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LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 VOL. L 
 
 
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LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 BY 
 
 M. ROWEL. 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 RICHARD BENTLEY, 8, NEW BURLINGTON STREET; 
 
 AND COPENHAGEN. 
 
 1866. 
 
1 
 
 v.l 
 
 Q PEE FACE, 
 
 Which should not he overlooked. 
 
 "\ 
 
 .a 
 
 Is^ For ages there has been a widely extended 
 " behef in the existence of letters or messages 
 
 I from Heaven. Were they collected together, 
 
 ^they would form by no means a diminutive 
 t<^de. Letters from Hell deserve equal credit ; 
 
 ;aye, even greater! For what can the saints 
 
 =4 in light have to write to us about? It is a 
 
 oj different matter with the others. The rich 
 
 man in the Gospel evidently felt an inward 
 
 "^^ longing to communicate with those he had 
 
 4^ft in the world behind him. 
 
 9<. Let everybody form his own opinion and 
 
 "judgment on the matter. I have only the 
 ,Q* simple duty to perform of attesting to the 
 
 3 authenticity of these Letters. Should any one 
 
VI POSTSCRIPT. 
 
 entertain any doubt thereof, it will be the 
 worse for him. 
 
 How these letters came into my possession 
 is another question altogether. Rightly con- 
 sidered, it is an inquisitive question that does 
 not deserve any answer. It is not for their 
 sakes who attach excessive importance to it 
 that I have had these letters printed.- 
 
 POSTSCRIPT. 
 
 Ant> yet, to be perfectly candid, I must con- 
 fess that it took me a long, a very long, time 
 before I could determine on giving these Let- 
 ters to the public. 
 
 The assurance that they might prove the 
 salvation of many, and the perdition of a few, 
 did not satisfy me. The case of these latter 
 lay heavily on my mind. I am alluding now 
 to the weak heads and the faint hearts. 
 
 To the first, alas ! I have no counsel to 
 give ; but to the latter, God be praised, I 
 know of one which may be safely depended 
 
POSTSCRIPT. Vll 
 
 Upon! It is the compassionate love of the 
 Good Shepherd, in whose bosom perfect 
 peace and safety may be found. Truly, not 
 one soul shall be lost that only cries from 
 the heart, " Lord save me ; I perish !" 
 
 In firm reliance on this love of Jesus I now 
 send forth the following Letters to the world. 
 That they will cause restlessness and pain to 
 many gives me no concern. On the con- 
 trary, it is just my very hope that many 
 hearts may be touched, and be brought to 
 inquire in fear and trembling : 
 "Ah! what shall we do ?" 
 The answer is given, and is plain : 
 
 " Repent y and believe the Gospel y 
 
 Nov. 3, 1866. 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 I FELT myself to be dying. After a long 
 period of unconsciousness, during which I had 
 raved wildly under the influence of delirium, 
 my senses returned once more. I was so 
 weak that I could move neither hand nor 
 foot ; while my eyelids, unable even to sustain 
 their own weight, fell down again as soon as 
 raised, and my tongue clung to the roof of 
 my mouth. 
 
 They were standing round my bedside, and 
 I could hear them whispering to one another, 
 '* Poor fellow, he does not suffer much !" 
 
 But I did suffer : more, far more, than mor- 
 tal man can imagine ! For I plainly felt that 
 I must die. The bare thought of dying had 
 ever been a source of terror to me ; but the 
 
 VOL. I. B 
 
A LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 dreadful reality of its meaning now burst on 
 me in this hour for the first time. I say in 
 this hour ! And yet I lay in this state several 
 days, though indeed they were but one endless 
 hour of agony. 
 
 Where was my faith the while ? Once I 
 had had one ; but that was long, long ago ! In 
 vain I tried to recall it, or at least some little 
 portion of it. I had nothing to cling to in 
 my fearful distress. I would have clutched 
 at a straw, but my convulsive, groping hand 
 found nothing to lay hold of — nothing ! 
 
 Oh, the import of that terrible expression ! 
 I know of only one, which is more terrible — 
 " Too late ! " 
 
 But there was something which I did not 
 grasp at, did not seek after, that forced itself 
 upon me with a marvellous clearness and ful- 
 ness. It was the life I had led, and which in 
 a few moments more would be closed. The 
 good I had ever done was but little ; the evil, 
 oh how great ! It stood out before my eyes 
 like a picture. I had lived only for myself, 
 and my own pleasure. Oh, terrible truth ! 
 I had been travelling along the broad road of 
 death, not life's narrow path, from the very 
 first. And now I was lying there, the victim 
 of my own folly, utterly miserable ; without 
 hope of salvation. My sins stood arrayed 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 3 
 
 before me, dyed in blood ; but it was too late 
 to repent. At that hour, indeed, I bad no 
 longer any conception of the meaning of the 
 word repentance. I was the prey of despair. 
 
 Not yet fifty years old ; in possession of 
 ample means, and to die so soon ! It seemed 
 an impossibility ; and yet I knew that death 
 was inevitable. It was stealing fast upon me. 
 I felt it in the dusky twilight of my sick 
 room ; I saw it in the faces of those who stood 
 by my bedside ; I heard it in the deep silence 
 that prevailed. It was a fearful scene i And 
 I, the chief actor in it, lay there ; all eyes bent 
 on me ; all ears listening eagerly to catch my 
 last gasp. The death chill was already cur- 
 dling my blood ; it was as if I lay entombed 
 alive. 
 
 One, one only source of comfort remained. 
 " It will not be worse for you than for many 
 others." Nothing, perhaps, that I could say, 
 is better adapted to depict the utter wretched- 
 ness of my state, than this miserable ground 
 of consolation. 
 
 But why dwell upon my last struggle ? No 
 living soul can realize what my sufferings 
 were. I had Hell within me — nay, Hell was 
 still looming before me ! At length, I once 
 more opened my eyes, and saw reflected on 
 the faces of the bystanders the terror that was 
 
4 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 visible on my own : one long, deep-drawn 
 sigh, one convulsive shudder, and I was no 
 more ! 
 
 It was an indescribable feeling that I now 
 experienced. Death was still quivering 
 through my frame, but I felt myself released, 
 freed, lightened. My consciousness, which for 
 one moment had been extinguished, dawned 
 once more the next. Where was I ? Thick 
 clouds and mists, a desolate void, hemmed me 
 in on all sides. It was not, however, literally 
 dark ; for I could see, though no ray of light 
 fell on my eyeballs. The first sensation I 
 remember to have experienced was an icy 
 chill ; it pierced me through and through, till 
 I shuddered again, and my teeth chattered in 
 my head. The second was a feeling of sick- 
 ness, not of that description which one calls 
 
 in the world heart-sickness Where was 
 
 I ? . . . Involuntarily, the history of the rich 
 man, who awoke to find himself in the place 
 of torment, flashed through my mind. . . . 
 Could I be that rich man ? . . . But of him 
 it is said that he pined for one drop of cold 
 water ! He must have been parched up, then, 
 with heat, while I literally froze from cold, so 
 that I gnashed my teeth. . . . Yes, there is 
 an allusion to that, too, in another place ; it 
 must be true then ; and the other, the devour- 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 ing flame, was true also — terribly true. I 
 was soon to realize it ! 
 
 Self-consciousness having returned, I per- 
 ceived that I was naked. Perhaps that was 
 why I felt so terribly cold. At first I thought 
 I was the same — unchanged ; but I was only 
 the shadow of what I had been. The eye 
 which saw, the teeth which gnashed, were not 
 really existent, neither was any other part of 
 my body. I was a shadow ; stripped bare to 
 the very core of my heart. No wonder, then, 
 that I froze ; no wonder that I felt myself 
 naked ; and yet with all this no feeling of 
 shame came over me. But I did feel myself 
 to be endlessly wretched. All that manliness 
 in my nature of which I had formerly been so 
 proud, was gone. In the world they call a 
 human being of the most abject description, a 
 beggar. Alas ! I was much, much lower. 
 While my funeral doubtless was being cele- 
 brated with due pomp and magnificence in 
 the world above, I was making my entrance 
 into Hell ; naked, incomparably miserable. 
 While the clergyman, maybe in unctuous 
 words, was touching on my memory, and 
 averring that I "was now beyond the reach of 
 pain and suffering, . . . that Heaven was 
 opened to me ; " while, in a word, he was ex- 
 pending all the eulogiums on me which are 
 
6 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 customary on sucli occasions, I was sitting in 
 the midst of Hell's torments. 
 
 I went on. Was it the ground that I 
 was standing on? It seemed like a swamp 
 beneath my feet. A wondrous pavement! 
 perhaps it was the good intentions with which 
 Hell is said to be paved. 
 
 I went on : on through the fogs and dark- 
 ness. Far, far off, perhaps it was a thousand 
 miles, I espied a light. I instinctively turned 
 my steps toward it. The fog seemed to lift 
 little by little. Perhaps it was unreal, a 
 mirage ; like those phantom castles and houses 
 which emerged here and there out of the hazy 
 atmosphere. Sometimes it appeared as if I 
 went through one of these airy buildings in 
 my blind haste. I saw ghost-like shapes, 
 too ; first singly, now in troops. I trembled 
 with fear, though I knew well enough that 
 they were neither more nor less than beings 
 like myself. All at once I found myself sur- 
 rounded by a troop of them. I fled away in 
 my terror, but only to fall into the hands of 
 another band. I say hands, for they tore and 
 pulled at me, though I did not feel their 
 touch, as they sought in vain to hold me fast. 
 Meantime they kept chattering and gibbering 
 at each other. But, oh ! what voices ! it sounded 
 in my ears like the faint, smothered creaking 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 7 
 
 of a rusty wheel. In my fright, I, too, uttered 
 a cry, and heard the same abominable, doleful 
 sound. I could not understand what they 
 were saying, and yet I fancied I could distin- 
 guish the words, oft-times repeated, " Whence? 
 . . . what news ? " Oh ! wretched man that I 
 was, . . . what news could I tell ? " Whence " 
 was not the idea that engrossed my thoughts, 
 but " Whither ! " 
 
 Happily there were other poor wretches on 
 the same road, and under similar circum- 
 stances to mine ; so whilst the roaming bands 
 were chasing them, I managed to escape. 
 Breathless I dashed along (breathless, I mean, 
 in soul, not in body), till I found a lonely spot, 
 where I could rest awhile and collect my scat- 
 tered thoughts. Alas, alas ! what was there 
 for me to collect, what to counsel about ? Was 
 I not lost for ever ? 
 
 Overwhelmed with grief I sank down, and 
 began to meditate on my wretched condition. 
 
 " So . . . I was in the kingdom of death . . . 
 in Hell ... in torments. Oh, that it should 
 have come to this ! Why had I halted be- 
 tween faith and disbelief? — between Heaven 
 and Hell, till the last moment ? . . . A few 
 months, aye, a few days back, it would not, 
 perhaps, have been too late to turn, and thus 
 have avoided such a fearful fate. But I had 
 
8 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 rushed into it blindly. ... I had deserved 
 it." 
 
 And I felt a certain bitter satisfaction at 
 this last thought : for I detested myself with 
 a burning, implacable hatred, even in the very 
 midst of my self-love, which had been my 
 second nature, and which I had brought with 
 me undiminished in intensity. I could have 
 torn myself into a thousand pieces, when I 
 reflected on the many so-called good inten- 
 tions which I had never carried out in the 
 days of my life of sin. . . . Had I, then, 
 helped to pave Hell with them ? 
 
 And there was no sorrow, no remorse min- 
 gled with it. I was grieved, crushed ; I cursed 
 myself; but I could feel no sorrow. Oh, if I 
 could only do so ! ... I know so well what 
 it is ; but the power is gone for ever. And 
 yet with all this hatred of myself, I felt the 
 sincerest sympathy for myself . . . Oh, to have 
 been able to shed only one tear ! The rich 
 man in the Grospel sighed after one drop of 
 water. ... I sighed. . . . Oh ! . . . only for one 
 single tear ! I had an inward feeling that 
 if I could only weep, I should experience some 
 relief. I writhed in agony ; I wasted my 
 strength in convulsive endeavours to try and 
 weep one tear. Just then a voice addressed 
 me, and I started up. It was a young woman, 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 9 
 
 who was standing before me, holding an 
 infant in her arms. 
 
 " ! leave off ... it is all in vain !" she 
 said softly and earnestly. And yet the ex- 
 pression of tenderness was more in her looks 
 than in her voice. " I have tried myself so 
 often, but all to no purpose. Here no drop 
 of water is ever found . . .no! not even a 
 tear-drop !" 
 
 I felt too plainly that she spoke the truth. 
 Once I could have wept, but would not ; now 
 I wished to weep, but was unable. She sat 
 down by my side, with her baby on her breast. 
 
 Indescribable was the expression of gentle- 
 ness, mingled with pain, with which she re- 
 garded it. It seemed to be newly born, one 
 that had barely seen the light of day. 
 
 After a short pause, she turned towards 
 me ; but it was no longer with me that she 
 was engrossed, but with her child. 
 
 " It is not true," she said ; " the child lives. 
 It is not dead ! no ! it is not dead ! — though 
 it does lie so still, with its eyes closed !" 
 
 I certainly thought it was dead ; but .as I 
 did not wish to add to the poor creature's 
 grief, replied, " Yes ! I think it is asleep ; 
 little children generally sleep so much." 
 
 "Yes! . . . yes! ... it sleeps;" and she 
 began to rock it to and fro on her knee. 
 
10 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 *' They said I had murdered it," she re- 
 sumed. ..." My own child ... Oh ! was 
 it not a mad story ? — A mother to kill her 
 own babe !" And she pressed it to her 
 bosom with convulsive energy. 
 
 I could endure it no longer, so hurried 
 away. And yet I experienced a certain 
 degree of relief in occupying myself with 
 another's grief than my own. But from the 
 one I could fly away ; from the other, flight 
 was impossible. 
 
 Still on, ever in the direction of the distant 
 light, as if some magic power attracted me. 
 Well peopled was the land of darkness. 
 Wondrous phantom shapes of endless variety, 
 shadows of persons, shadows of things. There 
 was much to terrify, much to cause pain ; and 
 yet gradually I began even to feel myself 
 at home in this accursed state of negative 
 existence. 
 
 Gradually I began to gather experience ; 
 but I will pass this part of my history by in 
 silence. I will only narrate one circumstance, 
 because it was the first opportunity that pre- 
 sented itself of enabling me to learn what the 
 actual conditions of the place were. 
 
 I was standing outside one of those trans- 
 parent phantom buildings I have alluded to. 
 It was intended to represent a tavern. In the 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 11 
 
 world above such low places liad been^ far be- 
 neath mj notice ; now everything was on the 
 same level. Apparently, mirth and merriment 
 prevailed inside, accompanied with drinking, 
 card-playing, and dice. It was a hideous 
 mirth those phantom shapes indulged in. One 
 of them, the landlord, I presume, presently 
 beckoned to me to enter. Allured by the fire 
 that blazed cheerily on the hearth, I foolishly 
 obeyed his signal. 
 
 "Cannot the man see the door?" he mut- 
 tered, in a peevish tone. 
 
 Taken aback at his remark, I merely replied 
 that I was freezing with cold. 
 
 " Blockhead ! then why go about naked ?" 
 he exclaimed, with a demoniac grin. '* Only 
 well-dressed persons enter here !" 
 
 I know not how it was, but my thoughts 
 immediately reverted to my old warm dressing- 
 gown, and in an instant I had it on me. And 
 yet it did not cover my nakedness, nor did I 
 feel any warmer than before. I therefore ap- 
 proached closer to the fire ; but it did not give 
 out the smallest vestige of warmth, the flame 
 might as well have been a painted represen- 
 tation. 
 
 Heartsick, I was beginning to turn away, 
 when one of the guests called to me in a 
 laughing tone, while another handed me a 
 
12 LETTERS PROM HELL. 
 
 flagon. A drinker I had never been ; my 
 tastes had been in another direction. But 
 now I eagerly seized it, and placed it to my 
 lips to quaff it down. Oh ! that sensation of 
 emptiness ! that indescribable insipidity ! A 
 feeling of faintness came over me, as I sought 
 to quench my burning thirst in gulping 
 draughts of — pure nothingness. It must have 
 been plainly depicted on my face, for they 
 laughed and grinned at me, and said humor- 
 ous things at my expense. I learnt to bear it. 
 But there was something dreadful in their 
 mirth that cut me to the heart: it was so 
 hollow, so unnatural; not an atom of real 
 merriment underlying it. 
 
 The carousing and gambling began again. 
 I sat buried in my own dark thoughts, as I 
 watched this strange scene. At length I 
 summoned up courage to address the land- 
 lord. 
 
 '* What sort of a house is this ?" I asked 
 timidly. 
 
 " It is mine/' was the reply. 
 
 Now this was no answer to my question ; 
 so, after a pause, I said again, " How has this 
 house ... all this . . . come to be ?" 
 
 Some moments elapsed before he deigned 
 to reply, during which he kept regarding me 
 with a strange expression of countenance. 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 13 
 
 ' ' How has it come to be ? . . . Yah ! I thought 
 it, blockhead . . . that 's how it came to be !'* 
 
 A new light burst on me. The house, then, 
 was only a conception. 
 
 " Yes, comrade !" exclaimed one of the 
 guests, turning round from the card-table, 
 " here we all are in the land of enchantment, 
 about which there are so many stories in the 
 world. No sooner have we conceived the idea 
 of anything, than it is ours. . . . Hurrah for 
 jollity, I say !" and with a hideous grimace, 
 that betokened anything else than merriment, 
 he rattled the dice on the board. 
 
 It was all plain now. The house was un- 
 real ; the fire without warmth ; the tapers 
 without light ; the cards, dice, and strong 
 liquor, — in short, everything, down to the 
 very patch on the landlord's white apron, 
 where the bunch of keys that dangled there 
 had worn a hole, was all unreal. 
 
 There was one thing, however, that was real ; 
 the terrible instinct that compelled these sha- 
 dowy beings to carry on in the spirit and in ap- 
 pearance what they had done in the flesh and 
 in real earnest. The landlord to keep a de- 
 bauched tavern ; the guests to gamble, drink, 
 and curse. Though bitter despair is in their 
 hearts, they are impelled to assume an appear- 
 ance of merriment. It was terrible. Oh ! 
 
14 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 more than terrible. I looked down at myself. 
 This dress, then, I wore, which was insufficient 
 to hide my nakedness, or give me warmth, 
 was nothing but ... a conjuring of my fancy. 
 " Away ! away ! " a voice sounded within me. 
 Oh ! that I could fly away ! . . . away from 
 myself! ... I could but leave my dressing 
 gown behind me, and dash on once again in 
 my nakedness, while a demoniac laughter, like 
 the hoarse distant croaking of frogs, sounded 
 in my ears. 
 
 How long my restless spirit rambled on, I 
 cannot say. I experienced many things on 
 my journey ; delusions of course ; but still I 
 lived through much that was, not useful per- 
 haps, but unfortunately a necessity. The light 
 was my goal. It seemed to grow fainter. 
 Was this, too, a delusion ? No, there could 
 be no doubt that it was fading ; for now there 
 was nothing but a faint dusky twilight ; soon 
 it would be pitchy dark. 
 
 I withdrew into myself out of reach of the 
 well-peopled world of death. It is impossible 
 for you, wbo live on the world above, to com- 
 prehend how far a person can withdraw into 
 his own self. 
 
 I had sat thus for a long while^ crouched 
 up like a toad in a hole, when all at once ray 
 attention was aroused by hearing a deep sigh 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 15 
 
 close to me. I started to my feet, and looked 
 nervously about. There was just sufficient 
 liffht left to be able to discern the outline of a 
 hideous form, crouching down but a few feet 
 from me, and eyeing me with a stealthy glance. 
 The features were marvellously contracted. 
 A cord was tied round the neck, with one end 
 of which its hands were incessantly playing. 
 Now and then it put a hand up to its throat 
 as if to loosen the noose, by running the fore- 
 finger round its neck underneath the cord. 
 All the while it spoke not a word, but kept 
 staring at me intently, as if the eyes would 
 have started from their very sockets. 
 
 "The light is fading fast," I presently re- 
 marked, pointing in the direction where a 
 faint glow was still visible ; " 't will soon 
 be dark, I suppose." 
 
 " Yes," it answered, in a thick tone ; " The 
 night is at hand ! " 
 
 " How long will it last ?" I inquired. 
 
 " How long ? — Maybe a couple of hours, 
 maybe centuries ! Of its duration none can 
 form any idea ; but long it always is," 
 added the form, with a terrible groan. 
 
 " But surely the day will come back once 
 more ? " 
 
 " Yes ; if you call that day, which on earth 
 is named twilight. . . . Lighter than that it 
 
16 LETTERS PROM HELL. 
 
 never is here. — I have a strong suspicion that 
 there is no such thing as day. But, after 
 all, what does it matter? But you are a 
 stranger here, surely?" 
 
 It was my turn to sigh now, as I answered, 
 " Yes ! I died but a short while back ! " 
 
 " A natural death ?" it inquired earnestly. 
 
 " Yes ! of course 1" 
 
 My answer did not seem to please the shade, 
 for it made fearful grimaces, and was silent 
 for a long time, while, for my part, I felt no 
 desire to continue the conversation. But 
 presently it began again : 
 
 " It is so dreadful to go about with one's life 
 in one's own hands, as I am doing. Never 
 a moment's rest ; always on the move. All 
 are bent on taking away my life. You too, 
 you would take it. I can see it in your 
 eyes; but as yet you are too bewildered to 
 entertain any evil purpose. Do you see this 
 rope ? It all depends on no one getting hold 
 of the end of it ; and, therefore, I never let 
 it go out of my hand. Oh ! if any one did 
 get hold of it. Presto ! I should be swung 
 up in a twinkling !" 
 
 After a long pause, the spirit continued : 
 " Of course it is all illusion on my part, and 
 sheer nonsense. I know that well enough, 
 when I am myself. No one can take away 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 17 
 
 my life, for the good reason that no one can 
 take what does . not exist. But I cannot 
 help it. When this childish nervousness 
 comes over me, I am forced to run as if I had 
 a thousand lives to lose, and Hell were full of 
 murderers." 
 
 With a deep sigh, the ghost finished his 
 tale, and loosening the cord round his neck, 
 fell into a deep reverie. 
 
 Thus we sat together for a while. But 
 presently, by accident, I chanced to move my 
 arm in the direction of my unfortunate com- 
 rade. Thinking, probably, that I was about 
 to seize hold of the end of the rope, he vanished 
 in the twinkling of an eye. 
 
 VOL. 1. 
 
18 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 I REMAINED sitting where I was. Soon the 
 darkness quite enveloped me. Soon, do 
 I say ? Fool ! how know I whether the 
 time was long or short ? All I do know is 
 that it fell with an ever-increasing speed and 
 intensity, till, at last, it was pitchy dark. 
 I say now at last ; before, I said soon. Ah ! 
 how little capable am I to judge of time. 
 
 But what darkness it was ! Mortals can form 
 no idea of it. In the world one is used to say, 
 " the darkness is so thick one can almost feel 
 it, or cut it with a knife." Alas ! this com- 
 parison does not suffice for Hell. There the 
 darkness is so thick and intense that it crushes 
 one down with a weight of hundreds of pounds. 
 It leaves no space to stir in. It hems one in 
 on all sides with an oppressive, though not 
 really tangible, weight. Now I began to realize 
 the meaning of those words, " outermost 
 darkness." Anything more extreme cannot 
 be imagined. 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 19 
 
 And there I sat, crouched down in the very 
 smallest space, shuddering from cold and fright, 
 — I, who but a little while ago had the whole 
 world before me, and had rejoiced in my 
 strength. I said from cold, but within me 
 was a consuming fire. " Their fire is not 
 quenched ; their worm dieth not !" Oh, terrible 
 truth ! 
 
 The torture of Hell consists in these very op- 
 posites. In external cold, howling and gnash- 
 ing of teeth ; and a consuming fire within ; 
 a drought compared with which the drought 
 of Sahara must be a cooling refreshment. 
 And then that terror — that nervous feeling ! 
 It was one of the first experiences I gathered, 
 and I gathered it unaided. As darkness draws 
 on, the dread of death falls on all the denizens 
 of Hell ; and as the former increases in Inten- 
 sity, so does the other, till at last one is ready 
 to expire from sheer fright. 
 
 Expire ! . . . An illusion again ! No death- 
 struggle is there here, 'tis but a shadowy 
 repetition of it. Oh, the groans and bowl- 
 ings the lost soul then ejaculates ! The moans 
 of despair ! but they are never heard ! 
 
 Have you ever known what it Is to toss 
 the whole livelong night on your bed, racked 
 with bitter reijiorse, sad reminiscences, or 
 even with mere sorrow and anxiety for the 
 
■'MM-f :■■• 
 
 20 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 future ? Know, then, that that is joy su- 
 preme compared to what we undergo. And 
 at length you become weary of reproaching 
 yourself. Nature asserted her sway, and, 
 happy mortal, you fell into a refreshing 
 sleep. You forgot all your misery ; the acuter 
 your suffering, the deeper was your slumber ; 
 and, when you awoke, a new and blessed day 
 had arisen over you, with fresh grace, fresh 
 hopes ! 
 
 Oh, happy, thrice happy ! Yes ! such do 
 I rightly term you, whatever be your suffer- 
 ing ; however low or miserable your condition 
 in the world. For reflect ! The most mise- 
 rable being on the face of the earth is happy 
 indeed compared with one of us, if he would 
 only take his misfortune at its real value. 
 Yes ! wonderful as it may sound, on earth, 
 though it is a world of realities, unhappiness 
 is, to a great extent, imaginary ; but here in 
 Hell, though a land of shades and phantoms, 
 it is awfully real. In the world it depends so 
 much on the way in which a man meets his 
 misfortunes. Here there is only one way of 
 meeting them, the stern, inflexible way of 
 necessity. One does not meet them after all ; 
 they are imposed. 
 
 Oh, for one moment's slumber, one moment's 
 oblivion ! What joy ! what blessedness ! 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 21 
 
 Alas ! I do but increase my torments. My 
 tears stream down as I write, but they are not 
 of that description that can stain the paper. 
 They fall like drops of molten lead on my 
 soul. Tears did I say ? Pooh ! believe it 
 not, it was but a figure of speech ! 
 
 There I sat that long, endless night, death- 
 night I should call it — in distinction to the dark 
 and fearful nights I have passed on earth — 
 for a deathlike chill shuddered through me ; 
 while within a fire burned, a fire that can 
 never be quenched. And it had a twofold 
 flame. For the sins I had committed, and the 
 desires I had conceived, glowed hot and fierce 
 within. Which was the most agonizing of 
 the two I am unable to say ; only this I know, 
 that they raged as it were by turns, and my 
 thoughts, like a breath of wind, fanned them 
 into flame. 
 
 My sins ! Of what avail to speak of them 
 now? And yet I must. My sinful life is 
 ended . It hes before me in fearful distinctness, 
 not only as regards its whole career, but in its 
 very minutest parts. That I am, or rather 
 was, a sinner, has not forced itself upon me 
 now for the first time. I have always known 
 it ; but with a cunning and address, betokening 
 not so much any adroitness on my side as on 
 the Devil's, I knew how to keep the convic- 
 
22 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 tion down, if not quite in subjection, as long 
 as I was alive. I was unable to destroy it 
 entirely, but kept it chained so close a prisoner, 
 that to all intents and purposes it might have 
 been reckoned among the dead ; and if ever 
 its voice would make itself heard, it was but 
 as a gentle whisper, to which it was needless 
 to give any heed. 
 
 But I could even do more. By degrees I 
 lenrnt how to cast my sins behind me, and 
 to forget them as completely as if they had 
 never existed. 
 
 But now ! Oh ! now ! 
 
 This obliviousness was but a juggling 
 devilish trick. They all stand in array before 
 me ; not one is w^anting ! On the contrary, 
 there are many more than ever I would ac- 
 knowledge in the world. There were a thou- 
 sand things which I counted as nothing, but 
 w^hich now rise up against me, and condemn 
 me. I can see myself with a clearness, to 
 which I w^as a stranger before. My whole 
 life is reflected in a mirror, in all its particular 
 and separate parts. A perfect sketch of it 
 traced in the finest and most delicate outline 
 lies before me, no line so faint, no point so 
 diminutive, but that it catches my eye. My 
 tortured soul roams hither and thither, writh- 
 ing and twisting if haply it can find a place, 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 23 
 
 however small, where to rest awhile, if only 
 for one instant. But it is in vain ! 
 
 And yet I have never heen what the world 
 would call a bad man. No, no ; far from it. 
 Thoroughly selfish, yet not naturally devoid 
 of sympathy ; of strong appetites, yet not 
 without refined ideas ; of violent passions, but 
 far too well bred to commit myself in any way. 
 Affable, courteous, ready to assist; on the 
 whole, goodhearted, as long as my passions 
 did not blind me ; I was not only a general 
 favourite, but I may say was universally 
 esteemed. In short, I was a man of the world. 
 And yet it was far from my intention to let the 
 world use me ; on the contrary, it was my firm 
 determination to make use of it. Without 
 faith, without any other object in view save 
 that of the passing hour, I lived for enjoy- 
 ment alone. Without faith did I say ? But 
 that is not quite correct. For, as a child, 1 
 possessed an inward, lively faith, but when I 
 came out into the world it could not survive. 
 In the mad career of youth it faded away. At 
 a certain period of my life, indeed, it seemed 
 as if it were about to bud forth again. But 
 when everything else suffered shipwreck, it 
 too was sucked down in the whirl. And yet 
 I could never quite eradicate it. Who knows 
 but that I should have done so had I been 
 
24 LETTERS PROM HELL. 
 
 able ? Up to my very death, the feeling that 
 I still had somewhat of the religion of child- 
 hood lingering within me remained. 
 
 I lived, breathed only in my passions. Do 
 you care to know what they were ? They were 
 more numerous than I can mention ; but the 
 chief of them were, a good table, high play, 
 beautiful women, and piquant adventures. 
 
 Oh, how they burn ! True, they burnt in 
 the world ; but they caused me no pain, or 
 rather it was an exquisite, a voluptuous pain. 
 But now . . ? 
 
 If you have any notion of what the dry 
 drought is, you might possibly be able to form 
 a faint idea of my sufferings. 
 
 I feel a consuming drought within. I suffer 
 under an incessant internal burning. To be 
 burnt, indeed, at the stake would be pleasure 
 compared to this, because there would be an 
 end to it. But here there is no end ! Can you 
 form any idea about it now ? It is not, it is 
 true, always equally intense, for that would be 
 against nature. Yet it is but a poor conso- 
 lation ; it is always greater than it is possible 
 to describe. 
 
 But let me quit the sufferings I underwent 
 that first night. Strange that I should blush 
 to tell what I have now to narrate. There is 
 a peculiar remorse attached to it, a remorse 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 25 
 
 which I have to myself alone ; but doubtless 
 most of those in Hell would say the same of 
 themselves ; but it is a remorse which has 
 never abandoned me a single instant since I 
 have raised my eyes in torment. A whole 
 history is attached to it, but one of those 
 histories that penetrate deeper into the soul 
 than any one would suppose. 
 
 I celebrated the anniversary of my thirty- 
 first birthday in a Httle country inn in a 
 foreign land. I was returning home after an 
 absence of rather more than a year. I had 
 been to the East — in the most unhappy frame 
 of mind it is possible to conceive, broken down 
 with grief and sorrow, and mourning for the 
 loss of a blighted love. We had set out three 
 in number ; but two returned ; and now we 
 were but a two days' journey from home, 
 when a tremendous storm compelled us to 
 seek shelter in this wretched inn. 
 
 But strange things occur in the world ! 
 Here, in this very inn, I was destined to meet 
 with the first object that could arouse a feeling 
 of sympathy within me for many months past. 
 It was a ragged boy of some eight or nine 
 years old. His mother, it seemed, had be- 
 longed to some circus troupe, and had recently 
 drowned herself in a neighbouring swamp. 
 He was a dirty, ill-mannered, untractable 
 
26 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 child, and would not be consoled. He had 
 loved tenderly, passionately, to the exclusion 
 of every other object save one. Had not I ? 
 He had lost everything that bound him to 
 earth. So had I ! But this was not all. 
 Line by line the child's being spoke to my 
 dullened senses in a marvellous way. 
 
 His passionateness ; his reserved, timid dis- 
 position ; yes, even his ungovernable temper, 
 touched a chord in my own heart. It seemed 
 to me that I should have acted just as he did. 
 And yet for all his rags and filth he was a 
 handsome boy. His dark tearful eyes had an 
 expression about them that went straight to 
 the heart ; and his thick tangled masses of 
 hair enveloped a face which, without possess- 
 ing any regular features, was yet in a high 
 degree attractive. His was one of the boyish 
 faces Murillo would have loved to paint. 
 What more need I add, except that the first 
 glance at him made my heart yearn towards 
 him ? No one else would have him ; so I took 
 him. But had I been obliged to have paid 
 dearly for him, he should not have escaped 
 me. 
 
 His mother had been known by the name of 
 Rosalinda : a name, doubtless, assumed in the 
 circus. But the boy knew of none other name. 
 Nothing was found on her person, not a relic 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 27 
 
 tbat could throw any light upon the matter. 
 Had any such ever existed it must have been 
 lost with the wretched woman under the dark 
 waters of the morass. In fact the only thing 
 to which any hope of discovering a clue was 
 attached was a mark indelibly tattooed on the 
 boy's right arm. It resembled a swan, and 
 some unintelligible hieroglyphics were at- 
 tached to it. The boy's name was Martin. 
 He spoke a mixed, impure language of which 
 my own native tongue formed but a minor 
 part. 
 
 I took the boy, then, with me ; but not 
 without being obliged to use force. 
 
 We had left home three in number ; and 
 three of us returned. But, God ! what an 
 exchange ! 
 
 He grew up under my eye, a child without 
 extraction, without a name. No clue as to his 
 origin was ever discovered, but still the lad 
 felt convinced, and the conviction strengthened 
 with his years, that the mark on his right arm 
 would some day or other be the means of clear- 
 ing up the mystery of his birth. 
 
 He had no small ideas of himself. I never 
 allowed him out of my sight. People said I 
 had got a plaything in the pretty child, and 
 perhaps there was some truth in the remark. 
 For the animal nature in him was strong, and 
 
28 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 developed itself with astounding precocity, at 
 the expense in a great degree of his moral 
 nature. 
 
 Possessed of strong instincts and passions, 
 with a remarkable amount of self-will about 
 him, he was by no means a manageable boy. 
 But it afforded me amusement to irritate and 
 excite them, at one time by letting them have 
 free play ; and again, at another, by keeping a 
 tight check upon them. But he was more 
 than a plaything to me ; my heart had, indeed, 
 turned towards him, had, in a word, adopted 
 him for its own. Possibly the cause of this 
 was that I hoped to find an exact counterpart 
 of myself in him ; or, possibly, it was a mere 
 whim of mine that had brought about this 
 strange connection ; one thing, however, was 
 certain, I came to love him : and those persons 
 I have loved in the world, besides myself, 
 might very easily be counted up. 
 
 And he returned my affection with a burn- 
 ing, passionate, ungovernable love. If I ex- 
 asperated him merely to gratify myself, and 
 ended by placing my foot on his neck, when 
 he had defied me in the fiercest terms, he would 
 at last humble himself so deeply, and twine 
 himself round my very knees, so that I have 
 actually had to drag him along through the 
 very dust. At such moments as these he 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 29 
 
 would willingly have submitted to be trodden 
 under foot, or to suffer any indignity at my 
 hands, provided I would only assure him of 
 my forgiveness, and again take him into 
 favour. But I did not treat him thus : I 
 neither trod him under foot, neither did I ill- 
 treat him in any way. And yet, though the 
 harshest treatment would never have brought 
 a tear to his eye, he would often hang round 
 me, dissolved in tears, as the only being on 
 earth who cared for him. And then the tears 
 would rise up to my own eyes, and we would 
 be friends again. Our attachment towards each 
 other, instead of becoming weakened thereby, 
 actually flourished the more vigorously. Thus 
 matters went on between us ; at one time the 
 bitterest, wildest passion ; at another, the ten- 
 derest, most endearing love, till at last it flashed 
 on me that he was a boy no longer. Soon he 
 grew up into a man Hke myself, with strong 
 passions, with great self-love. 
 
 It was an exceptional case on both sides 
 for us to love each other. 
 
 A scene at length occurred between us, 
 worse than any of the former ones. He had 
 offered me defiance on a matter which I could 
 not brook, and I had as good as spurned him 
 from me. How dared the fellow presume to 
 be my rival ? 
 
30 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 He had left me, smarting from the treatment 
 he had received, but imyielding, breathing out 
 threats that he would never return. And he 
 kept his word. At a subsequent period I re- 
 ceived a letter from him, in which he gave me 
 the choice either of making way for him or 
 of losing him for ever, coupled with a threat 
 that he would engage himself in the service of 
 some semi-barbarous state. I made no reply 
 to his ultimatum ; it was so plainly his duty 
 to humble himself and to give way to me. 
 Time sped swiftly by, and I began really to 
 think that I had lost him. If I were to 
 say I suffered no uneasiness at the thought, 
 I should be giving utterance to a falsehood. 
 Yes, I did feel remorse, anguish, sorrow, for 
 I loved him still ; and my heart whispered to 
 me that if he went to ruin I should be his 
 destroyer. 
 
 Then I fell ill. It was the first illness I had 
 ever undergone, and it was also my last. On 
 my sick-bed, contrary to all expectations, I re- 
 ceived another letter from him. Its meaning 
 was obscure, but the spirit that breathed 
 through it was plain enough. I was more 
 than astounded. He actually acknowledged 
 himself to be in error, and was tractable, mild, 
 and gentle in his expressions, as I had never 
 known him to be before. He prayed for an 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 31 
 
 interview ; he would return " as the lost, re- 
 pentant son. He had things to communicate 
 which must needs do away with all dissension 
 between us. A higher power had judged be- 
 tween us." He also alluded to her in his letter. 
 But his style was so abrupt and confused that 
 it was impossible to decide whether the ex- 
 planation he had to offer referred to himself 
 or to her. 
 
 But he never received any answer to this 
 letter either. I was already too weak to write, 
 and I could not trust anv one else to do it for 
 me. Fool that I was, I fondly hoped to be 
 myself again in a day or two. 
 
 What explanations had he to offer ? What 
 was the cause of this wonderful change in 
 him ? Was it himself or her he referred to ? 
 
 These questions tortured me till the time 
 when I drew my last breath. Perhaps they 
 hastened my end. They followed me to Hell, 
 and torment me more than aught else ; for 
 other matters at times slip out of my thoughts ; 
 but this question, " What did he want with 
 me ?" never leaves me. It burns like a fire- 
 brand on my soul. And that it resolved itself 
 into many other such questions as thesg : " Did 
 it refer to him or to her ? How had it fared 
 with him, spurned by the only being who had 
 ever shown him any love ? Was I the cause 
 
32 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 of his ruin ?" did not make the pain one whit 
 the less. 
 
 Oh, woe, woe ! These questions are a Hell 
 in themselves. 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 33 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 How long I sat buried as it were in myself 
 and darkness, how long this night of perdition 
 lasted, I cannot say. Even if there could be 
 any mention of time in Hell, there is naught 
 whereby to measure it. It may have been 
 years, or it may only have been hours. But 
 one thing is certain, I lived over again that 
 night the whole of my wretched earthly career. 
 
 Can you realize my meaning ? 
 
 At last the dawn began to re-appear, but so 
 slowly I cannot describe it. Little by little 
 the darkness became less dense ; a faint light 
 glimmered through it ; imperceptibly it in- 
 creased in brightness, till at length I was able 
 to discern the objects around. This time of 
 expectation, if I may so term it, was the least 
 painful I have yet experienced in Hell ; for a 
 shadow of oblivion fell on me while I was 
 craving for the returning light. And what 
 blessing greater than oblivion here ? I said 
 light 1 But, alas, it is never light here ! Neither 
 
 VOL. I. D 
 
34 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 is there such a thing as obHvion ! It was but 
 a fond imagination. 
 
 But it cheered me up, and put fresh power 
 into me. Then I gathered myself up and 
 set off again in the direction of the rising 
 dawn. How long, and how far I went, has 
 nothing to do with it ; suffice it to say, I was 
 soon enough in the middle of Hell's misery, 
 and had found my proper place. Then again 
 might I rest myself awhile. Rest ! Once for 
 all I must beg you not to be misled by such 
 foolish expressions, which the force of old 
 habit makes me employ. For of course there 
 can be no such thing really as rest here. 
 
 It is wonderful how quickly I found out my 
 proper position ; how quickly I adapted my- 
 self to the conditions of the place. Instinc- 
 tively I did as the others did, acting all the 
 while in accordance with my own peculiar 
 individuality. Thus I contributed my part to 
 make Hell a shadowy and distorted image of 
 the world above. I could not have acted 
 otherwise than I did, even had I felt con- 
 vinced that it was to my infamy and disgrace. 
 
 For every one feels an irresistible impulse to 
 carry out the same sinful predilections he had 
 in the world. And every one can obtain what 
 he desires. He has only to conceive the idea, 
 and ]o ! he is in possession of the reality. 
 
LETTEES PROM HELL. 35 
 
 Thus passions and lusts are as prevalent here 
 as ever thej were in the world, only far 
 more frightful. 
 
 In the world their hideousness was con- 
 cealed under a fair outside covering of the 
 flesh ; but here they are arrayed like skele- 
 tons, bidding defiance to all nature in their 
 carnal lusts, desiring everything they ever 
 have desired, but in reality attaining nothing 
 except to grin at each other. All here is 
 hollow and empty, devoid of truthfulness and 
 reality, incapable of affording satisfaction. It 
 is just in this very thing our torture consists : 
 in the compulsion to surround ourselves with 
 this essence of vanity ; in the obligation to de- 
 vote ourselves to this empty unreality. And, 
 however lively our convictions may be that all 
 is void, all is vain ; however great the repug- 
 nance we feel, we must bow and bend ourselves 
 to it ; we are forced without cessation to strive 
 to become what we have been before. 
 
