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Lorsque le document est trop grand pour Atre reproduit en un seul ciichA, II est film* k partir de I'angle supArieur gauche, de gauche A drolte, et de heut en bee, en prenant le nambre d'images nAcessalre. Les diagrammes suivants illustrent la mithode. rata elure, J 32X 1 2 3 1 2 3 4 5 6 •l' A ^'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. .-^" /c \k:\ J. THEO. EOBINSON", Publisher. ^w**^*^-. ■1% M Mirttd at tfi9 COlOiBROIAL VRL^^ISa HOUSB. MONTREAL n ■'ST'': .1. \'i » . . ■«,-' « N r /-^ ; 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-^-^ lU 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. r ti 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 e 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, 8 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^ 10 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 V I LETTERS FROM HELL, 11 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 12 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, 13 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. 14 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, 15 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 16 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. XT 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 18 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 :h ■■.%. '*\'i&^ s#s- 20 LETTERS FRJOM HELL. r 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. 21 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 '' 22 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 . '^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. M T)id I love lier ? Well, if I must answer the question honestly, 1 am bound to say I also ruther admired than love!: il'l Ii 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, W 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/ • III! ! lil, ill! I iilllilli i li lillti till !il ! l!llill!i:!Llli Of! ill ni,.!:hiii!l! lilll 60 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. 51 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 'Ill.lj'tll 1S2 LET2ERS FROM HELL, ''I 1 -I'll i 'I III \\\-:m\ illil; 1 i I ! iiiiii) 'J' Hr r lii'i'M'ii'ii;! . ■•!' llil!!! iiiii liffl ii'i! 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 ;il!.i; LETTERS FROM HELL. 53 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- ■I liii 'llll! 54 LETTERS FROM HELL 'I i" !i!!i!i pi' I llllll lliilliljijil lilli ll.lllllli i i !! h I! It 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. 55 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 IIP!"!* :fi6 LETTERS FROM HELL. Vm. I I!! I "''inijlliii 'I > I Hi "'I lil'iii I I "* 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 jjt i 11,1 \\\i\ LETTERS FROM HELL, 67 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 iiiiMiii;! 58 LETTERS FROM HELL. W}}\ S!HII I ! 11, nil :: ! Ill'"'' iiifi m wm wm iiiiniiiiij.jiiiiiii i i 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. !iii;i!i! LE2IERS JfROM HELL. 59 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 ■•^.M m LEITERS FROM HELL, iliiiii nil lllliL;! "i i'iliii i i I !: III'. I'll 11 1 1 Nil III! I II :liii;l 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: : ^ 'I'll III LETTERS FROM HELL, •1 • 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 , 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. tmii'M'!^ ■■ "■m • V IliiU liHiiil!! i| ill,,,,,, iiiiim III llfflii' iiiiliiiijl wwm ■''llllii nil' iillillliiiiii. I hi i |i llllir iUlir!!!' •,■:' ■ •;■: \„: LETTEK VIL \-^. ,.',-, ^^jj'.'- 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 '■".'■' *• . . r LETTERS FROM HELL. 63 -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 -•!^', mu il ' 11 1 H < ZETJERS FROM BELL, if iiiii iiii I III ! I miilli iiiiii;!!ii ill !ll it ! 1^ l,j lliilllli III lii l!i iifi i 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 ^mm Il '" I' LETTERS FROM HELL. 65 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, singmg llilll ill I I'll i i !*■ ill I III i iiiiiii| i!iiiiiiyi!!||ll iiii^^^ Hi iliilliiillliil .1 l'!;!|l III II' !l ii'iiiit I"" 1 I i 1 wm 66 LETTERS FROM HELL, m 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. Illil' /..!:,!. jl:;,' ;. iiliiiiii LETJERS FROM HELL,] 67 ' 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. lil'iiii'! Ill I I !:lif„„ illiili fFm '■■i\ :iii|:i^ 68 LE2TERS FROM HELL. ' 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, ... 69 -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- ^^, "^^^ V o <^< J..^ ..^x... I A Li << / ''/ 76 LETTERS FROM HELL. III Ililll ! ! I ill If" ■m I Wmm ll!l i !!i,! ill iiHI II lll'l I I lilllljl I ^ iiiiii li Pill I |l! ■ PI ' 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. I IIP Hi LETTERS l^ROM HELL, 77 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 !' I liiiii !!■! i ""•""l! !'l! I ililii liii ffli'iiii m. 78 LE2TERS FROM HELL, .> ':»'/ V' »% 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. 79 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 'if'": si sail .aii ■:, .V 80 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<^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, 81 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- ili 82 LE ITERS FROM BELL lliiii ill!!! Iliiiii 1! piliiiiiif^' III lliiii ii>i'!'''^''i-'>^^'lfli{i*i! ^ijiiiir'- HI ' i'iliililH! m iiiiliiil i.:'!iliiiljlillllilil||!i !ill:H Iii ''''lllflii iljllilili ! 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. 83 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 84 LETTERS FROM HELL. :!i:', .' !. '"i ■'"■' ■111 iiii 1 iii' 1 iiiji )i;4!:t:U''^! i ^. 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, 85 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 • r 86 LETTERS J^ROM HELL, i '!•■ \^% llljlll ■iiliil'i'"''' !i I' ' PlBlPJI r-::ii|!lil!i'"'"' lliill' ! 1 ;! I ii ;r'iiii iiiii ilililii ■/ I'.: iiiiiiilM^ 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, 87 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. V:; "^W^ \^...^. IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 I.I 11.25 ttiKa 125 kl H^ nyii 1.4 |l-6 ss V d? /] :> PhotDgmphic Sciences Corporation N^ \ \\ V -^^ V '^'<\ ^^^ ^J^ ^.<^ o 23 WiST MAIN STVEET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 (716) 872-4503 mi if;,', i& Ml 88 ' LETTERS J^EOM HELL. !f^H 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