An object of repugnance to everyone

I suppose every soul here [Hell] is forced to perform that journey once at least, and in so far it might not inaptly be called a pilgrimage, but to a frightful shrine. Whether it is on account of a certain inexplicable mania possessing us all sooner or later, or merely by dint of a dread attraction exercised by that awful place, I know not; but no one escapes the fate of going thither once, if not oftener. You know what a crowd is drawn by a public execution, and that people will assist at so dire a spectacle unless positively prohibited. It is strange! But what should you say if anyone by morbid attraction had a longing to watch his own execution? Something very like this takes place here.

You are aware by this time and must be so, apart from my inadequate account, that between this evil place and Paradise a great gulf is fixed. Great, I say, and would add frightful, but that words invented for earth's need are altogether unfit to describe that gulf. It is the home of Satan. Do you understand that? In the depth of that abyss, the quenchless fire is burning, forever tended by the devil and his host. How far away is it? I cannot tell; I think it is in the outmost limit of hell. How near one may approach it? Even at a distance of hundreds of miles one feels seized with giddiness and all the horrors of death, but one is drawn nevertheless. That one should ever escape it again seems marvellous. How wide the gulf is? When lit up by the radiance of Paradise, the eye at a leap seems to

carry you across, but I doubt not it may be likened to a shoreless ocean.

Light now is fast decreasing, swallowed up by the darkness rising afresh from the abyss. Do you expect me to describe to you that abode of terror? But I can no more depict it than I was able to give a true representation of Paradise. It is beyond human possibilities, and I am but human, even in hell. Yet one thing I may tell you; believe me, that more than one rich man is to be found by the awful pit, looking across to where they see the blessed poor in Abraham's bosom, stretching forth their arms too, and entreating for a drop of water to cool their tongue. But that first rich man of the gospel does not appear to be among them; there is a rumour that perchance he was saved.

Alas! I was among those begging rich, supplicating with all my soul, but no one—no one heard me. Despair urged me to fling myself into the awful gulf, that perchance I might lose myself amid the howling fiends of the bottomless pit. What power prevented me and eventually brought me back from the place, I know not. Is it possible that God in His mercy is yet keeping me?

I have returned then, dreading I shall be carried thither a second time. I must tell you more, though it be a subject of horror both to you and to me; but then all these revelations are fraught with horror, and these letters had better remain unread by those whose self-complacent tranquillity of mind dislikes being harassed.

As I returned shivering in every fibre, and conscious of the thought only of Satan and his angels, I all but fell into the arms of one coming towards me on his way to the gulf.

But was it a human being, this creature with mangled body and frightfully disfigured countenance?

A man indeed, his very appearance bespeaking his name—Judas Iscariot.

A piece of rope was round his neck, and in his hand, he carried thirty pieces of silver. The rope all but suffocates him, and the money burns his fingers; he keeps throwing it away, but it always returns to his grasp. I have heard that it may be absent awhile swelling some usurer's gains, but Judas before long finds it in his closed hand again, bearing the marks of blood. And then he is heard to groan, What is that to us? see thou to that!—a fruitless repentance, which is not repentance, eating away at his soul, and he spends himself in vain efforts to get behind someone and seize him by the neck.

What he intends by this is not quite clear, but people think he is anxious to find a charitable soul who will give him back the kiss he once gave to his Lord and Master, and thereby free him from those horrible pieces of silver. But the soul lives not in hell who would care to save him at the cost even of a kiss; he is an object of repugnance to everyone. I too burst away from him horrified.

Letters from Hell, L. W. J. S., Richard Bentley & Son, London, 1889

Two selves in every man

There are two selves in every man, never at unity with one another, although theirs is a brotherhood closer than that of Castor and Pollux of old; striving continuously, not because love is wanting, but because contention is their very nature. That duality in man is the outcome of sin. If he could be saved from it, sin with all its consequences would cease to enthral him. And there is a release, as I found out in those darkened days. We wrestled without a hope of conciliation. There is not a more stiff-necked or inflexible being than what is called the better self. Not one iota would it yield, but I was to give up everything, should strip myself entirely to the death even of self. But I would not, and perhaps I could not.

