritan, whose

ii-:

236

LETTERS FROM HELL,

name I have believed in, for all my backslidings, will
come to me at the last to lift me in His arms of pity
and carry me home.

' " But will He do it ? He has bound up my wounds
again and again ; will He accept me in tne end ? I dare
not plead my faith, — weak and wavering as it is, I am
altogether unworthy of His saving mercy. I hav3 not
loved Him as I ought ; even less than father or mother,
or son or daughter, coming continually between me' and
Him. Ah, what shall I do to find His peace ? what
shall I do to be sure of being saved ?

' The apostle had listened in silence. His counten-
ance shone with a heavenly light, his eyes seeking
for things afar. What was it that moved in his soul,
radiating from his brov/ — what blessed memory of a
day gone by ? The Spirit had carried him back to the
sea of Tiberias, and he hears the voice of the risen
Saviour, " Simon, son of Jonas, lovest thou me ?" And
now, as then, his heart makes answer, " Yea, Lord, Thou
knowest that I love Thee." And his Lord repeats, " Feed
my sheep."

' My sheep ! He looked upon the aged man. Here
was one of the Good Shepherd's wandering sheep. And
greatly moved, the apostle said ;

' " My brother, if faith, being poor, cannot help thee,
try love. Mark my words ; let it be thy one desire
henceforth to show to the Lord that thou lovest Him.
iet nothing be too great, and nothing too little, to do
for His sake. Let love to Him be thy staff and thy
strength, and thou shalt find peace for thy aoul. Thy
very endeavour to prove thy love to Him will make
thee rich in the assurance of His love. It will fill thy
soul, it will save thee utterly. Love for thee also will
be the law's fulfilment.

' " Behold," he added, " how wondrous is His love !
steeping thee in blessing even while thou art sacrificing
all. Whatever thou doest for Him comes back to thee.

LETTERS FROM HELL,

237

He never takes ; he only gives, fulfilling his own word
that it is more blessed to give than to receive. Yet it
is thy love He looks for."

* " But what of faith, my Father," asked the stranger
doubtingly, " by which alone we are said to live ?"

* A happy smile lit up the apostle's couuteiiance, and
he replied :

* " It will be well, my sou, with faith even. Thinkest
thou it could be absent where love lives and moves ?
Go thy way, and hold fast that which thou hast ; and
grace and peace be with thee evermore." '

Have I not spoken some time ago of a peculiar pain,
a separate sorrow ? Ah, my frieijd, I have not told thee
all.

We are ever on the verge of despair; a touch, a
thought only, and we are in the midst of it ; it is inces-
santly welling up from the depth of our own heart,
ready to engulf us.- The mind at times resists with a
frenzied power, but only to sink back in defeat. And
the worst of it is that I am struggling as it were on both
sides, offering' agonized resistance, while turning tooth
and nail against i.iyself in maddest hatred.

How long these fits may last I cannot tell ; it is not
with us as with yon, that exhausted.uature herself yields
the remedy. There is no nature here, but only existence.

But the paroxysm ceases. There seems to be a climax
of fury ; but when \ have beaten myself out, so to speak,
there is a lull.

But sometimes — ahl this is the deepest experience,
would I could say the most precious ! but that is more
than hell admits of, — sometimes, as the waves of mad-
ness sink away, there rises a vision to my soul, wond-
rous and holy, even the image of the Crucified One. And
there is a sudden calm, despair seems drowned, and all is
still. Not that suffering ceases, but an all-enfolding
seusse of loss has swallowed up the rest. I stand ac-

iiplii

Iglilli:

nil)

<!!&

238

LET7ERS FROM HELL,

cused — I hear a voice crying : ' It is thou, thou who-
broughtest Him to the cursed tree I'

Did I say vision ? Nay, the word is too much. I
was a prey to longing, but I dare not dtelude myself;
such seeing is not for me. The hungry spirit imagined
for a mOment-^I see the Cross — the thorn-crowned
figure— I look — and it is gone ! Yet I seem to feel it
present, if only I could pierce the hiding darkness. I
gaze and gaze, but tenfold night enwraps the longing
soul.

Him who died I see not, but the Cross keeps dawn-
ing Jbrth and receding. Beyond it I get not. I once
knew the story, but it is gone, gone ; and the more I
try to remember the, greater seems the blank. Tell me,
ought I to desfiair, ought I to rejoice ? I see a Cross
truly, though an empty one 1 Did He not die on the
Cross ? Why should it keep rising before me ? Is it
for punishment ? Is it for hope ? "Was not there some-
thing about the taking up the Cross and following ?

Happy, thrice happy, men and women, having a
cross to bear ! Murmur not, but bear it willingly, lest
the time come when ye long for it and find it an empty
vision, the very burden gone. . ■

LETTEE XXVI.

t**''''

WE were sitting together on a high cliff overlook-
ing a northe:^n sea. A fev; solitary trees
stretched forth their branches above us, a landmark for
vessels sailing by. Far below us the murmering waves
broke in mclorh"ors cndence, Icavinc; their myptcrious
message with the lonely shore.

Evening was stealing across the sky with those linger-
ing touches known only in the distant north, night
hesitating, though the sun be about to set. Sleeping
nature there is curtained in a balmy twilight, steeped in

LE TIERS FROM HELL.

239

pty

|ger-
^ght
)ing
Id in

the tints of vanished sunbeams, and hiding with tender
shadows both land and sea. In the north only summer-
time reaches its fullest meaning, each sinking day lead-
ing forth the radiant morn; darkness is not, but a
dreamful dusk in its stead. Nothing more beautiful
than those evening hours with their slowly setting calm ;
how enchantin,^ the stillness, how full of poetry the
hushed expanse, the slumbrous sea at your feet, and the
distant shore blushing with the kisses of departing day.

But I was heedless of it all, for she sat by me. Her
deft little hands were busy with some needlework. I
was to read to her, but the book had dropped from my
hold, arV' T vvas fast losing myself in dreams. How
sweet SI s in her springtime of youth, just entering
upon ht. sxxteenth year. There was something unut-
terably attractive in that first unfolding of womaniiood,
so tenderly appealing, so holy withal.

She was very white, but it was the transparent white-
ness of the lily suffused with a faint reflection of the
sunset skv. The red life-stream of vouth, fra<?rant raid
pure, throbl>ed beneath her delicate skin ; it took but
little to call up bewitching bluslres to her lovely face.
A wealth of hair crowned her ; it fell in silky masses
about her shoulders, and her long lashes appeared to
withhold a depth o£ beauty from your longing gaze.
There v/as something infinitely childlike about her
mouth and the sweet oval of her face ! but it blended
with an impiess of womanhood, a mystery to be wor-
shipped.

A peculiar stillness veiled her being — a calm of life,
if so I may call it ; the gentle breathing moved her
bosom, and her hands flitted lightly about her work.
She wus busy vvilli her own Lliouglity, wliicli seciucd to
glide across her features like sunbeams, leaving a smile
behind.

But as T sat wrapped in the sight of her, the good
angel watching me turned and wept. The evil spirit

Itl^ii

^40

LETTERS J^ROM HELL.

was fast gaming the upper hand. But ever) at such
moments that ii'e soul of hers had power to subdue.

Unconscious of aiight else, no movement in her
escaped me. I soon perceived glow chasing glow on jier
cheek, and mantling her brow ; her hands trembled.
Signs of warning these, if I could have called back the
better self.

At last her eye met mine with a look of gentle re-
proof, steeped in dignity. The spell was broken ; a feel-
ing of contrition swept my senses. The good angel was
ready to lift me above the mire of earth-born passion.

' Why do you keep looking at me so persistently ?"
she said.

'Why, Lily 't— what could I say ? — 'Do you dislike it?
' 1 am sorry to seem unkind, Philip,' she said, ' but I
do dislike it. If you stare at me like that I feel strangely
troubled — like a bird held fast by cruel hands. I do not
know why ; but you might as well luok elsewhere-*-
could you not, dear ?'

' Certainly," I said, smiling at the simple question.
* But do you think I could harm you ? Are you afraid
of me V

' Afraid of you ?' she cried, roused to sprightliness ;
'that is strange. I might as well ask whether you are
afraid of me — are you ?' And sjie put her little hand
in mine. ' Are you angry ?' she went on gently, after a
while.

Yes, 1 was, but not with her. I hated myself, but
answ ered quietly enough :

' When was J ivngry with you last, Lily ? — let me see !'
' I don't remember it in the least,' she said, brighten-
ing more and more. ' But come, we had better think of
home now.'

And she took my arm, looking at me with her trust-
ful eyes, as if to say that fear of me was altogether
impossible. But she did not even think it : / only laid
hold of the thought, and felt happy again.

LETTERS I^ROM HELL.

241

We went along the cliff. It was a rich balmy
evening in June. On the strand below, the fishing boats
offered a busy scene ; a few yachts in the distance
glided before the breeze. And on the horizon an island
coast lay shrouded in a mystery of transfiguring lijj;ht.
It was one of those rare evenings when earth's beauty
seems touched with a reflection of heaven's perfect blisf:?.

* Afraid of you !' Lily repeated, reverting gaily to the
thread we had dropped. 'That was the strangest idea
you ever had ! On the contrary, I feel wonderfully
secure and taken care of, and the thought of your man-
liness fills rne with pride. I fancy sometimes that
strength is given to you for me as well, — that you would
never allow any one to hurt me, and I say to myself,
Who ouuld resist him ? It must be a grand tiling to be
a man and do noble things in life; but I think it is
better still to b^ a woman and be cared for by a man
who is noble and strong. And you know things much
better than I do. They say there is much evil in the
world; it is sad, but I suppose it is true. Now a man
with your knowledge sees things, and sees through
them ; he must be comparatively safe from evil, aud be
able to hold others safe. That is why I feel so happy
by your side, as though I could follow blindly wherever
you lead me. I care not to be strong and clever myself,
since I have all I need in you. You are noble, I am
sure, and ready, not only to defend those you 'love, but
eve-n to give up anything for their sake. I like to fancy
myself in trouble and danger ; ic is quite a pleasant
sensation, so long as I have you near me. I am sure
you would even risk your life for me, would you not ?
You smile ; but don't you think me silly ? I am quite
sure you are good and noble and strong.'