 If a number of spirits unite in the wish, 
 ''Here shall be a town," it is accomplished. 
 Every one co-operates in the work, according to 
 the impulses of his individual entity, and the 
 town is built. 
 
 Or is it a church they desire, or a theatre, 
 or a promenade ; a forest, or a lake ; or a 
 mountain range, the wish is realized at once. 
 
36 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 And not only does eacli individual see what 
 his own vanity has produced, but it is patent 
 to every one else. And yet they are naught 
 but shadows altogether. Nay, even this ex- 
 pression has too much reality — they are mere 
 imaginations. 
 
 There is never any lack of subservient 
 spirits to place all this phantom-work upon 
 the stage. 
 
 If any one wishes to build himself a palace 
 and keep a magnificent establishment, he can 
 have the choice amongst unfaithful stewards, 
 thievish butlers, and deceitful servants in 
 abundance. It might be supposed that there 
 would be found but few willing to undertake 
 such subordinate positions ; such, however, is 
 not the case ; habits brought down from the 
 world above decide the matter. 
 
 Or should any one have a desire to raise an 
 army (provided, of course, that he has com- 
 manded one previously, for without reputation 
 the attempt would be a signal failure), he will 
 find numbers of braggadocios and bloodthirsty 
 vagabonds, who are fit for nothing else. Or 
 should his tastes lie in the direction of a 
 harem, he will find an incredible number of 
 obliging females, both with and without the 
 title of lost women. And so on to infinity. 
 
 After these explanatory remarks you will 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 37 
 
 not be surprised to hear that I still reside as 
 formerly at my tasteful villa on the banks of 
 
 , that I keep up a fine establishment, and 
 
 live at a high rate. 
 
 As of old, I am wedded to society, with all 
 its visible and secret charms. Indeed, few 
 persons have had such an intimate acquaint- 
 ance with this source of enjoyment as myself, 
 or have made the use of it I have done. But 
 now — I do not say pity me, my friend, for 
 your sympathy could do me no good — but I 
 only say you have here the misery of Hell 
 pourtrayed in these few words, " I will take 
 my fill of pleasure, I will revel in enjoyment 
 as of old, and yet experience no sense of 
 pleasure, no feeling of enjoyment." Is it not 
 folly ? But such, such alas, is the case ! 
 
 I have found many acquaintances, and a fair 
 number of friends, but no greetings have passed 
 between us yet. I have not yet forgotten how 
 fine the feeHng of the world is. It would 
 be wrong to lay the blame on the poor fami- 
 lies ; besides, it could give them no pleasure. 
 
 However great saints those who have de- 
 parted may be accounted in the world above, 
 they will not find the pains of Hell to be less 
 real. 
 
 Dare I venture upon a description of HeU ? 
 Is it capable of being described? I almost 
 
38 LETTERS PROM HELL. 
 
 doubt it ; but still I will do my best to give 
 you a sketch. 
 
 Of course Hell has its geography. " What 
 its extent ?" No one can say. Infinity is the 
 only answer that can be given. If one could 
 take earth, sun, moon, and all the planets to- 
 gether, they would not nearly fill Hell. Yet, 
 what am I saying? Space here is as little 
 capable of measurement as time. 
 *^' And Hell's boundaries ?" 
 On one side only can there be said to be a 
 boundary, and that at an immense distance off, 
 even to a spirit's conception. Whether any one 
 has ever yet actually reached it, I cannot say ; 
 I only know that a boundary does exist. On 
 every other side none has ever been discovered. 
 In the direction of the glimmering light 
 there is a tremendous abyss, separating Para- 
 dise from the place of torment. 
 
 On yonder side, therefore, is Paradise, and 
 it is thence that the light issues. At stated, 
 and doubtless at regular intervals, the gloom 
 rises up from it ; and as it increases in inten- 
 sity, the light gradually wanes, till total dark- 
 ness sets in. This is our" night! Then the 
 abyss becomes as it were a burning mass, but 
 the flames give no light. It is Satan's corner, 
 the abode of the damned. It makes me shud- 
 der to speak of it. 
 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 39 
 
 After a while the gloom again sinks 
 down little hy little, and the light becomes 
 once more apparent, growing stronger and 
 brighter, till it has reached its culminating 
 point in a hazy, but wondrously soft twilight. 
 Then suddenly the misty shroud bursts asun- 
 der, and the light streams forth in overwhelming 
 streams. Hell is at first blinded with the glare, 
 and stricken to the heart, as it presently beholds, 
 on yonder side the pit. Paradise unfolding 
 itself in all its wondrous splendour and incon- 
 ceivable majesty to ihe vision of the damned. 
 Nay, not so ! We are not yet damned, but 
 rather let me say, to the languishing gaze of 
 the tormented. And not only can one see 
 into Paradise (for nothing is hidden), but the 
 blessed spirits of the dear departed ones also. 
 
 I have not yet experienced what I have now 
 forced myself to describe ; but I am proceed- 
 ing with the growing dawn to meet that hour 
 — that hour of blessedness or of woe. 
 
 How long the light is increasing, how long it 
 is waning, I have as little idea as I have of the 
 length of our night. Perhaps it is measured by 
 hours, perhaps by years ; but the bright efful- 
 gence of Paradise lasts but a fleeting moment, 
 though to many its duration may be bitterly 
 long. Shall I meet that hour with joy or dread ? 
 
 A dark, slimy river winds its way through- 
 
40 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 out the whole extent of Hell. You think, per- 
 haps, of Lethe. Alas ! no, my friend ; it is no 
 such Lethe, a draught from whose waters can 
 produce oblivion. Lethe is but a fable, while 
 this is a hideous reality. It has its source in 
 the world above ; all the lies and wickedness 
 of earth float down on its current. Maybe 
 that is why its water is so black and slimy : 
 often it resembles congealed blood. At irre- 
 gular intervals it swells and overflows its 
 banks, when some monstrous falsehood or 
 crime is hatched in the world above ; then its 
 waters pour over its banks, leaving behind 
 them a putrid mass of pestiferous mud. The 
 stench is scarcely bearable ; but we, hardy 
 spirits that we are, can bear all things ! 
 
 To the best of my recollection, I have already 
 alluded to the sufl"ocating nausea we sufier 
 from continually. It is not surprising. 
 
 All the vanity of the world descends direct 
 to Hell, and forms an atmosphere around us. 
 The greater the amount, the thicker the atmo- 
 sphere, and the more oppressive the feeling of 
 nausea. If one could only vomit ! But that is 
 impossible. Otherwise, one would vomit up the 
 world, which fills one to repletion ; one would 
 vomit up one's own self, and thus the torments 
 of Hell would come to an end. You see 
 I am a logician still. Alas, God help me! 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 41 
 
 Sometimes we have rain and snow ! It is 
 when follies and vanities accumulate to a more 
 than ordinary degree in the world, (and it 
 can endure a large amount of them ; it is its 
 nature,) and it can bear no more ; then the 
 surplus falls down into Hell, and, according to 
 an old custom, it is said to rain or snow. 
 
 Not only do events observe a certain chro- 
 nological, but also a political order here. 
 Neither are the sympathies quite excluded. 
 Grenerations dwell here as it were. in layers or 
 strata; those spirits that belong to the same 
 age usually herding together. But still, race, 
 and the development of civilization, make 
 themselves apparent even here. The last 
 arrivals naturally occupy the outermost places, 
 but as fresh crowds are ever pressing on, the 
 first-comers draw back. Of course, there are 
 many exceptions to these rules. Those who 
 have followed out the same lines of thought, 
 and the same pursuits, naturally flock together 
 here, though they may have belonged to dif- 
 ferent races of people, and to periods widely 
 remote. 
 
 Frequently, also, these persons compose a 
 whole by themselves, who had formed an ex- 
 clusive social circle in the world above, or be- 
 longed to certain definite periods. Thus, there 
 is a " City of Unrighteousness," called also the 
 
42 LETTEK8 FROM HELL. 
 
 " City of Politicians ;" a " Town of the Holy 
 Inquisition ;" a " City of the Jews ;" of " the 
 Mormons," " Sodomites," *^' Pre-Noachians," 
 &c. Hell thus, in a great measure, assumes 
 the appearance of a colonized land. Inclina- 
 tion and caprice, I should add, play as great a 
 part here as in the world above. 
 
 Gradually I have learnt to know the laws 
 that prevail here. They are as simple as they 
 are natural. Desire and remorse keep the 
 whole in motion. I was nearly substituting 
 repentance, but that is a word of whose mean- 
 ing we know nothing. Our torment is of a 
 twofold nature, but the result is only one. 
 Some have to follow after the same lusts and 
 desires which they followed on earth, and yet 
 never be satisfied ; or practise the same evil 
 deeds as of old, but with ineffable disgust and 
 aversion to themselves. 
 
 The covetous man, for instance, can think 
 of nothing but his gold still ; the unclean man 
 only of his uncleanness ; the gluttonous man 
 only of his appetite ; the murderer only of his 
 foul bloody deed. Others, again, are con- 
 strained to follow after those very things 
 which they neglected in the world, and are 
 tormented with a longing to make good and 
 to restore, knowing all the while that it is in 
 vain. The unrighteous man thinks only of 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 43 
 
 repairing his unrighteous deeds; the unmer- 
 ciful only of exercising mercy ; the unnatural 
 mother's thoughts are now centred on her 
 poor children; while the self-murderer's sole 
 anxiety is now to save his life. 
 
 All are compelled either to do as they did 
 on earth, but ought not to have done ; to aim 
 after those things that once were their aim, but 
 unlawfully so. Or inversely, to do those things 
 they left undone on earth, but ought to have 
 performed; or to follow after those which 
 they wilfully omitted, but ought to have fol- 
 lowed after. 
 
 But the sufferings of Hell must not be re- 
 garded in the light of a punishment. Punish- 
 ment is yet impending ; first comes the Judg- 
 ment. No, it is but the direct consequence of 
 our life on earth. Ye that are still alive, 
 think, T pray you, on these things. Every- 
 thing, be it ever so small, has consequences 
 attached to it, which extend far, far beyond the 
 boundaries of an earthly life into the very 
 depths of Hell : of the kingdom of Heaven I 
 can say nothing. If then the simple conse- 
 quences are so fearful, what must the punish- 
 ment itself be ? 
 
 The law then, the fearful fundamental law 
 that obtains in Hell, is, that we are not tor- 
 mented, but that we torment ourselves. But 
 
44 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 notice the point from which everything issues, 
 and on which finally everything depends, 
 namely, whether we have lived in the faith of 
 G-od's Son, who once gave Himself for us. Our 
 iniquities weigh down the scale in proportion 
 as they have stood in the way of our faith, or 
 have testified against it. Do not be surprised 
 that I name the name of God. Alas, He is 
 still our God ! And in the same way I name 
 the name of God's Son. We know that God 
 has a Son, who once came into the world to 
 save sinners, and that He loved the lost sheep 
 unto death, even the death of the cross. But, 
 for all that, we know naught of salvation, or 
 redemption ; all is forgotten, even to the 
 Saviour's very name. We often waste our 
 strength in agonizing endeavours to recall, 
 if it were only a particle of it. But all in 
 vain ; not even His name. Oh, if we could 
 only remember that name, and be able to pro- 
 nounce it, then we should be saved indeed! 
 I do not doubt it for an instant. But woe, 
 woe ! It is too late ! 
 
 On the whole, what I have forgotten is 
 enormous. I might well say I have forgotten 
 everything except myself. Yes, I speak cor- 
 rectly, for I have not forgotten myself. On 
 the contrary, I remember everything con- 
 nected with my life with a degree of precision 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 45 
 
 as painful as it is wonderful. But what was 
 once, as it were, attached to my being has 
 disappeared. Intelligence, accomplishments, 
 talents, with all the other ornaments of Mam- 
 mon and the flesh, have disappeared together. 
 It is not so wonderful then that this feeling 
 of nakedness is so vividly impressed on me. 
 
 Yes, only myself remains. And when I 
 inquire of what this individuality of mine 
 consists, I find only burning remorse that can 
 never be quenched ; ardent desires that can 
 never be satisfied ; a foolish longing after 
 what is lost, and can never be found ; an im- 
 measurable amount of recollections, small and 
 great, which are bitter and painful in the 
 mass. 
 
 There you have me exactly as I am, O 
 God, my God, in the torments of Hell ! 
 
46 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 CHAPTER lY. 
 
 I "WAS not brought up under the most happy 
 conditions. My parents were an ill-matched, 
 ill-assorted pair. Indeed, it was a very general 
 remark among people, " that it was a wonder 
 they ever could have married." My father 
 was a plain, simple-minded man, retiring and 
 unpretentious in his manner. He was the 
 head of a very renowned mercantile and 
 manufacturing firm ; but, for all this, to out- 
 ward appearance, he seemed a very unim- 
 portant personage. 
 
 As far back as I can remember, my mother, 
 who was the most important of the two in my 
 eyes, was, in every sense of the word, a lady. 
 She was strikingly beautiful, and retained her 
 good looks for a very long time. Possibly the 
 reason of this was that she had been a stranger 
 to any great passions. Some people, indeed, 
 called her cold and apathetic, and there was 
 doubtless some truth in the remark ; but they 
 would have committed a great error had they 
 
--. ''F^v«=s^PKf:r7''?^^v:^^ 
 
 LETTERS FROM HELL. 47 
 
 said she had no will of her own, or was devoid 
 of energy. For though the former never cer- 
 tainly showed itself in any repulsive manner, 
 I do not believe it had ever been bent. Who, 
 indeed, could have bent it, when I her only, 
 her darling child, was powerless to do so. 
 And she was just as clever as she was decided 
 and firm. 
 
 She was universally admired ; I cannot say 
 beloved. Perhaps no one really loved her but 
 myself ! Did I love my mother ? If I were 
 to give a truthful answer to this question, I 
 should have to own that I too admired her 
 more than I loved her. And well did she de- 
 serve this admiration. Much as I have seen 
 of the world, I have never met with any other 
 woman who so entirely came up to my ideas 
 of what a lady ought to be. She was per- 
 fection realized ; perfect in beauty ; perfect in 
 manner, carriage, and bearing ; perfect in 
 dress ; perfect in all the customs of the world 
 perfect in the due discharge of her duties ; 
 and perfect in her conduct, in Christian piety 
 and devotion. 
 
 In all things she was a model for imita- 
 tion ; free from spot or stain. She never gave 
 offence; never said, or did, or sanctioned any- 
 thing that was not right. 
 
 In fine, I might say that my mother was 
 
48 LETTERS PROM HELL. 
 
 perfect even to the very minutest fold of her 
 dress. And she enjoyed this reputation to a 
 ripe old age ; and even then her pretty looks 
 were loth to leave her. 
 
 When I look back, I can see her, as I can y\ 
 see everything else, far more clearly than I 
 could then. It is no longer a secret to me Ij 
 that she was greatly influenced by the world, y'p. 
 The world was her pattern, and this was why | 
 she had developed herself to such perfection. f 
 
 I do not mean to imply by this that she was 
 anyways deficient in her appreciation of re- 
 ligion, or of her higher duties. On the con- 
 trary, I venture to say few persons have kept 
 God's commandments so closely before their 
 eyes. 
 
 She honoured the clergy ; the church was, 
 as it were, a second home to her ; no one ever 
 left her without being satisfied one way or 
 another. Duty and propriety walked hand 
 in hand by her side through the whole of her 
 life. 
 
 Our house was, as it were, divided into two. 
 In one my mother was at home, in the other 
 my father. Thus they were like two circles 
 that barely touch each other. I did not stand 
 midway between the two, but as my mother's 
 petted darling belonged to the higher circle. 
 I seldom came in contact with my father. 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 49 
 
 His quiet, serious nature, his calm, searching 
 look, made me shun him. Neither did he 
 take much notice of me, though I doubt not 
 but that I was really dear to him. 
 
 My mother's circle was a refined one ; she 
 was fond of gaiety. My father, however, 
 seldom took any part in it ; and whenever he 
 did I could not help feehng rather ashamed of 
 him. For, though master of the house, he 
 was extremely simple and retiring in his 
 manner. Indeed, the greater part of his time 
 was spent in the counting-house, tHe factory, 
 or the warehouse. 
 
 My aunt on my father's side was the very 
 reverse of my mother. She was an old maid, 
 eccentric in character, and composed of ano- 
 malies, infirmities, and peculiarities. In all 
 respects save one she was not to be relied on, 
 and she was constantly over-stepping the mark 
 in all directions. She was overstrained, capri- 
 cious, and was always committing herself. A 
 lady, properly speaking, she was not, but at 
 times the whim would seize her to act the part 
 of one. It was, however, merely an assumed 
 character, one which she quickly abandoned. 
 And yet, with all this, she was natural to a 
 rare degree ; her heart was ever on her lips. 
 She was extremely naive, and her manner of 
 talking so droll, that she was, as she herself 
 
 VOL. I. B 
 
50 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 said, the only one who could enliven my 
 serious, quiet father. And this was a duty 
 she faithfully accomplished. Aunt Betty was 
 far from being perfection. In the eyes of the 
 world, which, by tlie way, but seldom caught 
 a glimpse of her, she was, to use a mild ex- 
 pression, considered to be a queer sort of per- 
 son. She only possessed one thing in perfec- 
 tion ; and that was a heart, streaming over 
 with love, prepared for any sacrifice ; a heart 
 whose nature and privilege it was to deny 
 itself to promote the happiness of other people. 
 On herself she never bestowed a thought. 
 And her heart was full of a faith as deep, as 
 lively, as simple, as a little child's. Of course 
 she had her ups and downs in life ; but her 
 heart was always in its right place. And 
 God dwelt in her heart. At times she often 
 got into great confusion about her duties, and 
 ran amuck of the commandments ; but for all 
 that the great commandment always stood out 
 clearly before her eyes, containing in itself all 
 the other commandments, and all the duties of 
 life — "Love God ; Love one another." 
 
 She had never been separated from my father 
 from earliest childhood. Now she managed 
 the household ; for it was a large house, and 
 possessed, as it were, two menages. 
 
 If I were to compare her with Cinderellaj 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 51 
 
 the simile, though not strictly correct, would 
 still contain a good deal of truth. For while 
 in domestic affairs her sway was acknowledged 
 she was still everybody's servant. All the 
 troubles and annoyances fell to her lot; she 
 wore herself out for the house. But it was 
 entirely her own doing ; for if any one ever 
 remonstrated she would become quite refrac- 
 tory, though usually of such a mild, amiable 
 disposition. My lady-like mother never put 
 finger to anything ; to my aunt was entrusted 
 the care of the whole establishment, of my 
 father included. In a word, she was virtually 
 mistress. To try and economize, to work, and 
 to worry herself, were among the least of the 
 burdens she had to endure ; for she felt herself 
 called on to bear the sorrows, pains, and 
 troubles of the whole family. She took the 
 blame of everything, and voluntarily made 
 herself a scape-goat for the omissions and 
 commissions of everybody else. All this she 
 looked upon as the part assigned to her to 
 fulfill in the world. She it was who acted as 
 mediator between my parents, surpassing all 
 of us in cleverness by her great simpHcity. 
 In truth, she formed a most important con- 
 necting link between them. But it was prin- 
 cipally to my father she dedicated herself, 
 hanging to him with a tenderness so touching 
 
 IfBRARV 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILUNOiJ 
 
52 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 that words fail me to describe it. How well 
 she understood how to make his comfortless 
 home comfortable ; to keep all vexations out 
 of sight, and they were not few ; to cheer him 
 up with a merry speech which often came 
 from a sad heart, in order to bridge over the 
 wide space that lay between him and his wife 
 — aye, and his child ! 
 
 And how she loved me ! Kind, good soul ! 
 My mother petted me, I will not say actually 
 spoiled me ; for she was too prudent to do that. 
 But I have to thank my aunt for having been 
 a good and pious child, notwithstanding all my 
 indulgences. It was on her knee I learnt my 
 first lesson in holy things ; and it took root 
 within, as nothing good ever did afterwards. 
 Yes, the memory of those days is inexpressibly 
 sweet to me, spite of all the bitterness of Hell. 
 The attractive power of her love was so great 
 that I would often slink away from my 
 mother's handsome apartments, where I was 
 lord and master, to pass my time with my 
 aunt as a poor child, either in the kitchen, or 
 in the Httle room she called her own. They 
 were the happiest days I have ever passed. 
 
 Thus I received a sound reHgious education, 
 but I did not owe it to my mother, though she 
 was pious, too, after a fashion. But it did not 
 strengthen with my growth. I grew up with 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 53 
 
 strong sensual passions, and at an early age I 
 got a taste of the world, 
 
 -A unt Betty died ; she had literally worn 
 herself out : affection is often a costly thing. 
 Her death made a strong impression on me 
 for the time, but it did not last long. 
 
 I was already engaged in the business of 
 the office. My mother had made up her mind 
 that I should follow a military, or, if possible, a 
 diplomatic career. In good looks I took after 
 her ; wealth I should inherit from my father^ 
 and in other respects I was by no means de- 
 ficient. She was proud of me, and wished to 
 see me distinguish myself in the world. But 
 though my father had almost entirely given 
 me over to my mother's care, on this point his 
 mind was made up. I was to follow his pro- 
 fession, and become a steady business man. 
 
 And he was right. I had the gift of fasci- 
 nating every one, a dangerous gift forsooth for 
 persons of a nature like mine. Not only did 
 I find the world ready to embrace me, but it 
 literally dragged me to its arms, as the nymphs 
 did Hylas. Thus I was ruined before the 
 down on my cheek had begun to curl. Bad 
 friends I had in numbers, but those of the 
 other sex were by far the most dangerous. A 
 time of compensation, however, came; from 
 being the seduced I soon became the seducer. 
 
54 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 After I came more under my father's eye 
 there was no lack of warnings, reproofs, and 
 admonitions on his side. But it was of no 
 use. I avoided him, and deceived him. But 
 my mother had far greater influence with me. 
 On the one hand, she made me feel that she 
 was yielding enough to make excuses, and to 
 pretend to be blind to my follies ; while on the 
 other she knew well how to represent the 
 necessity of prudence and propriety in such 
 colours as to make me promise to amend ; 
 and I actually did amend at her suggestions. 
 I curtailed my excesses, and was careful not 
 to create a scandal. At first the restraint was 
 irksome, for I revelled in brutish lusts and 
 passions ; but if these latter were strong, my 
 will was strong enough to tame them, and my 
 mother's clever way of dealing with me made 
 me will. 
 
 My father died when I was about twenty 
 years old. He had never been seen to smile 
 since Aunt Betty's death, for there was no 
 one any longer in the world to make him 
 cheerful ! 
 
 I was taken into partnership when still very 
 young, under the guidance of my father's 
 brother, and shortly afterwards was attacked 
 by a severe illness. 
 
 And now I am approaching one of the 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 55 
 
 darkest portions of my life. It is in truth but 
 a little matter, dashed off hastily like a pencil 
 sketch on a pleasure trip, but for all that it 
 contains the germ of the bitterest remorse I 
 suffer from. If in all other respects I could 
 be washed clean, that dark spot would still 
 remain. 
 
 When I became convalescent I was ex- 
 tremely weak and feeble. It was in the early 
 part of the summer. The doctors recom- 
 mended a trip into the country ; but I had no 
 desire to repair to our country seat, for I was 
 capricious and peevish to a degree. Perfect 
 repose and quiet were ordered, and certainly 
 they were not to be found there. A capri- 
 cious whim accidentally decided the matter. 
 During the former summer we had made an 
 excursion to the sea-side ; and I brought 
 before my mind a very small house, situated 
 in the middle of a forest, so retired and still 
 that it seemed as if Peace itself had taken up 
 its dwelling there amidst those cool shadows 
 of roses, ivy, and clustering honeysuckle. It 
 belonged to some forester. If I went into the 
 country at all, I would go there, and nowhere 
 else. 
 
 After a great many objections had been 
 raised, the matter was at length arranged, and 
 we set out. The old forester was living alone 
 
66 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 with a daughter who was just emerging into 
 womanhood. 
 
 Anna ! Little did I dream that this name 
 would ever ring so terribly in my ears ! 
 
 I regained my strength, but began to get 
 tired of the place, pretty though it was ; so to 
 relieve the ennui from which I suffered I 
 began to make love to Anna. She was 
 little more than a farmer's daughter, but 
 extremely graceful and unconstrained in 
 manner and appearance. It seemed as if 
 her whole being was in harmony with the 
 surrounding landscape. Like the wood in 
 whose midst she lived she was all freshness 
 and sweet perfume. Nature could not possibly 
 have presented anything more attractive to me 
 than this young maid, so unrestrained, I might 
 almost say wild, and yet so opposite to every- 
 thing coarse or vulgar. We spent the greater 
 part of our time in each other's company, for 
 her father looked on her but as a child still, 
 though she was just seventeen years old. 
 
 She it was who waited on me. But all the 
 fine things with which I honoured her were lost 
 on her. Light-footed as a deer, easily moved 
 to laughter, she was not to be readily caught. 
 She took care not to come too near me, not 
 that she was afraid of any danger, for she 
 suspected none ; but like every free and open 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 57 
 
 nature slie shunned bonds and snares. Her 
 thoughts were far removed from what is 
 termed love. She was contented in herself, 
 and supremely happy ; her life was as joyous 
 as a bird's, or as a butterfly's among the 
 flowers. I have never known a disposition so 
 thoroughly joyous, nor a nature so animated 
 as hers. Sunshine or rain, she would sing 
 under the open heaven; she tripped, as it 
 were, through the world. 
 
 But in a devilish mood I said to myself, 
 " Wait awhile, my little one ; I will see if I 
 cannot tame you." 
 
 I did not fall in love with her, our respective 
 positions were too widely apart from each 
 other for that. But my passions became 
 keenly aroused, and gradually she grew more 
 and more attractive to me. 
 
 And at last I succeeded in taming her, after 
 having had recourse to numberless artifices. 
 So thoroughly did I succeed that no one would 
 have recognised her. 
 
 She faded away like a wild flower whose 
 stalk has been crushed, or hke a bird whose 
 wing has been broken. 
 
 Her merry, ringing laugh was silent now ; 
 her dauntless bearing was no longer to be 
 seen. Quietly and sorrowfully, with downcast 
 look and averted gaze, she slunk about. But 
 
68 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 with a tenderness that had no match, with an 
 affection that possessed no bounds, she now 
 Hterally clung to me — me, her destroyer. ': 
 
 She knew that I had taken away her very 
 life. Lost as she was she loved me still, 
 though I it was who had been her ruin. 
 
 Then remorse began to fix its sharp talons 
 into my heart. For I could not but feel 
 affected at the display of so much real love. 
 I was not utterly bad then. 
 
 And if she had been charming before, she 
 was not the less so now. 
 
 It is true she was not the same person, but 
 there wa's an enchantment in the transforma- 
 tion she had undergone. Formerly so free, so 
 wild, like one whose neck has never bowed to 
 the yoke ; and now humbled, and crushed like 
 one who still even kisses the chains that bind 
 him. 
 
 I reciprocated her love, or at least I fancied 
 I loved her. And I began to think seriously 
 about marrying. 
 
 But it was otherwise decided. My prudent, 
 careful mother, got wind of it, and took upon 
 herself the task of bringing me to reason. 
 She began by pointing out the folly of such a 
 step in a manner by no means calculated to 
 exasperate, but none the less powerful. There 
 was no ridicule in her words, but still she 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 59 
 
 made me feel that the whole affair was per- 
 fectly laughable. She did not seek to thwart 
 my plans, but taught me gradually to regard 
 them from another point of view. If I had 
 ever really loved Anna, doubtless, I shoidd 
 not have given way. But the scales fell from 
 my eyes : I did not love her : I only felt sorry 
 for her. 
 
 To this point my mother would constantly 
 revert ; and then little by little began to divert 
 my attention — not to speak of my desires — 
 into another channel. 
 
 She had taken a little child into the house, 
 some distant, orphan relative. She was born 
 in America, and was now abont nine or ten 
 years of age. Up to this time I had scarcely 
 ever noticed her. But now passing allusions 
 were constantly being made of her surpassing 
 beauty; and at last she gave me plainly to 
 understa,nd " that in seven or eight years' time 
 Lili would be one of the loveliest women, and 
 one of the best matches in the world, and 
 would, therefore, be sought after by hundreds. 
 If I would only agree to dismiss Anna from 
 my thoughts, and direct them towards lili, 
 she would not only promote my views, but 
 would actually keep her for me. Of course, I 
 should not marry her till she was grown up ; 
 meanwhile I might travel the world round 
 
60 LETTERS PROM HELL. 
 
 without being able to find a bride to compare 
 with Lili." 
 
 Yes ! it was all true. My imaginative 
 powers came into play, and from that day 
 forth I occupied myself a great deal with the 
 little fatherless Creole. 
 
 Lili was, undoubtedly, a pretty child. I 
 could form a very good opinion of what she 
 would be, and my passions were accordingly 
 aroused. Artless child that she was, she, of 
 course, could not minister to them. But I 
 derived a certain degree of enjoyment from 
 her even now ; even before I was aware of it 
 I was won over to my mother's scheme. 
 
 There was something extremely exciting in 
 these peculiar circumstances. To guard Lili 
 for my very own, without her having the 
 smallest idea of it herself; to watch her 
 budding charms gradually developing them- 
 selves for me ; to mould her according to my 
 wishes ; to see treasure upon treasure accu- 
 mulate within her, till the time of enjoying 
 all these had come. Call it unnatural if you 
 please, but it was enchantment to such a 
 nature as mine. You understand me, selfish- 
 ness is an ogre, that devours everything 
 around it without becoming satisfied, or even 
 one whit the fatter. But I was more than 
 selfish. There was the demon of lust within ; 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 61 
 
 and however natural in other respects demons 
 may be, they always find their greatest de- 
 light in acting contrary to nature. 
 
 I gave my mother free liberty to arrange 
 matters about Anna in a becoming manner ; 
 and from that day I kept my promise, and 
 never set eyes on her again. 
 
 Was it not a great sacrifice on my part ? I 
 feel it to have been so now 1 
 
62 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 CHAPTER Y. 
 
 I AM beginning to feel myself at home — ^yes, 
 at home ! Sweetly and pleasantly as that 
 word falls upon the ear above, in Hell it 
 has a frightful sound. But Hell remains Hell 
 whether we use the word home or not, and in 
 Hell we must remain. The fact is we are com- 
 pelled to feel ourselves at home. 
 
 This irresistible impulse of vainly imitating 
 what we did on earth ; of passing and of pur- 
 suing a shadowy existence with an actual de- 
 sire in the heart ; in this consists the " daily 
 bread " of our torment in Hell, if I may use 
 such a term. Yes ! desire is a full reality ; it 
 is ever the same, though the bodily senses are 
 dead. This it is that makes it so branded 
 within, that it burns like a glowing flame. 
 Our state here is not badly sketched in the 
 fables of Tantalus and Sisyphus. In Hell 
 nothing exists save desire alone, and every- 
 thing is vain and fruitless. Truly is the 
 saying exemplified here : " Vanity of vanities." 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 63 
 
 All is illusion, and yet what a terrible 
 reality ! 
 
 I have accordingly resumed my former 
 manner of life, not from pleasure, but from 
 compulsion, Avith an inward feeling of loath- 
 ing and disgust. Meanwhile I have got on 
 very well in the circle in which for the time 
 I am placed ; I have renewed many old ac- 
 quaintances, besides forming several new 
 ones, which I should not have cared to do 
 when in the world. How astonished you 
 would be if I were to be so indiscreet as to 
 mention names. For not only are there 
 several respectable persons to be found here, 
 but they actually form the greater proportion, 
 just as they did in the world. There is no 
 mistaking them. I refer to those who think 
 only of attending to their own affairs, and of 
 eating their bread in peace and quiet, caring 
 for naught else, utterly regardless of that 
 higher calling which makes all the children 
 of one Father, and unites them in one family. 
 
 Only look around you. They throng about 
 you, but pay no heed to you. They busy 
 themselves, these men and women, in their 
 public and private pursuits, in their domestic 
 life, in their housekeeping and daily affairs. 
 Few people have any idea that in the hubbub 
 of daily life two of the most dangerous traps 
 
64 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 are laid for them. Some drag themselves 
 through life ; others dawdle through it ; and 
 this they call " to live." And then suddenly it 
 is ended, and they close their eyes, to open 
 them again in torment. 
 
 Oh ! if I had but one year of my life over 
 again (and I am not thinking of myself alone), 
 possibly I might be the means of saving some 
 of those respectable individuals, fathers of 
 families, and others, from inevitable destruc- 
 tion, whose thoughts never rise above their 
 office desk, their dinner table, or their bed; 
 and some of those exemplary housewives, too, 
 and mothers of families whose ideas are con- 
 centrated in their saucepans or washing tubs. 
 I say, possibly, because I know too well that 
 in most houses doors and hearts would be shut 
 against me. 
 
 Regarding the so-called benefactors of hu- 
 manity, I have noticed one remarkable fact, 
 that some of them (I say, some) have actually 
 benefited hundreds of their fellow-beings, and 
 have only been enemies to their own selves. 
 But if you are wise, and would preserve your 
 soul, beware of attaching any importance to 
 the world's praise, of whatever nature it be. 
 Like a worthless packet by express post, it 
 will hurry you on to certain ruin. 
 
 But I must recollect where I am. I have 
 
 n 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 65 
 
 nothing more to do with the world. The mul- 
 titudes I have alluded to above come into the 
 torments of Hell without ever hav;ng been 
 guilty of any gross crime. In the world it 
 will be said (if only for the sake of the nice 
 expression), " What a crying sin !" They felt 
 themselves so secure, because they were un- 
 conscious of Laving committed any crime; 
 and in this consciousness they discovered the 
 fulness of righteousness. And yet, for all 
 that, they have gone to Hell ; though the 
 greater number of them come here without 
 any dominant passion within. " What a cry- 
 ing sin !" But their misery is equally great. 
 Their punishment, indeed, consists in their 
 having nothing to do, no avocations, no busi- 
 ness, in which they can employ themselves. 
 But if they have no passions, they have habits. 
 And is there not a saying, " Old habits bite 
 best?" In other words, habits are just as 
 biting as passions. It is quite certain that if 
 restlessness and weariness could kill people, 
 and it were possible to die here, the greater 
 proportion of Hell's denizens would die from 
 sheer ennui, and Hell would be deserted. 
 
 After having been duly introduced, I live a 
 very sociable life. You are astonished, per- 
 haps, at my using the word " introduced," but 
 without reason ; for ought we to be quite 
 
 VOL. I. F 
 
66 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 ignorant of good breeding and manners here ? 
 There is no art in going to Hell ; bnt it is 
 quite a different thing to be presentable in 
 Hell. It is just the same as in the world, only 
 with this difference : there, -it depends on what 
 a man is ; here, on what he has been. In the 
 world I was a handsome, agreeable, refined 
 man, of large means. I am not that now, but 
 I pretend to be. Do not think there is any 
 trick in this ; it is pure nature — purer than 
 any house of correction in the world could 
 render it. 
 
 At first, I was much bored with visits and 
 invitations. Novelty is as much sought after 
 here as in the world. If I had only brought 
 with me a few of its silly, genteel fashions, I 
 should have been heartily welcomed. But 
 without wishing to say a word in my own 
 praise, I brought nothing with me save a 
 fashionable existence of a most vapid descrip- 
 tion. Shall I give you an account of a luxu- 
 rious and festive party I attended recently ? 
 They had shown me the honour of inviting 
 me in company with some of the greatest 
 gourmands and drinkers the world ever knew. 
 Truly, an unmerited honour ! I have never 
 been the one nor the other ; on the contrary, 
 have always adhered to that golden rule, "^s/ 
 modus in rebusy With a profusion almost un- 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 67 
 
 precedented, there was everything to tantalize 
 the appetite and tickle the palate. And to 
 judge by the witty remarks and obscene jokes 
 that were bandied about, it went off very well. 
 There was everything to tempt; but enjoy- 
 ment was wanting ! Prithee let me be silent on 
 that score. Nothing was real at this banquet 
 except inflamed passions ; the guests had no- 
 thing else to consume save their own selves. 
 
 Our meat and drink consisted of an inde- 
 scribable feeling of nothingness ; in every 
 mouthful, in every glass we raised to our lips, 
 we felt ourselves inwardly consumed. And 
 as for the jokes, they were merely old, stale, 
 musty sayings, hashed up again in a variety 
 of ways, rather calculated to produce disgust 
 than merriment. 
 
 That person is not to be found in Hell who 
 can give utterance to a really refreshing, 
 amusing witticism. Meanwhile we were ob- 
 liged to eat and drink, laugh and chat away as 
 merrily as we could. 
 
 We were obliged, do you understand ? If so, 
 you have some idea what a banquet in Hell is. 
 
 Or shall I go further, and describe one 
 of our orgies to you ? I say our, but it is a 
 rarity that I ever attend one of them. For 
 they are more horrible in character than I can 
 describe, and you know I lay great stress on 
 
G8 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 decorum ; so on those grounds I will not enter 
 into details, but will only remark that the pre- 
 sence of the weaker sex by no means enhances 
 one's enjoyment, but only increases the pain. 
 Those empty kisses ! those shadowy embraces ! 
 — Faugh ! let me pass them by in silence ! 
 
 Whilst I was sitting at one of those sump- 
 tuous boards where nothing that luxury could 
 supply was wanting, I could not but reflect on 
 the condition of the peasant, the poor half- 
 starved peasant, who has to eat his bread in 
 the sweat of his brow. Oh ! but that wretched 
 crust with which he appeases his craving hun- 
 ger, that weak thin beer with which he slakes 
 his thirst, forms a banquet, indeed, to which 
 ours bears no comparison. If only to have 
 something real to bite with the teeth, some- 
 thing real to swallow, whatever the drink may 
 be — what a pleasure ! 
 
 Is it not that incomparable hero Achilles, 
 who, in the shades below, gives utterance to 
 the remark, " that he would rather be the 
 most miserable day-labourer on earth than a 
 king or a hero without an equal in the lower 
 world ?" It is but heathenish wisdom, yet 
 how true ! For my part, I would ten thousand 
 times be the most abject slave ; be crushed and 
 bowed down by every sorrow, hard labour, 
 and misery conceivable, than fill the highest 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 69 
 
 post, or the most respectable position, in 
 Hell. 
 
 Of all the countless fools the world rears, 
 none are greater than those who take away their 
 own life, on the plea that it is impossible for 
 them to be worse off than they are at present. 
 Oh ! but however great their worldly suffer- 
 ings may be, they can still be far more miser- 
 able. They will long after the old condition, 
 even though it had been the most wretched. 
 Only offer them one ten times more wretched 
 still, ten times more abject, and they would 
 jump at it. If it were possible for you to do so, 
 they would call you their saviour, and would 
 eternally bless you. 
 
 There are but few, however, who carry folly 
 to such a pitch as to lay violent hands on 
 themselves. The greater number (and their 
 number is legion) content themselves with 
 giving vent to sighs and groans, by wearing 
 sour and miserable faces, and thus shorten 
 their days. Their shortening their life 
 would not matter much, if they only made it 
 better. But unfortunately, they do the very 
 reverse, they kill and waste the remainder of 
 their days in ceaseless discontent. They are 
 discontented with themselves ; with the world ; 
 with the very air they breathe ; the ground- 
 they walk on ; the light that falls on their eyes. 
 
70 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 And why are they dissatisfied ? Because for- 
 sooth their health is not quite so good in some 
 respects as could be desired ; because the 
 world occasionally goes against them ; or be- 
 cause their position in life does not quite har- 
 monize with their views and tastes ; or because 
 others are better off than themselves; or because 
 they have had greater struggles to contend 
 against than other people ; or because life has 
 been a grand mistake, and their fondest hopes 
 and aspirations have suffered shipwreck. 
 
 I do not say that all this is nothing. On 
 the contrary, life is full of hardships to most 
 persons, to many it overflows with them. 
 But this I do say. If you who are wasting 
 away your time in discontent, could only look 
 on matters from this place, you would find 
 that however interwoven your earthly lot 
 may be with sorrows, affliction, and misery, 
 there is yet a bright side to it. So much 
 depends on the way in which a person meets 
 anything. If instead of staring till you are 
 dazed at your misfortunes, disowning them 
 as it were, you were to make them part and 
 parcel of yourself, were to use them as a 
 powerful incentive to action, how totally 
 different your lot would appear to you. Many 
 a misfortune is a misfortune only in imagi- 
 nation ; under proper treatment it disperses. 
 
 I ' 
 
LETTEES FROM HELL. 71 
 
 And many an actual misfortune can often 
 implant the germ of new aspirations, and thus 
 lay the foundation of a better and a happier 
 life. Yes, if you could only view things from 
 this place, it would at once be evident to you 
 that a man (an able man naturally) can bear 
 a very great deal, can reconcile himself to 
 many a misfortune, loss, and trouble, and still 
 be a happy man. You would find that each 
 day, even of such a life as that you are leading 
 now, was a precious, a costly thing ; a gift 
 from Heaven, for which it were impossible to 
 be sufficiently grateful. You would under- 
 stand how my soul longs to be in your place ; 
 how fortunate I should prize myself, if I could 
 only occupy the position of the most wretched 
 being among you all. 
 
 It is all clear to me now ; but 'tis too late ! 
 too late ! 
 