Yes, I could, if I would! For presently, I perceived that we were not two but three; two warring, and a third one trying to mediate in earnest love. I could oppose the better self, but Him I dared not contradict. I felt it too plainly that He was right, and that through Him only I could be at peace with myself and begin a new life. I knew who He was, the one Mediator, not only between me and that other self, but between me and the righteous God—the only-begotten Son, once born in the flesh.

In those days, I was His prisoner. There was no escaping in the dark corner in which He faced me—the Good Shepherd had found the wandering sheep, His arms were about me, and He was ready to take me home. But the willingness was only on His side; I cared not, suffering Him with a negative endurance merely, and not wanting to be kept fast. There was something within me waiting but for opportunity to break away from the Shepherd's hold.

Nor was opportunity wanting; it is ever at hand when looked for by perversity. The evil one had nowise yielded his part in me, and required but little effort to assert it.

He invented an amusement that needed no light. One of my friends was his messenger, and I received him open-armed as a very liberator. Delightful pastime—that game of hazard—that could be played in the dark!

We played, my friend and I—no, the enemy and myself; for my companion was no other than the prince of darkness; the stakes—I knew it not then, but I know it now—being nothing less than my soul's salvation. With such an expert I could, of course, not compete; he won—I lost.

Letters from Hell, L. W. J. S., Richard Bentley & Son, London, 1889

One seeking me in sorrow

The parable of the Good Shepherd giving His life for the sheep, how simple it is, and how it speaks to the heart? And that love is not only for the flock as a whole, but for each individual sheep—ever leaving the ninety and nine to go after that which is gone astray. And how tenderly will He seek for it, and, if so be that He find it, carry it home rejoicing!

Yes, I feel it now, if I did not feel it then, that all through my sinful life there was One seeking me in sorrow and in hope, ay—and finding me again and again! But I would not stay in the fold, preferring my own dark ways to His watchful guidance. I would not, and lo, I am lost!

Letters from Hell, L. W. J. S., Richard Bentley & Son, London, 1889

Good heavens, what a farce!

I went to church the other day, not for the first time; but I have refrained from speaking about it hitherto for very shame's sake. Indeed, I would rather have kept away altogether, but one is forced to do a great deal here one would prefer to leave alone.

Be it known, then, that hell is not without a church establishment. We have everything, you see, yet nothing—nothing! You will understand, I cannot be speaking of the Church, in the true meaning of the word, that is why I add establishment—disestablishment would be as good a term—and of course, there is no such thing as a worshipping congregation here, or anything like divine service. I can only say we go to church. Good heavens, what a farce!

Letters from Hell, L. W. J. S., Richard Bentley & Son, London, 1889

Hell is full of professing Christians

Hell is full of professing Christians. This may sound strange, but it is true nevertheless since all the thousands are here to whom Christianity in life was but an outward thing—a habit, or even a mask, hiding an unconverted heart; all those who, having heard the message of salvation, listened to it complacently, but never strove to make sure of it for themselves—merely playing with God's truth, as it were, falling away in the time of temptation. They are hungering and thirsting now for the word once despised, but it is passed away forever. They know it, for some of them have been at their hopeless endeavour for years and centuries now; but they cannot resist flocking to the would be churches, listening anxiously to ministers that cannot minister.

Letters from Hell, L. W. J. S., Richard Bentley & Son, London, 1889

In Hell

In hell, where everything is seen in its own true light, the passing of time, or rather time passed, assumes an awful significance; for truth and reality are upon us. It was time which, for us also, included the largess of life—the manifold blessings shed abroad by the hand of God. Time is past now, and hope has fled. Ay, we ourselves are thrust out of it, never to enter again; time for us has vanished, leaving existence behind.

Letters from Hell, L. W. J. S., Richard Bentley & Son, London, 1889

What is being a Christian?

What is being a Christian? 

What should it be but having Christ in your heart?

So simple, and yet so great. Him alone I desire, and, having Him, I have father and mother, and all the world. He makes His abode with me, that in Him I may live and move, and have my being. He alone is my Saviour, my Lord, my all. Lord Christ, let me be true to thee until thou take me home!