Of course I smiled. My soul seemed lit up as with a
thousand stars, dispelling everything that need shun the
light. What a wondrous power that child had over me,
lifting me above myself into her own atmosphere of

'm'

242

LETTERS FROM HELL,

1'.

■» V

purity ! I may well call it an influence divine. I seemed
to rise from the dust and to be what she believed me, —
one stronger than she, good and wise, well fitted to be
the guardian of her trustful life. happy moment —
never to return 1

The evening was fading ; we were not far from our
dwelling. We had reached a place where we often
rested, on the top of a towering cliff rising several hun-
dred feet above the sea. At high-water the waves would
beat about the foot of it, foaming and curling, and fall-
ing back exhausted. But the tide was low now, and the
silvery ripples in the distance hardly touched the ear.
On the top of the cliff a flagstaff had been erected,
something in the shape of a cross ; beneath it there was
a low wooden bench. We sat down, Lily and I, as we
had often done before. The top of the cliff was still
within reach of the parting light ; all about us — land,
sea, and sky — seemed veiled in calm! We sat silent; a
sacred stillness, the peace of nature at rest, enfolded our
hearts.

' Look !' cried Lily suddenly, pointing upward.

A flight of sea birds winging their way across the
deep— high above us, but it was so still we heard them
plainly. We followed them with our eyes till they van-
ished in the dusk.

* They are gone,' said Lily, with a deep-drawn sigh,
'Were they not like blessed souls journeying to the
better land, where sorrow is not, nor death, nor pain,
and tears are wiped awfiy ? How they must rejoice.
What longing — what triumph !'

• Strange to say, a similar idea had come to me. My
soul was open to uplifting thoughts.

The silence was broken. And presently we talked
about the music of the sea — the monotonous rhythm of
which seems ever new. I compared the rising and sink-
ing of the waters to a pendulum, measuring the ages of
eternity.

LETTERS JiROM HELL.

243

And we spoke of the wondrous longing in the human
heart, ever reaching to that which is afar, abo\e, bd-
yond ; making it restless even in the lap of content.

Aftain we were silent, and then Lily said :

* How beautiful that the sign of the Cross should
overlook the sea from this high cliff! How the sight of
it must flash comfort across the deep, cheering the sailor
-in time of trouble, perhaps, when he is battling against
wind and wave. The white cliff will be seen afar, and
the Cross must seem to stretcii forth arms of blessing,
sending the message far and wide : " Fear not, for I
redeemed thee — thou art mine !" '

' But, Lily, not everybody shares your feeling ; this
Cross, as you call it, to most sailors will be a mcfe flag-
staff.'

* Perhaps so,' she said ; but Christian people are alike
in deepest feeling nevertheless.'

She paused, and then continued, closing her hands on
my arm unconsciously :

' For my own part, I have often felt the power of the
Cross, young as I am. I love to think of it as a symbol.
Sometimes, when I am troubled, I need but call the
thought of it to mind, and quiet is restored. It seems
marvellous, but it is naturcd after all ; for do we not
know that love for us brought Him to the Cross?'

* Can your heart even be troubled, Lily ?'

' Yes, often. It is true I have everything to make me
happy, but unrest often fills my soul. I suppose it must
be so while we are in this life.'

She was right : the heart of man will be battling for
deepest rest to the last.

' But I have ^/h it is better than the Cross to help
me,' Lily continued, rising and leaning against it — 'His
own dear name. Whatever trouble may come to me, I
need but whisper that .name, and peace straightway
flows down upon me. His own peace, so full of healing :
surely iL is blessed to eg,!! on Him in all things ! Have

ilfl;;!

244

LEllERS FROM HELL,

you tried it, Philip ? Oh, do ; it is so easy to turn to
Him With all our griefs and failings. It needs but a
word, a clinging to His name, and the blessing is given.
I know it. I have found it so.'

No, I could not say I had tried; at least never since
I was wont to pray by Aunt Betty's knee. But ....
what was that moving within, stirring my deepest soul?
. . . .Yes. . . .1 would listen, I would follow and try.

The Good Shepherd «^tanding at the door — it was not
His fault that salvation was offered in vain. I heard
Him knocking even then, and His fear fell upon me.
* Is it Thou, Lord ?' I cried, tremblingly, ' alas, I am not
ready \ I will let Thee in when the place is prepared !*
And feebly I set about sweeping and garnishing it,
keeping Him waiting till it was too late.

LETTEE XXVII.

\h^.

MY letters are becoming few and far between. I
dread the effort more and more, though I feel
urged to write. I yield, but only to be seized with an
indescribable reluctance, and I drop the pen in the
midst of a sentence perhaps.

This reminds me of Aunt Betty's letters luckily.
TJiat will help me to catch a thread, for I assure you
tne very sight of ink is sickening to me. But the
mkcmory of Aunt Betty is like a refreshing breeze.

Now Aunt Bett3;'s letters were a very image of her-
self — bubbling over, candid, and sometimes queer, with-
out the faintest pretence at elaboration. She had no

me for thought or composition she snid and she wrote
,1. . but so-called confidential letters. But the fact
was that her missives sometimes would produce the
strangest confusion.

I remember her coming flying into my mother's room
one day with a letter in her hand.

LETTERS FROM HELL.

245

• She must be stark staring mad !* she cried excitedly.
' What am I to do with Jemima's paupers ? Was there
ever such a misunderstanding ?'

W tried to calm her, and begged for an explanation.
I was a half grown lad at the time. Auntie plunged
into the subject.

' There was a poor sick woman with a handful of
children whom I assisted in supporting, while the hus-
band served his term for housebreaking. Now, Jemima
wrote to me the other day that the convict had returned
— that the wife had died, leaving him as helpless as
any of his babes. Would I suggest- what could be
done ? ■

* I did the nearest thing at hand, despatching some
money and begging her to send particulars as to a;_;e,
sex, and the rest of it ; I would try and find homes for
them.'

' The sex of the husband, auntie ?' I interposed
roguishly.

* Don't interrupt rae with your nonsense, Philip. It
is too much of a mesF, and I am sure a great trouble to
dispose of. Can you imagine that stupid Jemima send-
ing the whole lot of them bodily ? There they are in
the housekeeper's room, eight blessed souls, imagining I
have homes for them in my pocket. That hulking con-
vict, above ail things, smelling horribly of tobacco.
What am I to do ?

' Perhaps you meant to write for particulars, and
wrote for the family instead !' I suggested.

' How can you be so stupid, Philip ? I am sure my
letters are as plain as ink ; no child could mistake their
meaning. Jemima must have lost her head !'

The convict and his offspring, meanwhile, were so-
lacing themselves in the housekeeper's room, overflow-
ing with thanks, and nothing seemed further from their
minds than the idea of ever leaving again. Aunt Betty
meantime ruiming to and fro asking distractedly —
* What should she do with them ?'

246

LETTERS EROM HELL.

However, she found my father coming to tlie rescue,
and the misundtirstaudin^ proved prolific of blessing,
inasmuch as the former housebreaker was before long
started in a course of honesty, and his tloc k of children
careei for.

You have ibllowed me so fai', and I have told you
that evil desiies, vainly seeking to be gratified, are an
ever-burning fire here ; but to what extent this is true
you can scarcely conceive, not knowinsf how they are
inflamed. It is imagination of course to which that
horrible office pertains. Even on earth imagination may
gain a dangerous ascendancy ; but in hell it wields a
terrible sway. It becomes a monster of tyranny here,
the soul being its helpless prey.

Nothing more easy after all than to clothe gloating
fancy with a certain amount of reality ; bring the con-
scious will to bear, and you have your desire
— after a fashion — the table to glut at, the wine, the
dice, the handsome woman you cov et. Hell is full of
such things. But all is worse tbaii illusion. Oh, let
me be silent ! It is adding mockery to torture. You
understand me, I think. The crime of Ixion and the
fiery wheel of his agony form together a true symbol of
the condition of multitudes of the lost.

Can you doubt that I am referring to my own ex-
perience? Have I not told you that I was a man of
sensual bent, and a slave to passion ? Do you imagine
that either is mortified here ? Ah, let me refrain !

1 am no better than others here, except, perhaps, that
at times I am overwhelmed with shame. How is it
possible fur one who loved Lily — who was loved by her
— to sink so low !

Yet there is one difference marking me out from at
least some others. I have a sure means of recovering
myself from the tyranny alluded to, imagination ittelf
being the means to that end. Whenever the pure

LETTERS FROM HELL,

247

exalted image of Lily rises on my soul, all evil passions
are assuaged ; the wild conflagration ceases, and once
again I seem a human soul. . . .

* I am so tired, Philip,' she said, softly. And forth-
with I stopped the mule that carried her. As a tender
mother her ailing child, I lifted her from the saddle, de-
positing her gently on the mossy ground. We were near
a bridge leading over Brook Cedron.

* So tired!' Oh, the sad story contained in these
words 1 But seventeen and always tired I I had closed
my heart to the painful testimony ; I would not believe
that so young a life might be taken. Yet I could not
drive anxiety away entirely ; again and again I was
forced to face the dread reality. 'Life will probably
ebb away in hemorrhage,' an English physician at Jaffa
had said. ' Be very careful ; any exertion or emotional
excitement may bring it on.*

And I was careful, keeping her as the apple of my
eye. That journey through the Holy Land, undertaken
at her own urgent entreaty, was but one continuous at-
tempt to make her happy. She was tbe centre of a
circle of love into which nothing harmful was allowed
to enter. That I served her was natural. But Turks
and Bedouins even looked upon her with worshipping-
awe. Ah ! deathless time, love and pain ibounding. !

"Wherever we went, she found holy memories of Him
to whom her heart had been given ; He speaking to her
through the Bible she loved. Nay, it was He that ac-
companied her from place to place. Her happiness was
supreme. ' I seem to be in heaven already,' she would
say to me. To her the sun was rising and setting as in
a dream, transfiguring all earthly things. The Heeting
hours to her were as moments anticipating eternity.