 That we worry ourselves with stiff and 
 elegant parties, just as of old, is a natural 
 consequence. Drawing-room life occupies no 
 small portion of our existence. But if this 
 description of " high life " used to be hollow, 
 and killing work before, imagine what it is 
 now, where hollowness and death are pre- 
 supposed. When I reflect upon it, I cannot 
 conceive how ever I could have made such a 
 victim of myself to the world. It is exactly 
 
72 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 as if some evil, malicious spirit were at the 
 bottom of it all. As if it dragged some 
 twenty to fifty persons by the roots of the 
 hair (who for the most part would have been 
 very comfortable and happy at home — persons, 
 who, generally speaking, do not even know one 
 another), and shut them all up together in a 
 brilliantly lighted suite of apartments. And 
 that is called a party ! Doubtless, the spirit 
 enjoys the fun immensely, but the poor 
 victims are ready to die of ennui and weari- 
 ness the while. At last when the spirit has 
 amused himself enough for once, the enchant- 
 ment is over. The company separates ; the 
 lights are put out ! After the long and 
 unnatural constraint, people come to their 
 senses once again. Host and hostess say from 
 their heart, " Thank God, it is all over !" 
 While their guests ejaculate just as heartily, 
 " So glad to get home again !" 
 
 I said just now, I could not conceive how 
 ever T could have victimized myself for such 
 formalities. But here it is quite a different 
 matter. The constraint imposed on us here 
 is far greater, ten times more terrible, than 
 any spirit, however malicious, could impose. 
 
 Well ! We go into society just as of old. 
 Here, as there, the great aim is to show one- 
 self; to act a part, and above all to bore one- 
 
LETTEES FROM HELL. 73 
 
 self to death by attention to etiquette. Here 
 also, as there, it is our aim to wear a pleasing 
 exterior, and to say pleasant things. And yet 
 there is a great, a radical difference, which 
 makes our position as painful as it is wonder- 
 ful. For in Hell one sees not only through 
 the external garb, but into the very soul. So 
 when a person says with a smiling face, 
 "How delighted I am to see you ! how very 
 fortunate to meet you here !" and thinks at the 
 same time, " Shall I quarrel with the old 
 witch again ?" the party addressed reads all 
 one's thoughts, as plainly as she hears the 
 words. But we soon learn to arrive at a certain 
 degree of nonchalance, or recklessness in such 
 matters, otherwise all intercourse amongst us 
 would be unbearable. At the moment I am 
 talking, doubtless, the advantage is on the 
 lady's side ; but directly she opens her mouth 
 it is on mine ; for I can read her thoughts as 
 plainly as she can mine. We are quits ! 
 
 But there is one very disagreeable circum- 
 stance connected with it ; it is a confounded 
 obstacle to all flirtations. It would be an im- 
 possibility to carry on an intrigue with a 
 woman here, even if her virtue were rather 
 frail. All the compliments of the world could 
 not cozen her. Therefore, in one respect, we 
 are a very virtuous set. Above all there is 
 
74 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 great difficulty in getting flattery and compli- 
 ments to take. Our hearts are our deceivers, 
 in a different sense though to what they were 
 in the world. 
 
 On the whole it is utterly impossible to form 
 any idea of the number of surprising events 
 that take place here each day. Yiewed from 
 this place the world appears as a land of 
 dreams and imagination, but none the less 
 lovely and desirable. Anomalous as it may 
 seem, here where everything is unreal, reality 
 for the first time appears naked and unvar- 
 nished. Whether it be friends or enemies 
 that meet, they quickly arrive at a mutual 
 understanding, seldom, by the way, of a very 
 agreeable nature. 
 
 Would you like to hear an instance or two ? 
 The following are culled from the most recent 
 annals of gossip : 
 
 A. had been shot in a duel in which he was 
 engaged in order to wipe out an insult that 
 had been offered to his young and devoted 
 wife. To his great astonishment he met his 
 late antagonist a few days ago, who had also 
 gone the way of all flesh, and come to Hell. 
 
 In a fit of exasperation he went up to him, 
 but was met by the other with the utmost 
 sang-froid. 
 
 " Fool ! are you going to fly into another 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 75 
 
 passion, and for nothing too ? Away with it 
 — let us be friends ! " 
 
 " For nothing ! " hissed out A. " Was it 
 nothing that you insulted my wife, and then 
 took my life, when I stood forth to defend her ?" 
 
 "I will tell you the truth," was the reply. 
 " You take a wrong view of the matter 
 entirely. It stands simply as follows : I was 
 your wife's lover, but did not wish to be so 
 any longer. That was the insult! Then she 
 set you on against me. I say again, away 
 with it — let us be friends ! " 
 
 Whether they ever became friends I cannot 
 say ; but I only know that this piece of infor- 
 mation cooled A.'s blood. 
 
 7(f ^ ^ ^ 
 
 Two cousins were sitting together in con- 
 fidential conversation. They were Germans. 
 
 "Yes! I was born a poet!" said one of 
 them. " I wrote romances, and my first 
 works made a tremendous sensation." 
 
 " True ! Perhaps I know more about it 
 than any one else," answered his cousin. " It 
 was I wbo wrote the reviews in the papers 
 and journals ! It was I who brought you 
 into notoriety, my dear Coz ! Such things 
 are easily managed in our beloved fatherland, 
 if one only has a few connections, and just 
 enough wit so as to avoid being tedious." 
 
76 LETTERS PROM HELL. 
 
 " What do you mean? — you? — I am sure I 
 am extremely obliged to you. You must 
 indeed have taken a deal of trouble." 
 
 " Yes, indeed, I did," answered his cousin. 
 " The trouble was exactly proportionate to the 
 love I bore you. Have we not been like 
 brothers ever since we were little children ? " 
 
 Cousin number one thereupon became 
 thoughtful. After a long pause he resumed : 
 
 " Yes, indeed, I was uncommonly fortunate. 
 I became really quite the rage, and saw bril- 
 liant prospects before me. But all at once a 
 change took place, which I never could ac- 
 count for. The reviews suddenly became so 
 bitter and cutting, that I could no longer find 
 a publisher, and after several fruitless and 
 abortive attempts was obliged to come down 
 a peg or two." 
 
 "I can explain that too, to your entire 
 satisfaction," answered his companion. " I 
 tore you to pieces in the paper ; I made you 
 the object of a formal persecution; directly 
 you gave utterance to a line, I was down 
 upon you, so that at last you had to give it 
 up. 
 
 "How?— You?" 
 
 " Yes ; it is quite true ! But of course I did 
 it for the best. Your beloved mother, who had 
 also been a mother to me, charged me with her 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 77 
 
 last breath to do all in my power to arrest your 
 future progress along the road to niin, on which 
 you had already set out. You had no poetical 
 talents ; on the contrary, you were exactly cut 
 out for a butter merchant, a business which 
 had been in your family for generations, and 
 which was a very lucrative one. I saw it at 
 once ; it was all stuff about your literary fame. 
 I had blown the bladder full, it is true, but I 
 could not keep it inflated. In everything you 
 wrote the wind kept escaping between the 
 lines. Certainly you met your fate half way. 
 Then I set to work. In the interest of poetic 
 art, of butter dealing, and of your own, I 
 summoned all my talents and sarcasm to crush 
 you to the ground as often as you appeared in 
 print ; and my endeavours were crowned with 
 the most signal success. Your family grew 
 proud of you ; and you became a respectable 
 butter merchant, burgher, and a patriot ! " 
 
 " And am in Hell," interrupted the unfortu- 
 nate poet, rather peevishly ; " but should I 
 ever have come here had the road to Parnassus 
 not been so shamefully blocked against me ?" 
 
 "Well, that is a question, certainly," an- 
 swered his cousin quietly. " But of this I am 
 quite convinced, that poetry was as little 
 likely to gain you admission into Paradise, 
 as that butter is the cause of your being in 
 
 
78 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 Hell. But come, are we not like brothers ? 
 I meant it all for the best. What I did, I 
 would not have done for any one else." 
 
 But the poetical butter dealer turned angrily 
 away ; he had heard more than he could digest 
 
 all at once. 
 
 * * » * 
 
 " Nay, what, you here, my dear fellow ?" ex- 
 claimed a fat, pudgy little man, embracing a 
 conspicuous-looking fop who had advanced to 
 meet him. " I am glad and yet grieved to see 
 you here. You were the only one who stood 
 by me in my trouble. When I had lost every- 
 thing all my friends deserted me ; but you, 
 you alone stuck to me." 
 
 " Not everything, my dear friend," was the 
 mild answer. " You are making too much of 
 it — not everythiDg. You had your wife left 
 
 you still." 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Two monks were sitting together engaged 
 in earnest conversation. 
 
 " But tell me," said the one, " tell me, dear 
 brother, how it was that you came to go into a 
 cloister ?" 
 
 " The answer is very simple, — through my 
 own stupid folly. I fell desperately in love 
 with Lisella Neri, of our town; you may 
 perhaps remember her. She was reputed to 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 79 
 
 be a great beauty, and an excellent match ; 
 but as I could not get her, and in fact no one 
 else, I got disgusted with life, and entered 
 a cloister ; and I have repented it ever since. 
 That is my simple tale. But what made you 
 go into a cloister ?" 
 
 " A very different reason to yours," was the 
 reply. " I, too, had a hankering after Lisella, 
 was accepted, and became the unhappiest hus- 
 band under the sun. Lisella was the most 
 capricious and ill-tempered little vixen in the 
 world, and she did not care a pin for me. I 
 never had a moment's peace. So at last I 
 jumped at the only loop-hole open to me. I 
 left her all I possessed, and entered a cloister, 
 and have never repented doing so ; for if ever 
 I did feel at all discontented with my lot, I 
 had only to think of Lisella, and my ill- 
 humour vanished at once." 
 
 After this piece of information the first 
 monk remained a little while buried in deep 
 thought. 
 
 '^Well, I can make nothing out of it," at 
 length he said, " except that no man can avoid 
 his destiny. As far as I can see, I should 
 have entered a cloister whatever had hap- 
 pened. But you, brother, became the happier 
 of the two — not by Lisella, the pretty witch, — 
 but by the sad experience she taught you." 
 
 f 
 
80 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 But enough of this. I wonder how I can 
 tell such tales. If you think it affords me any 
 pleasure to do so, you are very much mistaken . 
 Amusement in Hell is always connected with 
 the bitterest pain. 
 
 Martin, poor Martin, what has become of 
 thee ? Truly he suffered a great wrong. 
 Badly brought up, badly managed, he was my 
 work. 
 
 She was a pretty little girl, just about his 
 age. I made her acquaintance as she was 
 scouring a staircase. Menial though her oc- 
 cupation was, she still presented a most attrac- 
 tive spectacle to the eye of a connoisseur. I 
 question whether she could possibly have ap- 
 peared to greater advantage under any cir- 
 cumstances whatsoever. The exertion which 
 set her young blood and limbs in motion; her 
 negligee style of dress and manner ; on the 
 whole the entire absence of restraint about 
 her, set her off wonderfully. I snatched her 
 away from the humiliating position, to which 
 her nature was little adapted, and placed her 
 in a respectable family, where she could be 
 properly clothed and educated. 
 
 JSdive and simple though she was, she 
 seemed to understand that I did not do all 
 this for nothing. But she was still rather too 
 unpolished for me, and I knew how to wait. 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 81 
 
 How ever Martin and she got acquainted I 
 cannot make out ; but the first sight seems to 
 have decided it. Simultaneously, as if bj an 
 electric spark, the flame was kindled in both 
 their hearts, and a mutual understanding was 
 the speedy result. 
 
 Martin openly acknowledged his attachment 
 to me. I ought to have regarded it, but I did 
 not. Stung to the quick, I hated him fiercely for 
 what he had done. Then he left me in anger. 
 Just as determined as I should have been, he 
 never reflected for a moment on the results, 
 but carried off the girl under my very eyes. 
 
 She was not to be found anywhere ; but he 
 did not hide himself, but defiantly presented 
 himself before me. Then I drove him from 
 my house, and as I thought from my heart. 
 But I was deceived ; no, not from my heart. 
 
 What could he have had to communicate 
 that would smooth matters between us? Did 
 it refer to himself or to her ? 
 
 " A higher power had judged between us !" 
 
 These enigmas are enough to drive one 
 wild. 
 
 Many riddles, but only one question ; and 
 this one burns like a brand into my soul, and 
 gives me insufferable agony. Possibly it may 
 cause my ghost to revisit the earth. 
 
 But would my question be answered then ? 
 
 TOL. I. a 
 
82 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 CHAPTER YI. 
 
 Let me give you a description of Lili. But 
 I foresee that my description of her as a child 
 cannot quite exclude my description of her as 
 a woman. And I must add that I see her now 
 before me as she was at a far later date. Then 
 I did not see her, did not know her, though I 
 anatomized her with my eyes. But it was a 
 mere carnal look then ! What so blind as 
 passion ? 
 
 She was a Creole. Her features were delicate, 
 finely traced, though not classically regular ; 
 her soft hair was of a lustrous black ; her eyes, 
 like twin stars, of so deep a blue that they 
 appeared almost to be black, veiled over by 
 long silken eyelashes in the most fascinating 
 manner. Her figure was light, graceful, per- 
 fectly symmetrical, and well filled out, while 
 her hands and feet were of the most exquisite 
 shape. Such^ in short, was Lili. Perhaps 
 her eyes were the loveliest feature she pos- 
 sessed. Ah, they gaze into my very soul even 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 83 
 
 now ! Never, to all eternity, shall I forget 
 the melting glances of her bright eyes, half 
 tears, half smiles ; despondent, and yet so full 
 of promise ! They never failed to touch my 
 heart. 
 
 A Creole girl is generally thought to be 
 passionate, wayward, and capricious. Nothing, 
 however, was further from Lili's nature than 
 either of these qualities. It is true she was 
 of an ardent temperament ; but it possessed a 
 glow so mild, so fervent ; not issuing forth in 
 passionate outbursts, but rather dissolving 
 itself within in genial warmth. Where the 
 right, or truthfulness, or love demanded it of 
 her, her will was firm as a rock. In all else 
 she was docility itself. Utterly unselfish 
 herself, affection was the law, the necessity 
 of her being. Poor child ! No greater mis- 
 fortune could have befallen her than to meet 
 with one, who was made up of pure selfishness 
 and of naught else. 
 
 She .was, as it were, all heart. At a more 
 mature age a physician pronounced the orga- 
 nization of her heart to be defective; some 
 said it was too large. And I can well believe 
 it, for I never knew a heart so easily moved 
 as hers. Affection was the sole thing she 
 longed after. It often needed but one kind 
 word, aye, or even one kind look, to make her 
 
84 LETTERS PROM HELL. 
 
 fall on my neck, and nestle to my bosom. Her 
 heart would burn within her at almost any- 
 thing. The trials and sufferings of mankind, 
 their fortunes and misfortunes, their joys and 
 sorrows, she made the one object of her study. 
 Sympathy was her life and breath. 
 
 I could not but think sometimes that she 
 was not made to live in the world. 
 
 It will, therefore, be readily understood that 
 a girl with a nature such as hers would often 
 feel herself repulsed and wounded in her in- 
 tercourse with her fellows, would feel like a 
 stranger among them. 
 
 On that account she kept mostly by herself, 
 or with me, wretched being that I am. Hence 
 it was that her nature was simple to a degree, 
 but not of that stamp that marks the fool, 
 but which is rather the characteristic of 
 true genius. I am convinced that if she 
 had ever become old and grey-headed, she 
 would have retained the child within her. 
 Nothing was easier than to make her be- 
 lieve anything, provided it did not offend 
 her fine moral sense. It never occurred to 
 her that anybody could impose upon her. 
 Once or twice I did so, but never more. I 
 bitterly repented it. Shameless impudence 
 would even have stepped aside for her holy 
 innocence. She was one of those choice 
 
 «^ 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 85 
 
 natures to which the scum of the world seemed 
 as if it could not adhere. I dare almost say 
 that she could have passed through the lowest 
 depths of sin and infamy without receiving 
 the least taint. It never occurred to her 
 to believe evil of any one. Her eyes were 
 never opened to the truth that it was an evil 
 world in which we live. Sin she knew to 
 exist; in her childish nature she had the 
 deepest consciousness of its existence. But 
 as to vice, she never knew anything of it as 
 long as her foot trod the earth. 
 
 I should be doing myself injustice if I were 
 to say I felt all this now for the first time. 
 No. I felt it then, bad as I was. But I must 
 again sigh, "What a match, she and I !" It was 
 sheer spirit against the flesh. Poor Lili ! 
 
 Of knowledge she possessed but little, if 
 the number of subjects be taken into account. 
 History was her favourite study, for it told her 
 about human beings ; their toils and labours, 
 their fortunes and sorrows ; otherwise it was a 
 dead language to her. In mechanical accom- 
 plishments she was therefore deficient ; indeed, 
 it was a fruitless task to try and teach her 
 even a foreign language. Naturally, there- 
 fore, where her feelings had so much play, she 
 became thoughtful and dreamy, though we 
 did our best to drive it out of her. But it 
 
86 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 is always a thankless task to work against 
 nature. She was not reserved though ; for to 
 me at least she confided the inmost thoughts 
 of her soul. 
 
 The sacred narrative, of all others, was her 
 favourite study. From it her spirit drew its 
 first nourishment ; and the impression she 
 received was deep indeed. 
 
 '' God who loved lost creatures to death, even 
 the death of the cross." Nothing ever moved 
 her at a later period so much as this affection 
 and this suffering. Over and over again she 
 would read it ; an angel must have counted the 
 tears she shed over its pages. Though unlike 
 the Magdalene, in all else she resembled her 
 in her burning love towards the Crucified One. 
 
 At a later period the history of the Crusades 
 formed an epoch in her life. The Crucified 
 was her first love, the Crusades her first enthu- 
 siasm. In a few weeks she seemed to have 
 become years older, so powerfully had the idea 
 possessed her. Henceforth the Holy Land, 
 where God's Son had lived and suffered, be- 
 came the darling object of her aspirations. 
 On one or two occasions she betrayed her 
 thoughts, to her lasting sorrow ; for her young 
 friends nicknamed her " The Crusader," and 
 whenever they met her, even though they did 
 not speak a word, they would cross their fingers 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 87 
 
 significantly at her. It was a terrible and 
 expressive pantomime ! 
 
 Thus, in a measure, the Saviour's cross had 
 become her cross. She was deeply wounded 
 at their coarse jests, and from that time never 
 once alluded to the Holy Land. But, doubt- 
 less, her heart thought the more about it, 
 though her lips were silent. I say perhaps, 
 for circumstances at a later period made me 
 suspect that such was the case, though I could 
 not be quite certain. 
 
 Is it not true, then, that she did not seem to 
 be formed for the world, at least not for my 
 world ? 
 
 If I had not been the wretch I was, a mere 
 glance at her would have confirmed my 
 opinion. Lovely, pure as an angel ; though 
 all her loveliness was as nothing when com- 
 pared with the beauty of her mind. During 
 my whole life beauty and pleasure were the 
 only things that had any attraction for me. 
 But never have I known anything more 
 ravishing than the perfect attachment of that 
 childlike heart, in which no drop of impure 
 blood, no grain of falsehood, no shadow of 
 selfishness, harboured. Never have I expe- 
 rienced anything so captivating as her angelic 
 tenderness, so devoid of cloud, so free from re- 
 serve, so forgetful of self, so unassuming, that 
 
88 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 regarded itself as poor and mean, and yet 
 acted as if it had a thousand lives and a 
 thousand blessings to bestow. 
 
 It was impossible to be quite uninfluenced 
 by the hallowed powers that dwelt within her ; 
 at times indeed, especially when she could no 
 longer be looked on as a child, the influence 
 they exerted on me was very powerful. But, 
 and I mnst confess it, I regarded her from the 
 very first with unhallowed looks. I had 
 hurriedly entered into my mother's plans, and 
 not only did I watch over the pretty child, but 
 I literally brooded over her. Already I re- 
 garded her as mine, and calculated in advance 
 what she would bring me in in the course of 
 time. She was not difficult to win, and I won 
 her completely. Whenever I wished, she would 
 lie in my arms, stretch out her little cheek to be 
 kissed, and leave her sweet tiny hand in mine. 
 
 Thus a couple of years fled away, when my 
 mother deemed it prudent to interpose. 
 
 " It will not do," she said, " you are enjoy- 
 ing your future in advance, and will ruin it. 
 She will become developed far too early, if 
 things go on thus. You must be separated for 
 a time. Travel ; remain away for a few years. 
 Meanwhile I will educate Lili for your happi- 
 ness and joy. Travel, my son ; some day you 
 will thank me for this advice." 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 89 
 
 I felt she was right, that it was absolutely 
 necessary ; and I constrained myself to follow 
 her advice, in the interests of prudence, or 
 rather of a gross passion. A short time pre- 
 viously it had been decided on sending one of 
 the partners abroad ; and as my uncle, who 
 was head of the firm, could not go, and as my 
 cousin, who was second partner, had a great 
 disinclination to leave home at that time, I 
 announced my readiness to travel, at my 
 mother's urgent request. And I set out. 
 They had to tear the weeping girl from my 
 embrace. But, though much moved myself, I 
 consoled myself with the thought, " we shall 
 meet again, my little bride, and then I shall 
 have gained more than you have lost now." 
 
 My sojourn abroad lasted longer than I had 
 anticipated, but at length the time came when 
 I could return. During my absence I had re- 
 ceived frequent letters from home, and from 
 Lili too. 
 
 Wonderful letters ! They seemed as if 
 they were penned by an angel's hand. And, 
 although these ethereal communications — 
 let me style them — were somewhat strange 
 and foreign to my nature, still they made a 
 deep impression on me. I felt an indescri- 
 bable, though I fear not a holy delight at 
 being able to say, "This blessed, innocent 
 
90 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 child is mine ; and it is I who will make her 
 some day feel that she too is flesh and blood, 
 a child of the world." 
 
 At last I returned home, and saw her once 
 more. Oh ! enchantment ! My expectations 
 were more than surpassed. There she stood 
 before me, graceful and slender in figure, in- 
 comparably lovely, with a soft blush diffused 
 over her cheeks, her eyes modestly cast down- 
 wards, and her young bosom gently heaving 
 with emotion. She was just then on the thres- 
 hold of womanhood, scarce yet fifteen years 
 old. The instant I pronounced her name, she 
 raised her eyes to mine, and fixed on me a 
 gaze so beaming over with happy love, that it 
 went to my heart. It was but one look, yet 
 it told volumes. The next moment she was 
 clasped to my bosom. 
 
 Shall I call it a happy period that now 
 ensued ? If it was, neither was it without 
 pain. When I saw Lili before me, it was just 
 as if I were reading her letters again, and yet 
 the feeling of enjoyment was far, far greater. 
 Still there was no gratification in it, as I began 
 to feel each day of my intercourse with her. 
 Her aspirations were as widely remote from 
 mine as heaven is from earth ; and I felt this 
 to be the case even when I embraced her in 
 my arms and called her my own. The same 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 91 
 
 child as before, but more developed; affec- 
 tionate as ever, and yet this very affectionate- 
 ness caused me anguish ; for, what was truth 
 and reality to her, to me was mere vanity. 
 Her love and mine, therefore, were two very 
 different things. 
 
 Thus we continued to live together for a 
 while, when my prudent mother again inter- 
 fered : 
 
 " She must have time and opportunity 
 given her for development, otherwise her fine 
 and delicate nature would be injuriously 
 forced. Moreover, from living in such close 
 and daily intercourse with her, she would 
 learn to regard me as a brother, and that was 
 surely not my wish. I had better live apart, 
 and not be too prodigal of my visits. At the 
 same time there was no reason why I should 
 not make myself as agreeable and necessary 
 to her as I pleased. But I must promise her 
 that I would not breathe a word about love 
 till she had completed her seventeenth year." 
 
 On this point my mother was determined, 
 so I gave her my word, and moved into lodg- 
 ings. On the whole, I perceived that it was 
 to my advantage, and felt satisfied with the 
 change. Lib was very backward, and my 
 presence evidently did not conduce to her pro- 
 gress. As for myself it was as if I could get 
 
92 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 a better view of her now, and I found her 
 twice as lovely as ever. I noticed also that 
 her manner towards me began to be different. 
 No longer a child, she would blush up to her 
 eyes whenever she saw me ; and I had, there- 
 fore, to be very careful in my intercourse with 
 her, and the precaution proved of real benefit 
 to me, though not the less a trial, and that a 
 severe one, notwithstanding that it was rich 
 in blessings. ^ 
 
 I made inquiries about Anna. Her father 
 had long since been dead, and nobody knew 
 what had become of her. Yery likely my 
 mother knew, bjj^ I could never bring myself 
 to question her; so I cast the recollection 
 away from me, and Lili's presence uncon- 
 sciously helped me to do so. 
 
 But soon I had other things to harass me. 
 
 Lili was evidently drooping. She had just 
 arrived at that critical time when the woman 
 in her rebelled against the childish nature, 
 and was making every exertion to usurp its 
 place. But her constitution was too weak and 
 frail for the struggle. So it was arranged that 
 we should spend the winter in the south for 
 the benefit of her health, and for my diversion. 
 
 Lili had grown very thoughtful, and often 
 indulged in reveries. It was not unnatural ; 
 and never had she appeared so charming than 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 93 
 
 when endeavouring to solve the great enigma 
 of life. But, when taken in connection with 
 other circumstances, this was considered to be 
 rather an alarming symptom. 
 
 '' Her system required to be gently, and yet 
 fully re-invigorated," such was the advice the 
 physicians gave. 
 
 So we set out, early in the autumn, mother, 
 Lili and I. 
 
 And here the bright period of my life 
 may be said to have begun, with only 
 just enough of darkness in it as is necessary 
 to the existence of shade. Lili's state dis- 
 turbed me but little ; passion caused me but a 
 transitory pain. A period of about a year 
 passed, I will not say quite free from spot or 
 blemish, but without my having anything to 
 reproach myself for ; in short, it was Elysium ! 
 And now ... I am in Hell ! 
 
 We were so happy together ! My mother 
 naturally was amiability itself. I, at least, 
 was on my good behaviour, while Lili Hterally 
 revelled in the freedom of her manner of life, 
 which brought with it so many and such varied 
 enjoyments. With increasing confidence she 
 would now hold up her lovely head, would 
 cast her beaming gaze over the beauties of the 
 world with greater freedom; physically and 
 mentally her beauty developed itself in a 
 
94 LETTERS PROM HELL. 
 
 marvellous manner. One single half-year had 
 produced a great change in her. Womanhood 
 had budded forth in the first radiance of youth, 
 fresh and pure as a rose, bejewelled with the 
 early dews of morning. And, at the same 
 time, a change had taken place in her manner 
 towards me. Though tender and affectionate 
 as ever, there was a maidenly reserve about 
 her. No longer the little one who had hitherto 
 lived in that which was external to herself, 
 she now found a life within, immeasurably 
 rich and lovely. We approached each other 
 more on equal terms. 
 
 Equal, did I say ? Yet she far surpassed me 
 in the rich endowments of heart and soul. In 
 a very short time, she gained a wonderful power 
 and influence over me. Gladly I submitted to 
 the yoke ; there was a pleasure in it more enno- 
 bling, more delightful, than anything I had 
 ever felt. She raised me, as it were, above 
 myself without my knowledge. New feelings, 
 new interests and pursuits, were beginning to 
 bud within me, and it dawned upon me with 
 an ever-increasing clearness that there was 
 something in the world of greater worth and 
 nobility than selfish love and selfish pleasures. 
 Day by day my nature became ennobled and 
 purified from contact with hers. I was on 
 the road to become a good, pious, and loveable 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 95 
 
 man, or rather, let me say in one word, a 
 
 man. 
 
 Her eyes had opened themselves wide to 
 the beauty of the world, a beauty of a very 
 different nature to that which I had ever 
 known; and, by degrees, I, too, came to see 
 with them. But her gaze and her aspirations 
 were directed upwards. Earth could not rivet 
 them. It was as if she saw Heaven opened 
 above her ; and, can you believe it, she took 
 me with her in her heavenly flight, heavily 
 laden though I was in the flesh? What power, 
 what might, in a being so frail and delicate ! 
 But it cost her no exertion. She drew me 
 with her : in her I forgot aught else. I listened 
 to the words that fell from her lips as atten- 
 tively as if she had been some prophetess 
 predicting for me countless blessings, and was 
 transported away from earth. An entirely 
 new world, a spiritual world, opened itself to 
 my enraptured gaze; even life eternal, that 
 consummation of bliss, began to dawn upon me. 
 How many ennobling hours can I recall, that I 
 passed with her. 
 
 My Grod ! what recollections! and oh ! what 
 torture ! ^ 
 
 I began to be actually ashamed of myself 
 when I reflected on what I had been. That 
 love which I had felt so long for Lili — love, in- 
 
96 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 deed it was ! but what a love ! It would have 
 terrified her had she had the least inkling of 
 it. But she never got to know it. True, 
 there were moments when the old ravening 
 nature made itself felt within ; when dizz^ 
 with passion, I was well-nigh losing my self- 
 control. At such times I would madly press 
 her to my bosom, and embrace her with the 
 glowing ardour of passion; or else cast my- 
 self down before her, clasp her knees, or kiss 
 her feet while the hot, burning tears rained 
 down upon them. Then she would be terrified 
 at my violence, and would press her hand upon 
 her heart, as if her spirit were passing away. 
 But she did not understand it ; the meaning of 
 it all was far remote from her chaste mind. 
 In her innocence, she only felt the sincerest 
 compassion for me, only thought to soothe me. 
 She would call me by the most endearing 
 names, would let her tears flow with mine — 
 two streams, forsooth, of a widely different 
 nature — the one turbid and muddy, the other 
 bright and pure as crystal. And the power 
 of her innocence never failed to recall me to 
 my senses. The promise I had made my 
 mother flashed again across my mind, and, 
 though it cost me much, I still found strength 
 in the thought that soon, very soon, the temp- 
 tation would be over. And then, when the 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. ^ 
 
 paroxysm was passed, the same happy blessed 
 days returned. ^ - 
 
 I think I have now explained the relations 
 that existed between us. There was a wild 
 beast within, but she had tamed it. 
 
 It was spring once more, and we were be- 
 ginning to think of retracing our steps home- 
 wards. Lili had on one or two occasions suffered 
 from rather alarming symptoms, which the 
 physicians — half charlatans — of that country 
 called " oppression of the heart." At that time 
 we were on one of the Ionian Isles. But we 
 would not allow it to disturb us ; for Lili had 
 of late grown stronger, and had become more 
 lovely than ever, as she now stood forth in 
 the full bloom of youth. We were too happy 
 in her^ too secure in our joy. 
 
 But as we began to talk of bending our steps 
 homewards, a strange restlessness took posses- 
 sion of her. I sought, of course, to learn the 
 cause, and found to my surprise that there 
 was a yearning desire of her heart yet un- 
 satisfied, of older date and of a different cha- 
 racter to mine. Suddenly the whim of her 
 childhood — a visit to the Holy Land — had re- 
 turned. Or had it ever left her ? Had it not 
 only been lulled to sleep for a little while ? 
 Probably so. She begged, she entreated me 
 not to return till I had let her see the Holy 
 
 VOL. I. H 
 
B8 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 Land, however short and hasty our visit might 
 be. " Unless she did this, she would never have 
 a moment's peace ; but only let her get there 
 through my help, and she would eternally 
 bless me." 
 
 I could not but regard it as a fanciful idea, 
 though, at the same time, it was impossible to 
 help admiring the steadfastness with which 
 she had clung to it from her very childhood. 
 Aye ! not only did I admire it, but I felt my- 
 self so moved that I determined to use all my 
 influence in order to promote her wishes. Had 
 she even asked for anything still more unrea- 
 sonable, I could not have withstood her en- 
 treaties ; for it seemed as if her very life lay in 
 my hands when she besought me so earnestly. 
 
 I spoke to my mother about it. She reluc- 
 tantly gave her consent, and this last little 
 trip was decided upon. It would only occupy 
 a few weeks, we thought, and so we set out. ' 
 That look with which she thanked me, that 
 soft, angelic look, brimming over with love, 
 still burns in my heart, and will burn there 
 till the judgment day. Thenceforth a hea- 
 venly peace was diffused over her whole being. 
 Her restlessness was gone now, for her joy 
 was complete. 
 
 But a few words more,* and my narrative 
 ^ ended. Why should I pain myself by 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 99 
 
 telling more? it is greater than I can bear 
 already. 
 
 We had set foot on the Holy Land. I made 
 Lili enter it as a princess, while I was but 
 her chief servant. But she had no princely 
 thoughts about her ; she entered it as a lowly 
 pilgrim. We spent some weeks in running 
 about from place to place. Lili was suffering 
 more than we suspected ; but she could not 
 rest. Her malady was a dangerous heart 
 disease, and already serious symptoms were 
 showing themselves. How blind we had 
 been ! I say we, for perhaps it had not escaped 
 my mother's quick eye. 
 
 An unlucky combination of circumstances 
 caused it to break out in a sudden and alarm- 
 ing manner. In a cloister at Bethlehem, where 
 we had to crave admittance, she breathed her 
 last, a few days only before she would have 
 completed her seventeenth year. She had 
 passed away with an angel's hallowed smile 
 upon her lips ; the goal of her Hfe was reached. 
 Her earthly career had been but a pilgrimage 
 to the Holy Land. 
 
 In her, death had lost all its terrors. She lay 
 as one transfigured ; pale and more lovely in a 
 higher sense than a worldly one, with her hands 
 folded meekly over her breast ; a breast where- 
 in the world had never found a resting-place. -- 
 
 £ 
 
100 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 You will scarcely believe it when I tell you 
 that even in her last hours, when I saw for a 
 certainty that she was lost to me^ she raised 
 me up with her far above the level of perish- 
 able things. And I felt myself so comforted, 
 as if this earthly life were a thing of naught, 
 as if I should ere long meet her in a better 
 place, where sorrow, tears, and suffering are 
 no more, and where death and partings are 
 unknown. 
 
 Oh ! what a conception ! 
 
 Her last words — and they sounded so soft, so 
 spiritual, just as if they came from another 
 world — were thanks and blessings : " 
 
 " Thanks, Otto ! I am so happy. . . God 
 bless you. . ." 
 
 I was very nearly losing my composure 
 through my emotion ; but I had an inward 
 feeling that in a little while I could have con- 
 quered all pains. 
 
 In one hallowed kiss I received her last 
 breath. 
 
 But scarcely was the breath gone out of her 
 than I came to myself again, and the old 
 brutal nature re-appeared once more. I had 
 but one thought, " What had I lost in her ! 
 what a treasure of beauty and grace ! what a 
 consummation of enjoyment ! And so close to 
 my happiness, too ; but a few days more and 
 
 J 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 101 
 
 she had been mine." I raged like a wild beast 
 whose prey has been snatched away from it. 
 She had escaped me ! 
 
 This, then, was the fruits of my self-denial 
 for years and years ; of the many sacrifices I 
 had made ; of the forbearance I had shown. 
 In her 1 had year by year treasured up my 
 all, and had lost it in a single moment. 
 
 And yet was it not better that she should 
 have escaped the miserable fate she would 
 have met with in my arms ? 
 
 Lili, Lili! ... I think I could even 
 rejoice at it ... if I were not in Hell ! 
 
 My mother mourned also, but never lost her 
 composure ; it was mostly for my sake she 
 grieved. So we returned home, after having 
 buried Lili in the Holy Land. 
 
 She rests beneath a sycamore, not far from 
 the place where her Saviour was born. 
 
 It was on our return home from this jour- 
 ney that I met with and adopted the boy 
 Martin. Sad remembrance ! 
 
 So I became the man I was to remain. I 
 gave myself up to the world ; lived only for 
 my own enjoyment ; loved only myself, with 
 the exception, perhaps, of my mother and my 
 adopted son. I say, perhaps ; for I dare not 
 positively assert that I really did love them. 
 I was called a Christian, but was not one. 
 
102 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 True, I was not of the number of those who 
 make a mock at holy things, for after Lili's 
 death nothing was longer holy to me. Now 
 and then childish thoughts from bygone days 
 tried to assert their influence^ but I was afraid 
 of them, and thrust them hastily aside each 
 time. In a word, I believed in what is 
 termed Christianity only just so far as it suited 
 my views, and my faith gradually dwindled 
 away. 
 
 My mother began to look old ; but increas- 
 ing years seemed to have no influence over 
 her. She continued to be beautiful, always 
 the perfect lady, ever an object of universal 
 admiration. Always of a pious disposition, 
 she now became very religious, and sought to 
 make me so too. But her powers did not 
 extend so far as that. She could not get me 
 to do more than observe Christian rites and 
 ceremonies. For my own sake I maintained 
 a decorous manner in all my dissipations. 
 
 And now I have done ! It has cost me 
 much to complete these confessions. Do not 
 think it gives me any satisfaction to do so ; 
 still it seems to have lightened a heavy burden, 
 and that is always something. 
 
 •:S# 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 103 
 
 CHAPTER YII. 
 
 The light waxes slowly stronger. The high- 
 est point it ever reaches is but a clear twilight ; 
 and then the splendour of Paradise is at hand, 
 though still far distant. Time passes as it 
 may, in sorrow, regret, and suffering. You 
 must not think that because I am able to 
 interest you, I can in any way interest my- 
 self. Alas! it is only a delusion, as every- 
 thing else here in Hell is. Time passes on, 
 true enough ; but brings no relief with it. In 
 the world there was always this consolation, 
 " there will be an end to it ;" but here — and 
 that is the terrible thing — here there never 
 will be an end. Among the minor things on 
 which I used to set great store was to gain 
 admission as a bachelor to ladies' tea and coffee 
 parties. There was something unusually at- 
 tractive to me in the slander and gossip that 
 was bandied to and fro at them. Of course 
 on such occasions I used to look as innocent 
 as possible for fear of spoiling the fun. 
 
104 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 I still feel the same interest, still follow it up. 
 
 Of course there is pain attached to it ; 
 everything is painful in Hell. 
 
 Well, tea and coffee parties, slander of course 
 included, abound here. In the world we used 
 to denominate anything that was very weak 
 and diluted as " tea wash." But the weakest 
 " tea wash " in the world is a strong drink 
 compared with the tea and coffee poured out 
 at these parties. Neither has slander lost 
 anything by its long passage here ; on the 
 contrary, the tongue knows no restraint. 
 
 Propriety and decorum too are totally disre- 
 garded. Nothing too bad, too shameful, too 
 secret, but it is dragged forth by these sisters of 
 slander when once they have warmed to the 
 work. They seem inspired ; the one surpass- 
 ing the other in venomous fabrication and 
 scandal. But there is one remarkable circum- 
 stance, that when once these good ladies have 
 done their best at backbiting others, they 
 begin involuntarily to speak against them- 
 selves. It is no use striving against it ; they 
 are compelled to unfold the secrets of their 
 own lives, however private, however disgrace- 
 ful they may be. To see how the other dear 
 creatures enjoy it ; how they wink at one 
 another, bite their lips, and nearly go out of 
 their senses for joy. But their enjoyment 
 
rr- 
 
 LETTERS FROM HELL. 105 
 
 lasts only up to a certain point ; that is, till it 
 comes to their turn to speak ; then they, too, 
 against their will, give the others a full and 
 ample revenge. 
 
 I have just come from one of these parties, 
 and feel in the humour to give you one or two 
 characteristic anecdotes. 
 
 The lady who was talking, though young no 
 longer, had very pretty features. Perhaps 
 a taste not so nice as mine would have pro- 
 nounced her beautiful. The experiences of 
 life often leave behind a ^ very lovely impress 
 on the faces both of men and women ; but 
 with the greater number, especially with 
 women, it assumes an expression of bold im- 
 pudence which is never pleasing. The speaker 
 was one of this description. 
 
 " Really, my dear friends," she began, in an 
 affected voice, " we ought not to speak ill of 
 our neighbours. I believe there is a command- 
 ment expressly forbidding it. But as you have 
 asked me about that strange couple that just' 
 passed, something, by the way, like a bulldog 
 mated with a crane, I will tell you in a few 
 words what I know about them. 
 
 " The man, then, was one of the most 
 devoted I'hombre players in the world. Even 
 on his death-bed he would insist on having 
 his game of I'hombre. 
 
106 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 "'Pass!* he ejaculated, and drew his last 
 breath. Whether the points were ever settled 
 I cannot say ; but this I do know, that his 
 widow was so deeply moved at it, that she gave 
 the servant a sound box on the ear, because 
 she did not walk softly enough to please her. 
 Evil tongues very likely said that she was so 
 afraid lest her poor dear man might waken up 
 again. 
 
 " But there was no fear of that ; he was really 
 dead, and remained dead and was buried. 
 On his tombstone was placed the following 
 simple but expressive epitaph : 
 
 <( i 
 
 J. J. P. 
 
 " ' HE SHUFFLED THROUGH LIFE !' 
 
 " I shall never forget the day of the funeral. 
 We were at our country seat, a few miles from 
 town. . 
 
 " ' Dear A ,' I said to my husband, 
 
 * don't you think you ought to follow poor 
 P to the grave ?' 
 
 *' After a few growls he allowed that, per- 
 haps, he ought to do so. So it was arranged 
 that he should go to town the next morning. 
 
 " Now, I knew very well, whenever my hus- 
 band went to town, he never returned home 
 till the following morning. It was a little 
 diversion for him. I suppose he went to his 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 107 
 
 club ; and I am sure I never found any fault 
 with him for it. Husbands are not now what 
 they should be. 
 