Letters from Hell, L. W. J. S., Richard Bentley & Son, London, 1889

God Seeth Thee!

God seeth thee!

Paradise is beyond

Paradise is beyond—the true home prepared for us in the house of our heavenly Father.

Let men beware how they put pen to paper

Let men beware how they put pen to paper; writing has a terrible power of clinging to the soul. None but God Himself can blot it out.

Letters from Hell, L. W. J. S., Richard Bentley & Son, London, 1889

Our best actions are full of blemish

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

Letters from Hell, L. W. J. S., Richard Bentley & Son, London, 1889

Until you see it from hell

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

Letters from Hell, L. W. J. S., Richard Bentley & Son, London, 1889

It is not too late

Could I but let you see things as I see them, you would not despair! Wretched, undone and lost though you feel yourselves, you need not be hopeless. Despair has no right on earth—its true realm, alas, is here! And here only it is ever too late. Do you not know that your life on earth is but a part, an infinitesimally small part of the existence given to you, and that little is lost even if all earthly hopes have failed? I need not have said all; for no man is left so entirely desolate. Waste and ruined though life may appear to you, there is many a spot left where the waters of content may spring—where joy even for you may be found to be growing if you could but trust! And the world is not all. Behold the stars, they are more than you could number. If the world indeed were lost and earthly life a failure, what is it? There are other worlds awaiting you, a better life is at hand. Look up, I say, and despair not! It is a lie if anyone tells you it is too late. It is not too late. You may yet be fully satisfied. This is a truth as unshakable as the existence of God Himself. Repent thee, O man! O, woman! and turn from thy ways; turn to Him who can save thee, who will save thee! However late it be, there is yet time for thee to begin a new life. But delay not—ah, delay not to enter upon the happy road that may lead thee from star to star, even into realms of joy eternal. Delay not, I say; for if death surprise thee on the road of despair with sins unforgiven, heaven and all its stars will fade away in the night that evermore must enwrap thy soul.

Letters from Hell, L. W. J. S., Richard Bentley & Son, London, 1889

Haunting Shadows

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

Letters from Hell, L. W. J. S., Richard Bentley & Son, London, 1889

Positive lepers of lying

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

Letters from Hell, L. W. J. S., Richard Bentley & Son, London, 1889

Do you wish to know the possible weight of a crown?

Do you wish to know the possible weight of a crown? I will meet you with another question—can you tell me how great a king's responsibility may be on earth? They weigh tons these crowns, believe me. The poor kings, propped up as they are by ministers and satellites, can scarcely more than crawl here, so heavy is their burden.

Letters from Hell, L. W. J. S., Richard Bentley & Son, London, 1889

A cursed fugitive in hell

There is one terrible figure one meets at times in the dreariest wastes—a man tall and powerful, half-naked, the skin of some animal being all his clothing. The hair hangs wildly about his temples; there is a furtive look in his eye, and his brow is gloomy. There is a mark on his forehead, and he carries a club; not that he seems to require it, for he is a fugitive always, in constant fear of being slain. Everyone who meets him trembles, but he is afraid of the weakest and most helpless of creatures, fleeing them each and all for fear of his wretched life. Always alone, he seems nowhere and everywhere. A cursed fugitive he was on earth—a cursed fugitive he is in hell, for the Lord has set His mark upon him, that every one should know Cain and not slay him.

Letters from Hell, L. W. J. S., Richard ABentley & Son, London, 1889

No spot in hell is uninhabited

No spot in hell is uninhabited, however dismal and waste it may be. There are souls whom an inward necessity drives into the howling wilderness; those, for instance, who in life worked out dark plots ending in great crimes. These places are congenial to them.

Letters from Hell, L. W. J. S., Richard Bentley & Son, London, 1889

The River of Falsehood

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

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

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

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

This answer did not appear to satisfy him. He shook his head, turning away. And again he set to washing his hands.

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

I left him after a while. Who he was I knew without the testimony of his purple-bordered toga and the ring on his finger—Pontius Pilate!

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

Letters from Hell, L. W. J. S., Richard Bentley & Son, London, 1889

How the Son of God once descended to hell

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

Letters from Hell, L. W. J. S., Richard Bentley & Son, London, 1889