It came, the dreaded spectre, like a thunderbolt from
a cloudless sky — not carrying her off, but leaving me
hopeless with fear.

248

LETTERS FROM HELL,

.1 .

She recovered a little, but what prospect was there of
returninji health. Her mind was easy, but anxiety with
me was great. As a drooping lily she was, fair still and
fragT'an , holding her cup prayerfully while she was able,
but fast closing her petals in the faintness of death.
' Lily ip tired,' — the Heavenly gardener was transplant-
ine her to His Paradise above.

We were halting by the royal brook — Lily remem-
bering David and a greater King that passed there. The
scenery is p'-esent with me even now — every stone, every
shrub of that hallowed spot.

Moriah w*as in view, where Solomon's temple once
stood, and that other temple built by Herod, where
Omar's mosque now lifts lier minarets proudly. To our
right lay the valley of Jehoshaphat, deep and narrow, a
cleft between towering mountains, the rocks on the one
side being fretted with innumerable caves, the sepul-
chres of old, of kings and prophets. On the Mount of
Corruption to our left a poverty-stricken Jewish village
clings to the steep incline. At our feet was the stony
bed of Cedron, panting for its dried up waters ; the
Mount of Olives was rising beyond, a succession of
gentle curves, leading onward to Gethsemane. A group
of ancient olive trees marks that sacred spot. The set-
ting sun was casting deep shadows, broken by streaks of
dazzling light, across the valley, the top of Olivet only
glowing with a subdued radiance that was grateful to
the eye.

The place where we rested was in the shade entirely.
A gentle breeze, but cool and refreshing, was playing
about us. Lily sat still with folded hands, looking list-
less ; she was tired — tired to death perhaps. Her eyes
closed. Oh how white she looked ! and pure as a dying
Madonna. But more alarming than her pallor were
those sudden Hushes overspreading her features, leaving
her more white than before.

LETTERS FROM HELL,

249

' I

The mule and his attendant had composed themselves
to sleep at a little distaiic3. ' Happy boy 1' f said, look-
ing at him, adding involuntarily, ' Happy animal !' The
Turkish escort engaged fur our safety lay smoking the
inevitable hookah, in blissful ignorance apparently of
landscape beauty or human grief.

Silence was becoming oppressive. My Lily was not
asleep, though her eyes were closed, ami I turned to her
gently with a question : 'What are you thinking of ?'

' My sins,' she said, looking at me.

' Your sins !' I echoed, refraining from what I was go-
ing to add, lest I should ptdn liur. . . . ' Lily, my
pious child, they can neither be grievous nor many.'

' Yes, Philip !' she said eagerly ; ' there is no one g( )d
save He. We have all come short of the glory, but
God only knows how much we have sinned.'

' But what nfakes you think of sin "just now ?' She
looked up surprised. The gilt was hers nt any time to
open my eyes. I ki'ew what she meant. My gaze
went abroad over the paaceful expanse. Truly what
spot could be more fitted to convince man of his own
worthlessriess ? I bowed my head in shame.

* Dear friend,' she continued, tremulous with emotion,
* at this very moment I feel reproved ; evcii >i^.'re wrong
thoughts will assail the heart. A sudden longing had
come to me that I might be .spared a little longer, but I
forgot to had, * Thy will be done !' You see that was
wrong, for we ought to yield ourselvos to Him entirely,
believing that our Father knows best, else we cannot be
His children.'

An indescribably bitter feeling of anger and self-will
rose in my heart ; what knew I of giving up the will
for the gain of sonship ? My eye involuntarily sought
the Mussulman, and the evil spirit said : 'Better be a
Turk outright !' But chastening sorrow was at hand,
ant.1 I said gently : •

25C

LETTERS FROM HELL,

\
1 1

N 1

'•K

^ Surely you may live ; do not sadden your heart with
such thoughts. Lily, my good little sister, my own
think of the love that would keep you here !'

* I do,' she said, with a smile like sunbeams breaking
through clouds, ' love here is precious, but a better love
awaits me beyond.'

Another pause, but I would not — I could not be
silent, and I continued :

' The desire to live cannot be wrong, sweetest Lily.
Let it be very present with you, and you will see it ful-
filled. God himself has planted the love of life in our
hearts ; it cannot be sinful, then, to cling to it. Do not
wrong yourself ; there never was a less self-willed being
than you, so unselfish and good.'

* So the brother's love would think.' she said, looking
at me tenderly ; ' but you arc right in this ; my feelings
were not selfish though self-willed. It is not for my
own sake I would wisli to live — I was thinking of
others. Philip, darling, can you understand that I
would like to live for your sake ? I know you will miss
me more than any — you, my one, my truest friend !'

Had I been alone with her I would have sunk at her
feet in a transport of worship ; as it was I could but
, stammer : ' Lily, I shall die if you leave me !'

Again wo spoke not. But silence now was sweetened.
I had seen heaven opened.

» Her faco was veiled in solemn seriousness. I knew
she was battling it out in her soul. But even the trouble
of conflict could not cloud her trust in God. Siie saw
the palm of victory, reaching forth her hand to seize it,
for I heard her murmur : *Thy will/Lord, not mine !'

Yet the crown was not fully hers at that moment, it
feetaiicd ; sliC losu teudduiJy, Jiayiiig v, iili qulveriiig lips :
* It must be sin which prevents the full gift of peace.

Surely it is wTong to cling to life ! But I am ready

Let us move on.'

to go ,

and I feel stronger now.

LETTERS FROM HELL.

351

I took hold of her hand with a gentle pressure, say-
ing — I know not how I could frame such words ! —
* Lily, my own, it is not the world you feel bound to —
and surely such love as yours is far from sin ! How can
you feel guilty and troubled ?'

She looked at me, with a heavenly light gleaming in
her eyes. I felt at the time, but understood not such
beauty, not knowinn; the victory it promised.

* I do feel sinful, but not troubled,' she said, * for I
can trust Him, and He knows it. . . .Look, Philip,' she
continued, turning to the dried \p brook, 'can you
count these pebbles, great and small ? Innumerable as
they, are the sins of the world. But the foot of Him
has passed here when he sorrowed even unto death.
The sins of all were laid upon Him — mine too. He has
taken them away ; they cannot trouble me!'

We went on beyond Cedron, ascending Olivet, and
reaching Gethsemane. The garden is enclosed with a
low stone wall, and contains eight olive trees of great
antiquity. The spot where Judas betrayed his Lprd
with a kiss is fenced in separately, and even the Turks
deem it accursed. We stopped beneath those trees,
the same, no doubt, which saw the Saviour wrestle in
awful agony when he drank the cup that men might go
free.

.Lily was kneeling in earnest, devotion, praying for
submission, and, I doubt not, praving for me. Peace
was given her there and then, shining like a halo from
her brow as she rose — ' Thy will be done !'

But 7?iy ^^^ ^^^ barren of prayer. I felt ready to
curse my weakness which had agreed to this pilgrimage
through the Holy Land. I longed for our far-off home ;
lite there, I imagined, might have smiled upon us,
whereas death stared me in the face at every turn on
the sacred soil.

We took the shorter way back, passing St. Stephen's
Gate, and following the Via Dolorosa through the town.

262 '

LETTERS FROM HELL,

If-

•I-

i;.

iJS^'i

;4-

That road is full of holiest reminiscences ; the prietorium
where the crown of thorns was platted and the Holy
One mocked by sinful men — the *Ecce Homo' arch,
where Pilate pointed to the Saviour saying, * Behold the
man V — the spot where Mary, meeting her divine Son
as He carried the Cross, fainted for grief — and that
other spot, where the Lord, turning to the wailing
women that followed Him, said : — * Daughters of Jeru-
salem, weep not for me, but weep for yourselves and for
your children !' — and lastly, the place where the saintly
Veronica wiped His holy forehead with her veil. Here
we turned aside ; but the road leads on to Calvary.

This, then, was the Via Dolorosa 1 A road of sorrows
for me as well. But not of Him I thought who once went
this way as the Lamb to be slain I grieved for myself
only, and not a thought of comfort I found on that road.
How, then, should I be comforted here ?

It seems strange that I never thought of visiting the
so-called city of the Jews, whic?i is one of the ;v?atest
sights in hell. It is not spoken of as Jerusalem here ;
but I doubt not it is the actual city which bore that
name on earth. At any rate, I can never think of it
without straightway calling to mind the city I knew.

A burning desire laid hold of ma suddenly to go to
Jerusalem. What though it was a town of sorrows to
me, I had Lily there. It seems in my power once again
to see'the places I visited with her ; to traverse the nar-
row valley of Jehosophat ; to rest by the bridge leading
over Cedron ; to follow the road of sorrows from Gab-
batha to Golgotha, and, if so minded, to lay me down
by the way at the rich man's gate — another Lazarus.

And yet if that city be Jerusalem in truth, it must
be a city ruined and undone. There must be a great
difference between Jerusalem of old and Jerusalem
after its fall. But what is that to me ? "Whatever the
city may have come to here, it cannot be so utterly

■:.';~1f

LETTERS FROM HELL,

253

changed that I shall not recognize the places I once
saw with Lily by my side.

I cannot rest ; and though light be fast decreasing, I
am urged to go. What though it be but vain imagin-
ings which drive me thither, there is a miserable satis-
faction in obeying the behest.

But let me make inquiries first concerning that
strangest of cities. Far away though it be, surely there
are people here who can tell me something about it 1

LETTER XXVIIL

FAE away, and separated from the continent of hell
by an immeasurable waste, lies the great city of
the Jews — a world apart. And there, in perpetual
cycles, the dread history repeats itself, from the catas-
trophe of Golgotha to the final destruction. 'Upon the
sacking of Jerusalem the whole is engulfed in darkness ;
but daylight r^-appearing, the wheel of history has run
buck, once more to begin the awful period.

Anyone entering the city as the night. is dispelled
finds the Jewish people overwhelmed with horror at the
recent deed. The awful words keep sounding about
them, ' His blood be on us and on our children !'
Thev seem aware that a terrible thing has been done—
t^ a terrible retribution is at hand. Jerusalem
trembles. Tliose wlio have taken part in bringing
about that most fearful of crimes ever perpetrated by
man, but whose consciences are not seared entirely,
raise the question whether, after all, He was the Son of
God whom they crucified ; they smite upon their breast
and rend their gar mentis.