 " Well, I got the dear fellow to take a note 
 for me, and made him promise to deliver it 
 directly he got into town. I had a friend 
 living there, I should tell you, who, by the 
 way, was no friend of my husband's. He 
 was a distant cousin of mine, but my hus- 
 band, oddly enough, disapproved of his visits 
 to our house. A very grievous fault in him ! 
 But my cousin liked it, and I liked it, and so 
 it was rather difficult to prevent our meeting 
 whenever an opportunity occurred. Whether 
 it is part of a cousin's duty, I cannot say, but, 
 anyhow, he took upon himself the office of 
 teaching me how to love. So neglected, in- 
 deed, had my education been in this respect_, 
 that even in my nineteenth year I did not 
 actually know what love meant. My husband 
 could not teach me ; he was too old and awk- 
 ward. But with my cousin it was a very 
 different matter. But let me hasten to assure 
 you, on my honour, that our relations with 
 each other were of the most innoceiit and 
 harmless nature conceivable; we had scarce 
 passed the introductory stage. 
 
 " Well, my husband set out with the letter 
 to my lady friend, who, of course, was none 
 
108 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 other but this cousin. I thought it such a 
 capital joke that he, dear man, should be the 
 bearer of the letter. Enough, then, when I 
 tell you that my husband spent the evening 
 at his club ; and that I was not alone ! Next 
 morning, when he returned home, the house 
 looked just as usual. 
 
 " ' Anything occurred during my absence ?' 
 he inquired as usual. 
 
 " It was all I could do to keep from laughing. 
 
 " ' No, love ! there was not a soul here the 
 whole day!'" 
 
 Hell is naturally full of loose characters ; 
 both of those who openly ply their trade, and 
 those who are outwardly respectable indivi- 
 duals. The first-named class swarm on the 
 outskirts of inhabited places, where they follow 
 their old pursuits. But the latter occupy their 
 places in society, in order to cater for scandal, 
 a matter of the last importance in Hell. I 
 mean thereby that they not only may thus 
 be able to recount their own scandalous 
 histories, but constantly be giving rise to 
 new ones of the most varied and attractive 
 character. 
 
 Who does not recall the history of Mars 
 and Yenus in Vulcan's net ? It is acted over 
 and over again every day. But the shame 
 
■ppi^pilii^^fip^i^^^^^^^^'p'^''^'^^^^ 
 
 ^si?if»'«a5?^ww<?'?5t?s?*r'« 
 
 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 109 
 
 which these women made light of before, now 
 becomes their constant torment. For modesty 
 and respectability are now the sole objects of 
 their ambition. But all in vain ! They are 
 a defenceless prey to vice under its numerous 
 and indefinite forms. 
 
 I do not intend to moralize — it would not 
 do in Hell ; but I must draw your attention 
 •for a moment to the essential difference that 
 exists between these two classes of women. 
 And it does not at all redound to the credit of 
 those who in the world escaped the oppro- 
 brious epithet, and the disgrace attached to it. 
 Want and wretchedness for the most part 
 made the others what they are ; they fell 
 victims to a hard and cruel necessity. The 
 first but followed the bent of their inclinations. 
 There was nothing to compel them to follow 
 their calling ; on the contrary, everything to 
 render it expedient for them to remain virtu- 
 ous. It is, therefore, a natural consequence 
 that they are under far worse conditions in 
 Hell than the others. 
 
 The above tale drew forth universal ap- 
 plause from the company ; everybody began to 
 whisper and titter, while a diabolical expression 
 of joy gleamed forth from all eyes. All but the 
 narrator herself were in excellent spirits ; for 
 no sooner had she finished her tale than she be- 
 
110 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 came fully aware that she had made a great fool 
 of herself. She was nearly dying from chagrin . 
 
 But in order to fill up the uncomfortable pause 
 that ensued, she asked her next neighbour : 
 
 " Have you ever been in Naples, my dear ? 
 and did you know the Princess Z ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes ! I had that honour," was the 
 peevish answer. " Perhaps I knew more 
 of her than anybody else. For when T and 
 my husband were staying in Naples in 18 — , 
 the only apartments we could obtain were in 
 the best floor of the Palazzo Z . 
 
 " These Italian princely families, by the way, 
 are so wretchedly off that they actually have 
 not the means requisite to enable them to occupy 
 their ancestral palaces. The prince and his 
 family lived upstairs, just as if they had been our 
 lodgers. Under these circumstances, there- 
 fore, I had every opportunity of being ini- 
 tiated into the domestic economy of princely 
 households. What misery gilded over ! To 
 the eye everything was as excellent as it was 
 possible to imagine. The suites of apartments — 
 at least, those that were open to view — were 
 furnished in the old-fashioned style, and still 
 bore traces of their former magnificence j but 
 here and there, where it had been necessary 
 to patch up the old splendour, the effect was 
 far from happy. The antechamber and vesti* 
 
S?p^P^>f^^i^art^^W??^fS5BFJ'^'^^S^5t^^ -^ 
 
 LETTERS FROM HELL. Ill 
 
 bule were full of lacqueys, who, except for the 
 livery they had on their backs, received neither 
 wages nor board. They lived on what they 
 could manage to squeeze out of the visitors 
 who came to see the prince, z huono mano, that 
 is, in drink money. In the courtyard below 
 might be seen an equipage decorated with 
 the princely arms, and resplendent with gilt 
 and tassels, with a pair of blood horses, which 
 still proudly pawed the ground. It was never 
 taken out without three liveried servants hang- 
 ing on behind. So much for the outside ! 
 
 *' But the interior, my dear friends ! A 
 meaner, or a stingier household cannot be 
 conceived. Only two confidential domestics 
 had access to them — an old servant and an 
 aged housekeeper, both devoted to the service 
 of the princess. Of course, it was a secret 
 from the world at large, but not from me. 
 The old servant was steward over an empty 
 house ; the aged housekeeper, cook in an 
 establishment where there was nothing to do 
 except to make coffee or chocolate. At meal 
 times all the doors were locked. Then the 
 confidential servant sneaked down the back- 
 stairs into the town, and quickly returned, 
 followed by a man from the commonest trattori, 
 bearing a basket which contained some food of 
 the very simplest description. Ahw fogliettoa 
 
112 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 of the wine of the country and a little fruit 
 constituted the meal, which was eaten without 
 any regard to ceremony. Indeed eating and 
 drinking were looked on as a sort of necessary 
 evil, and not by any means as an enjoyment. 
 Then the doors were thrown wide open once 
 more, and the family were again visible, 
 either at home or in the theatre. If it hap- 
 pened to be one of the evenings on which they 
 were ' at home,' the princess and her daughter 
 displayed themselves in the only two dresses of 
 which their wardrobe consisted. It cost them 
 but little to entertain ; there was only ice and 
 lemonade handed about ; and the guests brought 
 their conversation with them, the principal 
 ingredient in the evening's entertainment. 
 
 " The prince occupied some honourable but 
 ill-paid post, and was a man of some influence. 
 It was said that he was open to a bribe 
 through his chamberlain, and that even the 
 smallest sums would not be refused. The 
 chamberlain received them, and then shared 
 them with his master according to an arranged 
 tariff. Of course, it was an unequal division ; 
 the lion's share and the jackal's ! " 
 
 The tale ought to have been brought to a 
 close here ; the lady felt it herself, but could 
 not stop ; for the company were beginning to 
 exchange glances and make secret signs to one 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 113 
 
 another. But after a moment's indecision the 
 interesting creature went on : 
 
 " Yes ! I soon learnt by experience how 
 matters were. 
 
 " One day I was going with my husband 
 through one of the by-streets, in which there 
 was a prison. Unfortunately I happened to 
 look up as we passed it. Behind the barred 
 windows were several disgusting-looking ob- 
 jects, who amused themselves in making ftm 
 of the by-passers, or in begging for alms. 
 It was a repulsive sight ! But it was destined 
 to prove more than repulsive to me. For 
 amongst the wretches there was one face 
 which I knew too well, and which recognised 
 me, as was plain from the bold, domineering 
 look with which his eyes met mine. I shud- 
 dered as if I had been stung ; my knees re- 
 fused to sustain their burden ; and it was only 
 with the greatest difficulty that my husband 
 succeeded in getting me past the horrible 
 place. 
 
 "Next day a dirty piece of paper was 
 secretly handed to me, containing the follow- 
 ing words : 
 
 " ' I am in prison on suspicion of theft. — 
 Carcere delle grotte. — Save me, or you are 
 lost ! ' 
 
 "It needed no signature. I knew it was 
 
 VOL. I. T 
 
114 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 Francesco Patelli, our courier from- olden days, 
 I had thought him dead, or else far, far away. 
 
 " Ten years previously I had visited Naples 
 for the first time in my life, not as the wife of 
 a distinguished and rich gentleman, but as 
 lady's maid to his wealthy mother. 
 
 " A French maid, you know, of the first 
 class is always of some importance. As lady's- 
 maid I was worth my weight in gold ; and in 
 respect of beauty I put all the ladies to shame. 
 
 " Father and son both paid their attentioDS 
 to me ; and money and costly gifts were 
 heaped in showers into my lap. 
 
 " But I was too prudent to allow myself to 
 be caught ; though it was a great amusement 
 to me to excite their passions ; for father and 
 son were both brimming over with jealousy 
 towards each other. It was very interesting ! 
 Indeed, the old man was nearly becoming im- 
 becile from love, while the young man almost 
 went raving mad. Thus I could twist them 
 round my finger as I pleased. 
 
 " But what was to be done ? The little game 
 must come to an end sooner or later. I could 
 not turn the old man to any account ; but the 
 young one — aye, there was the rub ! 
 
 " I could very easily prevail on him to elope 
 with me and make me his wife ; but then the 
 old man had it in his power to disinherit him. 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 115 
 
 If anything was to come of it, this contingency 
 at least must be guarded against. So I made 
 an appointment with the courier of the family, 
 Francesco Patelli, in whose face I had long 
 since read the rascal. 
 
 " I let myself be eloped with ! 
 
 " Papa and the courier set off in pursuit. 
 But there is an old saying, * Festina lente.^ By 
 some unfortunate and unforeseen accident the 
 old gentleman departed this life ; a little suspi- 
 cion rested on the courier, but unattended with 
 further consequences. And when we met after- 
 wards at a place agreed upon, in order to give 
 him his wages for the service he had rendered 
 me, I was the young gentleman's bride, and 
 joint-heir to the estate. 
 
 *' But now . . . . ! They were fearful 
 words . . . . ' Save me, or you are lost ! ' 
 
 "Something then must be done, and that 
 quickly ! 
 
 " I asked for a conference with the prince. 
 The gallant gentleman did not make me 
 wait long. On the bold supposition that 
 what report said was true, I came to the 
 point with all the deHcacy and the finesse I 
 was mistress of, and begged him to use 
 his influence in procuring the release of one 
 Francesco Patelli, who was an old servant of 
 the family, but who now, poor fellow, was 
 
116 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 pining away in prison under the groundless 
 suspicion of having been implicated in some 
 highway robbery. Thereby, I added, the 
 prince would gain another opportunity of 
 showing to the world at large that in him 
 humanity possessed one of its most noble 
 champions. 
 
 " The prince was all smiles and compliments. 
 
 '" If he was a champion of the human race,' 
 he gracefully expressed himself, ^ it was quite 
 certain that I was one too.' 
 
 '' He would take the matter into his serious 
 consideration, he added ; but, as he had so 
 very much to do, perhaps it would be as well 
 if I were to speak to his chamberlain about 
 it^ in order that he might remind him of it. 
 
 " Of course I acted on this piece of advice ; 
 and in order to refresh the worthy chamber- 
 lain's memory the better, slipped a roll of 
 notes into his hand. Whereupon he assured 
 me that his memory was as trustworthy as 
 gold itself ; and that the prince, who was the 
 best of masters, lived only to make himself of 
 service to his friends. 
 
 " Two days later the prince had the pleasure 
 to inform me that poor Francesco Patelli was 
 released from prison. 
 
 " But for myself I had had quite enough of 
 Naples !" 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 117 
 
 Here ended the tale. 
 
 Is it not true that queer things come to 
 light here in Hell ? 
 
 The company round the tea-table at all 
 events were of that opinion ; for seldom had 
 they spent so pleasant an evening ! 
 
 Reminiscences keep crowding on my mind. 
 Things I had done and quite forgotten now 
 stand before me in lifelike reality, in outlines 
 as fresh as if I had slept but one night on 
 them ; and Aunt Betty plays a prominent part 
 in the recollections of my childhood. 
 
 When I think of what she was to me when 
 but a little child, it seems so real that the tears 
 come into my eyes^ Not that they really do 
 come there. Yet it was not I myself especially 
 that reaped the fruits of her self-denial, but 
 my father, and for his sake my mother ; still 
 it extended itself to all who lived with her. 
 She made herself everybody's servant. Many 
 a time would she sit up at night in order that 
 the poor girls might go to bed ; she, too, it 
 was who awoke them in the morning, in order 
 that they might lie in bed as long as possible. 
 In the long winter evenings she would be at the 
 pains of teaching their clumsy fingers all sorts 
 of neat and useful needlework ; she looked 
 after their clothes, cut out patterns for them, 
 
118 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 and gave them all sorts of valuable hints and 
 advice, that they might look tidy and nicely 
 dressed, and not like poor girls. Indeed, she 
 was very nearly undertaking to teach the 
 coachman to read ; but my father interposed, 
 and one of the clerks relieved her of that duty. 
 
 Though of a weakly constitution, she could 
 undergo almost any exertion, bear any fa- 
 tigue. The only thing that ever put her 
 out of humour was when any one insisted 
 on her taking care of herself. It seemed to 
 her to be the most unreasonable thing in the 
 world. 
 
 " I," she would say, with an air as if she 
 had thrown herself into the furthest corner 
 of the room, " should I . . . ?" 
 
 Anything was good enough for her. And 
 she had a wonderful command over herself. 
 When my mother, for instance, had been hard 
 upon her, and she had retired to her own 
 room to have a good cry, she would shortly 
 come out again with the same gentle face as 
 ever, without a trace of sorrow or vexation on it. 
 
 And when she was suffering, or depressed 
 in spirits, and came into my father's room, she 
 always had some humorous remark on her 
 lips, some joke or other to drive away his sad 
 thoughts. Certainly her sanguine temperament 
 stood her in good need here ; still, it was more 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 119 
 
 ttan a natural power that she displayed, it 
 was her spirit that was so strong within her. 
 Affection was instinctive to her. Odd as she 
 was at times, strange as her whims might be, 
 curious as her manners, yet somehow love 
 always made her hit on the right thing. It 
 was impossible for any person to be a better 
 Christian, more pious than she was. Her 
 education had been sadly neglected ; she was 
 very ignorant. Had any one questioned her 
 on the simplest matters respecting her faith, 
 she would have displayed the greatest igno- 
 rance. But not the less was she a rare Chris- 
 tian. Though great her defects, though her 
 failings were many, yet love streamed through 
 them all, and brought everything in order. 
 
 At her own request her room was below, 
 situated between my father's study and the 
 household offices. It was the only room in 
 the whole house she could use, she said. It 
 was clear that she must have an eye to the 
 kitchen ; but it seemed to her to be quite as 
 necessary to see after my father. She was 
 always afraid lest anything should happen to 
 him, if he were out of her sight even for a 
 single moment. 
 
 It was a plainly furnished room, but neat to 
 a degree. Tidiness was visible everywhere, 
 and everything had its appointed place, and 
 
120 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 could not possibly have been found in any 
 other. One peculiarity in the decoration of 
 the room was the number of large and small 
 objects of the most varied kind that were 
 ranged round it. The furniture presented 
 as many flat surfaces as was possible, and 
 all of these were fully occupied. And 
 here my aunt's odd tastes and fancies were 
 apparent. Not only was there a confused 
 display of natural and artificial productions 
 all jumbled up together, but there were things 
 which apparently were not worth the trouble 
 of picking up out of the gutter. But my 
 aunt laiew what she was about. They were 
 so many mementos ; and by going through 
 * them it was easy to follow out the history of 
 her life from beginning to end. Of this I 
 early got a faint idea, and ever after regarded 
 her motley collection not only with a deep 
 interest, but with a certain degree of reve- 
 rence. There was many a strange history 
 attached to them. Not surprising, then, that 
 they set my childish imagination to work, as 
 I looked at this, now at that, wondering all 
 the while what history might be connected 
 therewith. Ah ! many a reverie have I fallen 
 into while contemplating them. 
 
 Aunt Betty held fashion in thorough con- 
 tempt, and used to go about very simply 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 121 
 
 i 
 
 dressed. But though simple to a degree, 
 nothing could be tidier or neater than her 
 attire. She had ample means to dress differ- 
 ently, and she took care to let one know it at 
 times. 
 
 . " It is not for that," she would say. " I 
 could dress as fine as any lady, if I liked." 
 
 And she spoke the truth here. 
 
 She liked to receive a little present now and 
 then, not for the intrinsic value of the gift, but 
 for the attention it evinced on the donor's paii« 
 Naturally, she liked to be esteemed by those for 
 whom she sacrificed herself ; so she got at one 
 time from my father, at another from my 
 mother, all sorts of pretty presents, especially 
 choice and fashionable materials for dresses. 
 G-ratefully and gladly she would accept them, 
 have them made up, and then put them by. 
 Thus she possessed a large stock of expensive 
 dresses, shawls, and mantles ; but it was little 
 use she ever made of them. They would get out 
 of fashion before she had ever worn them, but 
 she took care that they should not get spoilt. 
 
 Sometimes when I went down to see her 
 there would be a regular exhibition taking 
 place. The bed, the chairs, and tables would 
 all be covered with dresses, shawls, cloaks, furs, 
 bonnets, &c. "They wanted airing." With 
 a happy expression of face she would walk up 
 
122 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 and down among them, try on first one, then 
 another ; run her fingers over the soft silk ; or 
 here would be a wrinkle to smoothen out; there 
 a speck of dust to brush away, all the while in 
 a state of ecstasy. At such times she was far 
 removed from all that may be termed reality. 
 
 Sometimes I found her marching about 
 among her treasures with an elegant bonnet 
 on her head ; a shawl or a pelerine thrown over 
 her shoulders ; a wondrous attire, in strange 
 contrast to her usual simple dress. It was as 
 if there was an enchantment about them. Evi- 
 dently she was herself no longer ; no longer 
 poor Aunt Betty hidden away from the lovely 
 world outside in a dark smoky kitchen, with 
 an unpoetical little chamber adjoining, where, 
 instead of receiving the honour and homage 
 due to her, she sacrificed herself to the happi- 
 ness of others, only to be known and inade- 
 quately appreciated by these few. But when 
 the sun went down, they were all packed up 
 once more, and Aunt Betty was again the old 
 woman. 
 
 Once or twice, however, in the course of the 
 year she would boldly venture a step further. 
 
 Then she would dress herself out in her 
 very best, and for some hours would allow my 
 father and the servants to admire her from 
 top to toe. She did not like showing herself 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 123 
 
 to my mother, who, though ever exemplary in 
 her manner towards her, still could not sup- 
 press an ironical smile when Aunt Betty came 
 out in this manner. She was not naive, or 
 else not good-natured enough to enter into the 
 spirit of such extraordinary exhibitions, as they 
 might well be termed, although aunt was one 
 of the most natural creatures in the world. 
 
 Yes, the transformation was complete ! She 
 was undoubtedly the lady_, and a very distin- 
 guished one too. But though dressed out in 
 the fashion of the day, she by no means 
 belonged to the day, but rather to an age 
 long, long gone by, quite different in chival- 
 rous and poetic feelings to the present. 
 
 Her manners had more of the old Spanish 
 about them than anything else I can compare 
 them to, so lofty was her bearing, so gracious 
 her smile, so punctilious her demeanour ! In 
 her Don Carlos of Spain would have recog- 
 nised one of the most distinguished ladies of 
 his day. 
 
 If on such occasions the sky happened to be 
 quite cloudless, she might take it into her head 
 to take a short trip into the town, and show her- 
 self to the public, when her peculiar costume 
 and somewhat strange manner never failed to 
 cause a certain degree of sensation. But she 
 never seemed at all annoyed at it. What better 
 
124 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 testimony can be adduced tliat she was herself 
 no longer then ? It was a sort of trance, a 
 brief moment of intoxication, that passed off, 
 however, as soon as she had returned home. 
 Then all her finery was put away, and it was 
 long before it saw the light of day again. 
 Grenerally, she was quite contented to know 
 that she possessed fine clothes worthy of a 
 lady, and this consciousness was enough for 
 her in this as in many other respects. 
 
 Aunt Betty had, moreover, a nice little 
 collection of handsomely bound books in her 
 room. Whenever she heard speak of an ex* 
 tremely good book she would buy it at once. 
 Not that she ever read them ; " she had no 
 time for that," she would say ; " but when I 
 am old, my dear, I shall have something to 
 amuse myself with, and then I will read them 
 aU." 
 
 One of her peculiarities was that she could 
 never read anything without reading it aloud. 
 " She could only understand what she could 
 hear," she would say. 
 
 Poor aunt ! 
 
 '* When she got old she would read them !" 
 Provided that by that time she had not for- 
 gotten how to read. 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 125 
 
 CHAPTER YIII. 
 
 Of an evening when it was getting dusk I 
 was very fond of stealing down to Aunt 
 Betty's little room, where I generally found 
 her sunk in a reverie. She was never cross 
 with me for disturbing her ; she loved me too 
 much for that. So she had to tell me stories, 
 for which indeed she had a special gift. I am 
 quite convinced that she made the greater 
 portion of them up as she went on. There 
 was no particular meaning in them, but they 
 were always interesting. In all of them there 
 was a high moral sense underlying them, 
 original certainly, but yet at the same time 
 so hearty and earnest that they could not fail 
 to appeal to a naive feehng like mine. 
 
 It was from my aunt that I received my 
 first instruction in religion, of no dogmatic 
 character, as may be supposed ; on the con- 
 trary, she always followed a practical course. 
 Ah ! how ever could those impressions, so 
 deep, so sweet, and so tender, ever fade away 
 from my mind ? 
 
]26 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 One evening we were sitting together by 
 the window. It was getting dark, but the sky- 
 was clear, and the stars were shining with un- 
 usual lustre. The sight of them made a won- 
 derful impression on my childish mind. Of 
 course I had often seen them shining before, 
 but when I recall the impression of that hour, 
 it is just as if I had never seen the stars shine 
 before that evening. 
 
 I wanted to know what the stars really 
 were, and what was behind them. So my 
 aunt explained to me " that up yonder was 
 our Heavenly Father's dwelling, with its innu- 
 merable mansions in indescribable splendour. 
 And I should go up there some day, if I had 
 been a good and holy child on earth." 
 
 I thought this very beautiful ; but it did 
 not quite satisfy me. I wanted a more de- 
 tailed description ; I required an express 
 answer to my questions. 
 
 Now, anybody else but Aimt Betty would 
 very likely have been sorely puzzled, but 
 her imaginative powers were far too rich 
 to allow her to be at a loss. So she told 
 me, that behind the stars was a spacious 
 and magnificent hall, where God the Father 
 sat on the throne of His majesty, with His 
 Son on His right hand. In the middle of 
 the hall was a Christmas-tree, higher than 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 127 
 
 the highest mountain on the earth, covered all 
 over from top to bottom with burning lamps 
 and costly presents. And round about the 
 Christmas-tree good and holy children danced, 
 who had now become angels and God's own 
 children ; so joyful and happy were they ! 
 And while they were dancing round the tree, 
 they sang praises to the honour and glory of 
 God, and no one could possibly form an idea 
 how lovely it was. As often as they stopped 
 to rest themselves a while, all kinds of beautiful 
 presents were given to them, and though this « 
 constantly took place, yet the tree was always 
 covered with gifts. 
 
 I was quite satisfied ! 
 
 "But the stars?" I inquired; "what are 
 they ?" 
 
 " I will tell you," answered my aunt. 
 
 " Round the hall is a countless number of 
 tiny peep-holes, and the bright light from the 
 Christmas-tree beams through them. These 
 are the stars ! While the angel children are 
 resting themselves, they amuse themselves by 
 peeping through these tiny holes, in order to 
 see how the children on earth are behaving ; 
 if they are good, obedient, and holy ; for they 
 are their own brothers and sisters, and they 
 love them so dearly, and long after them so 
 tenderly. So, whenever you look up at the 
 
128 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 stars, you must think that behind each star 
 there is an angel's eye, which is looking down 
 at you. And the star twinkles just in the 
 same way as when one winks with the eye. 
 So, if you do not wish the angels to shed tears 
 over you, you must be such a very good boy ; 
 father's, mother's, and my own darling ! " 
 
 Her tale affected me to such a degree that 
 I threw myself on her bosom, and burst into 
 tears ; and it was some little time before I had 
 regained my usual composure and curiosity. 
 But presently I had a new question to put. 
 
 " But, dear aunty, where do the naughty 
 children go to ? " 
 
 Aunt Betty was nearly getting into a fix 
 now. I do not mean to say that she was too 
 prudent, but that she was too tender-hearted, 
 to tell me about Hell and its ' terrors ; so she 
 only answered : 
 
 " The naughty children go to a dark place, 
 far, far away from God the Father and His 
 dear Son !" 
 
 But I wanted to know all the particulars, 
 and she was therefore obliged to furnish me 
 with them. 
 
 " Well," she began, " then I will tell you. 
 
 *' The naughty children sit cooped up in a 
 miserable back room, where the fire has gone 
 out ; and they shiver so with cold, that their 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 129 
 
 teeth chatter again in their heads. The light, 
 too, has gone out, so they are obhged to sit in 
 the dark, and are so frightened. They cry and 
 sob, and beat themselves with all their might ; 
 but there is no one — no, not one — to hear them." 
 
 Her words made me tremble dreadfully. 
 
 " Oh, aunt, I am so frightened," I said, in a 
 low tone, as I nestled up to her. 
 
 " Look up at the stars, my child !" she 
 answered, " and you will not be frightened 
 then." 
 
 And she took me up on her lap ; and I was 
 afraid no longer. The stars twinkled so en- 
 couragingly and cheerfully to me, that I felt as 
 if I was under their dear eyes and protection. 
 
 " I should so like to hear them sing !" I 
 said, presently. 
 
 " Aunty, dear, how does it sound when the 
 angels sing ?" 
 
 " You shall hear, my darHng/' answered my 
 aunt, as she cleared her throat. 
 
 And with a gentle, clear, and soft voice she 
 began to sing one of her favourite hymns. 
 Oh ! it sounded so lovely in the quiet evening ; 
 there was something so childlike in those soft, 
 sweet notes that went to my heart, as I kept my 
 eyes steadily fixed on the stars, that the illusion 
 was complete. It was so dark that I could not 
 see her face, but I could see the stars, and they 
 
 VOL. I. K 
 
130 LETTERS PROM HELL. 
 
 twinkled to me. It was only for a moment ; 
 but for a brief while my eyes had taken my 
 hearing up with them, and there was no longer 
 any earth for me, but only Heaven ; for the 
 sounds seemed to come down from above, and 
 an indescribable feeling of awe filled my heart. 
 Involuntarily I folded my hands, as she had 
 taught me, and unconsciously winked with my 
 eyes back again to the stars, as a sign that 
 the understanding between us was mutual, 
 and that I could hear them. 
 
 When the song had ceased, and I had come 
 to myself once more, T felt myself to be so 
 mean and poor. But I dreamed the whole 
 night through about the Christmas-tree in 
 Heaven, and the songs of the angels. 
 
 Many an evening afterwards we sat together 
 again ; aunt singing to me, and I gazing up 
 at the stars. I quickly caught the air, and 
 joined in with her, I think aunt was just as 
 much a child then as I was. We were both 
 of us quite beside ourselves while singing our 
 angel songs to the honour and praise of God ; 
 for it seemed as if we were drawn up by an 
 inward longing for that which was behind the 
 stars. 
 
 One evening — but it must have been at a 
 later period — my aunt told me the history of 
 the rich man and Lazarus : I call it a history. 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 131 
 
 and not a parable ; for of all real things there 
 is nothing more real than this. When I first 
 heard it, too, it was not as a parable, but as a 
 plain, simple narrative. And the effect was 
 surprising ! True enough I envied the poor 
 man his place in Abraham's bosom; but the 
 rich man in torments, without a drop of water 
 to slake his thirst, excited my sincerest sym- 
 pathy. I was painfully moved. • Sobbing, I 
 hid my face in aunt's bosom, and was almost 
 beside myself with grief, 
 
 *' The poor rich man ! What he must have 
 suffered ! And how cruel they were to him !" 
 
 My aunt felt quite as miserable as I did. 
 Truly, she had calculated on making a deep 
 impression on me, but not one of that sort ; so 
 she tried all in her power to soothe me. 
 
 " My child, do not take it to heart so ! I 
 have good reasons for believing that Father 
 Abraham made a great mistake, when he 
 refused to give the rich man a mere drop of 
 cold water. The Lord can never approve of 
 that, and if I know him right, Father Abraham 
 will be taken to task for it. If so poor a thing 
 as a single drop of water were able to soothe 
 the rich man, surely God would not refuse it. 
 He who spared not His own blood, will He be 
 so exact about a drop of water ? And, besides, 
 did you not notice how the rich man, even in 
 the midst of torments^ thought upon his poor 
 
132 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 brothers ? God will never forget that ! Bro- 
 therly love cannot but touch God's heart, even 
 though the poor fellow were in Hell I" 
 
 It was thus she consoled me. No doubt she 
 would willingly, and in perfect good faith, have 
 put even a more comforting interpretation 
 upon it, in order to solace my grief and dry 
 my tears. 
 
 Poor Aunt Betty! she was no theologian. 
 There was nothing real to her mind, except 
 God's fatherly compassion ; that overflowed 
 like her own, on all sides. 
 
 And yet, why call her poor ? It is I who 
 am poor ; though enriched with a fuller expe- 
 rience — in Hell ! 
 
 These reminiscences of my childhood, even 
 if they were ever so torturing, would absorb 
 my thoughts. But torturing, properly speak- 
 ing, they are not ; full of pain, it is true, but 
 not of torture. I do not know whether you 
 can realize the distinction. 
 
 There is then something sweet in these re- 
 miniscences even in Hell. As on the one hand 
 the pain is more acute, — ^just as the sweet in 
 food or drink produces acidity, — so on the 
 other, the torture, to a certain extent, is done 
 away with. But this refers only to the recol- 
 lections of childhood. If I let my thoughts 
 glide on, though here and there a trace of 
 sweetness may still be perceptible, it has no 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 133 
 
 longer any power over the bitterness of my 
 remorse, and I become a prey to tormenting 
 anguish. 
 
 Thus, I have a lively recollection of the 
 sermon that was preached immediately before 
 I attended my first communion. It made a 
 deep, aye, a piercing impression upon me. 
 How ever time, and that so short too, could 
 quite eradicate it, I cannot even now make 
 out! 
 
 It was from one of the worthiest ministers of 
 our Church that I received the last religious 
 instruction, preparatory to that holy rite. 
 
 A wild, carnal nature had already begun to 
 assert its sway over me ; but he knew how to 
 awe me, and to rivet my thoughts. Only a look, 
 and I was all attention ; only a word, and I 
 listened eagerly. He possessed not only the 
 power of captivating, but of stirring one up. 
 
 His text was taken from the following 
 words : " Be ye reconciled to God." How 
 could I ever forget them ? But I did forget 
 them entirely. Now they recur to my mind, 
 and constantly haunt my thoughts. Involun- 
 tarily! am constrained to say to myself, " Be 
 reconciled to God. . . . Oh, be reconciled to 
 God !" But no sooner have they recurred to 
 my mind, than some remorseful recollection 
 forces its way into my heart, and drives them 
 out again. 
 
134 LETTERS PROM HELL. 
 
 I recollect every single word of his sermon 
 from beginning to end. I recollect it, but can- 
 not give utterance to it. There is a vast dif- 
 ference. Neither does it prove to be the 
 slightest benefit to me that I can recollect it ; 
 it conduces neither to my edification nor con- 
 solation, to say nothing of my peace of mind, 
 I can recall the words, but cannot convey a 
 single one of them to my heart. It is just as 
 if they were hollow ; or, perhaps, it is I who 
 am hollow and empty, whom no power can fill. 
 I know that they are God's words, that salva- 
 tion and redemption are contained in them ; 
 but they pass by me. I am the rich man, 
 pining after a drop of water ; but it is denied 
 me. I exert myself to the utmost to try and 
 grasp if only the very smallest portion of 
 that which hovers before me, and which once 
 I knew so well ; but all my efforts are in vain. 
 I often fancy I am very near laying hold of 
 it; but the next instant it is gone again. I 
 can hold nothing firmly in my grasp. It is 
 this unavailing, this hopeless struggle, that we 
 have to renew again and again, that constitutes 
 one of our greatest sufferings — aye, I might 
 say the greatest of all. 
 
 You will now be able to understand how it 
 is I have been able to discourse about the 
 things belonging to the kingdom of God, and 
 yet remain comfortless, hopeless, the prey of 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 135 
 
 despair; of the Saviour, of the Crucified, of 
 contrition, repentance, and faith. 
 
 Like everything else in Hell, this too is 
 hollow, vain. I have but the form ; of the 
 reality I have no conception. I know that 
 there is a Saviour, and that He is God's Son, 
 but I stand in no relationship to Him what- 
 ever. I cannot conceive Him ; I do not even 
 know His name. I condemn, detest myself as 
 cordially as it is possible to do ; so far I repent. 
 But I know nothing of a fruitful repentance ; 
 mine, alas ! is a tearless one. 
 
 And, finally, to speak of faith. Yes, I have 
 faith too ; but it is an empty, heartless idea, that 
 nowhere can find a home. The devils believe 
 also ; they are obliged to do so ; but they tremble ! 
 
 " Be reconciled to God." How deeply those 
 words touched me once ! I thought then there 
 was nothing worth living for except to be re- 
 conciled to God ; and then to die in order to 
 go to Him, and be with Him in His heavenly 
 kingdom. Again the stars twinkled to me in 
 confidence, and I forgot all the world; Oh 
 what hallowed, what noble determinations I 
 formed in that hour of elevation! My first 
 admission to the altar had become an en- 
 trance upon the road to Heaven. But quickly 
 I turned aside from it, ere I was scarce even 
 outside the church door. 
 
 And now — I am in Hell ! 
 
136 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 " Be reconciled to G-od." 
 
 Again and again those words echo in my 
 heart; not though as if they proceeded from 
 Heaven, hut as if they issued from the depths 
 of Hell, accompanied with the most bitter, 
 cruel scoffing. 
 
 " Be reconciled to God." 
 
 Ah ! no reconcihation is possible now. 
 
 When I am at a loss what to do with myself 
 I repair to the public promenade. Of course 
 we have one, and that too of a very remark- 
 able kind. Hyde Park, the Champs Ely sees, 
 Unter den Linden, Corso, Prado, are each and 
 ail excellent in themselves, but not to be com- 
 pared with our promenade. Though in point 
 of elegance there may be no perceptible differ- 
 ence between them, yet on that very account 
 the variety, the motley group, the numbers, 
 render the distinction striking to a degree. 
 There, for instance, only one fashion is repre- 
 sented at a time ; here, on the other hand, a 
 thousand different fashions may be seen at one 
 and the same instant ; the fashions of centuries 
 past. So that it affords a spectacle, so varied, 
 so animated, and let me add so ridiculous, that 
 it is quite unique. 
 
 Here the greatest contradictions meet, and 
 reciprocally help to make each other the more 
 prominent. Folly appears with a reality so 
 striking that the spectator must perforce burst 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 137 
 
 out laughing, however miserable he may feel. 
 On one side you may see people parading 
 about wrapped up to their very chins ; on the 
 other, going about half naked ; here, with a 
 balloon-like circumference ; there, looking hke 
 a stick. Here again tightly laced and ban- 
 daged up ; and there, almost tumbling to 
 pieces. Yonder a pair of breeches of fabulous 
 dimensions, here a pair fitting as tight as 
 a second skin. Here a romantic perruque, 
 or a towering toupet, a master-piece of 
 art; here again a head almost bald, or a 
 profusion of curls arranged without any at- 
 tention to natural grace. And so on, ad 
 injinitum. 
 
 Crinolines, whalebone petticoats, waistcoats 
 reaching down to the knees, skirts down to 
 the heels, long waists, and short waists ; pig- 
 tails, and all little sorts of tubs or castles under 
 the name of hats or bonnets ; powder, rouge, 
 beauty patches, &c., who could enumerate 
 them all ? 
 
 It is a regular Vanity Fair 1 
 
 All seem striving in the most different and 
 ridiculous ways to make each other appear at 
 variance with their rank. In the world such 
 foolishness was little, if at all, visible ; for only 
 one fashion reigned at a time, and that of 
 course was excellent beyond compare. But 
 here it is forcibly apparent, where all fashion 
 
138 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 meet, and frequently in the most contradictory 
 forms. 
 
 It is inconceivable how human beings could 
 ever have made such owls of themselves, have 
 hit upon such apish tricks ! One blushes for 
 them. Aye ! and they blush too ; for them- 
 selves now, these heroes and heroines of 
 fashion ! And though they strut up and down, 
 passing and repassing each other with derisive 
 looks of scorn, attired in their fools' dresses, 
 they experience no real pleasure. The satis- 
 faction they feel is but an illusion hidden up 
 in their garments ; they are the very reverse 
 of feeling comfortable. For they are per- 
 fectly aware of their own wretchedness ; they 
 know full well that while they are scoffing at 
 others, they too are exposing themselves to 
 ridicule. But the part they play is compul- 
 sory ; and is the more painful, as the dress 
 of vanity they wear, gorgeous and grand 
 though it be, cannot even hide their nakedness. 
 People can see through their garments, how 
 many soever they may have on. It is true 
 nakedness is the universal law in Hell; all 
 come under its sway ; but there is a vast 
 difference between being naked, and publicly 
 exposing one's nakedness to view, especially 
 when all the while one feels convinced that 
 he is an object of ridicule on account of an 
 exaggerated style of dress. 
 
 -<. 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 139 
 
 Oh, fops and dandies ! if you could only catch 
 just one glimpse of such a scene, I believe you 
 would be entirely cured. 
 
 Strange enough, and yet after all not so 
 strange, that the generality of people are of 
 the opinion that everything comprehended 
 under the word vanity, under which denomi- 
 nation of course fashion is included, is not a 
 sin, but at best can be considered only as an 
 amiable, a pardonable weakness. 
 
 Well, let us suppose then that vanity per- 
 haps in itself is no fault. I say perhaps. But 
 however it be twisted and turned it cannot but 
 lead to a fault, and to moral depravity. The 
 mind thereby becomes developed in a totally 
 false direction, and the current of life follows 
 a perverted channel. The realities of life fade 
 away as if shrouded in a mist, and existence 
 becomes a lie, and devoid of fruit. Let vanity 
 only once assert its sway, and then with even 
 the best will in the world one is unable to 
 addict one's self to any serious pursuit ; every- 
 thing becomes folly and nonsense. And when 
 at last such an one leaves the world, he will 
 have done nothing, though there will be thou- 
 sands of things he will have left undone, or 
 have done badly. 
 
 Who, then, dare to repeat that vanity is 
 unattended with guilt, or with danger ? 
 
 I glance back over my past life. Oh ! how 
 
140 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 clear it all seems to me now ; how prudent I 
 would be if I could only live it over again ! 
 
 There is a very general opinion in the world 
 that a man must be an exceedingly wicked 
 one to find himself in Hell. But let me tell 
 you, you shortsighted ones, that it is incon- 
 ceivable how little can send a person there, 
 when life comes to a close without the Saviour 
 having been found. Without Him the soul 
 cannot endure the least burden ; but with 
 Him, aye with Him, though pressed down 
 under a mountain load of sin, it can raise itself 
 and soar up to Heaven. 
 
 Do you know the Saviour? I ask as one 
 who knows Him no longer. 
 
 I should like to tell you a little tale I once 
 heard somewhere or other in Italy ; and yet I 
 should think twice before doing so, for there 
 are subjects which it does not do to joke about, 
 least of all in Hell. 
 
 Still it might do you good to hear it, and I 
 do not think it can do me any harm to tell it. 
 Not that I entertain any fear about the mat- 
 ter, but only an instinctive feeling of shyness 
 or aversion, or whatever you may please to 
 term it. 
 
 Well, I will conquer that. It is but a 
 romance ; a kind of burlesque popular tradi- 
 tion ; but there is a deep, an earnest truth 
 contained in it. 
 
r---5r-^T- -;Kiiii-s^,-3ipn;~>^. . - 
 
 LETTERS PROM HELL. 141 
 
 God had predetermined from all eternity to 
 create man. The Devil also knew from the 
 beginning that such was God's purpose. And 
 God accomplished His design ; He created 
 man, and it cost Him no trouble at all to fur- 
 nish him with every perfection ; for He simply 
 created him after His own image. On the 
 other hand, it caused the Devil the severest 
 exertions to try and find out how he could 
 best ruin this lovely and precious creation of 
 the Almighty. 
 
 " Now I have it," said Lucifer to his grand- 
 mother, who was sitting in a corner of Hell, 
 knitting. She was knitting snares, and plots, 
 and springes ; of course only for her own 
 pleasure, for she could live well enough with- 
 out doing that. " Now I have it : I will im- 
 plant an evil desire in man's mind, so that he 
 will set his heart on what is forbidden, and 
 will find pleasure in disobedience. I will make 
 him a wrong-doer ; I will !" 
 
 " Yery good, little son ; very good !" mum- 
 bled his old grandmother ; " but it will not do. 
 Desire can be kept in check, and the Lord 
 God is strong enough to do that." 
 
 " The deuce !" said the Devil. " Well, I 
 must think a little more over it." And he re- 
 tired into the deepest abyss in Hell ; he called 
 it his study. There he sat for a thousand 
 
142 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 years ; his chin resting on his hand, and his 
 glowing eyes incessantly staring out straight 
 before him. He ^id not notice how time was 
 passing. 
 