Even the chief priests and elders, hardened thrush
they be, are disturbed. But they flatter themselves
with the consolation that the sepulchre is made sura

^.•;-.- .v., ,.,-.,.,/.,. ,,..^,,..,-,^ ;_-,,., ^■.:,,... ,,_^_-,^ 14

, i H ■'

254

LE77EES FROM HELL, .

\% ~ ■

^ J

As the great Sabbath breaks, behold them going forth
with Caiaphas at their head. Pale are their faces and
bloodshot their eyes ; they grind their teeth, but Satan
upholds them 1 The three crosses from Golgotha look
down upon them ; but not one of those men dares lift
an eye to the place where they hanged him on the tree.
"Where is their priestly dignity ? See how they snatch
up their long clothing and hasten apace to the tomb !

Having reached it they seem satisfied ; it is all as it
should be. The watch is there, the seal untouched, and
the stone in its place.

The great Sabbath has come. But never was there
less of SabbaJth joy in Jerusalem. A cloud is upon the
people ; they all wish the festal time were past. Their
thoughts roam away from symbolic action. The un-
leavened bread has lost its sweetness ; the blood of the
paschal lamb is clotted in their hands as they en-
deavour to put it upon the lintel of their houses, . The
angel of death does not pass by ; he is among them ;
they know it in their hearts.

But see, they shake off the stupor. As a stroke of
lightning the news had fallen upon them that the Cru-
cified One has risen. The words of life sound as a death
knell in their ears. But is it true? Corroborative evi-
dence is loud on all sides; there is no gainsaying the
wondrous event. They hasten towards the sepulchre.
It is empty, and the stone rolled from the door.

Pilate is one of the very first to whom the news is
taken. His evil conscience has told him to expect the
worst ; and lo, the worst has happened ! There is a
God to raise the righteous, even from the grave, and to
dcKtrcy the workcis ,of iniquity. Pilate trrmWcn at
every sound; each moment, he thiriks, must bring the
avenger to his door. He looks for his wife, the abject
coward, and hears her cry : * My dream~0 my dream t
Alas, that thou deliveredst this Just One into their
hands !'

I!l : 111!

LETTERS FROM HELL,

255

1 1

^re.

But the high priests and elders are not so easily
daunted. They quickly spread th? tale that the body of
the Nazarene had been stolen away by His disciples,
who invented, they said, the story of His resurrection.
They bribed the watchman to accuse themselves before
Pilate of having slept at their post ; and the cowardly
governor is glad to accept the lie, thrusting the unhappy
men into prison to ease his mind.

But the marvellous account is not so easily sup-
pressed. Again and again, it is said, the Son of Man is
risen indeed, and has been seen by many ! And the
chief priests know not how to help themselves ; the
high council forbids the very mention of Him who was
crucified.

By degrees the terror lessens ; life in the city runs its
wonted course. Like startled sheep the people follow
their accustomed leaders, and these fail not to apply the
balm of self-ri(?hteousness to every wound. Hypocrisy
flourishes yielding the fruits of death. The whited
sepulchres spread the corruption hidden within, and
soon the whole body of the people has sickened with un-
cleanness. It is fast becoming a dead carcass, and the
eagles, the worms, will have it for their prey.

Pilate has disappeared. There have been other
governors after him, more capable of ruling t);; n he.
And the people find it out to their hurt. They are a
butt to cruelty and derision, till they can no longer
bear it. The flames of insurrection shoot aloft, the
heated passions break loose ; ^ut Jerusalem's worst
enemy is within her own walls — the fury ->i discord.
Wildly the people rave against each other ; no crime so
hideous but it is committed against very brothers.
JerusaLm's last hour is at hand. The eueiuy storms
her walls, breathing vengeance and destruction ; the end
has come of trouble as of hatred — an av/ful end. The
horrors of that siege has never been equalled. v

! /

256

LETTERS FROM HELL.

I fe

A night of death envelop'is the scene ; the histor/ is
•played out, to begin again wth each recurring dawn-

The doy was far advr.Tjced when I entered the city.
The final catastrophe vas at hand. The enn/iry w^'iiin
' had reached its hc-iglit; hopeless discord was rRrapa':t.
Hypocrisy and hatred against the comn!'.?} enemy \vith-
out were the only bonds luntiiig the seething niaRS.
Deceii, treacht ry, unchaste living, perjury, murder, and
all m.iiiT er of sorcerv, Fltowed their unblnshinL' froxit,
Atid yet lo outward appcuraiice it continued the prond
city ol David. « ■<]onoii,$ly as ever the holy hill of Zion
lified lier battletunits-, ^nd xtw Moriah rose the temple
ii; spleiidourunsuriasaid. Piety in lung garments stood
f bout the .-treets, n!aking prayeis for a pretence ; crowds
of people pi' 3st.d to and fro from the synagogucH. De-
vout mss ia fact made itself consjiicuous even^vhere.
Among the pious iiiscriptious adortdug the dwellings by
way of provi."g the peculiar sanctity of their iuliabit-
anis, I wab struck with one especially ^^■hieh oc-
cuired far oftener than any other, so that 1 needs nmst
take ^t as significant — Godliiws is gain! It seemed,
imiev'd, as if tlie people were running after both these
jointly, looking upon godliness as a means, upon gain
as the coveted result, and deeming no cunning too great
to obtain it.

My heart quaked as I stole through the crowded
streetvS. This, then, was Jerusalem I Oh how dilierent
from the city I had knowy, and yet how like ! It was
the yame old Jerusalem of the time when the Saviour
w^ nt al)out in it teadung and healing. The Saviour — ay,
at ':.\r^Yy step the thought of Him rose to my mind, to
the forgetting even of lily. Here surely there mi:'; ue
men who can tell of Him. But first of all 1 wor; Sl-
low that road from G; '^batha to Golgotha- '^da vith
other feelings than mi '. have been possible !.;• arth !
I needed a guide, ana siopped the first Jew L i, ' on the
way. But he broke from me gruJiiy with as':* . .odid

LETTERS FROM HELL.

257

ist

•eat

our

to
oe

vith

rth!

the

did

another, and yet another. And presently I was buffeted
oil even mentioning the Via Dalorosa. I suppose they
t;Ook it fijr Latin and believed nie to he a Roman. At
first I siw in thwir rudeness merely their probable dis-
like t le as a stranger ; before long, however, I could
not but accept the fact that in all that city no one could
be found who had any knowledge concerning the Son of
Mary. Pie was forgotten — forgotten entirely. False
prophets liad risen in His stead, to whom they had
listened.

There was nothing left for me but to fiad the way
unaided.

I turned away in the direction of the Brook Cedron,
finding the very place by the bridge where once I rested
with Ldy. On that spot I would rest me now — alas,
rest I could not; I only stopped !

There I sat, silent and alone, but content was far
away. Memories of Lily were neither more vivid nor
more real ; longing only was increased tenfold. I had
been anxious to revisit the holy scenes, and found them
fraught with disappointment. But since existence to me
was one great disillusion, what mattered it ! Jerusalem
was but a grave, forsaken of the Spirit, estranged from
God, a prey ^o hatred, a dead body given over to the
undj ii% worm. The souls peopling it were the ghosts
of an awful past, living in the destruction they had
called down. Wliat could I have found there to yield
me even a shadow of content ? I had come thither to
find myself in a like <lamnation. Fool that I was to ex-
pect it ot'r -rvvi.^e ! K" it we never learn by experience ;
we did r»r,;, on eartli — we cannot in hell !

Fa' ". of heart, I gr<;,'elled my way back to the city,
and Ciirae upon scenes of excit^; nent. A new governor
'•: had arrived, the last but one appointed by Eome, and was
making a splendid entry.

I! ill

■t<i.\^

258

LE TIERS FROM HELL.

I was anxious to see something of one of the most
remarkable cities in hell, the city of Politicians, called
also the town of Injustice. Thither I moved.

On the road I met the strangest procession — a most
extraordinary machine being wheeled along by a rabble
conspicuous for . scarlet caps, and howling frightfully.
On the top of the structure I beheld, sitting as on a
throne, a man wearing the most elegant apparel of Paris
fashion and last century style. The hair slightly
powdered and carefully arranged, the necktie scrupul-
ously white and embroidered, the velvet coat both costly
and genteel, the cuffs of lace setting off hands delicately
shaped like a woman's, the silken hose, the shoes
trimmed with bow and buckle, — would one not take
such outward signs as the index of a disposition fastidi-
ously refined ? But no, he is satiated with blood, worse
than Nero himself, his triumphal car on the present
occasion being an ambulant guillotine. , ^

Have you recognized him ?

Still thirsting for blood, this graceful image of gen-
tility ; but hell yields nothing for the quenching of
thirst, not even blood. He is always looking at people's
necks, as shown by his very compliments, such as they
are : * Sir,' he says, ' your neck is very fine. Madam,
allow me to congratulate you upon a lovely throat !'
Followed by his creatures, a very hangman's company,
he likes to ride abroad among the people, upon whom
he looks as a kind of raw material for his philanthropic
experiments. But the common folks muke faces at him,
calling him a fool possessed of a harmless mania. No
one is afraid of him now, for power over necks is not
given him here ; the unsatisfied craving is his punish-
ment also. Still he has a circle of friends and followers
who share his notions with regard to the general rotten-
ness of society and the need of sanguinary revolution.
They are sorry for his disappointment, and whenever he
has fixed upon a place for his beloved guillotine, they

LE.TTERS FROM HELL.

259

very kiadly offer him their necks for decapitatiou : the
proeeiure, miad you, being without hurt or harm to
themselves, — the sort of thiug which usel to be done in
Astley'd theatre. But their gojdnatured make-believe
cannot satisfy him, simply bacause there is no shedding
of blood.

It was a long journey I had undertaken, and I passed
by a town looking a very necropolis. Dirk and mute it
rose upKi a dismil dat. No window, no door, showed
life wichin ; njt a sound was heard, aad though gates
stood open not a soul came forth. Once, twice I walked
around, —not a living creature in sio;ht. I kept wonder-
ing, till a stray ghost explained to me the strange
appearance. It was the town of the Inquisition, he
said ; adding that not long pince a powerful king of
Spain, with unheard-of splendour and a great retinue
had made his entry into that town.

' Shall I, or shall I not ?'

I came to the conclusion that where his Catholic
Majesty had gone I might venture.

But at the gate I came upon a
Thus it ran : —

startling.

placard sufficiently

'AUTODAFE OF PECULIAR INTERESr !

* Whji'eas his most OaDholic Majesty, the powerful
pr jteccor of the Holy inquisition, hxs graciously pro-
mised to !)3 burnt alive, after most royal and exquisite
torture ; and whereas six hundred heretics will wait on
his Majesty at the st ike : the sablinid spactacle of their
witnessing his passing ta the nether hre is herewith
a.nnaunced, the soLting scene being strictly in keeping
with hell.' ; ;' - ,. V ^

A stranj;*: ;iouncement to be aure ! But no doubt
he had cj ne .0 his own pi ice, chatmuoh-lamiuted king
I Spain, and the town was even now preparing- to greet
him nglit royally.

^i^k

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m
ill,

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260

LEITERS FROM HELL,.

T^l ^%^

' 9?

vl'

Should I iiuUed go ir. • ' ■»>.^: "tnted Si ill 1 doubUid
not ti nt even the wdsl \v \\>.\\. cily might be horiie :
and, on the other luind, that placard exercised a kind of
denrioniac influence over my imagination. 1 must see
that sight 1

This, then, was the second ' holy' n't- I l^ul thrt
honour of visiting, and in truth tliMc 'jj n pcculi.ir like-
ness between them. "What the City of Destruction is
to the Jewisli people, the town of the Inquisition may
be said to b*- to Christendom.

A shudde: went through me as I entered. Auto-
matically the gates swung on their hinges, closing with
an ominous shriek. Those gates, strange to 8uy, stand
open like a yawning grave to him who approaches, ihll-
ing to behind hin- wlio has gone in. There I was in
the town of crooked streets and deai h-breathing atmo-
sphere. The high houses have tlu; fewest of windows,
and those are provided with iron l)ars, prison-like. Hor-
ror seemed to dwell within. M; steri^nis figures went
gliding through the gloomy thoroughfares, wrai)ped in
loitg cowls, and hoods over their heads, with two round
staring holes for the eyes. Are they dead men risen
from their graves ? And here and there a procession
meets me, either of d^bnml pe'iitenec offering the most
horrible examples of fanatical self-t( Lure, or of thanks-
giving, more dismal still, accompanying condeniiied
suti'erers to the scene of tin ir public rigony. I\)mp and
vanity here aho, forsooth ! But th<' only thing which
brings life into the stagnation of that city is an aido-
dafc. ^

The inhabitants one imd all ■ p( iple who at one
time or another were servants ot the Iiicjuisition.
^the-»-« may enter if they are so nniided, I myself being
one ji the few foolhardy who did so.

TJds city of the Inquisition is as a grave mclosing a
terrible seciet. For no one knows who, in ac;eoi dance
with the verdict of an unknown tribunal, !l]:;i11 be the

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LE'lTERS FROM HELL,

201

i I

next to b(3 dragged to most liorrilile tintine. No one is
safe, not even those wlio hold In'gli position in the
mysterious comnuuiity — possil)ly tlie nio.st zeahjus
votaries of a fanatical chureli. The very members of
the secret tribunal are not safe 1— for he who lately
sentenced his neigbour to cruel and exquisite torture
may be the very one to suffer next. Tlieir fate lays
hold of them ser^retly and swiftly — fate ? nay, but a
just, retribution. They ai'o drugged fiom their hidin*
places and brought to the bar. They shall give an ac-
count of theii faith. The} aie utterly unal)le ; no one
can do so in hell. They are judged accordingly ; but,
be it noticed, their very judges are equally unable to
confess //(tar faith. /

And now for torture ! Whatevcu' of horror, of cruelty,
has been invented on behidf of the luqui.^ition, is all
"^niovvn beie md applied to the fullest extent. The vic-

ms are <i.sembodied spirits: true, but their imagina-
lion is keenly alive to the ton lent. On earth the}'"
raved against hapless humnnity ; now they lave aj^niiist
one another, each being judgij and victim in turn. They
wind up ' til the stake. But although the fire has no
iianie, aiu. alth )Ugh the miseiable wretches are unable
to burn, they none the less suffer in the spirit the ex-
cruciating agony of dying on a slowly onsuming pyre.
The end of all is horror unspeakable. Souls (io not
live here ; they tremble and quake. Even I shaie'.i in
the common sensation, although I tried to consoJe my-
self tliat in such rei^pect, at any rate, I was guiltless,
having never joined, di .^ctly or indirectly, in religious
peisecutioii. But no matter — since 1 was there, I
seemed in a like damnation.

How frightful was the silence — the lull before an
awlul storm ! For the city was preparing for the climax
of her existence. It was plainly evident that the cmto-
dofe was aljout take place. Mutlled figures kept glid-
ing from the houses, moving away in a self-same direc-

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262

LETIERS FROM HELL,

tion. I need but follow them to reach the scene. But
as my soul called up the picture of what was to be
acted by the most Catholic king amid six hundred *
heretics, a horror fell upon me. I could not — I dared
not — witness the spectacle. I turned and Hed as if
death in the shape of the holy Hermandad itself were
at my heels. Happily [ escaped from the town, the
cold drops on my forehead, my knees sliaking with an-
guish. I fell in a swoon as soon as the terrible gate
closed behind me.

LETTER \XIX.

n^ i

1 1

':1

GIGANTIC structures in earth's parlance may mean
the Pyramids, or the great works of Babylon and
Nineveh, or some Chinese wall of later date. I have
not seen any of these wonders, or their ruins either, but
I venture to assert that their importance dwindles into
nothing by the side of the growing edifice called the city
of Politicians here". And that fabric is raised in a single
day — meaning the space between one hell night and
another. I call it a day ; it may be months, years — I
know not. ' City,' let me tell you, is an inappropriate
term, since, although a dwelling place of many, it is but a
single mass, ever added to, but never finished. Be-
tween one darkness and another, it reaches colossal
dimensions, to I reak down at last in a heap of shapeless
ruin. Night puts a stop to the work, wliich is begun
afresh with every succeeding dawn ; yet not quite afresh,
the foundations being the same once lor all. Indeed it
is they which cause the evtr-recurring downfall ; for,
extensive as they are, covering an area of unlimited
vastuess, they are hopelessly rotten. Who laid them is
a mystery ; if one may guess, it must have been Satan
himself. But, however, that may be, those foundations

LETTERS FROM HELL,

263

have survived through ages of superstructure and ruin.
There are passages through them in all directions, and
holes where the workers dwell — something like the
catacombs.

The ' city' then rises on this base. All the statesmen
in hell have duty here as master-builders, and of work-
men there is no lack ; millions there are — hell continu-
ally disgorging them on this spot, and like bees they
bring their building material with them, working to-
gether in virtue of a cdmmon instinct like those insects.

You have heard it said of this man or of that, that his
conscience is turned to a stone. Now this is no mere
' figure of speech , such sayings embody an awful truth.
It is a terrible thing, my friend, to have a stone where
the conscience ought to be ! Every deceitful act, every
deed of injustice or want of mercy, helps to petrify your
conscience. And some people's hearts are so deadened
that every rigliteous feeling has been displaced by a
stone of that kind. No one is free from these dead
weights, — no one who comes hither at least, — and
some drag such loads about with them, that the marvel
is they continue alive. Now this city is built of such
stones. Some souls there are whose one occupation it
is to free their hearts of the petritying load. Free ?
but it is hopeless trying ; and though stones upon stones
be added to the rising structure, the stony heart cannot
here be changed. One finds this out by experience
only ; but some there are, so loaded with injustice, and
so anxious to get rid of it, that no experience will con-
vince them.

The head and corner-stonps are furnished by the
master-builders, the former experts in statesmanship^
It is simply astounding to behold the overwhelming
weights produced by men of their antecedents. Indeed,
one requires the insight obtained here in order to form
an idea as to the extent of treachery, injustice and sub-
tile craft they were capable of in the days of their earthly

/ I.

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264:

LETTERS FROM HELL.

life. Among them nre to be found the greatest wrong-
' doers the world ever produced. No one has a more un-
limited scope for evil than statesmen, not excepting
kings; and their responsibility is awful. For a man
might be born heir to some crown and could not help
it ; but no man can be a statesman without of his own
free will undertaking a ruler's duties. They knew what
they engaged in and have no excuse. The welfare of
millions was in their hand — the Dower of blessing or
cursing , and how did they use it ? Look at history —
nay, examine the present time. They seem to believe
these men, that in the interest of politics, as they call it
any amount of evil doing will pass. Justice ? — it is an
empty sound. The welfare of nations ? — the power of
the state is more than that. They believe themselves
exempt from all laws, moral or divine, — imagining God
if He judges them at all, will judge them according to
some si)ecial standard of right and wrong. Treacherous
dealing, tyranny, and armed force were their chief ideas
of governing, no matter how many unknown subjects
might suffer cruel hardship: And behold, the world's
perversity judges them by the glittering tinsel of suc-
cess, calling him greatest who out-manoeuvres all others
in perfidy — diplomacy is the current expression ; but
things are called by their true nam« here. It is quite
apparent in hell that some of the greatest crimes earth
ever witnessed were committed in behalf of the so-called
higher arts of diplomacy, and that some o^' the greatest
delinquents are to be ^ id amon:^ che starred and
gartered oflhce- bearers wix -> are the right hand of kings.
But the chief duty of these master-builders consists
ill seeing tlie profusion of material, their own and that
of others, properly disposed. This offers real difficulty ;
for each of these ex-statesmen very naturally has his
ov/n plan to go by. No two of them ever agree, even
though they should find themselves stationed sir^A by
side. But sometimes tliey are separated, say a hi"i.lr-;d

LETTERS FROM HELL.