 " Now I have it," he exclaimed, when at the 
 end of the thousand years he came out from 
 
 ft/ 
 
 his den, " I will fill man's soul with self-love 
 and self-will. I will blind him, so that he 
 shall only be able to look at what concerns 
 himself. I will make a villain of him, great 
 or smallj according to circumstances." 
 
 " Yery good, my boy ; very good, indeed," 
 answered his grandmother. But at that 
 moment she dropped a stitch. " Oh, hold 
 me a brand. . . . Soh, now I have got it. 
 Very good, my boy ; but it will not do. 
 Self-love and self-will can be rooted out, and 
 the Lord God is able to do that." 
 
 " Confound it," said Lucifer ; '^ then I must 
 try again. Now, pazienza, what is to be is 
 to be." 
 
 And off he went again to hide himself up 
 in his den. 
 
 After the lapse of another thousand years 
 he again emerged, and found his grandmother 
 exactly on the same spot as before, knitting 
 away, and buried in deep thought. She was 
 so old that a thousand years made no difference 
 in her ; though perhaps she was just a little 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL, 143 
 
 trifle more bent, and the claws on her fingers 
 had grown just a tiny bit longer. 
 
 " Now I have it," said the Devil, with a 
 conceited air of triumph. " I will take up my 
 abode in man's heart, and will turn everything 
 upside down within him. His nature, and his 
 inclinations, shall be entirely perverted. He 
 shall take falsehood to be truth, vice to be 
 virtue, ignominy to be honour. In a word, 
 I will make him a fool." 
 
 " It won't do, my lad ; it won't do," answered 
 his grandmother, as she finished a row, and 
 bit off the thread with the only tooth she had 
 remaining. " There is more than that needed, 
 far more than that. What has once been 
 overturned, can be placed up again ; the 
 crooked can be made straight ; and the Lord 
 God is able to do it." 
 
 " I shall soon get tired of it," growled the 
 Devil. " This intense studying tells upon one. 
 But it would be foolish to give up half-way." 
 And so he went ofi" once more to his den. 
 
 Again a thousand years passed, without the 
 almanac, and without anybody knowing what 
 had become of them. Nothing is better than 
 when time passes with as little fuss as pos- 
 sible. 
 
 When the Devil returned he really did 
 look fagged. His grandmother was seated 
 
144 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 in her old place ; but this time, contrary to 
 custom, her hands were on her lap. Evidently 
 she had been longing after her son. Wit or 
 fool, she had only him. 
 
 " Now, at last, I have it !" exclaimed Lucifer. 
 " I will make vanity man's second nature. 
 Ape-like, he shall become enamoured of him- 
 self, and do all sorts of apish tricks. I will, 
 to speak plainly, make him a fool. Man shall 
 become the ridicule and laughing-stock of his 
 , brother man." 
 
 " Ho, ho ! you have hit it there, my boy," 
 whined out the old woman, as joy gleamed out 
 of her red, bleared eyes. " The others were 
 good, too ; brilliantly conceived ; but they had 
 one failing, they were not innocent enough. 
 However covetous, however perverted msto 
 might become, he would constantly feel that 
 there was something amiss ; he would lose 
 confidence in himself, and events would teach 
 him caution. Remember conscience ! And one 
 can never tell what God in His boundless love 
 may please to do for the miserable race. 
 
 "But with vanity it is quite a different 
 matter. It is a grand discovery. Your part 
 in the world will be a great one, my son. 
 Everything connected with it is so apparently 
 innocent, so unlikely to cause suspicion ; for 
 what can be more innocent apparently than 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 145 
 
 to wile away the time, to aimise one's self, 
 to be joyful amongst the joyous, beautiful 
 amongst the lovely, to wear fine clothes, to 
 aim after graceful and distingue manners, to 
 have one's natural and acquired accomplish- 
 ments duly appreciated ? Mankind will give 
 itself completely up to vanity ; through vanity, 
 lust, self-will and folly will gain the domi- 
 nion ; and in perfect innocence they will 
 travel along the high road to Hell. True 
 enough, the Lord God can do what He pleases; 
 there is no doubt of that. But I was not bom 
 yesterday, and for my part I cannot imagine 
 how God ever can interpose to arrest the 
 course of the vain, as with the easiest and 
 securest conscience they go fooling along the 
 road to Hell." 
 
 The old woman had worked herself up into 
 such a pitch of excitement that she had grown 
 quite eloquent. She shook in her seat, and 
 her joints rattled, so withered was she ; and 
 her skin, which seemed of all colours, hung on 
 her in loose folds. 
 
 " I'm proud of you, my lad!" she resumed. 
 " It is only right that I should do my part in 
 furthering such an excellent plan. When I 
 change my skin I'll make it look so fine for 
 you ; it will be so beautiful and soft, and of 
 such a lovely colour, that it will take every 
 
 VOL. I. L 
 
146 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 fool's fancy. It will be your business then to 
 force it into the hands of mankind. It will be 
 easy enough to do so. With his apish nature 
 man will dress himself up in anything, pro- 
 vided it be only singular and rather brilliant. 
 Then you will see, Diavolino, what beautiful 
 things will come of it. They will call it the 
 Fashion ; it will be looked on as the most harm- 
 less, the most innocent, thing in the world. Ha ! 
 ha ! ha ! and it will be neither more nor less 
 after all than my old discarded hide. But it 
 will be a powerful means of nurturing vanity 
 and of making life result in nothingness. 
 Then the fool will first appear in human 
 nature in a thousand fantastic and ever-vary- 
 ing forms. But I must go and take a little 
 exercise now, that my skin may slip off all the 
 easier. One gets quite stunted from sitting 
 still so long." 
 
 Lucifer was in ecstasies. 
 
 " Per Baccho r he shrieked. " Soh ! at last 
 then all is right. God may create His man 
 now whenever He pleases!" 
 
 Thereupon he took his old grandmother up 
 on his back, and danced up and down Hell. 
 It tickled her fancy to such a degree, that she 
 nearly split herself with "laughing. 
 
 " Mind my skin ! " she cried ; " my boy, 
 mind my skin !" - 
 
LETTERS PROM HELL. 147 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Perhaps you will be surprised to hear me 
 speak of Literature in Hell. A few explana- 
 tory remarks^ however, will suffice to remove 
 your astonishment. It is simply thus : As 
 every specific evil finds its way down to Hell, 
 so also does everything that is of an immoral 
 tendency, or exceedingly foolish, descend here^ 
 whether it be in a written or printed form. 
 First come the works themselves, then their 
 authors. Thus you see, literature cannot by 
 any means be said to be poorly represented 
 here ; and as may be supposed, it is tolerably 
 one-sided. 
 
 Light literature is very fully represented 
 by a number of trashy novels. All civilized 
 countries and peoples have contributed towards 
 it, though in very different proportions. Some 
 are distinguished by the quantity, others by 
 the quality, of their contributions. The last- 
 named may be divided into two classes — 
 schools they cannot properly be termed — the 
 
148 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 piquant, and the racy. Both have their spe- 
 cial representatives. I mention no names; 
 but doubtless it will be an agreeable surprise 
 to some authors who are still living to hear 
 how extensively their talents are appreciated, 
 as they not only write for the world, but also 
 for Hell. As far as regards any remuneration 
 from this latter place, the authors must be 
 content to waive their claim, at least for the 
 present, till they come here themselves. 
 Then doubtless matters will be satisfactorily 
 arranged. 
 
 This light literature is in as great demand 
 here as it was in the world. There are those, 
 indeed, who, so to speak, live on nothing else. 
 But still that soul has not yet been found that 
 has received any edification from it. It was 
 little enough in the world, forsooth, but here 
 it is much less. It is a natural consequence. 
 In the world an excited imagination and 
 inflamed desires could be appeased after a 
 fashion, but there is no such thing possible here. 
 
 Neither is ibere any lack of theological 
 works, critical, dogmatical, or homiletical. 
 
 In casuistry, too, we are well supplied ; but 
 it forms a special branch of science by itself. 
 The olden time is mainly represented by a 
 huge mass of priestly lies, gradually brought 
 into a system; of all kinds of fanatical fabri- 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 149 
 
 cations and fantasies on one given theme — 
 Religion. The age of Yoltaire and of the 
 Encyclopasdists is the period when they 
 reached their zenith ; but a fresh impulse was 
 imparted by Kant and his disciples. Regarded 
 in a theological point of view from Hell, the 
 French Revolution is neither more nor less 
 than a new Messiah-birth ; but how different 
 from that first birth at Bethlehem ! For the 
 rest, all ages have added diverse contribu- 
 tions. 
 
 . Of late some critical historical works, under 
 the title, " .... of Nazareth's Life," have 
 awakened extraordinary interest. Ah, look 
 at the vacant space above ! A name should 
 stand there, but I am as little able to write it, 
 as I am to pronounce it. My hand glides 
 over the paper, but the name escapes me. In 
 all these writings He, whom I can name no 
 more, is only represented to be crucified 
 afresh. From this you will be able to form a 
 tolerably clear notion of our theological litera- 
 ture. It presents an admirable apparatus to 
 any one who wishes to study himself into 
 becoming a rank infidel ! 
 
 But even in Hell one may get on the wrong 
 track ; even here there is a something worse 
 to be dreaded. I never was a theologian, and 
 never shall be one in this place ! 
 
150 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 Of course, in addition to these we possess 
 a number of works by infidel writers, which 
 have either been burnt, or not burnt ; by puffed- 
 up, perverted, crack-brained fanatics ; by false 
 prophets of all kinds, who have tried in dif- 
 ferent ways to make a capital out of religion. 
 As novelties, forsooth, these writings readily 
 command a certain degree of silly attention. 
 But it is seldom long before the author comes 
 here himself. Then the matter is solved in 
 a very lamentable, or rather, let me say, in a 
 manner, with regard to circumstances in Hell, 
 which is extremely exhilarating ; and the new 
 theology and doctrine of salvation is confined 
 to a certain corner of Hell, where its disciples 
 eke out an existence very different to the lofty 
 ideas they had formed. 
 
 Philosophical treatises are not so abundant. 
 Philosophers on the whole must be regarded 
 as very harmless people. Either they are 
 really wise, and therefore good and pious ; or 
 else they have lapsed into a quiet, perfectly 
 harmless kind of madness. Only, therefore, 
 where a domineering spirit pervades their 
 works, do we see anything of them. Thus we 
 have not so few interesting attempts, made in 
 a room eighteen feet square, not only to mea- 
 sure the world, but the whole of existence ; to 
 bring the entire creation into a system for 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 151 
 
 time and eternity ; and with a pinch of srniff, or 
 a snap of the finger, to solve the riddle of life. 
 
 I allude to the juridical profession only 
 en passant, and as by way of parenthesis. If 
 I were not to mention it, it would seem as if 
 I held it in contempt, and 1 should be sorry 
 even in Hell to have any disagreeables with 
 the lawyers. 
 
 The fact simply is, that, however great my 
 respect is for jurisdiction, I am totally unable 
 to appreciate it : a deficiency on my part, 
 doubtless. " Corpus juris,'' to my mind, is a 
 tangled net of enormous dimensions ! 
 
 The works of the Rabulists are ranged in 
 long dust-covered rows. What the Rabulists 
 are was never quite clear to me ; but I sup- 
 pose they are to jurisdiction what the Ency- 
 clopaedists were to theology. 
 
 Works of sophistry are only alluded to to 
 enable me to say that they are remarkable 
 both for their refinement, and for their gross- 
 ness ; which of the two elements preponde- 
 rates I am quite at a loss to decide. 
 
 As a matter of course, one load of shameful 
 law-suits succeeds the other, and the papers 
 swell into mountainous heaps. It is truly 
 wonderful how ever the world had eyes to wade 
 through them all. They compose one vast 
 dung-hill; but that soil does not exist which 
 
152 LBTTEBS FROM HELL. 
 
 it is fitted to manure. There is scarce a single 
 parish in the world but has its Aceldama ! 
 
 With regard to the reviewer's profession, 
 we have all kinds of abominable reviews, pro- 
 ductions of ignorance, spite, thoughtless love 
 of mischief, or pure malice. It is a well known 
 fact that reviewers are a peculiar race of people, 
 in whom there is but little of what is human, 
 because nothing is so remote from their nature 
 as humanity. Some people maintain that a 
 reviewer must needs be a misanthrope in order 
 to write a good critique. But that is saying 
 rather too much. Others are doubtless nearer 
 the mark when they assert that there is a 
 great deal of cynicism about them ; for cer- 
 tainly reviewers are sarcastic, greedy, and 
 sordid to a degree. 
 
 When I was alive I formed my own opinion 
 about this class of people, but I will by no 
 means insist that it was absolutely the right 
 one. But I still maintain that reviewers may 
 be divided into two principal classes ; the one 
 consisting of those who are competent to criti- 
 cise, but who take no pleasure in it, in fact, 
 would rather not do it. In the world one sel- 
 dom sees anything from their pen; here, never. 
 
 The other class comprises those who, though 
 quite incompetent, yet, in the Devil's name, will 
 write reviews. These flood the world with their 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 153 
 
 productions ; and, either by violence or fraud, 
 sway public opinion. Hell teems with them ! 
 
 This latter class can again be subdivided 
 into two branches : professional reviewers, and 
 amateur reviewers. 
 
 The first mostly consists of those who have 
 themselves attempted literature, but have 
 signally failed in their attempts, and now 
 feel themselves called upon to drag as many 
 as possible into the same dirty and pitiable 
 condition they are in themselves, omitting 
 no opportunity, despising no means, where- 
 with to accomplish their object. The sig- 
 nificant expression "to run a person down," 
 a scientific one by the way, is said to have 
 originated with them. Criticism has become 
 their handicraft ; but the bread they eat is 
 sour and bitter. They only live, only breathe 
 to discover faults ; and, when these are not to 
 be found, to invent them. Their whole life is 
 spent in accumulating gall. 
 
 These reviewers are the most active fellows 
 imaginable. I once heard it said, that the best 
 ratting-cat was a rat itself, that had once tasted 
 rat's flesh. If this be true, the same remark may 
 readily be applied to the reviewers. Once let 
 them conceive a taste for authorship, and 
 they become the deadliest foes a poor author 
 can have. I have a suspicion that Cerberus, 
 
/ 
 
 154 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 for a time, was nothing but a reviewer, who 
 had written or barked in three papers. 
 
 We have a goodly number of professional 
 reviewers. We avoid them as if they were 
 mad dogs, for they are as snappish as ever, and 
 form one of the worst plagues in Hell. Not 
 unfrequently they evince the most evident 
 symptoms, not of hydrophobia, but of ink- 
 phobia, so much so that in some places they 
 have been muzzled. 
 
 The other sub-division consists of young 
 persons, not devoid of wit, nor deficient in 
 talents, but terribly green ; in fact, just libe- 
 rated from school discipline. They want some- 
 thing out of the way to cool their young blood 
 in, and so take to writing reviews for some 
 journal or magazine. They do not mean any 
 harm by it ; it is merely an excellent method 
 for them to show that they are justified in 
 wearing a hat, and to forget that only a year 
 ago they were schoolboys. They swing them- 
 selves up into the cathedra with an air almost 
 divine, enveloped, of course, in clouds, and 
 belch forth their incontrovertible knowledge, 
 I repeat that these fine young fellows do not 
 mean any harm ; it is seldom that they con- 
 fine themselves to the subject in hand, but aim 
 only at writing pleasantly ; at making a few 
 witty remarks, and at getting an opportunity 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 155 
 
 of appearing in Olympian glory. How it 
 fares with the poor author, whether he is 
 living or dead, is a matter of total indifference 
 to them ; they use him but as a stepping-stone 
 under their feet, whereby they may be able to 
 soar aloft into indefinite and airy heights. 
 
 One might almost be tempted to suppose 
 that malicious reviewers in Hell are ranked in 
 the same catalogue with murderers, that ia, 
 murderers in the spiritual meaning of the 
 word, and that the first named are guilty of 
 wilful murder, the latter only of unintentional 
 homicide. But such is not the case. They 
 stand in the same rank, or rather list, with 
 unjust judges. 
 
 These reviews, then, after a fashion, make it 
 possible for us to follow up the literature of 
 the world. As soon as such a review arrives 
 here, we know at once that some good, or, at 
 all events, some harmless book has come out 
 above. Of course we only get a distorted re- 
 presentation of it, only see the wrong side of 
 what has been published. But we are used to 
 it, everything goes on in this way. 
 
 Neither are the daily papers, especially the 
 political ones, unrepresented ; namely, such as 
 are used for a pecuniary speculation, or have 
 sold themselves to serve some paltry party in- 
 terest, and which do not hesitate, for lucre's 
 
'Ka 
 
 156 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 sake, to mislead public opinion, or to wheedle 
 it. Above all, no sooner does any shameful 
 article appear in any paper whatsoever, than 
 it comes down straight to Hell, as neatly cut 
 out as if it had been done by the scissors of 
 a reviser. Parliamentary reports naturally 
 afford a goodly supply. You may imagine that 
 we get many a good speech to read of ministers 
 and deputies : at one time a sheer mass of 
 balderdash that makes one's ears tingle, at 
 another, a pack of lies from first to last, so art- 
 fully woven together and glazed over, that one 
 is almost induced to believe that there is ac- 
 tually some reality about it. So that we are 
 able to follow up the occuiTcnces of the day, 
 though after a perverted fashion. It gives 
 one really quite a wonderful impression to see 
 first one, now another of one's good old ac- 
 quaintances standing forth and delivering a 
 hearty blow, and then disappearing as if he 
 had never existed. It puts me in mind of the 
 laughable custom I have seen in Holland and 
 other countries, on Shrove Monday, viz. of 
 knocking the cat out of the basket. '- 
 
 But you know all this as well as I do my- 
 self. What you do not, however, know as 
 well as we do, is the multitude of dispatches, 
 notes, circulars, confidential communications, 
 which are exchanged between the cabinets oi 
 
LETTERS PROM HELL. 157 
 
 the world, in the service of politics, for the 
 greatest part for false and crafty ends ; you 
 know nothing about the protocols which are 
 couched in the most obliging, and yet cautious 
 and equivocal style, always speaking in the 
 name of truth, of righteousness and of huma- 
 nity, and yet having no more regard either 
 for truth, righteousness, or for humanity, than 
 for a sour herring, directly interest or any 
 other evil passion comes into play. 
 
 The greater proportion of these political 
 emanations never comes to the knowledge of 
 the world, but goes down straight to Hell, 
 little indeed to our edification. Of course we 
 glean a great deal of remarkable information ; 
 but it only fills us with an impotent feeling of 
 exasperation. I have always suspected it, but 
 now am quite convinced, that the falsest, most 
 cruel, and most ungodly being in the world, 
 is your so-called high politician. 
 
 From this cursory sketch you will see that 
 we are by no means deficient in point of read 
 ing here ; and it will also have been impressed 
 upon you, that out of all this dirty, poisonous 
 rubbish, nothing of a refreshing or edifying 
 nature can be found. It will not even suffice 
 to wile away the passing moment. For the 
 more we read, the more miserable do we feel, 
 and the more numerous do our evil recollections 
 
158 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 become. But we must seek dissipation ; we are, 
 as it were, driven to it, though we know full 
 well that it is nowhere any longer to be found. 
 It seldom or never occurred to me while 
 I was in the world, that I had anything to 
 be thankful for. Health, prosperous circum- 
 stances, I enjoyed as things that came as a 
 matter of course. If ever I did bestow a 
 single thought upon them, I attached but little 
 weight to it. For I was never contented; 
 neither with life, with the world, nor yet with 
 myself. I perceive and feel now what a rich 
 blessing from on high lay in all these things, 
 greater than tongue can express, and so much 
 the greater, because they were quite unmerited. 
 When I look back, and I am incessantly con- 
 strained to do so, for there is nothing to look 
 forward to, save one thing, one terrible thing 
 — Judgment and Damnation — I cannot but 
 acknowledge that the benefits which are 
 vouchsafed even on a single day in any man's 
 life are countless. Life is so rich I Doubtless 
 there is a good deal of misery in the world. 
 I myself have joined in crying, " Ah !" and 
 "Woe!" over it. But the misery of the 
 whole universe shrinks into nothingness when 
 compared with that which I have recently 
 undergone. Viewed from Hell, even the most 
 miserable man on earth has infinitely much to 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 159 
 
 be thankful for. A human being's hfe, what- 
 ever it be, ought to be a Hfe of gratitude. 
 Even if out of all the good things of the world 
 he has been able to retain naught but fresh 
 air, light, and a crust of bread, he has un- 
 speakably much to be thankful for. I see it 
 all now when it is too late. Here there is 
 nothing, alas ! actually nothing to be thankful 
 for. But you, who are still alive, you still 
 have time to recognise the truth. Oh ! lay 
 these words of mine to your hearts ; they are 
 full of suffering and not devoid of love. 
 
 You will have noticed how incessantly I 
 am harassed by evil thoughts, though of their 
 extent you can form no idea. My actual 
 misdeeds of course torture me ; they lie like 
 stones, hot, burning stones on my heart. It 
 is not of them I am thinking. But every one 
 of my actions in which I have only slightly 
 erred, forces itself on my memory ; each little 
 untruth, falsehood, wrong, or merciless deed ; 
 every little act of deception ; every little 
 breach of faith and flaw, and so on to infinity. 
 They fall on me with knives and scissors, 
 cutting and piercing me to the very quick. 
 Once they seemed so trivial, that I paid no 
 heed to them, but quickly consigned them to 
 oblivion. But they had their signification, 
 and now they make it felt without mercy 
 
160 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 They had quite vanished ; they existed no 
 longer, each year laid a sod upon their graves. 
 But still there was a hidden, an imperishable 
 life within them, and now they all come back 
 to me one by one. I remember them with a 
 preciseness which is indescribably painful, and 
 I am completely at their mercy. 
 
 Now that I am thinking of giving you one 
 or two instances, in order that you should 
 thoroughly understand me, they swarm by 
 hundreds before me. I will select the first 
 that comes. 
 
 Of late I have been constantly haunted by 
 the piteous looks of a ragged little urchin, 
 In whichever direction I turn, there he stands 
 or rather Hes before me, gazing at me with a 
 pair of dark, sorrowful eyes. The story is as 
 follows : 
 
 " One evening as I was walking outside the 
 town, a little boy ran before me, and impor- 
 tuned me to buy something of him. But I 
 did not want anything, and so pushed him 
 aside time after time. Still he would not be 
 repulsed, but would keep getting in my way ; 
 till at last getting impatient, I took him by 
 the arm and pushed him aside. I did not 
 mean any harm to the lad, though I must 
 acknowledge that at that moment my intentions 
 were not quite what they ought to have been. 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 161 
 
 Doubtless, I could have got rid of him by 
 gentler and better means, but to speak plainly 
 I was annoyed, and would not be bothered. I 
 suppo^ I must have used rather too much force, 
 for the boy fell into the gutter, and began to 
 weep bitterly, either because he had received 
 some hurt, or because his wares had got 
 broken. On turning round, a piteous glance 
 from a pair of dark eyes, filled with pain and 
 reproach met mine. I could very easily have 
 repaired what I had done ; but it never oc- 
 curred to me to do so. I was too much taken 
 up with myself, and I passed hastily on. 
 
 Now, I ask, would anybody call this a really 
 evil deed ? No ; I am convinced they would 
 not ! But here in Hell one's feelings are nicer. 
 And so after so long a lapse of time that little 
 boy's face returns to my memory to add its 
 contribution to the measure of my misery ; 
 truly but an infinite small portion of my entire 
 wretchedness ; but the instance cited is but 
 one amongst hundreds of others that are con- 
 stantly recurring to my thoughts. 
 
 And it is not only those things, those trifling 
 things I have done amiss, that rise up and re- 
 proach me, but every evil word I have ever 
 uttered comes back and makes me smart for it. 
 Once they had issued forth from my mouth 
 like poisoned shafts ; like poisoned shafts they 
 
 VOL, I. M 
 
162 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 come back to me and pierce my heart to its 
 core. 
 
 Oh, then, weigh your words well, you who 
 still have a living voice; for the evil one 
 single careless word is capable of producing 
 in the world is incalculable. If you will not 
 treat others leniently, at least be merciful 
 towards yourselves. For the ultimate goal of 
 all your evil words is your own heart ! 
 
 All kinds of conversations, long long since 
 forgotten, are now remembered with an accu- 
 racy that is perfectly maddening. I can see 
 now how every word fell from my lips, every 
 look that accompanied it. I wish not to see 
 it, but am compelled. And those evil words 
 of mine which are now no longer capable of 
 injuring others, wound me, and produce in- 
 curable sores. 
 
 And not only does every evil deed and 
 every evil word come back to me, aye, but 
 every wicked thought and idea; and they 
 still g my heart, and never let me know a 
 moment's peace. 
 
 I have often heard it said in the world, " In 
 Nature nothing is lost !" No, nothing, alas, 
 is lost in the spiritual world; not even the 
 very smallest iota ! 
 
 But not only the evil I have done, but the 
 good I have left undone, rises up in judgment 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 163 
 
 before me and condemns me. Innumerable 
 are these accusing enemies. Both what has 
 existed and what has never been assumes a 
 form, and rises up against me. Frightful ap- 
 paritions are they, sufficient to people a whole 
 world around me, in the midst of which I stand 
 alone, and condemned. The good I have neg- 
 lected, too ! Ah me ! it is almost worse than 
 the evil I have committed. For the temptation 
 to evil was often so strong, it would have cost 
 such great exertions, entailed such severe sacri- 
 fices, to have withstood it. But to have done 
 that which was good would have cost little or 
 nothing. It is all so clear to me now. 
 
 Yes ! it is passing strange what a clear view 
 one gets of the world and of human life from 
 Hell! 
 
 The man who neglects to do good is in- 
 excusable ; for however limited his means and 
 resources may be, opportunities are con- 
 stantly recurring. It all depends upon his 
 possessing a heart. Therein lies the power — 
 there the blessing. By a wondrous contri- 
 vance of Him whose being is love; there is but 
 a trifling difference between poor and rich in 
 this respect, between the powerful and the weak. 
 
 Oh, take care, then, my brothers and sisters, 
 you who still see the light of day ! take 
 care that you never become the prey of a 
 
164 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 bitter remorse ; how bitter I cannot tell you ! 
 Let no opportunity of doing good pass by you. 
 It is so easy, and it costs so little. For the op- 
 portunities you allow to pass by unused will 
 some day return to accuse and condemn your 
 soul through all eternity. 
 
 I am not addressing myself now to the 
 really hard-hearted ones. God alone can 
 touch them. But there are some soft hearts 
 which only need a sunbeam, or a warm breath 
 of wind to open them. It was by no means 
 my misfortune in tlie world to possess a hard 
 heart ; on the contrary, under ordinary cir- 
 cumstances I was readily moved to compassion. 
 But either I did not pay any attention to what 
 concerned other people ; or, if I did, it was 
 with a glance so fleeting that it was forgotten 
 again directly. Ah ! if I only knew that my 
 experience would be of benefit to you, how it 
 would sooth my pain. But I do not know it, 
 and however fain I would believe it, I am com- 
 pelled to entertain serious doubts about it ; for 
 doubt, horrible doubt, is one of the chief com- 
 ponents in the pains of Hell. 
 
 Again I feel a desire to exemplify what I 
 have said. A living example has such a; 
 wondrous power about it. Aye, and a living 
 example it is, though it comes from the realms 
 of Death : 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 165 
 
 Two doors from my house there dwelt a 
 poor family in a cellar. As I passed by it my 
 eyes used involuntarily to fall upon a window 
 in it. There was a bald-head in constant motion 
 that rivetted my attention, but it was a long 
 time before I could get a view of the face 
 belonging to it. He was a father of a large 
 family, and sat on that bench bent over his 
 work with unflagging diligence from morning 
 till night. Apparently not necessity alone, 
 but interest also made him so eager. He was 
 a wood-carver of some talent, and used to 
 make toys for a large toy warehouse in the 
 town. Strange enough, he excelled especially 
 in making all kinds of wild, savage beasts. I 
 say strange enough, for he looked far from 
 being ferocious himself; to judge by the ex- 
 pression of his face, a meeker, gentler, more 
 pious soul could not have existed. He got 
 over his work very quickly, and the window- 
 ledge above him was filled with lions, wolves, 
 and hyaenas marching one after the other. 
 His forte lay especially in wolves and innocent 
 lambs. Still he found it hard work to support 
 his family, which was already large, and kept 
 increasing regularly each year. But as far as 
 I could judge, they were a very happy family. 
 The wife took in washing, sold little billets of 
 wood for the stoves, and baked potatoes ; in 
 
166 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 short, helped in a variety of ways. Thus, 
 either assisted the other, and with care they 
 managed to make both ends meet. 
 , But a time of adversity arrived. The toy- 
 warehouse failed. No longer could I see the 
 shining bald-head in the deep cellar ; all was 
 as dark as the grave down there. What had 
 become of it ? I asked myself once. And after 
 that I never troubled myself further about the 
 matter. 
 
 But one day as I was taking a walk outside 
 the town my memory was refreshed. I not 
 only saw my bald-head again, but his whole 
 person. The poor, infirm old creature, who 
 had hitherto been occupied only in very light 
 work, had been obliged through sheer neces- 
 sity to work in a brick yard — a labour of the 
 severest nature. His knees literally tottered 
 under him, and the sweat rained down in big 
 drops from his forehead. 
 
 I felt sorry for him ; it was plain he was 
 working himself to death. His life was in as 
 great danger as if all the tigers, wolves, and 
 hyaenas he had ever made were living animals, 
 and were attacking him. And there was yet 
 something more touching still about the case. 
 Once or twice I was witness to a family scene. 
 The wife would bring her husband his dinner, 
 all the children with her, one on her arm, 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 167 
 
 another in her apron, and the rest following 
 her on foot. I saw how tenderly she wiped 
 the perspiration off her husband's brow ; how 
 the children clung around him, and how grate- 
 ful he seemed for all the attention and care 
 lavished on him, and how strong he made 
 himself appear for their sakes. 
 
 I felt much moved at the scene, and on my 
 return home decided that something must be 
 done for the poor family. It would not have 
 been difficult for me. I could easily have got 
 the man a situation as porter, inspector, or 
 some other light employment; for from the 
 position I held I had many such opportunities. 
 But, meanwhile, I had to leave home on busi- 
 ness; and on my return I had forgotten all 
 about the matter ; when it did recur to my 
 mind, it was too late. The poor things (what 
 else could have been expected ?) had perished. 
 
 But there is even yet worse to follow. 
 Whether it is only a fantasy belonging to the 
 juggleries of Hell, or whether it is really a 
 kind of clairvoyance peculiar to its denizens, I 
 am often able, as it were, to follow up the evil 
 I have been the cause of on its way through 
 the world, and to mark how it has spread 
 from one to another without bound or limit. 
 It is far from my wish to track its course, but 
 I am compelled to do so from stage to stage. 
 
168 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 till it accumulates into one, and I can perceive 
 no more. 
 
 Terrible are tlie effects, fearful the misery 
 which one bad, or even thoughtless act, aye, 
 or one careless word is able to accomplish in the 
 world. Singly and alone they are mischievous 
 enough ; but the mischief would be but pro- 
 portionately small if they exhausted themselves 
 in one blow, and then perished or became 
 powerless. But such is not always the case. 
 Frequently they possess a diabolical power of 
 spreading, so that it is in their consequences 
 they first become harmful. One misery fol- 
 lows on another indefinitely. It is not the 
 actual e\al in and by itself that lays the world 
 waste, but its consequences. 
 
 This leads me to think of offences. 
 
 Oh, what a terrible instrument are they in the 
 world, more terrible than any one can possibly 
 imagine ! With good reason has woe been 
 cried over those from whom offences come. 
 They are worse than the plague-smitten or 
 the leprous. Offences especially have a 
 devilish power of propagating themselves. 
 There is no limit to their consequences. The 
 evil which bad men commit is in itself nothing 
 when compared with the evil which they cause 
 by a scandalous example. The wicked prin- 
 ciple issues forth ; no longer have they any 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 169 
 
 control over it. It now proceeds by itself, 
 knowing no restraint. Its consequences are 
 felt long after the persons are dead and gone, 
 and the responsibility, therefore, becomes 
 greater. Ah ! it is fearful. 
 
 It is painful to say it, but I fear it is in this 
 very point the demon within me has gained 
 such strength. Offences have proceeded from 
 me in all directions, and unconsciously I have 
 been the destruction of thousands. It is all 
 clear enough now ; one thing comes back to 
 my mind after the other with the most bitter 
 remorse, and makes itself the more felt, be- 
 cause I believe that I am able in the spirit to 
 track the evil which once proceeded from me 
 on its course through the world, with its end- 
 less consequences of woe. 
 
 Do you understand me ? You will do so if 
 I only adduce one or two instances. 
 
 One evening I chanced to meet a num- 
 ber of jovial young fellows at a large banquet. 
 I had been especially invited to honour the 
 entertainment with my company. The distin- 
 guished part I was asked in all sincerity to 
 take pleased me not a little, so I went. Under 
 the circumstances, of course I felt it my duty 
 to take on myself to amuse the company. 
 That evening I found it no difficult work ; I 
 was witty and humorous, and my humour 
 
170 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 waxed strong-er and stronger with excitement. 
 A great number of speeches were made and 
 toasts proposed. At last I rose to propose a 
 toast and make a speech. I knew I was 
 looked up to as an authority by the young 
 fellows, so that I could make them believe and 
 do anything I pleased. I therefore stood up 
 as one from whose mouth streams of rich 
 experience flowed. 
 
 " Only venture" was the subject of my speech. 
 
 I alluded to what I had attained in the 
 world, how rich my life had been in en- 
 joyments, nearly all of them the fruits of 
 " only venturing." In that little word a trea- 
 sure of knowledge was contained, greater than 
 all the treasures of Solomon. What better 
 advice, therefore, could I give my young 
 friends before whom the world had just un- 
 folded itself, than " Venture, only ventiire, 
 venture to be happy !" 
 
 My speech was received with clamorous 
 applause. The wine was strong, but my speech 
 was stronger ; they were intoxicated with my 
 words. Some, indeed, soon shook it off, but 
 with three or four at least the baneful advice 
 struck root, and they issued forth into the 
 world to put into practice a maxim three- 
 fourths of which was false. It could not 
 be otherwise than destructive to them, and 
 
LETTEES FROM HELL. 171 
 
 through them to mimherless others. For the 
 false principle which appeared so grand and 
 brilliant, extended farther from soul to soul. 
 Alas ! it is spreading still, and I see no end to it. 
 
 Yet another incident, and one of the most 
 burning, 
 
 I had been on a visit to a friend of mine in 
 the country, and was just on the point of leaving. 
 The carriage was at the door, and I was 
 actually stepping into it, when I recollected 
 that I had left something in my room ; so I 
 hurried back to fetch it. There was a maid- 
 servant there, busy tidying up ; she was young 
 and uncommonly pretty, scarcely eighteen 
 years old. All at once the whim seized me, 
 and I threw my arms around her, and gave 
 her a kiss. With a feeling of injured modesty 
 she disengaged herself from my embrace, and 
 blushing deeply stammered forth : 
 
 " Sir, I am a poor, but a virtuous girl !" 
 
 " Poor, my child ! what ? you poor !" I 
 answered. " With a beauty like yours, you 
 are immensely rich ; you could buy the heart 
 of a milhonaire I" 
 
 Thus I spoke in the thoughtlessness of the 
 moment ; for I did not attach any meaning to 
 my words ; it was only one of those silly ways 
 of expressing myself peculiar to me at that 
 time of my life. 
 
172 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 The poor girl stood blushing before me, 
 while I continued in the same tone and spirit : 
 
 " And now, my beauty, to thank me for the 
 golden lesson I have given you, you shall 
 bestow a kiss on me of your own free will ; 
 perhaps we shall never meet again." 
 
 She resisted ; but I was young, and good- 
 looking, too, and I knew how to wheedle the 
 fair sex. In short, the result was, she let me 
 embrace her, and gave me a hearty kiss. The 
 girl was completely in my power ; I felt it in 
 a moment. But the moment was not mine ; 
 the postillion was blowing his horn impatiently, 
 and I was obliged to tear myself away. But 
 as if to prove to her that her good looks were 
 a productive capital, I pressed a piece of gold 
 into her hand. 
 
 Now, I did not see much harm in all this ; 
 and perhaps the greater part of the world 
 would be of the same opinion. But in reality 
 I had saddled the world with a tremendous 
 evil. Not only had I instilled poison into the 
 young girl's veins, but into her very heart. 
 Her innocence was gone, and ruin had already 
 struck its roots deeply. I can track it all now, 
 and can see in the spirit what were the 
 results. 
 
 She was engaged to a respectable mechanic. 
 But her capital, she considered, would never 
 
LETTERS PROM HELL. 
 
 173 
 
 gain the coveted interest from him, and she 
 discarded him, to his great and unconquerable 
 sorrow. 
 
 So she went out alone into the world, to 
 make her capital of beauty remunerative. She 
 spread her snares far and wide ; but, however 
 prudently she intended to work, it ended in 
 her being caught herself. She became the 
 victim of a wily seducer. Yet this did not 
 check the principle on which she had been 
 working ; on the contrary, it now began to 
 flourish and to bring in interest. 
 
 As a courtezan she continued her course, 
 and soon became one of the most accomplished 
 and artful of her race, and thus proved the 
 ruin of one fool after another, and her capital 
 brought her in large returns. For a time she 
 almost wallowed in gold. Such were the 
 fruits of my first ducat ! But she never be- 
 came rich ; all her wealth disappeared as it 
 came, in senseless waste. Before she was 
 aware of it, her capital was spent. For a 
 time she struggled on under the lowest depths 
 of degradation to keep herself up. But her 
 doom was sealed, and her end was most mise- 
 rable. But this was not all. The poison 
 which had tainted her blood transfused itself 
 into the veins of others with whom she came 
 in contact. And even the evil principle which 
 
174 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 she owed to me she diligently transferred into 
 other women's hearts, and so from heart to 
 heart it spread and grew — Oh, woe ! oh, woe ! 
 — to infinity ! Beauty is capital ; make it pay, 
 make it pay ! 
 
 Such was the fate of one with whom I had 
 so little to do, that I did not even know her 
 name. How must it have fared with many 
 others ? How with Anna, against w^hom my 
 sin was a hundred times greater ? Strange, 
 the spirit will not assist me in tracking her 
 destiny ! Or is it true that I dare not track 
 it ? Most probablj^ it is between the two. If 
 she were once to appear before me, and drag 
 me after her. Oh, how terrible it would be ! 
 
 There is a fearful power in offences ! Those, 
 therefore, who live among young people, and 
 who are looked up to as an authority by them, 
 have a tremendous responsibility resting on 
 them. Consequently, bad educators of chil- 
 dren, parents, masters, guardians, are here in 
 numbers. They come to Hell first ; it cannot 
 be otherwise ; then follow the poor children 
 they have ruined, and their children's children, 
 and so on ; generation after generation, they 
 meet here with bitter, terrible reproaches. 
 I myself am among the number of these 
 wretched people, so that I have good grounds 
 for speaking as I do. I know what I have to 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 175 
 
 look forward to. It is, namely, to see Martin. 
 Poor boy ! He was brought up, as it were, 
 by offences. I can truly say, but, alas ! with 
 no good meaning, that he became what I made 
 him. He was me all the world over. But he 
 is still alive ; he may improve. But what is 
 he likely to be, and his children after him, 
 after the instruction he received from me? 
 In the world I had no family. Alas ! here in 
 Hell, I shall chance to have a large one. 
 Still let me say, God watches over all. For 
 Martin, and for his, there is still a Savi(^ur ! 
 
 How I loved him spite of all his rude beha- 
 viour ! Perhaps it was sheer selfishness on my 
 part ; or perhaps I loved him because I found 
 the reflection of myself in him. But it was a 
 strange affection. At last it was mingled with 
 envious feelings. I could not but feel jealous 
 of him, when I saw how each day he grew hand- 
 somer, more lovable, more captivating, than 
 myself; how gradually he became my success- 
 ful rival in everything. But these feelings of 
 jealousy so far from diminishing the love I felt 
 towards him, on the contrary increased it. One 
 of these impressions is especially lively in my 
 remembrance. 
 
 As he grew up I paid great attention to 
 his physical development. His mental edu- 
 cation I left for others to see to, and I did 
 
176 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 not ask many questions; but I took upon 
 myself to instruct him in all kinds of gym- 
 nastic and manly accomplishments. An ac- 
 complished hand myself, I taught him fencing, 
 shooting, riding, boxing, and wrestling. He 
 was unusually strongly built, and was per- 
 fectly and symmetrically made. Even before 
 his twentieth year the athlete was so far de- 
 veloped in him that he would have excited 
 admiration in Greece or in Rome. We used 
 to wrestle nearly every day, and each day I 
 noticed that he became stronger. A time 
 soon arrived when I perceived that it was all 
 I could do to keep my own against him. And 
 even that soon passed. One day — the thought 
 of it even now excites me — he lifted me off 
 my feet three times, hugged me in his arms, 
 and threw me with violence to the ground. 
 Henceforth he was my master. I might have 
 foreseen that it would be so soon. For not 
 only did my powers decrease with increasing 
 years, but his grew stronger. Still it vexed 
 and worried me ; and I could not forgive him. 
 But at the same time, strange to say, I was 
 inwardly proud of him, and admired him pasr 
 sionatelv for it. 
 
 The jealousy I entertained towards him, 
 however, became the more confirmed, when 
 at last he superseded me in the affections of 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 177 
 
 that young person on whom I had cast my 
 eyes. Even the love I bore to him could not 
 stand this. 
 