265

miles from one another. Imagine, then, the civuumfer-
ence of the city, and try to imagine these statesmen —
one here, one there — building away, heedless of each
other. This is the reason why the state is never accom-
plished. I say ' state,' for the latent idea *s to form a
state, and when it is finished to choose a king. There
are numbers of landless sovereigns loafing about the
outskirts of the city, dreadfully anxious to be chosen. I
have spoken of those miserable^ crown bearers in a former
lettt'.r.

Our statesmen are sufficiently aware of tlie difficulty
of their unde^^taking ; they are for ever sending des-
patches in all directions, now cajoling, now threatening,
as they hope to gain their end. And their ambassadors
creep about from one court — I mean building station —
to another ; but no amount of diplomatic peifidy avails,
and nothing rouains but to call a congress at last. But
. since there is no neutral ground in all the city itself,
they fix upon a certain mud island in the black river
which laves tlie base of this building ground. In oi'der
to gain that island they have no choice but to try the
experiment of swimming. ]N"ow one would imagine our
noble diplomatists to be very loth to let the filthy water
tonch their august persons. But far from it. They like
it ! (You remember that the black, river is fed by all the
refuse of injustice and falsehood oozing down from the
wo] Id.) It is quite a sight, I assure you, to see tliem
sprawling in the horrible water. They have reached
tlieir own element, it is plain ; and like a set of school-
boys in a mill-pond, they flounder about ([uite lustily.

No sooner are they landed, however, than behold our
dignified statesmen ! The congress is inaugurated with
due solemnity, each plenipotentiary falling into his
place with singular adroitness, and agreeing with
peculiar sauvity that a common plan af action must be
arrived at. But tliere unanindty stops. Innumerable
proposals are made and rejected, mutual jealousy ren-

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266

LE TIERS FROM HELL,

dering concord impossible. One motion presently meets
with acceptance ; let each representative try and work
out his part towards the general aim. Great hopes are
aired, and the result is truly ridiculous. The completed
scheme proves the most deplorable Farrago ; but no one
is prepared to give up his individual position, and the
end is confusion. Vainly the most impressive speeches
are delivered about the incomparable benefits of simple
honesty in politics ; about the infernal balance of
power, without which the greatest revolutions and most
hopeless complications are to be dreaded; about the
eternal laws of the nature ' of things ; about the duties
of politics in a beneficent sense, and the moral power of
the ruling creed in modern times, which brands with
infamy mere brutal force ; about the high state of cul-
ture arrived at in this nineteenth century, which alone
ought to govern all social questions; about principles of
action which should not be set aside, even in hell ;
about sacred rights which must be upheld at any sacri-
fice. In short, no parliament on earth could develop
greater bombast than a meeting of ex-politicians here.
But result there is none, and nothing remains but to
raise the congress.

Before separating, however, there is the usual ex-
change of compliments — a profusion of <;ratitude for
mutual helpfulness and invaluable assistance in un-
ravelling difficult points. The congress, in fact, is pro-
nounced a success ; the trumpets are sounded, and
newspapers sing pteans to the deep penetration, the rare
discernment, and ingenious sagacity of the great leaders
inwhom was vested the confidence of nations.

The plenipotentiaries, duly elated, retire with amiable
expressions of frieudlj'' ieeliug on behall: of tiieir respec-
tive cabinets, which, however, does not prevent them,
in swimming back, from casting up the muddy waters

against each other.

So much for the congress.

lii

LETTERS FROM HELL,

267

And the building continues. Time passes. It is long
since the radiance of Paradise has last been seen ; light
is ebbing away. But they build and build out of their
own stony hearts and consciences. The structure arises,
an informal mass; the higher it reaches, the plainer be-
comes the fact that it cannot stand. They have just
about attained the crowning cupola, which is achieved
by dint of innumerable strokes of policy, when, behold,
the towering structure collapses with a thundering
crash, heard in the farthermost regions of hell ! Each
stone is flying back to its owner, and cries of despair
die away in a common wail.* Nothing remains but the
gigantic foundation ; the builders have fled in horror,
leaving the abject kings cowering in misery, likeMarius
of old on the ruins of Carthage. It is night, and hell is
overwhelmed with the stillness of death, and the terrors
of darkness ever and anon beir.g broken by the wai lings
of desolate kings.

! I

LETTEE XXX.

LIGHT has all but vanished. My thoughts keep
wandering back to Lily — my one chance of at-
taining at least a semblance of peace.

How sweetly she bore up against illness while she
was able , what patience, what fortitude was hers, to
quiet our apprehensions !

But she grew restless at last. We thought of return-
ing to Europe as speedily as possible ; slie, however, en-
treated to be taken back to Bethlehem, and we could
not refuse her. With all possible care we had set
about the journey, yet were fearful of consequences on
reaching our destination, though Lily assured us she
felt better and only needed rest.

Hours she passed reclining on a little terrace by the
convent wall, where I had spread a canvas to protect

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268.

LETTERS FROM HE/.L.

V 4

her from tlie sun, I sitting near her ; indeed, I hardly
left her now, and may well say that I was sorrowful
unto death. It was there, that for the last time, she
told me a story, making an effort as though to prove
her fitness. Her last story ! It was not the effort that
overcame her — her happy smile, the sweet cadenoe of
her voice said so — but death itself ....

' The morning broke ; the mists of night that veiled
the clefts between Olivet and Jerusalem yielded to the
return of life The Apostle James was coming down
the mount,- ■ wiio was called the «iust, the brother of
the Ivord, H<i; iiud spent the night communing with
God on the mountain, even as the Master had been
wont. And he lov<'/l the spot v/here his Lord had
wrestled in figony.

' The aposLie was going home, but quitting the; olive
grove, he tariied a little on the hillside overlooking the
valley. The sun was nhout to rise, a fresfi wind scatter-
ing the curling mists. Close by lay the garden of Geth-'
semane ; Brook Cedron murmured below. The royal
city opposite lifted her brow — the proud temple spark-
ling in glory — the temple of which one stone soon
would not be left upon another.

* But James hoped to be spared the awful sight, for
he loved his town and people. A solemn foreboding
told him that he wonld have run his race befoie and
won the crown — a happy foreboding, for more than
town and people he loved his Lord, and to be with Hir'.
for ever would be the fulness of joy.

* He was about to proceed when a woman c-ame up to
him, young and fair, but plunged in grief. Shenvas but
seventeen. Hot tears ran down her cheeks, and she
wrung her hands. Falling at the apostle's feet, she im-
plored him to pity her. Her husband, she said, had
been struck down by a wasting fever, and was fast
dying. Physicians could not help him, and they were
very poor. He must die, alas, and they loved one
another so truly !

IT »t

l^TTERS FROM HELL.

269

ihe
m-

* The apostlb looked at her in silence, as though read-
'ing her inmost soul. He knew her, for she had been
present repeatedly when he had proclaimed the good
tidings of grace. But taith had not yet taken root in
her heart ! she clung to the world, and the love of self
was strong. It seemed hard to give up the world in
the flower of youth, and harder still to yield self. The
old man continued gazing at the young woman silently.
She felt the power of his look, and was troubled. For
with all tenderness there was in his eye a solemn
seriousL.ess, a holy influence over souls which is born o't
God. At last he spoke : • v.

' '• Woman, do you love him truly ?"

' " Yea, Father, with all my heart," replied she tremb-
lingly.

' " As much as yourself ?" continued the apostle.

' " 01^, far more !" cried she, sobs breaking her voice.

' " It is well, my daughter ; there is a means by which
you may save your husband's life. You may think it
hard, but remember it is the only means ! Go about
from house to house, begging charity for him !"

' " Alas, Father, how should alms save him from dy-
ing t

' " UfUk not alms of money yop. should ask for, but
alms I J tjme. All l/h« days, or parts of days, which good
people for the sake of charity will yield out of their
own lives, shall be jj'iveii to your husband.!'

'The sorrowful wif; thought within herself that at
all events some people were inclined to charity, and that
most valued money tar more than time ; that while
cleaving to mammon, they wasted many a precious day
quite recklessly. She thanked tin; apostle, and gather-
ing courage, went her way.

' Anl presently alu) was seen going about Jerasalem,
telling lier story frnin liimr to dour with " 'unble en-
treaty, aptrakiug of jiur )i\[\\k IjUHlmiid whom she loved, ■
and of the servaut ol UuJ who lia4 ilUuiituij her to tha

270

LETTERS FROM HELL.

I,,!

P-.-

pity of charitable, men. " Oh have mercy on me," she
cried ; " let me not ask in vain ; oive me a day, oh each
of you, and God will bless you for ever !" .

* But it was quite hopeless. Some laughed at her,
requesting to know if she were in her right mind ;
others pushed her away rudely for even suggesting such
a thing ; others again thoup;ht it a good joke, but pre-
ferred not to join in it. Some tew, however, seemed
i>>'Kly to admit the possible efficacy of the remedy, but
were none the less unwilling to assist in procuring the
m.f ans. Their own lives were precarious, they said ;
fchey had much ado in order to provide for their fami-
lies, and should not feel justified in sparing any of their
pref^ious time. But, strange to say, the very people
vvi.o were known to waste time most carelessly
seemed the leaist willing to part with even an hour;
The poor young wife grew faint at heart, and the cruel
taunts she met with from some . . .' • •

So far Lily, and no further. One of those paroxysms
broke the thread of her story, and before long that of
her life. She did not recover — the power of life was
gone ; or rather, it was as a lamp making a few last
flickering efforts, suddenly going out in darkness. .

Years passed. Fifteen winters had gone over my
head ; I was no longer young. I remembered at times
Lily's broken story, and in some hour of tender emotion .
I was one day even prevailed on to tell it to a friend,
who thought it so admirable that he fain would have
known the whole.

Fifteen years ! and how little had I tried to spend
them in a manner worthy of the lovely memory of her
who wn.F; gone. But, strange to tell, after that lapse of
time, a stray number of some periodical tell mto my
hands. I was startled beyond measure on noticing a
little story entitled, 'The begging wife — a legend of
Jerusalem.'