 Will he come? I dare scarcely doubt it. 
 He belongs to me, and I am in Hell. Then 
 I shall get an answer to the burning question 
 that was on my lips as I left the world^ and 
 which incessantly makes my heart ache now. 
 But dare I wish for an answer ? A terrible 
 suspicion often comes over me that the answer 
 must contain something fearful. But — even if 
 I should have to swallow all the pains of Hell 
 at one gulp — I must and will have that ques- 
 tion answered, " What had he to reveal ?" 
 
 VOL. T. X 
 
178 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 What an oppressive stillness reigns in Hell 
 among its thousands of millions and millions ! 
 
 I thought at one time I should get used to 
 it, but that will never be. What a transition 
 from the noisy, boisterous world ! But how- 
 ever wild our life, not a sound is heard among 
 us. Yes ! there is certainly a sound connected 
 with the speech of individuals, but it is heard 
 only by the ears for which it is intended. 
 Perhaps this, too, is only imagination ; we 
 catch at the words, and conceive the sound. 
 
 Hell is full of noisy people. Can you con- 
 ceive how it is ? However much they exert 
 themselves they are not able to give utterance 
 to the smallest sound. If ever they longed for 
 a stupor to seize them it is now ; but stupor 
 is nowhere to be found. They become the 
 wretched victims of the confusion they create. 
 
 It snowed to-day, for the first time, though 
 there are no signs of winter ; the lowest degree 
 of cold ever prevails here with the greatest 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 179 
 
 heat. It snowed to-day a perfect storm of 
 privy-counsellors, counsellors of justice, and 
 of state ; court-marshals, excellencies, petty 
 knights, commanders, and grand crosses of 
 various orders, &c. &c. 
 
 A number of the last " . . . ske TidendeJ' 
 which came in soon after, explained it all. 
 
 In one of the petty states of the world a 
 colossal distribution of titles and orders had 
 taken place on the occasion of a marriage. 
 
 Small nations are generally madder than 
 others in this respect. But, at least, they 
 should reflect that a whole nation consisting 
 only of knights and counsellors would pre- 
 sent one of the most ridiculous spectacles 
 in the world. But such appears to be their 
 aim. Indeed, many have brought it to such 
 a pitch, that it is not only considered no 
 honour to wear a title or a decoration, but 
 rather a disgrace to be without one. It is 
 all the same to us in Hell. We can very 
 well put up with a little snow. However 
 fast it comes down, the flakes are dissolved 
 just as in a thaw, leaving no traces behind 
 saving a certain unpleasant odour. 
 
 Still a word of comfort should be said on 
 behalf of these poor titled folk; that all 
 titles and orders do not come down to Hell. 
 Some of them find their proper place in 
 
180 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 the world, though generally it is vanity alto- 
 gether. 
 
 Apropos of the "... she Tidende /" There 
 was a very remarkable article in it, headed 
 " Freedom on the broadest foundation." It 
 was really very well written, and its style 
 was so full and overflowing, that it afforded 
 quite a peculiar interest to read between the 
 lines. The author is rather low in the world 
 at present, but would willingly be higher. 
 Therefore, it is that he would like to have 
 all " constraining bands loosened." If ever 
 he comes into authority he will be one of 
 the worst despots (not to say tyrants) the 
 world has ever known. Another wolf in 
 sheep's clothing ! But it is in vain I cry, 
 " Take heed, take heed !" The world will be 
 imposed on. 
 
 As the light waxes stronger, my heart be- 
 comes more and more uneasy. I look forward 
 with anxious expectation to the hour when the 
 splendour on yonder side the abyss shall be 
 revealed to my eyes. Paradise seen from tor- 
 ment must indeed be a fearful sight. It will 
 be as if a sword pierced me through and 
 through. But for all that, I can do naught 
 but long, and say, " Strike ! here is my poor 
 doomed heart." 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 181 
 
 Was there not something once called "Our 
 Father ?" 
 
 Yes ! I cannot doubt it, and it con- 
 tained a boundless and unlimited blessing. 
 I gasp ; I torture myself to repeat it ; it seems 
 as if it were on my lips, as if I needed only 
 to say "Our Father," and the rest would 
 follow. But I say it one time after another, 
 twenty, aye, a hundred times, and can get no 
 farther. Then I try and invert the words, 
 but it is equally useless. I know well enough 
 who this Father is. But he is no longer my 
 Father. He belongs to me no more. No 
 wonder, then, that I cannot get the blessed 
 words forth. Still my soul cannot refrain 
 from incessantly trying, and it wastes itself in 
 its fruitless endeavours. 
 
 It is a good thing that we can choose our 
 society here. I do not know how we could 
 endure it, if we were obhged to associate with 
 all the riff-raff, such as thieves, robbers, mur- 
 derers, traitors, perjurers, and hypocrites, that 
 one meets. Do not be disgusted at my using 
 the word riff-i-aff. The prejudices of the world, 
 its customs and loose expressions, still cling to 
 us, and we cannot, however much we wish it, 
 get rid of them. True ! we are riff-raff alto- 
 gether, I know that well enough. There is no 
 more perceptible difference between us and the 
 
182 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 vulgar herd, than consists in our more deve- 
 loped consciousness, the shadow of the more 
 refined education we received in the world. 
 However, imagination does not do so little 
 after all, and if it was of importance in the 
 world, here it is all in all. Our misdeeds may 
 be fully as bad as those of the multitude, 
 but they are not so gross ; indeed, in a great 
 measure, they are quite refined. Therefore, 
 we speak now, as of old, of the rabble, and pick 
 our company as well as we can. The rabble, 
 as I said, consists of thieves, robbers, mur- 
 derers, and of all kinds of low villains ; while 
 amongst us, seducers, gay people, the covetous, 
 the haughty, and all kinds of knaves are to 
 be found, that is to say, quite respectable folk. 
 Like naturally seeks like. Human nature in 
 Hell is principally represented by sympathy. 
 Indeed, this instinctive impulse is even more 
 lively than ever amongst us. 
 
 Sensitiveness, as you can readily imagine, 
 is the prevailing ingredient of life in Hell. 
 Alas ! so much the worse ! Therefore we are 
 very exclusive, and endeavour to keep every- 
 thing unsuitable out of our social circle ; and 
 though it is a difficult matter, yet we are very 
 particular (nice is, perhaps, a better expres- 
 sion) in this respect. Not only do we chassez 
 what is mean and vulgar, but even what is 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 183 
 
 Ugly and repulsive, without respect of persons ; 
 so fine, so excruciatingly fine, are our powers 
 of perception. 
 
 Some time ago, a pretty young woman came 
 here, a little coarse and unrefined, perhaps, 
 but only the more attractive from her defi- 
 ciencies. Her history is told in a few words. 
 She had deserted her old blind mother to 
 follow her lover, a harum-scarum circus rider, 
 through the world. She died suddenly in the 
 midst of the intoxication of her passion, con- 
 sequently she lifted up her eyes in torments. 
 She glows, shakes and trembles with anxiety 
 and nervous fear as we do, and she is a prey 
 to a pining desire. She pines for her mother, 
 whom she will never see again ; and for her 
 lover, whom she is looking for with the most 
 eager expectation. Still she loves him. Dare 
 she then hope that he will come ? She cannot 
 help nourishing the cruel wish. In it consists 
 her sole, aye, her sole hope. And, moreover, 
 come he must, they have sworn to be eternally 
 true to each other. But she may have to wait 
 long. 
 
 Meanwhile he, the noble one, is never out 
 of her thoughts ; he is the hero of all her 
 dreams. She sees him naturally, as she saw 
 him the last time, in all the enjoyment of 
 youth, beauty, and strength, in glittering 
 
\h 
 
 I 
 
 s.i { 
 
 i ', 
 
 1 I 
 
 
 184 
 
 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 attire, on the prancing steed, the admirai 
 of the assembled multitude. 
 
 At length he comes, but hobbling 
 crutches, with running eyes, and totter 
 knees. All passion, all pleasure, has 1( 
 since died out in him. 
 
 What a meeting ! What a recognition ! 
 
 She shudders at the distorted image of 
 precious, her incomparable one. But still 
 cannot help lavishing her caresses on him. 
 vain he pushes her aside ; in vain does he s 
 to fly away : she hangs over him ; where 
 goes there she is present. In short, the c 
 became so repulsive that we could endure it 
 longer. The young woman had hitherto b 
 one of us, but we were obliged to get rid 
 her, so it was not long before the pair had 
 move off. 
 
 Not long ago, another woman came h( 
 young no longer, but still attractive ; one 
 those blue-eyed, auburn-haired, languish 
 beauties which Germany only can produce 
 
 And the reason of her coming to Hell ? 
 
 Well, there was none other reason but 
 excessive devotion to her husband. It ^ 
 touching to hear how she had sacrificed ev€ 
 thing for him. And he proved unworthy 
 her love. Her sin was that she had sacrifi 
 too much for him, yes, far too much ; not 1 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 185 
 
 self alone, and all the world besides, but even 
 Grod. Yes ! she had set up her husband in God's 
 place, and he had been her idol. Great though 
 her affection was, it was a false essence ; lovely 
 and touching as it appeared, it was at bottom 
 but an intensified, egotistical propensity. 
 
 In Hell she is consumed by pining after 
 her husband. In life she knew but one feel- 
 ing ; therefore she knows now but one torment, 
 excepting, of course, inevitable remorse. At 
 length her husband comes, the villain, with 
 a heart occupied by another passion ! 
 
 Is she not severely punished ? Even in Hell 
 she excites commiseration, and her case creates 
 a great impression. But high society in Hell 
 could not exist if it did not pay some regard to 
 decorum. On these matters we are inflexible. 
 Of course it is only the shadow of decorum I 
 am referring to. 
 
 Perhaps you will say it must be a great ad- 
 vantage to be able to pick one's company in 
 this way. Yes, it certainly is an advantage ; 
 but, alas, my friend, there is nothing in Hell 
 but what results in misery. This power of 
 selection, therefore, is extremely painful ; for 
 we feel well enough that at bottom it is vanity 
 — a mere form, into which we endeavour to 
 transfuse reality. 
 
 I spoke just now about remorses ! They are 
 
186 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 numberless; but they compose only one moiety 
 of our torments ; the other is made up of lusts 
 more ardent than ever, because, without a body, 
 without a world, they cannot be appeased. 
 
 Could you believe it, I still sigh after that 
 wench — she was certainly very pretty — whom 
 I once took off the very doorsteps, and who re- 
 paid me so badly by preferring the boy to the 
 man, and in becoming Martin's wife, or, rather, 
 mistress ? I am full of a passion, the like of 
 which I have never felt before. And so it is 
 in all respects. I pine after amusement, good 
 living, old habits, empty honour — aye, even 
 sordid meat and drink. I have no longer any 
 stomach, and yet I pine to get it filled. 
 
 Everything is pain, continuous pain ! 
 
 There is only a moment in our existence 
 when all envious longings, all passions, in a 
 word, everything in us, all our thousand pains, 
 rest awhile. (Oh ! but do not think we are 
 free from pain !) Our ordinary pains certainly 
 lose power, but an indescribable anguish comes 
 in their stead. Now and then, for instance, a 
 horrible dread runs through Hell, a kind of 
 fearful panic, the like of which the world has 
 never known. Everything is arrested in its 
 course, stiffens, becomes mute, and trembles 
 and quakes. Something awful is occurring. 
 We do not see it, but we feel it, and we all 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 187 
 
 know what it is. It is Satan reviewing the 
 souls in Hell. As yet he has no power over 
 a single one of us, for judgment has not yet 
 been pronounced. But he can wait. He 
 rejoices at our increasing numbers. He resem- 
 bles the shepherd who takes delight in looking 
 at his flock, though the time for slaughter is 
 not yet come. He knows that sooner or later 
 a numberless flock will stand on the left of the 
 Almighty's throne, and that this herd is his to 
 all eternity. 
 
 We see nothing ; but we feel and shudder. 
 Meanwhile, the flock is aware of the proximity 
 of the wolf. And yet at times one can see, 
 when the horrible dread, for instance, occurs 
 on that night which we call the Night of 
 Death. What is to be seen I know not ; I have 
 never experienced it, and it would be worse 
 than foolish to tempt any one to speak of it. 
 
 In my youth I was many a time on the 
 road to become a good, christianlike, pious 
 individual. But each time it dissolved itself 
 into nothing. The recollection of it has some- 
 thing very sad, and yet inexpressibly touching 
 about it. It was Lili who chiefly was the 
 instrument of this mercy of Grod, which so 
 unhappily, so shamefully came to naught. 
 From the very first time I ever cast my eyes 
 
188 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 upon her, she obtained a hidden, inexplic- 
 able mastery over me. Do not say directly it 
 was my evil lusts and passion that brought 
 me under its influence. Nay, it was some- 
 thing better ; it was a hallowed power. All 
 children, I think, possess it more or less ; 
 but Lili possessed it in its fulness. 
 
 In winter-time after dinner was over we 
 used to sit round the fire before the lights 
 were brought in. My mother generally took 
 her siesta, while Lili and I gave up ourselves 
 to reverie. In what totally different regions 
 our fancies hovered ! I could sit for hours 
 watching her as she sat on a low stool in the 
 full glare of the cheerful fire. I was in the 
 dark, and could not be seen, and this made my 
 enjoyment the greater. 
 
 Generally, she would sit with her hands 
 clasped round her knee, her favourite posture 
 in her reflective and speculative hours. How 
 lovely she would look by this light ! A little 
 pale, perhaps, but all the more beautiful. The 
 glare from the fire flickered on her large dark 
 eyes. They had a wondrous brilliancy ; their 
 equals could nowhere have been found. Her 
 delicate features seemed illumined. Now and 
 then a deep-drawn breath or sigh would show 
 how busy she was within. I almost devoured 
 her with my glances. Had there been any 
 
LETTERS PROM HELL. 189 
 
 truth in the mystic doctrine of magnetism and 
 sympathy she must have noticed it. Perhaps 
 she did ; for at times she would become very 
 uneasy under my gaze, as if under the influence 
 of some hidden but mighty power. 
 
 It all stands out so clear to my recollection. 
 At such moments I felt tempted to start up and 
 snatch her to my bosom. But I did not do 
 so ; had I frightened her, all my pleasure 
 would have been lost. 
 
 But sometimes she would sit by my side, 
 and we would pass the hour in a low, con- 
 fidential conversation. 
 
 " What !" you exclaim ; " what conversation 
 of an interesting nature could possibly take 
 place between you and her ?" 
 
 Yes ! you may well ask. But it was she 
 who interested me. 
 
 One evening I asked her what she was 
 thinking of, as she sat steadfastly looking into 
 the fire. 
 
 " What am I thinking of?" she repeated, in 
 her soft tone. " Yes, of nothing, but that I 
 am thinking. It seems as if I had flown far, 
 far away to a foreign land over the mighty 
 seas — yes, to another world beyond the sky. 
 Sometimes, I even lose myself in my flight. 
 I fly to Louisiana, that lovely land, where 
 everything is so different to this ; much richer, 
 
190 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 larger, and more beautiful, and where the sad 
 winter is a thing unknown. There stands a 
 house on the banks of a large river, with pilas- 
 tered hall and verandah beneath the shade of 
 pine trees and planes. I traverse the lofty 
 saloons, but they are empty : my parents are not 
 there. I hurry through the garden, through the 
 grove, across the meadow, but can find no 
 abiding place. No one will recognise me. 
 Dark forms flit across my path, and I pause to 
 ask them questions, but they all shake their 
 heads sorrowfully at me, and hurry by. 
 
 " Heart-broken I turn away from the beau- 
 teous but desolate spot, and fly back again over 
 the sea. Unwearied I go from land to land, 
 seeing many wondrous things, and exchanging 
 in my flight words with many remarkable and 
 amiable persons. But wherever I am there is 
 something I miss. Then I soar up higher 
 and higher in my impetuous flight above the 
 clouds, aye, above the moon and the stars. 
 All at once I find myself in the most lovely 
 garden. I had thought nothing could surpass 
 Louisiana, the home of my birth ; but this is 
 far, far more beautiful. It is Paradise ; God's 
 own garden. There at last I find my parents : 
 I knew well enough I should meet them 
 again. There, too, I find peace ; there is 
 nothing more to long after. My father and 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 191 
 
 mother tell me how happy they are, and how 
 dearly they love me. 
 
 "It makes me so vexed when the servant 
 comes in with the candles, for it seems as if I 
 had suddenly fallen down from a great height, 
 and the earth had struck me a violent blow. 
 I feel dazed, and have to bethink myself where 
 I am. I feel so weak and poor, and every- 
 thing around me appears wearisome. Do you 
 understand me. Otto ?" 
 
 Yes ; I understood her well enough. They 
 were downright fooHsh dreams. These even- 
 ing hours did her no good : but of course I did 
 not say so. 
 
 Another evening as we were sitting to- 
 gether she suddenly asked me : 
 
 " Otto, what is it necessary to have to make 
 one happy ?" 
 
 The question took me by surprise, but I 
 quickly recovered my composure, and an- 
 swered in a prosaic manner : 
 
 " A pious heart, good health, a good estab- 
 lishment where there is no want; finally, a 
 choice of pleasures, and some nice people to 
 love one." 
 
 " I have all this and more ; am I happy 
 then ?" 
 
 " Yes ; are you not, dear Lili ?" I asked in 
 astonishment. 
 
192 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 '^ I do not know," she answered, thought- 
 fully. " I want something, if I could only say 
 it out. I am of no use or joy to any one in 
 the whole world." 
 
 *' How can you talk so ? Are you not a joy 
 to mother and to me ? And as for the rest, of 
 what use can a little girl like you be in the 
 world ? She should be diligent ; should grow 
 up and learn to be good and religious, so as 
 to be able to be of use some day, and to fulfil 
 her destination. But, as I said, are you not a 
 great joy to me and my mother ?" 
 
 " You do not stand in need of me ; but 
 there are so many who do stand in need." 
 
 " And so do we, Lili ; every one stands in 
 need of love." 
 
 Lili quietly shook her head. 
 
 " What can I be to either of you, Otto ? 
 She is your mother, and you her son. But 
 what am I ? In truth I belong to nobody. 
 You found me, and took me in, and that 
 is all." 
 
 " What are you ? First and foremost, you 
 are my dear little friend, whom I would not 
 part with for a kingdom, are you not ?" 
 
 " Little friend ? Yes ; what is that ?" she 
 added, after a short reverie. 
 
 " Shall I tell what a Httle friend is ? She 
 is a dear, tender little being that has given 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 193 
 
 one, not her heart alone, but her life ; who 
 wishes for nothing more than to bear all one's 
 sorrows ; who can make one smile in trouble, 
 and at other times can almost make one weep 
 for joy. Yes ; a little friend is the greatest 
 treasure to be found on earth." 
 
 Lili looked at me in amazement. 
 
 *' I do not quite understand you," she said. 
 
 " Never mind ; some time or other you will. 
 But directly I ask you, will you be my sweet 
 little friend ?" 
 
 She reflected a moment, and then raising 
 her pretty head, looked earnestly into my eye, 
 and said firmly : " Yes ; I will be your little 
 friend ; I shall be something then !" 
 
 " Yes — more than you are aware of^ Lili," I 
 answered. 
 
 Thenceforth there was a precious little 
 secret between us. Often and often when I 
 passed by her, or when I went out, I would 
 whisper, "My own dear little friend!" and she 
 would smile at me with such an angelic smile, 
 as she whispered back in return, 
 
 " And my friend too." 
 
 How delightful it was to sit by her side thus 
 in the quiet evening hours, stroking her silky 
 hair, or playing with her luxuriant curls, or 
 holding her little hand in mine. But — shall 
 I own it ? — I felt a kind of jealousy -^hen, as 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
194 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 it often happened, she would fall into a reverie, 
 in which probably I played no part. 
 
 One evening — it is quite wonderful with 
 what accuracy I can recall everything, every 
 word, aye, every look — one evening I asked her, 
 " Do you really love me, Lili ?" The very ques- 
 tion which lovers delight in asking each other. 
 
 " Do I love you, Otto ? What else could I 
 do ? I have neither father nor mother ; there 
 is none to care for me in the wide world but 
 you and aunt. Should I not, then, love you 
 with all my heart and soul ?" 
 
 *' I know that, Lili ; but could you not learn 
 to love me still more than you do now ?" 
 
 " Perhaps !" she answered, thoughtfully. 
 
 She was but eleven or twelve years old then. 
 At that age children give free vent to their 
 thoughts ; and so could Lili at times, like a 
 true child that she was ; but her conversation 
 was very different from that of other children. 
 Not only was she thoughtful, but I may say 
 profound, in her answers. Her words, there- 
 fore, had an extraordinary weight, and there 
 was a sincerity about them that went straight 
 to the heart. 
 
 " Perhaps !" she repeated, and fell into a 
 reverie. " What shall I do, then, for you to 
 love me more ? You see, Otto, I have no father 
 or mother ; but God's word teaches me that I 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 195 
 
 have brothers and sisters without number. Yes 
 . . . but I do not know them ; and they do not 
 know me. I am but a child, in whom no one 
 places confidence, and who can do so very little 
 in the world. But you. Otto, you have power 
 and opportunities, and you go far about. 
 Will you, then, make me a promise ? — When- 
 ever you find any of my poor brothers and 
 sisters in suffering, take compassion on them, 
 and be kind to them for God's sake and for 
 mine. Or if you will be truly dear, go out of 
 your way to find them ; and when able, take 
 me with you, that we may visit them together, 
 and speak kindly to them, and comfort them 
 as well as we are able. I have thought long 
 about it ; but I did not know till now how to 
 get it out. . . . Will you promise me that? 
 Only promise it, and you shall be my dearest 
 friend on earth !" 
 
 The tears had welled up into my eyes. It 
 was my turn to be thoughtful now. 
 
 " If I do what you wish, Lili, will you love 
 me much, much more than you do now ?" 
 
 " Otto ! I cannot tell you how much !" 
 
 " Then I will promise you on my sacred 
 word. But you, my darling little sister, must 
 be happy ; and not think so much about such 
 sorrowful things. Now look at me, and let 
 me see how happy you can look." 
 
196 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 And she looked up at me, and smiled with 
 an expression of such transcendent joy beam- 
 ing in her face, as if I had given her the 
 whole kingdom of earth, and of heaven too. 
 
 Do you not, then, plainly see that 1 was in 
 a fair way to become a good man — or let me 
 say a man — in my intercourse with this child ? 
 And though at first the motive that attached 
 me to her was a vain, yes, an unworthy 
 one ; still so great is the power of holiness 
 and of goodness in the world, even in a poor 
 weak child, that I was on the point of yielding 
 to its hallowed influence. I actually did see 
 after Lili's poor brothers and sisters. From 
 that time it was my great object to be able to 
 exercise compassion. There was no need to 
 do violence to my nature ; for by nature, I 
 dare venture to say, I was good-hearted and 
 well-disposed. Not only did I do what good 
 I could at Lili's bidding, but actually found a 
 pleasure in doing it. 
 
 And so we used to sit together of an even- 
 ing, chatting confidentially to each other. I 
 would tell her what I had been able to do for 
 this one, or for that ; draw a picture of the 
 wants and necessities of the poor creatures, 
 and describe the way in which I had relieved 
 them, and their joy and gratitude. Oh ! how 
 her face would brighten up ! Sometimes, too. 
 
LETTERS PROM HELL. 197 
 
 I would take her with me into the abodes of 
 misery, and find delight in putting myself 
 entirely at her disposal. It was truly wonderful 
 how well she knew how to do the right thing. 
 
 But — need I say it ? — I did not become a 
 better man for all this. The spirit, indeed, 
 was put in motion, and had taken a little por- 
 tion of the heart into its service ; but the flesh 
 was too strong. It was but a transient excite- 
 ment. The world held me too completely in 
 its power. What Lili had educed in me^ 
 became merely a little pastime with good 
 intentions, and no more. 
 
 When we parted, and I was travelling in 
 foreign countries, I still took upon myself to 
 see after the unhappy for Lili's sake. But it 
 was merely a kind of idolatrous homage to a 
 precious recollection ; a recollection of her, 
 the sweet little creature, who one day would 
 be mine, aye, was mine alr^idy. But how 
 ever could I have filled up my letters to her 
 had I not done so ? I knew that nothing 
 would captivate her so much. I deceived her, 
 perhaps deceived myself too ; but Grod cannot 
 be deceived. 
 
 One day I found her in tears. She was sit- 
 ting with her hands folded across her bosom ; 
 one by one the pearly drops trickled down 
 her cheeks. Her Bible lay open before her. 
 
198 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 " Dearest Lili, what is amiss ?" I exclaimed. 
 " Why are you so sad ?" 
 
 She raised her eyes. They beamed through 
 her tears. Drying them hastily she answered : 
 
 " I am not sad, dear Otto !" 
 
 " But you are crying ?" 
 
 '' Not from sorrow, but from joy," she said, 
 pointing with her finger to the open Bible. 
 " Se ewhat I have found !" 
 
 I bent down over the book and read from 
 the Psalms : 
 
 " When my father and my mother forsake 
 me : the Lord taketh me up." 
 
 I did not know what to say, but stood re- 
 garding her with a variety of thoughts run- 
 ning through my heart. I felt moved ; what 
 else could I be ? But, on the other hand, I 
 liked this Bible reading just as little as if she 
 were constantly pining after her parents, when 
 she had me and my mother. But I did not 
 deem it advisable to allude to these topics. 
 
 I therefore let it pass ; merely saying, 
 " Yes, they are beautiful words, and seem as 
 if they were expressly written for you, Lili. 
 But you must not cry ; no, not even from 
 joy. . . Come, be cheerful once more ; I shall 
 be back in a quarter of an hour, and then we 
 will go out together." 
 
 When I returned she was quite cheerful and 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 199 
 
 happy after her old quiet way ; her heart and 
 spirit beaming forth in turns. 
 
 But those words, "The Lord hath taken 
 me up," were engraven in her heart from that 
 day forth ; and she neither would nor could 
 conceal it. They even gave me food for re- 
 flection ; but it was a mere passing thought, 
 and they quickly vanished. 
 
 Moods like these were not good for her, and 
 I took all possible pains to divert her thoughts. 
 But Nature understood best how to help her- 
 self. By degrees she grew out of them, and 
 became stouter-hearted and more cheerfal. 
 She was simply a thoughtful warm-hearted 
 child, whose feelings and fancies, naturally 
 lively and excitable, had found a rich nou- 
 rishment from her lonely and desolate con- 
 dition. And she was a Creole ; not merely an 
 orphan, but without a country ; a flower in 
 a strange soil, where it must grow as best it 
 could. 
 
200 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 CHAPTER XI, 
 
 Amusement ! It is one of the standing conn- 
 tersigns of the world. And yet there is no- 
 thing intrinsically evil in it. A fool and an 
 idiot he who lets the fountain of pleasure well 
 up in vain. But to think only of amusement 
 in a life that is so serious and has such great 
 claims ; in which there is so much to be done ; 
 which is so full of need and want, is an ab- 
 solute evil ; and to this the world seems to 
 have come. 
 
 " How shall I amuse myself?" is a question 
 that daily goes the round of the world, in him- 
 dreds and thousands of rings. The world may 
 forget to pray for its daily bread ; but to pray 
 after a fashion for its amusement, it never for- 
 gets that. Amusement before everything is 
 its morning and evening prayer. People will 
 amuse themselves, even though there be not a 
 crust of bread in the cupboard, nor a shirt to 
 the back ; — yes, though father and mother 
 should be lying on their bier. People will 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 201 
 
 amuse themselves, how ever sad, how ever de- 
 pressing their circumstances ; aye, even under 
 the greatest calamities, — such as failure of 
 crops, pestilence, bankruptcy, civil oppression, 
 or the destitution and destruction of their 
 fatherland ! Yes, it is a matter of experience, 
 that just in such critical times as any of these, 
 there are more amusements, more dissipations, 
 to be found in large towns than at any other 
 period. 
 
 It has not always been so. Even fifty years 
 ago it was very different. At that time work 
 was the main object people lived for. Still, even 
 then they would amuse themselves ; it is a na- 
 tural consequence, and follows as a matter of 
 course. But they were content with a moderate 
 diversion as the wages of their work. Now, in- 
 deed, it has become the one aim and end of life ! 
 
 Yes, only fifty years ago ! The hankering 
 after amusement has grown with prodigious 
 rapidity and strength. It is a frightful 
 moral epidemic that has visited the world; 
 a sickness abounding with wild fantasies, 
 bordering on the very threshold of madness. 
 It bodes ill ! When games and theatres 
 became the main, the vital object of Greece 
 and Rome, those nations were near their 
 downfall ; and the same phenomenon will be 
 repeated. What will the end of it be ? What 
 
202 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 the end will be in the world, I know not ; but 
 there is an end here in Hell, that is certain. 
 Those fickle-minded, vain crowds, who only 
 seek after amusements, have but one thing 
 left when all worldly amusements fail — the 
 torments of Hell ! 
 
 Yet, let me not mislead you : if anywhere 
 amusement is sought after, it is here, but, of 
 course, in a distorted way. What was a sin 
 in the world, here becomes a torment. How 
 ever extensive the places of amusement in the 
 world, they cannot be compared to what is 
 to be found here. 
 
 We have, therefore, our Tivoli : give it any 
 other name if you please, it is all one : for 
 as the place itself comprehends all kinds of 
 senseless amusements, so does it include every 
 foolish name connected with it. 
 
 When the newspapers announce, with a 
 loud trumpeting, that Tivoli, or Yalhalla, or Al- 
 hambra, or Elysium, have been visited by ten, 
 twelve, or fifteen thousand persons; what is 
 that ? In our Yalhalla they stream in by 
 hundreds of millions daily. Evidently, there- 
 fore, all the juggleries of the world, all its 
 follies, its glittering shows, are congregated 
 here ; and what is more, all evil vices and 
 passions are let loose, like so many wild beasts 
 within the bars of their dens. Merrily, wildly 
 
LETTEES FROM HELL. 203 
 
 it goes on ; desperately merrily ! You cannot 
 tell whether you are on your head or your 
 heels ; whether you are yourself or another 
 person ; whether you are alive or dead : you 
 are torn along, tossed about. Aye, it is terri- 
 ble merriment, and yet quite, quite noiseless. 
 
 On emerging from it you are so bewildered, 
 so spent ; as weak, as if you had been inces- 
 santly purged for a fortnight ; so weary, so 
 disgusted with yourself and everything else, 
 so broken down and exhausted in mind, as if 
 you had suffered from all the fatigues of enmii 
 for a year and a day. But none the less can 
 you help partaking in it again, whether you 
 will or no, and again straining every nerve, 
 again be bewildered, and confused without a 
 shadow of enjoyment or satisfaction. Our 
 Tivoli,then,is a kind of prison-house, calculated 
 to prosecute amusement, pleasure, frivolity, and 
 wantonness ; and it fully succeeds. How those 
 souls that formerly shunned work now pine 
 for a little employment ! Even the meanest, 
 most ignominious labour, — aye, even slave 
 labour, — they would deem the greatest boon. 
 
 But the night has come when no work can 
 be done. 
 
 I often ask myself many questions, and this 
 especially among the number, 
 
 " Have you really ever loved ?" And I have 
 
204 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 arrived at the mournful result that I never 
 knew what love was. My childhood cannot be 
 taken into account here ; for the feelings of 
 childhood are as undefined as they are sincere. 
 It only refers, therefore, to a riper age. And 
 here, in the first place, a mark must be placed 
 against everything that was merely lust and 
 passion ; and next against everything that was 
 only pure selfishness : so that there is but little 
 left. At the very most, there can only be 
 mention made of my love to my mother, to Lili, 
 and to Martin. 
 
 My mother ! Yes, undoubtedly I loved her. 
 I love her still. I admired her with all my 
 soul. Not without good reason did I look up 
 to her as an exception to the world, as a pat- 
 tern to her sex, as a model of perfection. She 
 never did what was wrong ; no word ever 
 escaped her lips which she had cause to repent. 
 No one could ever accuse her of any derelic- 
 tion of duty, of any breach of decorum. Reli- 
 gious and good, she ever had the fear of God 
 and of man steadfastly before her eyes. 
 
 Yes, I loved her ! But to speak honestly 
 there was a coldness in my love, a certain 
 lacking of spirit and of warmth. It cannot be 
 ascribed to selfishness alone, which even in 
 this connection was the fundamental principle 
 of my affection. Doubtless it had its origin in 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 205 
 
 that authority she held over me from my ear- 
 liest to my latest days. And this control she 
 swayed perfectly. Duty, right, decorum, to 
 which she could ever refer, were like so many 
 stakes in my flesh, by which she could transfix 
 me to any spot she wished. Certainly, it was 
 but a moral power, and so far a legitimate 
 one ; but there was something suffocating, 
 almost killing about it. 
 
 Better had she referred everything to love. 
 But her affection to me, great though it was, 
 had, I fear, the same failing as mine ; there 
 was a coldness in it, something clammy about 
 it. I cannot express it differently. And after 
 all I dare not scrutinize her motives, as I 
 would aught else. Enough that she was my 
 mother ; though there certainly is some doubt 
 whether self-love did not constitute the princi- 
 pal ingredient of her love. I have too good 
 reason to suppose so when I look at myself. 
 
 And then, my love to Lili ! 
 
 Nay, it was not mere passion, nor was it mere 
 selfishness. No, no, I say, far from it. There 
 was really a heart in my affection. I would 
 willingly have gone through fire and water for 
 her. It was not, therefore, sensual love that 
 was the cause of my attachment to her. And, 
 indeed, I gave up a great deal for her sake. Not 
 only did I control myself, but I denied myself 
 
206 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 many things on her account. Still it must be 
 allowed I did so with an eye to the reward I 
 hoped to reap. I was like a man whose mouth 
 waters after a fruit, but who lets it remain 
 on the stalk till it is perfectly ripe. 
 
 But still I can with perfect truth speak of 
 my love to Lili. It was her spirit that held me 
 fast and controlled me. She could have made 
 me anything she pleased — even a good and re- 
 ligious man. It was not her fault I did not be- 
 come one. For there was a something essential 
 wanting in my love to her. There was plenty 
 of flame ; but light — ah ! light was wanting. 
 
 And lastly, Martin ! 
 
 I loved him too. There was at least a fourth 
 part of real good in my affection to him ; the 
 other three I allow were made up of self-love. 
 I loved him especially, because I had succeeded 
 in making him the exact counterpart of my- 
 self; because he grew up to be me over again. I 
 loved him as my own creation^ over which I had 
 absolute control. Therefore I pressed him one 
 moment to my heart, and the next spurned him 
 under foot. But I will not talk any more about 
 it ; I am ashamed of it. . . . Ah ! if I could 
 only escape by feeling ashamed ! 
 
 What then did I lack ? Why could I not 
 love like other men, with a genuine love ? 
 
 It is no longer a secret to me ! 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 207 
 
 Grod's love had not yet dawned upon me : 
 God's love manifested in the fulness of time. 
 Truly, one can only love with the love of 
 God. True love is ever divine. In God it 
 has its source ; in Him its goal. Only in God 
 is love able to deny itself, to suffer, to hope, 
 and to endure until death. 
 
 There is a tradition current in the kingdom 
 of Death about God's Son, who once preached 
 in Hell, and released the prisoners, and filled 
 up the abyss between the place of torment and 
 Paradise. Then it was light in Hell ; still the 
 greater number were hardened, and relapsed 
 into darkness. 
 
 An ardent longing seized me to speak with 
 some one who had heard God's Son preach. 
 It was foolish, I allow. In torment every im- 
 pulse, be it good or evil, must end in vanity. 
 We are perfectly aware of it, and yet ex- 
 perience makes us no wiser. We begin over 
 and over again to meditate, to desire, to con- 
 ceive, and strain every nerve to clothe our 
 thoughts in reality. 
 
 I found people, it is true, who had heard 
 that Divine sermon, but naturally only the 
 lost. Lost people are not a people. If they 
 had only retained a single word of the 
 Saviour's discourse they would not now be 
 
208 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 in torment. The absurdity is palpable. I 
 got one or two of them to speak, but it was 
 all a medley of nonsense and of blasphemy ; so 
 at last I was obliged to relinquish my desire. 
 
 But still I ventured out on a longer excursion 
 through Hell. I say ventured, for it really 
 does require an amount of courage to throw 
 one's self thus among the herd. This serpentine 
 swarm — I do not know that I can use a better 
 expression — is in truth frightful, even for one 
 who has nothing to fear, and nothing to lose. 
 
 You must not expect any detailed description 
 of what I saw and experienced ; it would carry 
 me to too great a length. For of what interest 
 would it be to you to be conducted through these 
 swarming motley crowds of thieves, murderers, 
 cheats, and liars, forgers, and of the numbers 
 who have cursed themselves into Hell; of wicked 
 children and bad parents ; wicked husbands 
 and wives, who cannot get rid of each other; 
 of sinners against nature of all kinds ; hypo- 
 crites, false witnesses, adulterers, traitors, &c. ? 
 
 But stop ! It is too ludicrous a spectacle. 
 Who are those queer-looking fellows? Tur- 
 key-cocks under human forms. These are 
 the arrogant, the haughty. They belong to 
 the scum of Hell, and are always to be found 
 in a swarm. Everybody takes delight in 
 kicking them out. 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 209 
 
 And those wretched women, with those 
 wild, languishing glances, with those deep, 
 longing sighs ; what do they remind me of? 
 
 Of a hen who has lost her chicks. In vain 
 she clucks and spreads her wings. Lost is lost ! 
 These are wicked mothers, doomed to long 
 after their poor, neglected, ill-used children. 
 
 But who are those strange persons that 
 seem to be constituted of a melting nature, 
 with soft hearts melting with sympathy? 
 They go about in crowds, offering their help 
 and assistance. With puling manners they 
 rub up against every one, and stick fast where 
 they can. 
 
 These are the merciless. Once their hearts 
 were too hard ; now they are too soft. One 
 keeps all these adhesive sort of people as far 
 as one can away. There is no one now who 
 wants them. 
 
 Sundry forms and scenes shall now, as if 
 spontaneously, spring into existence under my 
 pen. With that you must be content. 
 
 I would cross the dark river. But when I 
 came to the ferry I found a lake or rather a 
 morass before me instead of a river. The 
 stream had suddenly overflowed its banks, and 
 had thrown its putrid, sHmy mire far and wide. 
 The stench was enough to suffocate one. The 
 
 VOL. I. p 
 
210 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 cause of this fearful flood soon became generally 
 known when we got a copy of the well-known 
 " Missionary Intelligencer," in which the start- 
 ling progress Christianity had made in China, 
 Japan, and India, was blazoned forth to the 
 world. One bouncing falsehood like this is 
 quite enough to make the river rise and over- 
 flow its banks. Do not misunderstand me. I 
 have nothing to say against a true missionary 
 spirit, which humble in heart performs its work 
 in quietness. But there is another, a counter- 
 feit one, which the world has taken by the 
 hand. This is it which makes use of trumpets. 
 The world is and remains only a charlatan. 
 
 There was a large concourse of people as- 
 sembled at the ferry. Some evidently, like my- 
 self, wished to cross over, but determined to wait 
 till the waters had subsided. But the greater 
 number had come on account of the mud. 
 
 You must have heard the street boys in the 
 world calling out, " Look at the mud ! " We 
 say the same here. What is interesting before 
 everything ? In the world it only needs a gutter 
 to run over to collect a crowd. How then about 
 a river running over, and that the black river ? 
 Do not hold your nose. It was just the stench 
 that brought all these people together. 
 
 As I would not wait, and as I neither shared 
 in the prevailing taste for the interesting, I 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 211 
 
 went higher up the stream. It was indifferent 
 to me where I crossed over. Higher up, the 
 river ran in a deep channel, and there were 
 but few traces of the flood visible. Both banks 
 were thickly studded with villas in every con- 
 ceivable style. In Hell fabulous buildings are 
 everywhere the order of the day. It is so easy 
 to give one's imagination free scope, and here 
 it is the only thing to be done. Let us but 
 imagine a thing, and, how ever bad it be, it 
 immediately exists. Meanwhile it does not take 
 place without entailing suffering ; for it is im- 
 possible to tell how this straining of the imagi- 
 native powers harasses and enervates the soul. 
 
 But these country seats and places of. amuse- 
 ment on the banks of the black river are the 
 most romantic I have ever seen. I began to 
 
 think of the river. Were these villas 
 
 on the slimy, stinking banks an imitation of 
 
 those on the river ? If they were, then 
 
 I must say they were a very bad imitation. 
 Buildings, gardens, statues — all can be con-- 
 jured forth; but the situation by the river 
 does not apparently enhance the beauty of the 
 scene. 
 
 I passed through several towns, large and 
 small. Wonderful enough, the black river, 
 like the rivers in the world, exercises a certain 
 attractive power. Its banks are more thickly 
 
212 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 populated than any other part of Hell. And 
 yet there are long, waste extents. Perhaps it 
 is only imagination, but the desolateness of the 
 place seemed more fearful than anywhere else. 
 And yet — who can account for a human soul ? 
 — I remained here much longer than I needed 
 to have done. 
 
 I was sitting musing over ray evil plight on 
 a low rocky ledge overhanging the river, whose 
 sluggish putrid waters rolled lazily on under 
 my feet. The old fables about the river Lethe 
 came into my mind. Alas ! mere fables ! There 
 is no oblivion after death. If there were such 
 a river from whose waters one could quaff a 
 draught of oblivion, there would then be no 
 place of torment in Hell. Consciousness, 
 memory, these are our bitter torments. In the 
 world there used to be a momentary, a partial 
 forgetfulness of self. Nothing like it exists here. 
 
 I fancied I heard some one groan. I rose 
 to my feet, and a strange sight met my eye. 
 He was a man of stately form ; not so his 
 posture. For he was squatting down by the 
 water washing his hands. They were covered 
 with blood ; but the more he washed them, the 
 more bloody did they become, so that when he 
 held them up out of the water, the great drops 
 fell off them. It was horrible ! 
 