LETTERS FROM HELL,

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of

a
lof

271

I I

Could it be Lily's story ? It was indeed, not quite in
the manner of her tellincf, but unmistakably the same,
and no other ending would have seemed probable.

This, then, is the continuation :

' The young woman came to the door of a rich money-
changer. Having learned her trouble he considered
awhile, looking at the matter in the light of a possible
speculation. The dying man might have money, and no
doubt was prepared to pay handsomely for what, after
all, was not worth a gieat sum. How much would he give
for a day ? a month ? a year ? Alas, the sorrowing wife
must abandon her hopes 1 — her husband was poor — very
poor.

• Continuing her way she met a Eoman centurion.
There was little prospect that he, a heathen, would have
a heart for her, the Jewess. But he looked good-
natured arid she might try.

* Indeed the centurion understood her better than she
expected, for if he had not faith, he had superstition
enough to make him credulous.

^ ' " My poor child," he said doubtfully, stroking his
grizzly beard, *• I would fain help thee. But you see
this life of mine is so uncertain that I know not for a
truth whether I have any right to call it mine. I may
be dead to-morrow, and by Jove it would be wicked to
grant away what I have not got ! Indeed I am not sure
whether it would not be robbing Ciusar of his due. for
my life is sold to him. But I am very sorry for you,
nevertheless ! Sliall I give you '^iome money ?"

' But money was not what she wanted : she said so
sadly, and the centurion went his way.

' She next accosted a well to do tradesman, the owner
of a e ill pen lei's siiu^), employiiig luuidie''-i of hands.
That man was one of the ten lepers wliom the Lord has
cleansed, and of whom one* only turned back to glorify
God ; but lie was not that one. The woman happened
to address him with the self-same words with which

272

LETTERS FROM HELL,

they had called upon the Son of God — " Master, have
mercy on us 1" but he knew no mercy. Turning to the
busy sci^ne in his shop, he answered, " Woman, look at
all this work ; I cannot nearly meet demands, and yet
you expect me to give you of the little time there is !
Nay, you must ask elsewhere."

' But she importuned him ! " master ! for Eabbi-
Ben-Miriam's sake, who pitied you, pity me and my
husband!"

. ' The man had not expected to be thus reminded ; he
grew red then pale, but found an answer presently :

* " Well, as you seem to know that story, your request
is doubly unfair. Don't you see how much siiorter my life ,
is than that of other people, since I can only be said to .
have lived from the day 1 was healed of tliat leprosy ?
It is really too much to expect me to shorten a; life
aheaHy shortened. Get thee gone, woman ; time is too
precious for further talk."

* Having left the workshop, the poor wife presently
found herself near the temple. Now, filled with grief
though she was, she forgot not to cast her mite into the
treasury ; and going up she met a priest who, halving
executed his office, was retiring from the House of God.

* " Thou God of Abraham !" he cried, drawing his gar-
ments about him as she meekly endeavoured to kiss the
hem. ** Thou God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, listen
to this woman ! Am I to be the victim of her mad
request ? It is sorcery!"

' ' '' I am neither mad nor given to sorcery," she urged
humbly.

' '• Surely this is sorcer} ," reiterated the priest, looking
at her disdainfully. " Beware, lest you be brought into
the synagoge to be stoned !"

' She next went to the house of a high-born Syrian of
princely parentage, who hatl come to Jerusalem to enjoy
his life. And he had enjoyed it, emptying the cup of
pleasure to the very dregs. With his appetites blunted
he knew no longer how to waste his time.

LETTERS FROM HELL.

273

* She was adraitl- ' Through an inner court, a para-
dise in itself, where statues of whitest marble gleamed
between dark-leaved shrubberies, where fountains played
and birds united in chorus, where sweet flowerets steep-
ed the air with fragrance ; through pillared halls hung
with Tyrian purple and enriched with gold and ivory ;
over floors of Roman mosaic, and through doors opened
and shut by slaves in gorgeous attire, — she reached at
last to where the lord of all th'*3 grandeur was- taking
his luxurious repose after the exertion of the bath. She
found 1' m reclining on a couch with half-closed eyes.
An Abyssiniiin slave, dark as night, was cooling the air
about his liead with a fan of peacock feathers ; while a
Greek girl, fair as the day, stroked the soles of his feet
with gentle touch. Both these women were beautiful,
each after her kind, but that was not what the poor sup-
plicant thought of. Still less did she consider that she
herself, holding the mean between Abyssinian and
Greek, united in her own person the beauty of both
night and day, with her warm complexion and her lus-
trous eyes — that the charms of ther.> women paled be-
fore hers, like stars outshone by the t. oon.

' "Woman," said the young mar with languid voice,
" it is true I care little for life ; it is a miserable farce
at best. But why should I present you with that which
hangs heavy on my own hands ? I see no reason. Phil-
anthropy ? pooh — it is give and takt ^'n this world. Now,
what could you give me of pleasure or amusement that
I have not tasted to the full ? I loathe life ; go and
leave me to myself !"

' Crying bitterly, the poor wife left t-,he house of the
Syrian.

'But hers was a sacred mission ; she dared not give
up— not yet ! There was a certain ruler who lived for
his pleasure, and whose liberality invited others to share
it. To live with him meant t^ j ^*:% and, apart from
enjoyment, the world to hit, un^' i

'•anding was a blank.

274

LETTERS FROM HELL.

'.\

n~'

''f< .

fo;

1 '

He had known b\-,her aims. As a youth he had cb
served all the commandments and had been anxious to
inherit life. Tie was that same young. man who came
to the Lord saying : " All these things have I kept —
what lack I yet ?' But He whom he had called Good
Master told him : " If thou wilt be perfect, go and sell
that thou hast, and give it to the poor, and thou shalt
have treasure in heaven, and come and follow me !" And
that was not what the young man had expected ; for he
had great possessions. -■ ■

* It was a turning-point in his life, and from that mo-
jnent he ceased believing in an inheritance beyond the
grave. He joined the Sadducees, who said that there
was no resurrection, and became one of their most zeal-
ous followers. The poor young woman, therefore, could
not well have asked of one more unlikely to give. The
rich man replied contemptuously :

' " How foolish a' id surpassingly arrogant ! I have
but this one life, and do you expect mo to be lavish of
it to any chance ^.: uxc. , Know that a day of my exist-
ence could not be paid for with all the gold of Ophir !
You have mistaken me, my pretty child ; you had bet-
ter apply to the Pharisees."

* For two full days she continued begging from house
to house, well-nigh exhausting the streets of Jerusalem ;
but all she obtained was unkindly speeches, if not worse.

* At the close of the second day she yielded to de-
spair, falling on the ground by the gate of Damascus,
tired to death and undone with grief. There she lay
with a dull sense of misery. But suddenly the well of
her tears was dried, a smile like a gleam of sunshine
lighting up her grief-worn face. Fatigue was nothing
now ; she rose quickly and went to where she knew she
would find the apostle.

' " Well, my daughter, and how have you sped ?" ,
asked he, with loving sympathy.

* " Alas, Father, men are void of pity. The world is
evil, and its sinful desires are for self only." ^ *^; : ,i

■' /

LE TIERS FROM HELL,

275

youth, n long
iivi may [ not
l-Ucarted men

u ? My hus-

' " You say truly. Compassion is with r'rod alone."

' " Yes, Father, and to him therefore \' i . 1 <;o. No
one will give me as nmch as a single day, and many
days are nei-.ilcd to restore my hu, land to my love. I
well iii.uh despaired. But sudden ^ remi;mbered that
I had a Ut'e — and to judge from my
life — before me. O man of Go-' ' '
give of mine own abundance w
are not willing to make up betwiien
band is half my lifo to me ; let me give nim, then, the
half of mi/ life. Let us live together and die together.
Or, if it must be, let him have the whole ; I am willing
to die, so that he may live."

' Thus she entreated, the tears flowing down gently
over her love-lit face. But the apostle touched her
head with a hand of blessing, and said, deeply moved :

* " Daughter, be of L^ood cheer ; thou hast found grace
in the sight of God. Depart in peace ; thy husband is
given thee, and ye shall live together r" , •

This is the story — Lily's last. Ask me not to de-
scribe to you the impression it made on me. I felt as
though Lily indeed were speBking to me from another
world. My tears fell on the page and I bowed my
head, sorrowing not so much for Lily as for myself.

One thing I felt certain of even then. Had the choice
been given me, I would gladly have divided my life
with her ; ay, selfish as I was. I believe I could have
given up the whole to save hers. For I did love her !
But 'now of what use was the story to me, save that it
moved my tears — a few tears which I was ashamed to
show.

I endeavour to conclude this letter by the fast failing
light. I tremble — I tremble, at the coming darkness.
This fear, I suspect, is chiefly born from a feeling that a
night to come — we know not how soon — will usher in
the day of judgment. Ah, fearful night, that will bring
us to the day when the Son of Man shall come in the
clouds of heaven !

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23 WEST MAIN STREET

WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580

(716)872-4503

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276

LET7ERS FROM HELL.

Lost ! — it is a terrible word, enclosino; all the horrors-
of hell. Am I lost — lost for ever ? Not yet, the for--
ever is to come, says a voice within. But again, is there
hope ? is there a possibility of being saved ? I cannot
say. Both yes and no seem beyond me. Sometimes I
do try and cling to a faint shadow of hope. But it
darts through my soul as a flash of lightning ; I am ut-
terly unable to hold it fast. At times again, when I
have gone through seasons of deepest suffering, a sud-
den calm sinks down upon me. Dare I think it healing
peace ? But no sooner am I aware of it than it is gone,
and I even doubt that it was.

Of course there can be no such thing as conversion in
hell. But I keep asking — might it not be possible that
all these terrible si^^erings, both of retrospect and of
present reality, had power to prepare the soul ; that per-
chance at the moment when it is called out to appear
at the great judgment, — it will flee to the Saviour and
clasp His feet for mercy and peace ? And if it were so,
what if it were thousands of years hence, or tens of
thousands, how infinitely precious were this hope ! Let
me suffer, however long, if so great a salvation were
possible in the end.

Lily, ah, I know that she loves me, with a heavenly
tenderness akin to the Saviour's for his own. And if
the power of love — that wonurous mystery — be more
than a mere fable, there is at any rate this one bond
left between me and life. For I know my Lily; thati
bond will never break in all eternity. But a bond
which will neither break nor bring about union surely
cannot exist in the sight of heaven !

And again, cmild Lily be happy — enjoy salvation,
without me ? That is another question. Oru she be
content to live when I am lost ? And will God deny
her what she loved most on earth, what even now in
heaven she loves most, next to Him ? I cannot believe
it. So this leaves me with a hope — a hope centred in

LE2TERS FROM HELL,

271

lily. Not because she has power to save me, but be-
cause she had been appoii* ted to lead me to the feet of
the Saviour. Perhaps — perhaps it will be given her to
do so in a future age: She may yet show me the Cross,
even as I — all unworthy — showed it to her when she
died. Did she not say with her last breath that we
should meet again ? And with this sure hope she fell
asleep in peace ! Is it possible that God would have let*
her leave me with a peace founded on an untruth, a
miserable delusion, even at the solemn moment of enter-
ing His presence? Surely it is impossible. So the
c'jnclusion seems to lie very near, but I dare not — I dare
not draw it !

Again, also — the whole of hell is burthened with a
feeling, veiled, and but dimly understood, that there is a
possibility of redemption before the final word is spoken,
when all is at an end. Hope raises her front, however
feebly — yea, a great hope. And surely God, being what
He is, could never let millions of miserable souls feed
on that streak of light if it were mere delusion — surely,
surely not ! He is the God of justice, and we receive
the due reward of our deeds ; but, again, He is the God
of mercy and unspeakable tenderness, who can never
delight in our misery ; and He is the God of truth ; He
cannot let us f ead on a lie ! And yet, is it not possible
also, that driusiou is part of the punishment, being, like
everything^ else, the outcome of a sin-deluded life ? Ah,
woe is me, where is that hope which but a moment since
illumined my soul as with a reflection of eternity?
it is gone — gone, like a false dawn swallowed up in

night!

I give up. My heart would break, but nothing ever
breaks here. Hearts here are strong to bear any amount
of misery.

No, we are not so fortunate as to break our hearts. I

was thinking of something else There may be a

a hope left — nothing certainiy could be much worse. . . .

278

LETTERS FROM HELL.

Things are desperately fast here, and not made for rup-
ture. All is cause and effect, past act and consequence.
Indeed, since the word 'hell' seems. to have become ob-
jectionable with well-bred people, let me suggest their
calling this place The World of Consequences!

Have you any idea that I am writing in an agony of
despair ? You would shrink back from me in horror
could you see me, though perchance you still call me
friend. May heaven preserve you from ever seeing me 1

But I forget, I was trying to finish this letter. It
may be long, very long, before you hear of me again, if
ever. I still will call you friend, yet it will be
natural that if all break, friendship too must vanish.

Farewell, then,^^my friend. Please God, we shall
never meet.

I wrote the above as the awful night was spreading
her wings, — oh, how I dreaded its settling ! Every re-
newed darkness brings new agony, new despair. And as
soon as the light has vanished entirely, hell is swept of'
everything with which imagination had endowed it :
towns, castles, ses, parks, churches, clubs and all
places of amusei^;at — everything has vanished, leaving
a desert void, and souls unclothed of ought but bare
being. Hell is then like a vast dungeon where man and
woman, lich and poor, crawl about in utter loneliness.
While the light lasted, dusky thouo;h at best, it is, one
could arrange oneself according to, .one's fancy, having
everything one listed, unreal though it were — mere
shadows of thought ; still it is a kind of occupation to
surround oneself with imagined possessions; but this
terrible night admits of no such jugglery. It leaves me
naked, poor, forsaken, homeless, friendless— a prey to
bitter reality. I shrink together within my miserable
self, not knowing where I am, or who may be near me.
Nor do I care to know, filled with the one thought that
I am in the place of lost souls — lost myself.

LETTERS FROM HELL,

279

Evil thoughts keep settling round my heart, be-
leaguering it as the ruthless Eomans did the unhappy
city of David. This siege, too, ends with a terrible de-
struction, an agony of suffering, the like of which the
world has never seen.

As before, I passed the long night shuddering, tremb-
ling for outward cold, but with a horrible fire within.
You say in the world, and say truly, that there are con-
flicts in which even strong men fail. Alas, the hardest
conflict now seems a happy condition, for here struggling
is at an end, as being too good for hell ! There is only
raving and madness here, — a kind of spiritual suicide
€ven, — but no struggling for victory. The soul here is a
victim, forsaken by the powers of good. Every littlo
devil is permitted to fasten his miserable claws on the
helpless mind. Understand me, it is a figure of speech.
There are no devils in this place save our own evil
desires, passions and sinful thoughts. Satan at times is
here, but, thanks be to God, not yet has he final power
over the soul.

In this very night he was present, — come to look on
the miserable beings he delights in considering his.
Though not always, yet generally, he chooses darkness
for his visits. As a sudden whirlwind, felt, but not seen,
he is among us, and hell is frozen with horror. All the
millions of souls then shrink together in an agony of
unutterable fear, knowing that one is among them who
never knew pity and truth — the great destroyer, ready
to destroy them ; and this is the dreadful thing, that,
though certain of his presence — ay, feeling it — not one
of us can say. See here ! see there ! You hear a crackling
as of fire — serpents of flame keep darting across the
tenebrous space, showing his path ; but where is he, the
dread enemy ? His consuming eye at this very moment
may be upon you, gloating over your trembling soul.

I will be silent — I cannot dwell on these horrors.
Be it enough to say that again and again I felt my-
self in the very grasp of the eyil one, who seemed to

280

LETTERS FROM HELl,

dally with my anguish. It took all manner of forms —
suffice it to give one : I suddenly felt as though I were
a bottomless ocean, in which my sins were swimming
about like fish. And the devil sat on the shore, grinning
and throwing his lines, using now this evil desire, now
that, as a bait. He was an expert, catching fish upon
fish. Suddenly the float disappeared, dragged down into
the deep — a good catch no doubt. He brought it up
triumphantly — Lord of pity, my own heart, bleeding
and writhing ! It was "horrible ! horrible ! Let me
drop the veil.

This too is imagination of course, or at worst, Satan's
own evil pastime with the hopeless mind. But, never-
theless, what is there more real than death? and I
suffered a hundrM deaths in that night. At last, at last
— I know ^ ot after what length of time — hell was given
up again to its own state of misei:y — rising to it with a
gasp as out of a fearful dream.

Then I felt it a relief almost to be but a prey once
more to my own evil thoughts. Bad as it was, to be left
to myself seemed gain. As before, the wli ole of my past
life was unrolled to my sight, sin upon sin, failure upon
failure, gnawing at my heart till it was but a single
festering wounl.

But with all this suffering, a longing was blended
more deep, more burning, than any I had felt before.
Kot for the life behind me,— the world with its pleasures
was dead, — but for a living soul I thirsted — a soul to
understand me. Lily, my father. Aunt Betty — from them
I was separated to eternity, a great gulf being fixed
between them and me ; but my mother — my own mother
— there was only death between me and her, and a
wondrous truth lies hidden in that word — love is
stronger than death. That was the closest bond after all
— that between my mother and me — the bond of Nature !
What in all the universe could be better than a mother's
love ! With a thirsty longing my thoughts turned to
her — mother, where art thou ?

LETTERS FROM HELL,

281

/ I

And here again a great pain side by side with
yearning. How badly I had rewarded her love in life I
Had I not been her one and all? but she, in truth, had
been very little to me. How wrongly I had judged her,
often thinking meanly of her motives, deeming her cold
and worldly — a selfish nature to which the appreciation
of society was more than the heart's goodness— *to which
€hristianity even was a mere matter of propriety ; in
which faith and charity were not strong enough to teach
her that self and the world should be sacrificed, but
which hesitated not to sacrifice even the holiest on the
world s altars to the advantage of self !

How wickedly I had thought of her, ungrateful
wretch that I was 1 I grieved for it now ; surely she
had been the best of mothers — the most perfect of
women, loving and good I

These painful thoughts unnerved me — I felt weak
and softened. * mother, dear mother !* my heart kept
crying with the wail of a child. I care not if you laugh
at me, but I had come to this — I longed for her with
the simple longing of the hungry babe for the mother's
breast.

For the first time the desire was strong in me to re-
turn to the upper world — an indescribable power draw-
ing me irresistibly. The ghost nature was fluttering
within me, lifting its wings, urging me to go ; but my
yearning found vent in the cry only, * Mother, mother !*

all

r s
to

A faint streak of dawn. My eye fell on a cowering
figure, ill-shaped and moaning, sunk in a heap not far
from me. An impossible, frightful thought stole
through me at the sight. My soul heaved like a storm-
lashed sea.

The figure moved and turned . . . God in heaven,
that terrible face, ghastly and distorted, it was ... it
was . . . my mother's I

282

LEIIERS FROM HELL.

I dashed away in headlong flight — I could, I would
not believe it . . .

But alas, my friend, what matters my believing it or
not — it wcLS my mother !

Poor, poor mother ! This is the crushing blow, if
such there be here. I thought I had known the worst
— but tbis is awful, awful !

What more shall I say ? Words are powerless — the
despair of hell you cannot conceive. It were poor con-
solation that, being equally miserable now, we might
weep together, uphold one another, comforting each
other in pain. But even that is denied 1 Tears we
have not — sympathy there is not, at least, I have not
found it — and naturally, since love is utterly unknown
here. We can only cower side by side, through ages to
come — each taken up with self. Fellowship? Nay^
but it is worse than desert loneliness. We have not a
word to say to one another ; we dread to look at each
other. Everything between us is cold, dead — dead.
We have our own agony of fire, each within the soul ;
but that fire which goes forth to warm another is as a
burnt-out crater filled with the ashes of despair. . . .

I can write no more . . . fare thee well !

THE END

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