 He knew very well that I was behind him, 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 213 
 
 for all at once he turned round without further 
 introduction, and asked me the question, 
 '* What is truth?" . 
 
 I started, and for a moment was unable to 
 utter a word in reply. Strange questions 
 like that cannot, at all events, be answered in 
 an oflf-hand way. With an impatient expres- 
 sion on his face and in his voice he again 
 asked, 
 
 " What is truth ? " 
 
 I replied, " It is a truth that it is too late 
 to inquire what truth is here ! " 
 
 But the answer did not seem to satisfy him, 
 for he shook his head and turned away, and 
 again began eagerly to wash his bloody 
 hands. 
 
 I tried to get him into conversation, but it 
 was useless. I could not doubt, therefore, but 
 that here was one of those wretched beings 
 before me, who once had stood face to face 
 with the Son of Grod, had conversed with Him, 
 and had bad His life in their hands. I burned 
 with eagerness to get him to speak ; but all my 
 pains were thrown away. So at last I left him. 
 
 Who could it be ? It scarcely needed one 
 look at the long robe with the purple border, 
 and the ring on the finger, to feel certain that 
 it was none other but Pontius Pilate, once the 
 Eoman governor of Judea ! 
 
214 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 When he has not anything to do in the 
 Jewish capital he is always to be found crouch- 
 ing down by the river si(ie washing his hands. 
 And when any one passes by him, he turns 
 round and asks, " What is truth ? " And every- 
 body is obliged to give him an answer to his 
 question. But he ever shakes his head ; no one 
 can tell him. For the question does not refer to 
 truth in the concrete, but to abstract, absolute 
 truth. Nobody knows anything about it here. 
 
 Do you not see the striking anomaly ? Pilate 
 asking about truth, while he is washing his 
 hands in the mire and mud of falsehood. 
 
 I crossed over and passed through desert 
 tracts ; I mean uninhabited tracts, but not 
 un-betravelled ones. There is not a spot in 
 Hell, how ever wild and desolate it be, that is 
 not well traversed. Some spirits, indeed, seem 
 to seek just these very places. 
 
 Here the wild hunter is to be found, not 
 only the hunter of popular tradition, but num- 
 berless others. Countless are they who, in 
 different ways, pass their whole lifetime in 
 hunting after a miserable bit of meat, or after 
 a still less worthy object — after a phantom, an 
 idea, or even after nothing at all, but merely 
 for the pleasure of moving quickly. Before 
 they are aware they stumble into their graves, 
 and find themselves in Hell's torments. 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 215 
 
 Here, too, those who cherish all kinds of 
 sinister, misanthropical notions, or have com- 
 mitted crimes against which all human nature, 
 evil or good, revolts, may be seen stealing 
 along. Loneliness is a necessity to them. 
 Were there a solitary place, no matter how 
 frightful it might be, many would flee thither 
 to shun contact with their fellows. 
 
 There is one of these forms which, once 
 seen, is never forgotten. He is of a gigantic 
 and towering stature, half naked, clad only in 
 the skin of some wild beast. A thick, tangled 
 mass of hair covers his head and hangs down 
 over his eyes. There is a wild, glowering, 
 and scowling look about him. On his fore- 
 head there is a fearful brand. He carries a 
 huge club in his hand, not, however, for self- 
 defence, for he is continually on the flight, 
 fearful lest any one should kill him. Every 
 one who meets this frightful apparition cannot 
 repress a shudder. Still he flees from the weak- 
 est and smallest ; always flying, ever alone. It 
 is one of the greatest rarities ever to see him 
 in company with any one. Nowhere and yet 
 everywhere — an exile on earth, an exile in Hell. 
 
 It is Cain ! 
 
 I hurried away, and as he did the same we 
 were soon out of each other's sight. 
 
 Here, then, I had met one who was even 
 
216 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 more wretched than myself. A murderer, a 
 fratricide ; and I was not an outlaw among 
 the outlawed. But 1 did not derive any per- 
 sonal consolation from the fact. My funeral 
 sermon, unhappy recollection, was too firmly 
 engraven on my memory for that. There is 
 nothing more calculated to mortify egotistical 
 feelings than a sermon such as mine was. But 
 I have forgotten to tell you about it. 
 
 In the very first town I came to by the 
 river, I almost stumbled over my own funeral 
 sermon. I fell into the hands of an old ballad 
 woman, once a Prima Donna and Improvi- 
 satrice, who would let me have no peace till I 
 had seen some of her " bran new " songs. 
 
 Whether she knew me I cannot say. But 
 amongst her collection I found, and started 
 back just as if some one had given me a 
 violent blow on the head, a song bearing the 
 following title : — 
 
 "A BEAN NEW AND MOUENTUL DITTY 
 
 ABOUT MRt OTTO Ni -primus inter pares, 
 
 Who had paid for the best Hearse and best Parson 
 
 IN ORDER TO GET INTO PARADISE, 
 
 BUT WENT TO HELL. 
 
 Motto (his Beverence's own toords) : ' We shall meet again. ^ " 
 
 My funeral sermon, here in Hell; and in 
 verse too ! 
 
 •^ ' 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 217 
 
 I ground my teeth and began to read. 
 
 First, there was a fulsome laudation over 
 my virtues, especially those which I never 
 possessed, and a corresponding estimate of the 
 loss society had undergone by my death. A 
 feeling of nausea came over me. Thereupon 
 the sermon went on to sketch the blessed state 
 into which I had now entered, as a reward 
 for my labours ; dwelling on the joy, the 
 peace, and splendour which henceforth were 
 evermore my lot. 
 
 What cutting, cruel irony ! 
 
 It seemed as if my heart was pierced by a 
 hundred knives. It was more than I could 
 endure. I flung the trashy thing from me, 
 and rushed away gnashing ray teeth with 
 anguish. A long time elapsed before I reco- 
 vered from the effects of this infernal dose. 
 But never shall I be able to obliterate from 
 my mind the recollection of the miserable 
 wretch that his Reverence, Mr. — — , held 
 such a brazen-tongued funeral sermon over. 
 
 Oh, what a good, pious fool, or else hypo 
 crite, you must be ! As if a man needed only 
 to die to become a spirit in Heaven ! . . . But 
 yet — —I will not repeat the hope and wish to 
 which you gave utterance. You knew not 
 what you were saying, 
 ; " We shall meet again !" 
 
218 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 On this excursion I saw a king for the first 
 time in Hell ; a piteous sight ! No greater 
 contrast between the past and the present — 
 the then and the thereafter — can be conceived. 
 
 Princes, kings, emperors, &c., occupy the 
 most miserable of all positions in Hell ! 
 
 Civil distinctions reckon as naught here. 
 There is no connecting link between souls, 
 saving the instinctive feeling of sociability, 
 and the customs they have brought down with 
 them from the upper world. Everything 
 is jumbled one among another in endless con- 
 fusion. No restrictions, no formalities, are 
 recognised ; no kingdoms, no constitutions, no 
 ordinances are acknowledged. Hence it may 
 be readily perceived that princes are a super- 
 fluity. Certainly their rank authorizes them 
 to occupy a prominent position, at all events, 
 in polite society. For everybody bows to 
 rank here as of old. But they are too cast 
 down, too miserable, to assert their rights ; so 
 they timidly keep in the background. They 
 
LETTERS PROM HELL. 219 
 
 are like images of saints from which the 
 gilded surface has been worn off, and which 
 have been thrown into the kennel, where 
 darkness and filth reign supreme. Their 
 greatness was merely conventional ; in other 
 words, the gilt was not pure gold ; and now 
 it is gone, leaving not a trace of majesty or 
 of nobility behind. 
 
 Here they have no kingdom to experimen- 
 talize on ; no people to tyrannize over ; no 
 finances to fritter away. They live and 
 breathe merely in the mournful recollection 
 of a power and a magnificence that have 
 vanished. Out of all their numerous and 
 glittering retinue, only one or two cringing 
 courtiers remain, whom deep-rooted habit, not 
 gratitude, binds to their person. I said they 
 were bowed down. Aye, it is quite true ; true 
 to the letter. They are well-nigh sinking under 
 the weight of the crown on their heads. 
 
 What does such a crown weigh ? Answer 
 me first another question — " How great is a 
 monarch's responsibility in the world ?" 
 
 Heavy are these crowns ; hundreds of 
 pounds in weight ! Generally these exalted 
 personages get a couple of their yeomen to 
 support them under either arm, and as they 
 thus shuffle piteously along, they present, 
 need I add, a sorry pageant. 
 
220 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 But worse still does it fare with those 
 potentates who were styled " The Great " in 
 the world. Ah ! how little, how wretchedly* 
 little, are they now ! In addition to the 
 weight of their crowns, this unhappy sirname 
 has superimposed an enormous extra weight, 
 which well-nigh crushes them to the earth. 
 Only with tottering knees, and additional 
 help, are they able to drag themselves along, 
 groaning piteously all the while. 
 
 Genuine great princes are naturally not 
 found here. Those others the world sirnamed 
 " The Great," either because they were cruel 
 butchers, who had treacherously shed the blood 
 of thousands of their fellow-creatures, and de- 
 stroyed the happiness of twenty times as many 
 others ; or because they had distinguished them- 
 selves by a crafty, shameful policy, which broke 
 through all the restraints of morality, and set at 
 naught all humanity. Others were sirnamed 
 " The Great" without any assignable reason. 
 Circumstances proved favourable, and they 
 were well served. Poor bunglers themselves, 
 they were in general the maddest of all, and 
 wished to have divine honours shown them. 
 So they, too, had to go to Hell ! 
 
 Oh ! how far better would all these kings 
 have acted, had they striven to earn for them- 
 selves the title " Much Beloved," instead of 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 221 
 
 that other, " The Great ! " Love would have 
 cloked over a multitude of their sins. Now 
 their sighs and moans are vain. The utter 
 hopelessness of the place of torment cannot be 
 better expressed than in the following words ; 
 " Here love exists no more." 
 
 Never have I heard such sighs as those 
 which proceed from these princes, kings, and 
 emperors. It is a rarity to hear them speak ; 
 they only sigh. A sigh expresses all they 
 would say. In every sigh one would suppose 
 they must gasp their last. 
 
 It is easy to understand, then, that they are 
 not a very presentable sort of people ; and 
 that they are shy, and prefer to keep them- 
 selves in the background. 
 
 One seldom meets any of them on a high- 
 road. They could not get on there. For they 
 are persecuted by all those whose prosperity 
 Ihey have destroyed, just as a hawk is pursued 
 by tribes of small birds. They are exposed to 
 blow after blow, and by flight they caimot 
 save themselves. So they keep mostly to 
 desert places, principally in the neighbourhood 
 of the City of Unrighteousness, where the only 
 prospect of a kingdom or a principality is open 
 to them. 
 
 To this same class also belong the pre- 
 tenders. Anything more starved looking, 
 
222 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 more utterly miserable, and, at the same time, 
 more rapacious than these pretenders cannot 
 be imagined. They resemble famishing wolves, 
 which prowl about singly, full of the expec- 
 tation of finding a rich, fat prey. But fat 
 baits are rare even in the best parts of the 
 world ! 
 
 Unhappy kings, so miserable in themselves, 
 and so persecuted into the bargain, the ner- 
 vousness from which they suffer is still almost 
 their worst suffering ! Suddenly a terrible 
 shout is heard : " A Pretender, a Pretender !'* 
 and the courtiers instinctively crowd around 
 their king and master. A battle ensues, as 
 ridiculous as it is horrible. But understand 
 me, nothing is really laughable in Hell ; it is 
 grievous altogether. With savage impotence 
 tiie pretender dashes through the throng to 
 tear the crown from off the king's head. The 
 wretched man cannot even defend himself; he 
 is too abject, too bowed down. But his guards 
 do not desert him ; they fight as if for dear 
 life. Bravely they fence, something like a 
 hare with her fore-paws ; and the pretender is 
 hurled back with ignominy, and has to slink 
 off without the crown. 
 
 Thus you will see that if there is anything 
 even still more miserable than kings, it is the 
 pretenders. 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 223 
 
 And how happy many of these wretched 
 beings might have been ! What an enviable 
 life they might have led ! Fortune had blessed 
 them from their birth in preference to millions. 
 They possessed what in common parlance is 
 termed wealth; they had exalted rank, and 
 were amongst the respected and the honoured. 
 But they could not be content with such a dis- 
 tinguished private life. They were seized 
 with the delirium of ambition ; a crown they 
 must obtain. And to obtain it they plunged 
 headlong into a course of life, in which they 
 must needs lose all self-respect, and risk their 
 fortune and their peace into the bargain. 
 They must stoop to the most unworthy machi- 
 nations, associate on the most intimate terms 
 with the lowest of the low ; and finally have 
 the blood of thousands resting on their heads. 
 
 Naturally their so-called " divine right" was 
 ever on their lips ; and thus they strove to 
 make themselves and others believe that it 
 was in the service of righteousness they sacri- 
 ficed themselves_, and everything else besides. 
 But this " divine right" was perhaps but the 
 fabrication of a lying imaginative power, a 
 rechauffee of old scandalous falsehoods, with a 
 spice of new ones according to taste. At 
 all events it would have been far better for 
 them had they wrongfully encountered a happy 
 
224 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 end, than with right on their side have entered 
 upon the torments of Hell. 
 
 I spoke of human butchers ! But it is not 
 necessary to be either a king or an emperor 
 to be a human butcher. Some of the greatest 
 butchers the world has ever known have been 
 ministers, governors, generals, &c., &c. 
 
 Here in Hell they continue their bloody 
 career. I am thinking especially of the 
 generals now. In the world, battles and 
 slaughter constituted their pastime and their 
 joy. Here the joy of course is gone, but the 
 pastime remains. There is no lack of ad" 
 herents to these notable leaders. They have 
 a superfluous influx of all those whose pursuits 
 were war and blood-shedding in contradistinc- 
 tion to that peace and love which God has 
 had proclaimed to the world ; not to speak of 
 the countless herd that is without a master, 
 and which congregates wherever an individual 
 is seen towering above the mass, or wherever 
 the sound of a trumpet or a drum is heard* 
 
 On the wide desert plains the armies set 
 themselves in array, hundreds of thousands 
 against hundreds of thousands. A battle is 
 fought ! With banners waving aloft, though 
 with chattering teeth, they advance against 
 each other. Empty game! The cannons 
 belch out their smoke, but no report follows. 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 225 
 
 The stalwart columns press onwards. One 
 would think a terrible crash must ensue ; but 
 all passes off in perfect silence. For no en- 
 counter really takes place. Instead of tramp- 
 ling on his foe, each man runs through him. 
 It is indescribably stupid ! No result, no 
 victory is possible ; nay, it is even an impossi- 
 bility to gain ever so trifling an advantage. 
 But, still, after the necessary breathing time, 
 the same game commences anew. Yanity of 
 vanities ! It must be consuming work. It is 
 not the heart's blood that flows in these con- 
 tests, it is the spirit which bleeds itself to death, 
 and yet never dies. 
 
 It made me think of the heroes of the Val- 
 halla. But 'twas a foolish thought ; there is 
 no comparison between these and them. The 
 heroes of the Valhalla moved in power and in 
 glory ; it is not only a real, but a perfected life 
 they live, without any regrets. The heroes 
 in Hell, on the contrary, are both laughable, 
 and enough to make one weep ; these heroes, 
 with chattering teeth, their powerless blows, 
 their endless, fruitless labours! But there 
 is no one who either laughs or weeps at 
 them. 
 
 I have just come from one such battle-field. 
 Two renowned generals were opposed to each 
 other, two of the greatest butchers recorded in 
 
 VOL. I. Q 
 
226 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 history. Though servants of the same king- 
 dom at different times, they are far too power- 
 ful for Hell to hold them both at once. There- 
 fore they live in continued enmity, and wage 
 war after war against each other. But the 
 result will ever be as it was just now. The 
 battle was undecided. One of the generals 
 rode by me on his return from the battle, dis- 
 tinguishable by the long plumes in his hat, 
 and by the little grey horse he rode. Coming 
 up to where I was standing he halted, and I 
 heard him mutter between his clenched teeth, 
 " I will burn him, and his whole crew !" I 
 could imagine the other general muttering in 
 his beard, " I'll hang him !" 
 
 In these remote wastes — a foolish expression 
 where everything is a waste, but I have tried 
 in vain to find a better one — one frequently 
 stumbles on colonies of a certain mighty nation, 
 which I will not mention expressly by name. 
 I will blame no one. And this people by the 
 side of great defects exhibit many estimable 
 qualities. I never could make this remark- 
 able nation out. The greatest contradictions 
 seemed to be united in their character. By 
 the side of bombast and the quaintest eccen- 
 tricity they display the greatest solidity 
 of character ; with a puling sentimentality, 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 227 
 
 arrogance, and ostentation, an even, hearty 
 nature ; with falsehood and treachery, an ex- 
 emplary uprightness and fidelity ; and with a 
 cowardly and oppressive spirit, a valiant and 
 chivalrous disposition. After this definition 
 you cannot fail to recognise it. 
 
 But notwithstanding all these opposite 
 qualities, it is quite certain that they have a 
 wonderful gift of making themselves detested 
 wherever they go. Everywhere they will 
 speak in a lofty strain, strike the key- 
 note as it were, and seek to show their au- 
 thority. They seem firmly to believe that 
 they have been specially selected to civilize 
 all the other nations of the world, to teach 
 them what truth is, and what right is, what 
 education consists in, and what morals are. 
 Here they are just the same as of old. Every- 
 where they are running foul of some one or 
 other, stirring up strife, and making them- 
 selves hated. JBut patience is not so enduring 
 in Hell as in the world. They are driven, 
 spurned away, and have to fly. From them 
 proceed these numerous colonies ; so insuffer- 
 able a people is for the most part obliged to 
 live alone. Hence the instinctive desire of 
 emigrating and colonizing. 
 
 I think I understand now the meaning of 
 these desert tracts. It is less probable that 
 
228 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 the above-named people have chosen these 
 places for building colonies in, than that they 
 are the result of these colonies. The fact is, 
 no one likes to have them for neighbours. 
 
 There is one speciality about this nation 
 worthy of notice, namely, the number of lite- 
 rary notabilities it yields to Hell. I always 
 knew that it was a nation of authors, and 
 that there were few among its educated classes 
 who had not attempted some branch or other 
 of literature. But because a man writes, it 
 is not, therefore, necessary that he should 
 write himself into Hell. Still, the phenomenon 
 can be explained ! 
 
 With a large proportion, authorship is a 
 kind of literary dawdling or toying, under 
 which the recognition of the seriousness of life, 
 little by little, falls to the ground. They live 
 as good-for-nothings, as good-for-nothings they 
 die ; and, therefore, as a matter of course, 
 come to Hell. With another large proportion 
 authorship is a trade that is not only plied in 
 the service of gain, but often of meanness, 
 falsehood, and calumny. Naturally the result 
 is the same. 
 
 Amongst these /zV^ra^i journalists undoubt- 
 edly occupy the foremost rank. True, there 
 is this in common with the newspaper writers 
 of all nations, that they are somewhat lax. 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 229 
 
 and not very particular about telling a lie 
 now and then. But I fully believe that only 
 in one country in the world is there to be found 
 a press that has exhibited proofs of an organ- 
 ized system of lying. And in its time it has 
 accomplished many great and remarkable 
 things. It has given powerful support to false 
 pretenders, created seditions, and has even 
 paved the way for conquests. Naturally it had 
 to do with the small and the weak ; falsehood 
 is ever cowardly. How there can be unity in 
 such pursuits_, and among so many, passes my 
 comprehension ; and yet, perhaps, it is not so 
 difficult to understand after all. In this country 
 the greater number of the journalists have their 
 price, and are to be bought over either by 
 flattery or by gold. The bribed ones band 
 together, and the rest are gradually dragged 
 along with them ; it is so stupid, and withal 
 so dangerous, to stand alone. 
 
 And there is another peculiarity about this 
 great nation ; now and then it is subject to a 
 regular ecstasy. Now it rants about a popular 
 " unification," though, not only in reality, but 
 in all its ideas, it offers a spectacle of the most 
 piteous disunity; now about liberty, though 
 it slavishly worships and grovels in the dust 
 before everything that is a little exalted ; now 
 it longs for a fleet, though it is a continental 
 
230 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 nation, and on one side only has a very im- 
 perfect access to the sea. Now it will have a 
 war in the Devil's name, and perform some 
 exploit or other that has never been seen before ; 
 and, with this object in view, seeks out the 
 weakest among its neighbours, whom it then 
 distinguishes by the title of an " hereditaryfoe." 
 
 In short, when such a rapture comes over 
 the nation, unity follows as a matter of course. 
 All lie with one throat, and pervert every- 
 thing in the most shameless manner. A thou- 
 sand pens are set a scribbling along the road 
 of falsehood to promote the magnificent enter- 
 prise. Not only is free scope given to the 
 imagination, but, with a cool and clear con- 
 sciousness, palpable facts are made away with. 
 If, unfortunately, there are none in the way, 
 so much the better, they can be made ad 
 libitum ; it is easy to invent a few ! 
 
 The tendency— they call it the idea — is all 
 in all to them, and, without the slightest hesi- 
 tation, truth and honour are sacrificed to it. 
 
 Impudence has been created into a power by 
 these persons. Only tell lie upon lie, and it 
 is sure to answer. Certainly all these lies are 
 not believed at once, but some importance is 
 always attached to them ; and, by daily repe- 
 tition, even the most barefaced falsehoods are 
 gulped down whole by the public. It then 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 231 
 
 becomes a fact, and serves as a foundation 
 whereon others can be built. 
 
 The perseverance these people exhibit in 
 their lying tendencies, is almost incredible. 
 We have instances of their having lied con- 
 tinuously for fifteen, twenty, or twenty-five 
 years in succession, in order to carry a project 
 through, which they have seen floating above 
 them in the clouds. And see, the system 
 triumphed ! 
 
 Not only have they succeeded in carrying 
 their own, but a large portion of mankind 
 along with them. They either carried out, or 
 very nearly carried out, everything they 
 pleased. Over untoward events mortal man, 
 of course, cannot prevail. I am not au fait in 
 their method, and, therefore, am unable to say 
 how many times a lie should be repeated to 
 convert it into a fact ; but, certain it is, that 
 it eventually does become one after constant 
 repetition. 
 
 By this time, therefore, it must be quite 
 clear to you how it is that such an over- 
 whelming number of the literary characters of 
 this nation find their way down here. Some 
 have sauntered along the road of literature, 
 others have lolled into Hell. Amongst these 
 last, the systematic liars are especially dis- 
 tinguishable. The journalists fare the worst 
 
232 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 of all, in whom so great and so responsible a 
 trust has been reposed. They became fat on 
 lying in the world, and here they are literally 
 basted in their own grease. 
 
 As you are aware, we all suffer from a 
 parching thirst ; we pine for a drop of water. 
 Still it would hardly occur to us to slake our 
 thirst m the slimy putrid waters of the black 
 river. There are some, however, who have 
 secretly tried it. So that in Hell there are 
 people who are habitual tipplers. One often 
 hears a person say to another, " You have 
 been drinking of the river then !" For, in 
 reality they cannot conceal it. The traitorous 
 lying stuff streams out again from all parts 
 of their body ; oozes out from every pore, 
 in order to return to the river. Only the 
 vanishing aliquot portion of the lying liquid, 
 which adheres to the tippler, remains behind 
 to add fuel to another burning thirst. So 
 they slink down once again to the river to 
 quaff off another dose. Thus, in a measure, 
 the whole mass of water in the black river is 
 gradually distilled through them. Eminent 
 mathematicians have calculated that an ordi- 
 nary drinker, reckoning after the earthly du- 
 ration of time, would require 7213 years, 93 
 days, 11 hours and 39 minutes to empty it in. 
 As yet no one has completed this course ! A 
 
 ^" 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 233 
 
 more nauseous sight than one of these tippling 
 journalists presents, cannot be conceived. 
 And even this is not the worst ; but I will 
 say no more about them. There are things of 
 which one cannot speak. 
 
 Of course there are beggars in Hell. But 
 I lately chanced to stumble on some of the 
 most remarkable beggars I ever saw, or rather 
 they stumbled on me, and nearly succeeded in 
 making an end of me. You could not pos- 
 sibly guess what their importunity consisted 
 in — on nothing less than to baptize me. 
 They besought me in the most whining terms 
 to let them baptize me ; possibly I might have 
 given way, only that I had no use for that 
 sort of thing. The more angry I grew, the 
 more humble, but the more importunate, did 
 tbey become. They would not take a refusal. 
 That I ultimately escaped, I can only attribute 
 to the fortunate circumstance that a more pro- 
 mising-looking convert fell in their way. 
 
 These beggars, the most miserable I have 
 ever seen (I scarcely expect you to believe 
 me), are missionaries. I do not know whether 
 you have heard of the business-like way in 
 which the holy missionary spirit discharges 
 its office in the world. It is nothing but a 
 chase after heathens ; a regular hunt after the 
 
234 LETTERS FllOM HELL. 
 
 little ones that have short legs, and who can- 
 not defend themselves. 
 
 In their eyes learning is a matter of se- 
 condary importance ; the road it marks out is 
 too laborious. Baptism is everything; and 
 the only question is, to find an opportunity of 
 sprinkling water over as many heads as pos- 
 sible. So many heads, so many names are 
 entered in the registers as converts to Chris- 
 tianity ; and their number is then copied 
 into the Missionary Journals, in order to fill 
 the Christian world with amazement and accla- 
 mations of joyful ness. Of course it follows, 
 as a matter of course, that the greater pro- 
 portion of the baptized consists of children, 
 who naturally grow up in masses without 
 retaining the slightest recollection of the 
 Christianity imparted to them. 
 
 These missionaries have to wander inde- 
 fatigably about, beseeching people in the most 
 importunate way to be baptized, begging as if 
 life itself depended on it, in a manner that is 
 quite heart-breaking. In truth, it is a thou- 
 sand times a greater object with them now to 
 get a baptism scratched out from the register, 
 than ever it was to get one entered. For 
 this purpose their register-books are always at 
 hand ; but it is but little success they meet 
 with. Some are angry and uncivil to them. 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 235 
 
 believing that they wish to taunt them ; others 
 laugh and make fun of them, as if it were a 
 capital joke; while others, again, turn their 
 extraordinary religious fervour into ridicule. 
 Enough to say that, however smoothly their 
 work went on in the world, here it is just as 
 great drudgery. They have to retrace their 
 steps along the very same road on which they 
 travelled. But it is a road without an end ! 
 without a goal ! 
 
 '' Three is a lucky number," we used to say 
 in the world. But it was often a lie from the 
 hell of hells. No wonder, then, that this 
 triple element often bothers one. Thus I 
 know very well that God is a triune God, but 
 to get three persons united under one head 
 surpasses my powers. Do you understand ? 
 Tri-unity ever, as it were, falls to pieces before 
 me. Further than to two persons I can never 
 advance ; for when I would name the third, 
 alas, he is gone ! In vain I rack my brains, 
 it is as if heart and head would burst. Now 
 it is God the Son ; now, God the Holy Spirit, 
 that is wanting ; and now . . . yes ... I 
 am very near to it ... No ! ... it is use- 
 less ... it is desperate ! 
 
 There is also another trinity which sorely 
 puzzles me. This, too, falls to pieces before 
 
236 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 me, but not always. Faith, hope, and love. 
 Do you see ? But what is faith ? What is 
 hope ? I know neither the one nor the other 
 more. But what love is, I still know to my 
 deep sorrow ; and yet, no ! I only know what 
 it might have been. 
 
 Oh ! that you would be warned ! you who 
 still walk in the light and in hope. Love is 
 not a sport, an idle joke ; it is life's most 
 earnest reality. If I had ever rightly under- 
 stood what love was, then faith and hope 
 would never have failed me. 
 
 Oh ! be warned ! 
 
 My heart burns for you, mostly, it is true, 
 from anguish, but still from love. For you, 
 my silent friend, who have not answered with 
 a single word to all my letters. For you, my 
 mother, though my deepest sighs ever escaped 
 your ear. For you, Martin, though you are 
 the cause of my unceasing torment. What do 
 you want with me ? What have you to tell 
 me ? For all of you, all ! Even from Hell I 
 call you my brothers and sisters ! 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 237 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 I DO not recollect whether I told you that it is 
 really a matter of perfect indifference what 
 language we speak here. All languages are 
 understood equally well among us. But the 
 real state of the case is, there is no language, 
 consequently no speech. The articulations we 
 think we give utterance to are probably but 
 imaginary on our parts, as everything else is ; 
 and we catch one another's meaning after a 
 strange fashion, without any intermediate 
 agency, which it is impossible for me to ex- 
 plain. Only one thing I know, that this 
 method is so certain that we never — as was 
 often the case in the world— misunderstand 
 each other's meaning. 
 
 Human nature is pretty much the same 
 everywhere. In Hell, therefore, a soul may^ 
 also stand in need of solitude. It is often quite 
 refreshing to me to get out of the throng, and 
 to hie away to the desert tracts in this fright- 
 
238 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 ful land ; and when I get quite by myself it 
 seems to me as if I could breathe more freely. 
 I stop stil], or else sink down, to give free 
 admission to thoughts which come streaming in, 
 or else occupy myself in fruitless endeavours 
 to come to an understanding with* myself. 
 Need I add that this pleasure is not unaccom- 
 panied by pain ; for the more conscious the 
 spirit becomes the greater the pain that follows. 
 
 But it is a rare thing to find perfect soli- 
 tude, even in these desert places. Some one or 
 other is sure to intrude upon one, and then I am 
 obliged to divert my thoughts. This compul- 
 sory companionship, however sore a trial it be 
 to the patience, is frequently not unattended 
 with interest, in so far, of course, as interest 
 can exist here. 
 
 Thus, a little while ago I was bothered with 
 a German Professor of History. But in order 
 not to be too personal, allow me to state, en 
 passant, that German professors may be most 
 estimable persons, very learned, and, withal, 
 kindly and amiable. Of course, there are ex- 
 ceptions. 
 
 My Professor was one of those who could 
 deduce everything possible out of history, 
 that either his own inclinations, or those of 
 the people, or the pleasure or whim of a 
 highly esteemed prince, might deem desirable. 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 239 
 
 Thus, if a small portion of a state conceive 
 the idea of separating, and of forming an in- 
 dependent body by itself, they are able in the 
 twinkling of an eye to discover some con- 
 stitutional precedent out of the musty and 
 mouldy archives to authorize rebellion. Or if 
 an entire, or a half, or only a duodecimo 
 prince, conceive a penchant for a particular 
 parcel of territory, it is but a little matter to 
 prove His Royal Highness' s hereditary right 
 and title to it. Nothing is impossible to their 
 profound learning, when the fancy takes 
 them, or gold allures them. They can change 
 black into white in a twinkling, or white into 
 black, and into white again, if necessary. In 
 this last manipulation, indeed, their highest 
 art consists. And, if the result which their 
 profound investigations have discovered, and 
 pronounced to be the absolute, unalterable 
 truth, by some trick of fortune does not quite 
 answer the expectations formed of it, without 
 feeling the slightest discomposure they undo 
 what they have done, and arrive at another 
 result directly opposite to the former one, and 
 pronounce it in turn to be every whit as abso- 
 lute and unalterable a truth as the other was. 
 It would be a sure sign of moral depravity 
 to entertain the shghtest doubt about it. 
 It is such people as these that have given 
 
240 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 rise to that remarkable proverb, " There is a 
 science in lying, as the Devil said when he 
 was studying at the University of Kiel !" 
 
 Well, we sat and conversed together in this 
 lonely place. Naturally I was the one to 
 receive instruction, and I gave myself up with 
 apparent credulity to be crammed full of all 
 kinds of lies, the like of which never were 
 heard on earth. 
 
 Presently, my attention was arrested by the 
 appearance of two gigantic forms that emerged 
 from out of the misty darkness, and approached 
 us, with slow and measured steps, as if they 
 would pass close by where we were sitting. 
 They were walking arm in arm in brotherly 
 confidence. But they presented a very incon- 
 gruous pair. The form on the right I recognised 
 instantly, even at a distance, though I had 
 seen him but once before. It was Cain ! The 
 other, however, though of powerful build, 
 seemed quite small by the side of Cain. I did 
 not know him. He was dressed in the costly 
 style of the middle ages, and in comparison 
 with Cain's semi-nude condition, seemed to be 
 smothered in clothes. He wore an ermine 
 cape over his knightly habiliments. A mas- 
 sive gold chain, with a medallion attached, 
 hung round his neck, and reached far down 
 on his breast. Golden spurs glittered on his 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 241 
 
 boots, the tops of which hung loosely down. 
 On his casque was a ring of gold, with pointed 
 branches resembling a crown, and an enor- 
 mous sword was girded round his loins. But 
 though of commanding stature, and hand- 
 somely attired, there was a lack of nobility 
 about him. He seemed to have a difficulty in 
 walking, while Cain's uneven and irregular 
 gait made it still more difficult for him to keep 
 pace with his companion. In truth, a more 
 dissimilar pair could not well be conceived. 
 And yet there were many remarkable points 
 of resemblance between them. Both had the 
 same nervous, scowling look. Both had their 
 brand mark ; for as they passed us, I could see 
 when Cain's companion raised his casque that 
 the ring had left a bloody, glowing mark 
 across the brow. 
 
 I could not repress a shudder ; but after 
 they had passed us some little distance the 
 Professor whispered to me, 
 
 "Did you see that sharp-pointed stake 
 which he had through him ?" 
 
 I had not observed it. 
 
 " But there is one," continued the Professor, 
 " though he takes all possible pains to hide it 
 with a fold of his cloak. That is why he 
 walks so lame." 
 
 " Who was it ?" I inquired. 
 VOL. I. R 
 
242 LETTERS FROM HFLL. 
 
 " It was Cain and Abel." 
 
 This answer puzzled me sorely. I got quite 
 confused, and for a little while was quite 
 unable to collect my thoughts. Surely Abel 
 was Cain's innocent, murdered brother. Abel 
 could not possibly be in the torments of Hell ! 
 And still less could Cain and Abel form a pair 
 in Hell ! 
 
 At last I got my thoughts so far in order 
 that I was able to ask, " What Abel ?" 
 
 " Abel, King of Denmark," was the reply : 
 "died June 29, 1252." 
 
 Now it was all clear ! 
 
 Still I knew but little about this Abel. But 
 the German Professor knew all about it, and 
 did not keep his knowledge to himself. He 
 told me that " Abel had been one of Denmark's 
 mightiest kings, one of those great geniuses 
 which appear centuries before their time, and 
 who are, therefore, misunderstood and wrongly 
 judged. So was Abel by the stupid Danes. 
 He was the first monarch on whose mind it had 
 dawned that only by German civilization and 
 favour, by a political and moral dependence on 
 the great and powerful Germany, could there 
 be any future for Denmark, But the stupid 
 DaneB either could not or would not see it. 
 They hated them to the death ; there was no 
 accusation too base but they charged them 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 243 
 
 with it. So at last lie was forced to yield, 
 and he fell as one of the first and chiefest of 
 martyrs to a holy cause, — Germany's world- 
 wide vocation to civilize and to ennoble all the 
 nations of the world." 
 
 " A martyr ! . . . and now in Hell ? . . . and 
 Cain's companion ?" I ventured to insinuate. 
 
 But the Professor made me no answer, for a 
 third person had meanwhile come up, and, 
 without any ceremony, at once usurped the 
 conversation. 
 
 He was a strange-looking individual, appa- 
 rently composed of two heterogeneous pieces. 
 Like the mermaid in fable, he was beautiful to 
 look at above, but hideous below. Looking at 
 the upper part of his person he seemed clad 
 as a knight partly accoutred, for he wore a 
 coat of mail of the finest texture over a richly 
 embroidered buff jacket, and a helmet with a 
 golden ornament resembling a crown. His 
 nether habiliments were, however, in little 
 keeping, for they consisted merely of a pair of 
 boots, of the very coarsest and most common 
 description ; just like those, in fact, fishermen 
 wear, with soft well-greased tops that can be 
 drawn quite up over the legs. 
 
 But without feeling at all discomposed at 
 being criticised, he sat there as a man tho- 
 roughly in command of his position, resting 
 
244 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 his hands and his chin on the hilt of his pon- 
 derous sword. From underneath his bushy 
 eyebrows flashed a glance which it was difficult 
 to endure ; and when he began to speak he 
 spoke as one who could brook no contra- 
 diction. 
 
 A repulsive, malicious smile played round 
 the corners of his bearded mouth. It made 
 me feel quite uncomfortable. 
 
 " It is all a downright lie from first to last !" 
 he broke out, in a harsh, cutting voice. 
 
 *'What! . . . lies! . . . what very rude 
 behaviour !" stammered out the Professor, in 
 a great state of confusion. . . . '* And who 
 may you be, if I may venture to ask ?" 
 
 " I am King Abel !" answered the stranger. 
 " Is there anything more you would like to 
 know ?" 
 
 " No, there was not !" 
 
 The Professor was evidently nonplussed, 
 and speedily took his departure, slinking 
 quietly and slowly off. 
 
 " That is the only way to treat these fellows f ' 
 exclaimed the knight, bursting out into a 
 hoarse laugh. " One can only beat them with 
 their own weapons. Lie for lie, and boundless 
 impudence, is the only way to make them feel." 
 
 " You are not King Abel, then ?" I asked. 
 
 " No more than you are 1 What I am is 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 245 
 
 neither here nor there. Enough, that I am 
 one of Cain's companions ; an outlaw, as it says 
 in the song — 
 
 " * And shall I out of my country fly, 
 And lie on the water cold ?' " * 
 
 Here the stranger suddenly broke off, and 
 passed his hand over his forehead, as if to drive 
 away some evil thought, and then continued : 
 
 " But if you would like to hear Bang Abel's 
 true history, I can tell it you, though I am 
 not very fond of raking old histories up." 
 
 Here he again broke off, and turning to 
 some one who seemed to stand behind me, 
 called out : 
 
 " Look at me, grinner ! He seems to know 
 all about it. . . . Ahoy ! who are you ?" 
 
 I looked round. Several persons had now 
 come up, among whom was a thick-set young 
 man, with an open, intelligent, rather chal- 
 lenging, countenance, clad in an old surcoat, 
 one sleeve of which dangled down, and with 
 the Danish cockade in his cap. He it was 
 whom the knight had addressed as " grinner." 
 
 *' Herr Sea-count, or Sea-king, or whatever 
 
 * From this it appears probable that the knight was one of 
 those notorious freebooters who, after the murder of King Erik 
 Glipping, committed such depredations on the Danish coasts by 
 their piratical incursions during the whole of Erik Meuved's 
 
 reiga. 
 
246 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 you are, for no king goes about with boots 
 like yours on dry land," answered the young 
 man, with a grin ; " I am but an unfortunate 
 volunteer of the so-called Rye's brigade, a 
 native of Schleswig, and, therefore, but too 
 well versed in King Abel's history. I come 
 direct from the Slie and Danewerk." 
 
 " Direct from the Slie and Danewerk, eh ?" 
 resumed the knight. " Then you must know 
 all about it. So tell away. But mind, fellow, 
 none of your Schleswig-Holstein lies here !" 
 
 " Once on a time," began the soldier, " there 
 was a king named Yaldemar. Under him 
 Denmark reached the highest pinnacle of her 
 prosperity ; and from his time, though many a 
 false gleam of power and splendour has shot 
 up, the time-honoured kingdom has waned. 
 Yaldemar was the last mighty and prosperous 
 monarch Denmark possessed." 
 
 " Fellow ! that is saying much," growled 
 the knight. 
 
 " From time immemorial Germany had been 
 Denmark's bitterest enemy," continued the 
 soldier, not noticing the interruption. ^'It 
 was a very one-sided affair ; but up to that time 
 the Danes had maintained their old boundary 
 in the south, and were destined to maintain it 
 a long while still. Under King Yaldemar, 
 the Danes gained the ascendancy, and vie- 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 247 
 
 toriously carried their ravages far across the 
 frontier. But as the Germans, spite of all 
 confederations, were totally unable to stand 
 against the victors, they had recourse to 
 cunning and treachery. And now fortune 
 favoured them. At the battle of Bornhoved, 
 King Yaldemar's power was broken for ever, 
 a battle that forms the unlucky turning-point 
 in Denmark's history. Downwards, ever 
 downwards, till the present time. 
 
 '* And yet King Yaldemar was no less 
 mighty in peace than in war. Formerly he 
 had been sirnamed ' The Conqueror,' now he 
 was entitled ' The Law-giver.' Denmark still 
 passed through happy days under his rule. 
 
 '' Before his death he divided the succession 
 between his sons." 
 
 " His sons !" interrupted the knight in an 
 excited voice. '* Yes ! that was Denmark's 
 misfortune. The son of the good and amiable 
 Queen Dagmar, another Yaldemar, died. His 
 posterity would have brought blessings to 
 Denmark ; but the wicked and detested Beren- 
 garia's sons all lived. They, and their race, 
 have been Denmark's bane !" 
 
 " What you say is perfectly true, noble 
 sir," remarked the soldier as he continued his 
 narrative. 
 
 " Of these sons Yaldemar caused allegiance 
 
248 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 to be sworn to Erik as king. The two others 
 got large feoffs under the crown. Abel, the 
 second son, got South Jutland. And then the 
 old king passed to his fathers, convinced that 
 he had secured the prosperity of Denmark in 
 the surest way. 
 
 " But it was but a poor prosperity. Soon 
 there arose strife between the brothers. Abel 
 would not hold his duchy as a feoff of King 
 Erik, but sought, by the aid of a German 
 alliance, to obtain uncontrolled possession of 
 it. The first of his feudal duties was to guard 
 the boundary against the attacks of the arro- 
 gant and powerful Germans ; but, instead of 
 doing so, he brought them in across the 
 borders, and thus laid the foundation of the 
 ' Germanization ' of South Jutland. And, what 
 was still worse, he gave free admission to a 
 German spirit, German morals, and mode of 
 thinking, not only in South Jutland, but, when 
 he ultimately came to the throne, over the 
 whole kingdom of Denmark. At a later 
 period this was destined to turn the scales. 
 A German element in the country, though 
 with empty hands, was to prove a far more 
 dangerous enemy than Germans outside with 
 needle guns and rifled cannon. Who has not 
 heard of the fantastical state Schleswig-Hol- 
 stein ? Duke Abel laid the sure, though in- 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 249 
 
 visible, foundation of it. Of one heart with 
 the Holsteiners, the Schleswig duke saw in 
 the king of Denmark only his born foe. 
 
 "It happened one fine summer in August 
 that Abel invited his brother Erik to the town 
 of Schleswig. Unsuspecting, and with true 
 brotherly love, the good Erik accepted the 
 invitation, spite of having been warned in a 
 vision not to do so. Abel's heart was full of 
 venomous poison, and, before long, it showed 
 itself, for he placed his guest, his brother and 
 his king, in chains, and gave him over into 
 the hands of the executioner. Yes, of the 
 executioner ! 
 
 " What more need I say ? The good King 
 Erik was shamefully murdered, butchered like a 
 lamb, and his body thrown into the river Slie. 
 
 " Denmark's throne now became vacant, and 
 after Duke Abel, with four-and-twenty of his 
 knights, had taken an oath that he was innocent 
 of his brother's death, the stupid Danes chose 
 him to be their king. 
 
 " But King Erik had said with his dying 
 breath, ' If Abel does not repent, he will die 
 a more shameful death than mine !' 
 
 " And so it came to pass. 
 
 " Two years later, the powerful king of Den- 
 mark was forced ignominiously to flee before 
 the brave peasantry of Friesland, and died by a 
 
250 LETTEES FROM HELL. 
 
 doughty blow from a Frieslander's axe. His 
 corpse lay long uninterred, and his carrion be- 
 came a prey to the wild beasts and birds. At 
 last he was buried in Schleswig cathedral. But 
 King Erik's wicked brother had no peace in his 
 grave, his spirit left it, and became the terror 
 of the wliole town. Then the monks had his 
 corpse disinterred, and carried outside the 
 town. In the middle of a thick forest they 
 dug a deep hole, and, casting it in, drove a 
 sharp stake through it to keep it fast down in 
 the lower world, where " 
 
 Here the speaker suddenly stopped. On 
 looking up, I again saw Cain and his com- 
 panion. 
 
 All eyes were fastened on the wretched 
 pair. Without moving, and in breathless 
 silence, we let them pass by. It seemed as if 
 they were terrified. For Cain, ever and anon, 
 kept wildly looking behind him, while Abel 
 walked with his drawn sword in his hand. 
 Just as they passed us, he suddenly halted, and 
 turned his terrified face directly towards us. 
 
 " Cain and Abel !" I stammered forth in- 
 voluntarily. 
 
 " Ha !" exclaimed the knight, starting up, 
 and the hero stood trembling in every limb. 
 " But it is like . . . yes ... is it not Erik ?" 
 
 "What do you think, noble sirs?" asked 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 251 
 
 the soldier, in amazement, " as yon know, it 
 was Erik who was mnrdered, and " 
 
 "Yes, yes; Erik — Erik GHpping!" muttered 
 the knight, and again forced himself to silence. 
 " It was — it was only a foolish fancy !" 
 
 " Truly, only a fancy," interposed a heavy- 
 looking person by way of confirmation, who 
 was apparently a German lancer. "It is 
 neither Erik nor Abel. On my honour, it is 
 none other than John of Swabia !" 
 
 " Cain's companion, of whom we were 
 speaking, has never styled himself by the one 
 name or the other," remarked an old man with 
 an air of great importance. " It is notorious." 
 
 " Then are there anonymous personages in 
 Hell ?" I inquired. 
 
 " Why not ?" was the answer. " Anony- 
 mity is a sacred thing, and must be respected 
 here as well as in the world." 
 
 " Enough, enough," interposed the knight, 
 with an impatient sneer, as he left off biting 
 the button of his sword belt ; " let us hear 
 the end of Abel's history before our company 
 gets too mixed." 
 
 Thereupon the soldier continued : — 
 
 " Though buried with a stout oaken pole 
 through his body, and with powerful incanta- 
 tions, King Abel found no rest in his grave. 
 He was forced to walk. From century to 
 
252 LETTERS FROM HEI.L. 
 
 century down to our day, ghosts have been 
 on the increase, becoming more wicked and 
 more terrible than ever had been known. 
 
 *' There are few people between the Slie 
 and the Eider but have a story to tell about 
 it. If they have not experienced aught them- 
 selves, their fathers before them have. It is 
 especially on the banks of the Slie, out on the 
 wild heath, and on the old frontier fortress of 
 Danewerk, that the spectre may be seen. But 
 it haunts inhabited places too, and even vil- 
 lages and hamlets. What the wild hunt is in 
 Germany, just so is King Abel's wild course 
 in South Jutland." 
 
 " Quite right !" remarked a sinister-looking 
 monk, who appeared like a run-away galley- 
 slave. " At certain periods he returns to the 
 earth in the service of the Evil One. But he 
 cannot do so as long as the stake is in his 
 body ; so he looks about him to try and 
 wheedle some one to draw it out for him. 
 But he who does so receives but a poor reward 
 for liis service. — Retro, appage, Satanasl — Some 
 time ago he got hold of me, but I took good 
 care not to do his behest on such terms. Yet 
 from what I heard he managed to get out 
 after all. Who the ass was this time I do not 
 know." 
 
 " Not long since," continued the soldier, " I 
 
LETTEKS FROM HELL. 253 
 
 was standing by the Danewerk, with my 
 country's old foes before me. It was the last 
 time there was to be a struggle for the 
 time-honoured boundary of the land, or rather 
 at last it was to be given up without striking 
 a blow. It was a fearful time. Not King 
 Abel alone, but all the spirits of evil, seemed to 
 be let loose. Indeed, by far the greater pro- 
 portion of all the political misfortunes that 
 have overtaken Denmark since King Abel's 
 time have proceeded from the G-ermanized 
 portion of Southern Jutland. 
 
 " Fratricide seems to have left a lasting 
 curse. Abel's spirit haunts the population 
 with the boldest machinations falsehood and 
 treachery can devise with a fratricidal spirit. 
 Recently Abel seems to have triumphed again 
 by the power of Grermanization and devilry. 
 Denmark lies low, as once did the pious King 
 Erik, who, bleeding, dying, raised his hand 
 aloft, as if taking Heaven to witness. But the 
 end is not yet! King Abel, remember the 
 wheelwright's axe ! 
 
 " How King Abel infests the southern 
 portion of South Jutland for shorter or longer 
 periods, the simple folk have many a story to 
 tell. Fishermen who ply their business on 
 the She are often terrified at hearing strange 
 sounds proceeding from the shore. It is 
 
254 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 as if some unearthly, supernatural being 
 secretly followed the boats along the banks. 
 A howl, or a rattling sound, and all kinds 
 of fearful cries and wailings, mark its course. 
 Sometimes the spectre shows itself, gene- 
 rally in the form of a dark shadow of 
 monstrous shape and length, rising up from 
 above the water, in pursuit of a clear blue 
 light that glides gently along over the rippling 
 surface, without ever being able to grasp it. 
 Of course the fishermen never follow this 
 light, and take care not to come within the 
 dark shadow. 
 
 " At Mysunde, the narrowest part of the 
 river, a huge stone lies out in the water, the 
 top of which protrudes above the surface. It 
 is the place where King Erik's corpse was 
 flung into the stream. Often and often people 
 have seen a dark shapeless form sitting on this 
 stone, crouched up in a heap, and noiselessly 
 stirring the water with a pointed stake. No 
 one has ever ventured to disturb that silent 
 fisherman ! 
 
 " Sometimes, too, the traveller who is cross- 
 ing the heath at night time witnesses no less 
 strange sights. As he is wending his way 
 beneath one of those lofty barrows, those me- 
 morials of olden time which are especially 
 peculiar to the heaths of South Jutland, a 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 255 
 
 stone rolls down and makes Lim start back. 
 He looks up, and sees on the height above a 
 dark form seated there, with its hand under 
 its chin. So dark is it that it would be in- 
 visible were it not that it stands out in promi- 
 nent relief against the clear skj. No move- 
 ment betrays it to be a living being, but it has 
 a pair of eyes that glow like burning coals. 
 Woe to the luckless traveller if he stays on 
 his course, or if terror makes him pause for a 
 single moment ! Never again will he cross 
 the heath. But King Abel remains seated on 
 the mound till cock-crow, devising evil and 
 venomous schemes, which, though he himself 
 be dead, yet by the aid of the Evil One, he 
 knows how to quicken into life and to diffuse 
 into the hearts of the thousands who are 
 slumbering around him. 
 
 " But Abel is an uneasy spirit. Still oftener 
 may he be seen galloping across the heath on 
 a snorting steed ; he himself in black, the 
 horse a shining white one, and a couple of black 
 hounds following him. White coloured flames 
 seem to stream from his horse's nostrils, and 
 to flash up fromi under its hoofs. It is said 
 that the spectre's track across the heath can 
 be plainly seen long after he has gone. Each 
 place where his horse has placed its foot, the 
 heather is parched and scorched up. And 
 
256 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 when on his road he comes to a lonely house, 
 he frequently stops, not to give his steed 
 breathing time, but to breathe out the over- 
 flowing wickedness of his evil heart. If he 
 find ever so small a crevice in its walls, it is 
 enough. He breathes through it with a force 
 that makes windows and doors start open. 
 Next morning everything is as usual. But 
 the house is no longer the same. King Abel's 
 thoughts have stayed behind in it. Even 
 people of pure Danish blood and speakiug the 
 Danish tongue, by virtue of Abel's spirit feel 
 with a German heart, and forget father, 
 mother, tradition, fatherland, and honour — 
 all that is wont to be so dear to man's heart. 
 
 *' Forward, forward ! over stock and stone on 
 fresh errands. In one night he may visit a 
 hundred places. In different tracts he has 
 certain paths; and there is more than one 
 house to be found where its inmates never 
 dare close a door, for the spectre must have 
 unimpeded course through. If by chance they 
 should be closed, they are violently burst open ; 
 and glad enough are the inmates if no other 
 disaster come. 
 
 " It is not, however, only over the waste and 
 lonely places that King Abel travels at night 
 time. There is scarce a town which he has 
 not passed through on his wild course. 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 257 
 
 " When lie approaches all the dogs begin to 
 howl in dismal, ominous tones ; the cattle 
 bellow and break loose in the stalls. Then the 
 farmer knows what is astir, crosses himself 
 from under his counterpane, and nestles fur- 
 ther down into the bed. Next morning some 
 calamity is sure to have happened." 
 
 The speaker ceased ; and for a few moments 
 we observed a deep silence, not arising, how- 
 ever, from any uncomfortable feeling similar 
 to that you may have experienced after having 
 listened to a ghost-story in the twilight hours. 
 We know nothing of such feelings here. It 
 is readily explained, for we are all of us 
 ghosts. At all events, the torments of Hell 
 in which we are, is ten thousand times worse 
 than all the ghosts in the universe. 
 
 No ! that which made us silent, and which 
 made so deep an impression, was the recol- 
 lection, the lively recollection, of the world, of 
 life. 
 
 It was the soldier who again broke the 
 silence. 
 
 " A miserable end befel the three sons of 
 the great King Yaldemar. Erik was shame- 
 fully murdered, according to the unanimous 
 testimony of history and of tradition, by his 
 brother's orders. Abel met a disgraceful and 
 miserable death under a peasant's avenging 
 
 VOL. I. 8 
 
258 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 axe. Christopher, according to the story, was 
 poisoned in an inn. And all this in the course 
 of nine years." 
 
 " Why do you not include Christopher's 
 son and successor?" said a new voice; "was 
 not Erik Glipping, too, barbarously mur- 
 dered ? " 
 
 I looked up ; I did not know the stranger : 
 but on looking after the knight, he had dis- 
 appeared. 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 259 
 
 CHAPTER XIY. 
 
 Would you believe it? However deeply- 
 engrossed I was on my excursion with what I 
 saw and experienced, I was far more engrossed 
 with myself. Naturally enough ! There can 
 be no talk of real diversion in Hell ; even in 
 the wildest hubbub the soul can never succeed 
 in losing itself. And, would you think it ? 
 Not only do my evil deeds recur to my 
 thoughts to torture and to harass me, but my 
 good deeds also. I repeat, it is but natural. 
 For our best deeds even are not free from 
 blemish. There is a sharp hook to them all, 
 and it is with this that they recur to the 
 memory here in Hell. It is like a talon thrust 
 into the heart. 
 
 Listen to me, while for a little while I am 
 constrained to speak of myself again. 
 
 There was a young man in my office I was 
 very fond of. Among other business matters, 
 he was entrusted with several small sums of 
 money. Presently I began to smell a rat ; 
 
260 LETTERS PROM HELL. 
 
 and several little but corroborative circum- 
 stances seemed only to confirm my reasons for 
 suspecting him. I watched him narrowly, and 
 before long discovered that he had taken to 
 gambling. By a strange coincidence an op- 
 portunity presented itself of catching him in 
 the very act, and I determined to avail myself 
 of it. 
 
 The gaming-house was situate in a lonely 
 part of the suburbs ; and though the adventure 
 was not unattended with danger, I thought 
 little of it. Certainly among my many fail- 
 ings I did not lack courage. 
 
 It was one snowy, wretched, wintry night, 
 towards midnight, that I stood outside a dilapi- 
 dated, apparently uninhabited house, wrapped 
 up in a large, coarse overcoat. I gave a certain 
 signal, and the door was immediately opened. 
 At the end of a dark passage, along which I 
 had to grope my way, was another door ; it 
 was locked, but some one presently opened it, 
 and I entered the hell. Here I found a 
 numerous company of a low, varied kind, 
 who seemed quite at home in an atmosphere 
 oppressive from heat, and redolent with the 
 fumes of tobacco. They were playing different 
 games. At one of the tables my clerk pre- 
 sided ; he was keeping the bank. At that 
 instant an idea flashed across me. It was 
 
LETTERS FROAT HELL. 261 
 
 hazardous, but I felt sure it would succeed; 
 so I approached the table, and deposited my 
 stakes. 
 
 His eye fell on mine directly ; and the effect 
 my apparition had on him was terrible. He 
 turned deadly pale, tottered to a chair, and let 
 the cards fall out of his hands. When he had 
 somewhat recovered himself, he rose up and 
 seemed hesitating whether he should fly or 
 strike me to the ground. But a stern look 
 and a sign on my part were enough to restrain 
 him. One of the bystanders noticing his 
 indisposition offered him a brimming goblet 
 of wine, which he clutched eagerly and 
 drained to the very dregs ; and now he became 
 as crimson as he had been pale before. Once 
 more he ventured to raise his eyes to mine, 
 but a cold, icy glance made him speedily drop 
 them. I stood to all appearances before him 
 as a perfect stranger, simply demanding that 
 the game should proceed. The others de- 
 sired the same. No one, of course, had the 
 slightest suspicion of the real state of the 
 case. 
 
 There was, then, no mercy for the sinner ; 
 he had to endure it a while longer yet. With 
 trembling hands he dealt out the cards, re- 
 ceived and paid the stakes. The game went 
 merrily on, and odd enough the hanquier 
 
262 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 seemed now to have all the luck. But I 
 waited ; I did not doubt but that a turn would 
 come soon. At first I had only been one of 
 many players ; now I was almost the only 
 one. At the proper time I began to force my 
 game. Never had such sums of money been 
 staked there before ; therefore the excitement 
 was enormous. But the hanquier was the 
 most excited of all, he seemed as if he were 
 on the rack. An end, however, must come ! 
 One turn more, and the bank was broken ! 
 
 Thereupon the wretched man sprang up, as 
 if beside himself, and endeavoured to rush 
 past me, crying out, " All is lost ; all is lost !" 
 
 But I seized him by the arm. " Not all," I 
 said, in a low tone ; " there is more to be lost 
 yet ! . . . Stay ! We will go together !" 
 
 And 1 made him take his coat, hat and 
 stick, and leave the company with me in quite 
 a decorous manner. Of course a great ex- 
 citement prevailed ; but it was managed so 
 quickly and adroitly, that no one thought of 
 interposing. 
 
 So I took him with me. With tottering 
 knees he crawled along by my side, while a 
 strict silence was observed by both of us. 
 
 But as soon as I had got him into my room, 
 I opened upon him. " I had had such a high 
 opinion of him, he had been so trusted, and 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 263 
 
 had deceived me so shamefully. . . . He must 
 smart for it !" 
 
 He appeared very contrite, humbled, in 
 fact, crushed to the earth. Never had I seen 
 a more miserable-looking object. At length 
 he left off begging for mercy for himself ; but 
 besought me in the most piteous terms for his 
 poor mother. He was her only support, and 
 the sole joy that she had left in the world. 
 
 I let him beg and pray a long while. I had 
 fully made up my mind that he should not 
 escape too cheaply. He should not forget 
 this night as long as he lived. 
 
 At length I began to relent. 
 
 " I would give him a chance of showing me 
 that he was really sorry, and of becoming a 
 new and better man." 
 
 So everything was satisfactorily arranged. 
 No ! not quite satisfactorily either. For as 
 he was leaving, I noticed that he staggered, 
 as if he had been intoxicated, and could 
 scarcely keep on his feet. I could not let him 
 go home in this plight, for his mother would 
 have at once suspected something. I rang 
 for the servant, and had a bed made up for 
 the poor fellow in my house. 
 
 Next morning he was in a raging fever, 
 and became delirious. The thought of his 
 mother now flashed across my mind ; he had 
 
264 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 been thinking much more of her than of hini- 
 self. Of course it was out of the question to 
 think of removing him. So I hastily made 
 up my mind. Ringing for my old, confi- 
 dential servant, I gave him strict orders to 
 make the young man's stay in my house a 
 profound secret, and then wrote to his mother 
 to tell her that " I had been obliged to send 
 him off suddenly on some important business 
 that admitted of no delay. He would pro- 
 bably be absent," I said, " for some weeks, and 
 I would take an early opportunity of calling 
 upon her." 
 
 Thus, under the Almighty, his fate rested 
 in my hands. For weeks he lay in a violent 
 fever. Nearly all my time was divided be- 
 tween him and his mother. In reality I was 
 all that a brother could be to the one, and a 
 son to the other. And when at last the sick 
 man began to be convalescent, I nursed him 
 with the tenderest care ; while at the same 
 time it was no little tax on my powers of 
 invention to tranquillize his mother. 
 
 At last he recovered his health. And then it 
 was given out that he had just returned from 
 his journey, and had been taken ill on thB road. 
 
 Yes, indeed he had been on a journey to 
 the kingdom of death, and it was from this 
 journey he had returned. But the secret was 
 
LETTERS PROM HELL. 265 
 
 well kept, and never came to kis mother's 
 ears. I put him into another post in the 
 office, and never had occasion to find any fault 
 with him again. 
 
 But now to the main point ! 
 
 Possibly you may say that I had every 
 reason to be satisfied with myself. I also 
 thought so once. But here . . . here the scales 
 have fallen off from before my eyes ; every- 
 thing is exposed to me in all its nakedness 
 and clearness. 
 
 In itself it was no bad idea thus to seize 
 the bird by the wing, and to keep it a prisoner 
 till it was completely tamed. But I am bound 
 to confess that the spirit that prompted me 
 was a presumptuous conceit. My self-com- 
 placency did not feel appeased by the moral 
 power I held over the delinquent. With one 
 look I had compelled him to take up his cards 
 and resume the game ; and then I had given 
 him a lesson which was a safe guarantee that 
 he would never take a card in his hands again. 
 
 And then as to my kindness towards him, 
 after I had once admitted him to mercy. 
 Surely it was a praiseworthy deed ! 
 
 But if I must speak the truth, it had its 
 principal source in the feeling that I had been 
 too severe with him, and harder than was 
 necessary. I had found a kind of cruel pleasure 
 in seeing him writhe under the lash of my in- 
 
266 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 dignation. And thus, my friend, what becomes 
 of the good action ? It is its deficiencies only 
 that now goes to my heart and tortures me. 
 
 Now it is I that writhe under the thought 
 of what his sufferings must have been. Con- 
 tradictory as it may appear, it is still true. I 
 suffer from the tortures of a sincere com- 
 passionateness. 
 
 All his life through he bore traces of my 
 excessive severity towards him. All the 
 buoyancy and high spirits of youth had 
 vanished all at once, and he never became the 
 man his youth gave promise he would be. It 
 seemed as if something were rent asunder 
 within him. A shy, nervous look, ever retro- 
 spective, bore ample testimony to the secret 
 history of his life. 
 
 Oh ! these good deeds, how many have they 
 brought into misery? For, rest assured, if 
 most of the good actions done were to be sub- 
 mitted to a scrutinizing investigation they 
 would yield a pitiful result. Not that I mean 
 to assert that there are no such things as good 
 actions. But when everything is taken into 
 consideration what are the best of them but 
 simple duty ? 
 
 However one may twist and turn them, no 
 balance will ever be got out of them through 
 all eternity. 
 
 Do you know what self-torture is ? Doubt- 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 267 
 
 less ! Else your experience of the world has 
 not been great. Yon know then that there is 
 no greater torture than self-torture. But only 
 first in Hell does it become quite clear. It 
 constitutes the very essence of the torture of 
 Hell, that we ourselves are the instruments of 
 our own torture. 
 
 One of the mildest forms of this self-torture 
 is musing ; and yet how wearing it is ! Yes, 
 wearing is the proper expression for it. We 
 wear ourselves so utterly away that there does 
 not remain a healthy thought behind. Then, 
 naturally, we are obliged to pause. We stand 
 on the threshold of insanity, but over it we 
 cannot step. How the brain swims ! How the 
 heart burns ! We are just in that state in 
 which people in the world commit suicide. 
 But in Hell we can never carry it further than 
 to wear ourselves away. 
 
 Was there not once something called " The 
 Three Articles of Faith ?" I have a strangely 
 misty and yet firm idea about it. Had it not 
 something to do with the Trinity ? And was 
 it not one of the most precious gifts bestowed 
 on mortal man ? 
 
 I have mused over it till I have well-nigh 
 lost my senses. But now I have grown a 
 little wiser. Of what benefit had it been to 
 me had I been able to recall them ? To the 
 
268 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 faith, to which their name and substance are 
 due, I should never have attained. Faith 
 would ever have remained to me but an empty 
 idea. Yes, I have the idea ; but how hollow^ 
 how terribly hollow ! There is a bottomless, 
 yawning abyss in it. 
 
 What is to believe ? God's Son is the object 
 of faith. I know it, and the devils know it. 
 He is the Saviour ! But how He has become 
 a Saviour, or how a soul has any part or share 
 in Him, alas ! alas ! I have no conception. 
 
 And it is just the same with repentance. 
 If I could only feel a moment's real repent- 
 ance, that same moment I should be saved. 
 But, and it is a natural consequence, I torture 
 myself in vain. 
 
 Ah ! I can . . . and yet I cannot. Some- 
 times I seem so near it, my tears seem on the 
 point of bursting out. But it is all an imposi- 
 tion ; it is in vain. 
 
 " Only one single tear," I sigh, in insufferable 
 agony. Oh, eternal mercy ! Ah ! what use to 
 invoke without faith ? . . . Only a single tear ! 
 
 « 
 
 Time runs on. Nonsense, of course, for 
 there is no time here ! However, there must 
 be something that runs on; the ever-waxing 
 light shows it. The important, the terribly 
 brilliant moment is approaching when Para- 
 
LETTERS PROM HELL. 269 
 
 dise shall swallow up the darkness of Hell in 
 its splendour. Yet, you must not attach any 
 weight to what I am saying. I am talking of 
 what I am quite ignorant. Perhaps this mo- 
 ment may be terrible without being magnifi- 
 cent ; perhaps it may still be far off. 
 
 Time, however, runs its course in the world; 
 we perceive that plainly. Recently a pom- 
 pous announcement of a Te Deum having 
 been held in one of the world's capitals 
 reached us. It must have sounded through 
 the lowest corner of Hell — the Devil's corner. 
 It must have been a gala day for the damned. 
 
 The cause of this Te Deum was the prosper- 
 ous result of a war which a powerful state had 
 been waging against one of its smaller and 
 weaker neighbours. A regular predatory in- 
 cursion ; but it was successful. 
 
 The world offered its congratulations ; but 
 this was not enough for the conqueror. He 
 must solenmly congratulate himself, and chant 
 a Te Deum ! 
 
 These Te Deum festivals are the most scan- 
 dalous things in the world. It is more than 
 hypocrisy, it is boundless impudence. In 
 order to appear respectable in the eyes of the 
 world, a nation does not hesitate to employ an 
 oflScial blasphemy whereby it may gild over 
 its baseness. So far do people go in their 
 
270 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 shameful endeavours to convert dirt into gold, 
 that God even must be dragged down from 
 Heaven into the mire. One day they will 
 bitterly repent it ! 
 
 One of the illusions wherein the world so 
 readily rocks itself to slumber, and about 
 which there is so much loose talk, is the high 
 degree of moral dignity it conceives it has 
 attained. It is the most wretched, most ridi- 
 culous self-conceit. The world is just as evil 
 in disposition, just as brutal and as cowardly 
 as ever ; only a little more polished perhaps. 
 In the great world there is just as little of any- 
 thing that is absolutely valid, or of a fixed 
 nature, as of old. Honour, morality, truth- 
 fulness, righteousness, compassionateness, all 
 is mere outside show, directly any higher 
 aim, that is to say, when interest, makes its 
 demand. 
 
 The right of the strong has a wide extent 
 still ! 
 
 Small states, such as Holland, Belgium, 
 Denmark, &c., are a prey to the first great 
 power that only has the audacity to make the 
 venture. Yes, to make the venture ; everything 
 depends on that. And if the enterprise suc- 
 ceed, the deed of violence is at once justified. 
 
 Such in fact is the real state of the world, 
 of the so-called public morality. If in civil 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 271 
 
 and in social life men observed the same rule 
 with each other as obtains between states, the 
 world would be one vast robber's den, unfit 
 for any human being to Hve in. 
 
 Yes, truly, one must allow that broad is the 
 road that leads to destruction. But it is from 
 Hell that one first gets to learn its breadth. 
 
 Some dance, as it were, along this road. 
 But it takes up some little time, for they have 
 to run into so many inns, taverns, and casinos 
 on the road. The whole of their life is a pas- 
 time, a sport, a feast ; and they do not inquire 
 whether it is God or the Devil that gives the 
 feast. They employ all their senses, and if 
 occasion ofiers procure themselves one or two 
 extra senses. It is against nature, it is true ; 
 but what of that ? The enjoyment is aU the 
 greater. They drag as many things as possi- 
 ble with them into the whirl wherein they 
 revolve; whether genuine or spurious is a 
 matter of supreme indifi'erence. They breathe 
 only in the present moment; their future is 
 the next ball, rout, or banquet, the last piece 
 at the theatre, or the latest fashion ; their 
 eternity, the wearisome hour of expectation. 
 They say to themselves, " We live, we live." 
 But death holds them in his grasp. Holbein's 
 well-known Dance of Death in the old town of 
 
272 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 Basle is more than a fable. They dance, 
 saunter, prate, sleep, and eat themselves 
 through the world. Suddenly a little wrench, 
 and . . . they are in Hell ! 
 
 And many others creep as it were along the 
 broad road. One would think it was trouble- 
 some work, but it is not. The mole in the earth 
 does not find it more troublesome than the bird 
 in the air. And they are a kind of mole. 
 
 " We look to what is solid," say they ; and 
 then they burrow down into the earth. 
 
 " We see," say they, and they are right. 
 
 It is a mere fable that moles are blind from 
 their birth. On the contrary they have the 
 keenest eyesight ; even for every little morsel 
 they meet with on the road. They are not, in- 
 deed, searching for morsels ; on the contrary, 
 they are looking out for whole pieces. But 
 nothing is beneath their notice, so they put up 
 with the morsels of the earth's treasures ; for 
 they know none other. Ever looking down- 
 wards, only that which is found in the soil is 
 of value to them. Of what is above they are 
 ignorant, neither do they trouble themselves to 
 know. It has never excited their attention that 
 there is a Heaven, and that it is full of stars. 
 Their life is one endless burrowing ; nay, not 
 endless ! For when they have thus burrowed 
 through greater or smaller portions of the 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 273 
 
 world, all at once they come upon a hole quite 
 unawares. This hole is death. Down they 
 plump into it, and when they awaken to con- 
 sciousness they find themselves in Hell. 
 
 Amongst the many wonderful things in 
 the world, this is doubtless one of the most 
 wonderful, that although all men know that 
 they must die — nothing more certain than 
 that — ^yet there are so few who think of death, 
 and fewer still who make any preparations 
 for it. 
 
 Most persons die, as it were, quite unawares. 
 So most of them awaken in Hell ! How can it 
 be otherwise ? 
 
 Yes, most of them ! But even here there is 
 a wonderful circumstance connected with it. 
 In Hell one meets all kinds of persons one had 
 never expected to meet. Respected, honoured, 
 and, what is more, lamented, they passed out of 
 the world ; the tearful eyes of those they left 
 behind were upraised to Heaven. But the dear 
 departed ones were not there; they were in 
 Hell ! It can readily be explained. God judges 
 differently to men. However good and excel- 
 lent these persons may have been, they lacked 
 the most needful thing of all ; that on which 
 everything else depends — a beHeving heart, 
 filled with God. 
 
 VOL. I. T 
 
274 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 Perhaps these persons may have gained the 
 whole world, but they have lost their own 
 souls. 
 
 And now for the other side ! 
 
 It is often the case that persons never come 
 here, though they may have been long ex- 
 pected. Their deeds, their fame, has gone 
 before them; has long since, as it were, an- 
 nounced their arrival. We expect them, but 
 in vain ; ' they do not come. Only one ex- 
 planation is possible. Great sinners as they 
 may have been, miserable evil-doers of a deep 
 dye, still they may have found mercy before 
 God in a fruitful repentance. Perhaps at the 
 last moment the Saviour interposed between 
 them and Hell, where they were so surely 
 expected, and where their place was as good 
 as already allotted. 
 
 Oh ! you who have loved, who bitterly mourn 
 over your departed ones, you will naturally ask 
 with throbbing heart and streaming eyes, 
 
 " Ah ! cannot then our earnest prayers be 
 of any profit to you ? " 
 
 I do not know. But pray for us ; pray still 
 for us with all your heart, and without ceasing. 
 This I know ; true love can never be lost, can 
 never be without fruit. 
 
 For God's being is Love, and His Son is the 
 fulness of love towards men. Maybe, maybe 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 275 
 
 your prayers will even yet benefit us ; not now 
 only, but through all eternity. 
 
 Whether I look forward or backward my 
 suffering is equally great, though different in 
 nature. If I look forward, all my suffering 
 concentrate's in one terrible thought — an end- 
 less, hopeless existence. If I look back, in 
 the ever smarting remorse of an ill-spent life. 
 
 Yes, from this place is it only first evident 
 what fruits, what blessed fruits one's earthly 
 life could have borne. Oh ! how happy are 
 you who still live, and who still have the 
 power of choosing your fate. 
 
 " As long as there is life there is hope ! " 
 
 Truer words were never spoken. Oh ! then, 
 never give way to that false, that destroying 
 idea, that it is too late. This lie alone has 
 destroyed more souls than all the vices of the 
 world together. It is not too late ! Even if 
 death awaited you on the morrow it is not too 
 late. Your earthly life, however exhausted 
 it may be, can still bear fruit in peace, in joy ; 
 and the glory of life eternal can still dawn 
 upon you. 
 
 Change then your hearts ; turn, and seek 
 peace where only it may be found. 
 
 Oh ! if you only had a clear apprehension of 
 the reality as it is, you would never despair. 
 However oppressed, miserable, or doomed, you 
 
276 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 may feel yourself to be, you have no reason to 
 despair. It is not on your side that despair 
 finds a home ; ah, no ! it is here ! Here it 
 really is too late ! 
 
 If you only had a clear apprehension of the 
 very small proportion your earthly life bears 
 to the sum total of your existence, and how very 
 little of that is yet lost, even though all your 
 worldly expectations may have been ship- 
 wrecked. All do I say ? But no mortal has 
 ever come so far as that. However void the 
 world may appear to him, there is still many a 
 green spot to be found in it ; a man's happiness 
 can take root on more than one place in the 
 world, if only hope does not fail. 
 
 And the world is not all ; it is but a small 
 portion of your allotted existence. Look up 
 to the stars in the sky. There are more than 
 you can number. And if the world really 
 were lost to you, what of that ? It is but 
 one star fallen from your Heaven. You 
 have still all the others left. Therefore do 
 not despair. It is a lie from Hell, if any one 
 tells you it is too late. You can still find 
 happiness as surely as there is a God. Only 
 return and seek Him, who can save, and who 
 can preserve you. It is still vouchsafed you, 
 late though it may be, to begin a new life. 
 But delay not to enter upon that blessed road 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 277 
 
 which leads from star to star into the kingdom 
 of glory. Oh, only do not delay ! 
 
 For at the same moment death overtakes 
 you on the old path, Heaven with all its stars 
 will collapse, and you will find yourself in 
 eternal darkness. 
 
 It is not too late. For however much be 
 lost, the most important thing of all to be 
 saved is still left; even life itself, your im- 
 mortal soul, your peace, your bliss. 
 
 Have you lost your mammon ? Your soul 
 is of ten thousand times greater value. 
 
 Are you without a future ? Behold eternity 
 lies before you. 
 
 Has your love been betrayed ? Love still 
 will save you. 
 
 Are you living a life of abasement ? There 
 is an eternal, a perfect reparation. 
 
 Has the world abandoned you ? Heaven is 
 still left to you. 
 
 Can you no longer see any joy before you ? 
 Still you may come to be an inheritor of ever- 
 lasting salvation. 
 
 Do you now understand how very little is 
 really yet lost — lost perhaps in itself — but yet 
 so little compared with what is still to be won 
 or lost ? Then take courage. It is certainly 
 true ; however far you may have gone it is 
 not yet too late ! It is not yet too late to 
 
278 LETTERS FROM HELL* 
 
 begin a new, a holy, a blessed and a bappy 
 life. 
 
 I have seen her. It was as if death shud- 
 dered through me again. Shaken to the core 
 of my heart, I rushed away from the sight, 
 and fainted under a load of overwhelming 
 accusation. Yes it was her ! her, against 
 whom my sin is so great, that I have never 
 once sought to vindicate myself. Do you feel 
 how much this implies ? 
 
 Oh ! my friend ! I have never spoken of it, 
 but long have secretly dreaded lest Anna, 
 whose life I so thoughtlessly, so wantonly 
 destroyed, should meet me in Hell. 
 
 She is here ! I have seen her ! 
 
 I was walking with one of my acquain- 
 tances. 
 
 " Do you know Undine ?" he asked. 
 
 On my replying in the negative, he con- 
 tinued, 
 
 " There you may see her." 
 
 I followed the direction in which he poin- 
 ted, and saw a divine, comely female form, 
 very lightly clad, and with dishevelled hair. 
 Her dress seemed to cling to her limbs ; she 
 seemed dripping wet. She was quietly occu- 
 pied in wringing out her saturated dress and 
 her heavy hair. At that moment she raised 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 279 
 
 her eyes ; a terrible shudder ran through me. 
 It was Anna ! 
 
 Yes^ it was her ! The same regular, lovely 
 features ; the same graceful figure ; and yet, 
 though easy to recognise, still so changed. 
 Ah, how changed ! Truly the same features, 
 but how disfigured, how sadly depraved! 
 Passion, lust, despair, had each in turn left 
 their marks on her earthly career. She seemed 
 to be many years older ; and perhaps but 
 few years had elapsed between her fall and her 
 death. And her death — I could not doubt it 
 — ^had been the death of despair beneath the 
 waters. 
 
 I shuddered and quivered as a criminal does 
 when he suddenly beholds the scaffold. It was 
 my work — this degraded, abandoned, but so 
 fair, so beauteous a form ! I was crushed. I 
 lay as it were upon the rack beneath this over- 
 whelming load of responsibility. 
 
 There she sat wringing out her clothes and 
 her hair by turns, and ever and anon clasping 
 her hands in despair. And I writhed too, 
 under the bitter gnawing of my conscience. 
 
 Thus she sat a while, while sigh after sigh 
 convulsed her bosom. Oh, those sighs ! Her 
 full bosom heaved and sank, as if it would 
 burst. At first I thought to flee ; a word 
 from her mouth I felt would slay me. But I 
 
280 LETTERS PROM HELL. 
 
 know not what rapture seized me, for all at 
 once I started forward as if to meet her. 
 
 Then first did she become aware of my pre- 
 sence. She sprang up, and regarding me 
 with a look full of dismay and loathing fled 
 away. 
 
 It was impossible to overtake her. By the 
 power of her will alone she was able to keep 
 ever at the same distance from me. At last 
 she disappeared among a crowd of new comers, 
 who were just making their sorrowful entrance 
 into Hell. 
 
 Then I turned back, as if I were being 
 lashed by the Furies ! 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 281 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 I AM just come from tlie post office ! I had 
 only just discovered that there was a post 
 office in Hell. No, there is nothing wanting 
 here, save everything that a being needs to 
 live and to hope for. 
 
 I went, then, to the post office to see if there 
 were any letters for me. I felt impelled to go. 
 
 There is something very peculiar about this 
 post office. Who has not heard speak of the 
 Uriah and Judas' letters? Some maintain 
 that their discovery arose in the east with 
 king David, in the west with king Fenge. 
 But it is of much older date ; for doubtless 
 it dates back to the Devil himself. Nowa- 
 days, the art is widely extended ovei* the 
 whole world ; yes, many practise it in accor- 
 dance with a purely natural impulse without 
 ever having heard speak of it. 
 
 Well then, all these Uriah and Judas' letters 
 go straight to Hell, and the parties concerned 
 pay the postage at the cost of their salvation. 
 
282 LETTERS PROM HELL. 
 
 They are left lying in the poste restante, 
 until the party comes, not the one to whom 
 they are addressed, but the one who has writ- 
 ten them. It is hard to have to take these 
 letters ; they literally burn one's fingers. But 
 that is nothing compared to how they burn 
 the heart. For the letters will be digested ; 
 the miserable writers are compelled to eat 
 their own poisonous dirt. 
 
 But there were no letters for me ; so I 
 have not been a Judas. For the moment I 
 really felt quite light-hearted. But naturally 
 this was a mere illusion. 
 
 Those Judas' letters lead me to another con- 
 sideration connected with them. 
 
 There is not a more serious thing in the 
 world than to subscribe one's name, and yet 
 there are few things which the children of 
 the world do more thoughtlessly than this. 
 But woe to these thoughtless ones ! Every 
 false subscription, every name which the 
 writer repudiates, goes straight to Hell, and 
 pulls with irresistible power — yes, irresistible ; 
 for God alone can break asunder the connec- 
 tion — till the writer follows after it, and finds 
 himself in the torments of Hell. 
 
 I have seen a king sitting with a document 
 before him ; he has sat thus for centuries. To 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 283 
 
 this document he had once, in an unhappy 
 moment, subscribed his name ; what name he 
 does not now know, for he remembers it no 
 longer ; it is quite illegible on the parchment. 
 ■ A blood spot has blotted it out. He ponders 
 and ponders in the anguish and pain of his 
 heart ; the death-sweat stands out on his fore- 
 head : but the name is and remains wanting ; 
 it is not visible. It is his incessant torment 
 in Hell ! Oh ! if he had only not put his name 
 to that parchment ! 
 
 I have seen — but it would take me to too 
 great a length if I were to speak of all I have 
 seen of this nature. It is especially the so- 
 called high politics that fills Hell with so 
 many false names, and miserable objects con- 
 nected therewith. It bears the epithet high, 
 because it is ever the world's custom to attach 
 high-sounding titles to the most despicable 
 things. It is styled an exalted policy just 
 because it is something of the most contempti- 
 ble that is to be found in the world. 
 
 The other day one of these treaties arrived 
 here. There was a great blotch in it. Of 
 course we knew what it meant. The state 
 of the case stood as follows :* 
 
 There was a little state^ so little that it could 
 only exist on the most gracious sufferance, that 
 is to say, it occupied a vacant space among 
 
284 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 other states. They had been so benevolent as 
 to say that it was necessary to the balance of 
 Europe ; in other words, that each of its 
 powerful neighbours had a great wish for it ; 
 but as the one could not envy the other its 
 possession, it remained undisturbed. It was a 
 kind of European taboo. In order to make it 
 known to all the world, and to place it once 
 for all on a firm basis, six of the neighbouring 
 great powers drew up a treaty between them 
 in the name of the Holy Trinity, and affixed 
 their names to it, whereby the existence of 
 this little state was assured, of course, to the 
 end of time. 
 
 Twelve years passed away, when a totally 
 unexpected and excellent opportunity pre- 
 sented itself to two of its powerful neighbours 
 to mix themselves up in the concerns of this 
 little country, and to feather their nests 
 cheaply. Of course, the treaty was rather 
 awkwardly in the way ; but by an arbitrary 
 pretext it was nullified. They simply dis- 
 owned it. It may have appeared to be a 
 hazardous thing to do, but in reality it was not 
 so : brut-e force is always sure to overawe, espe- 
 cially when it conducts itself with unbounded 
 impudence, and tramples all respect under foot. 
 
 The other great powers growled a little it 
 is true, and thought it was very shameful 
 
 rfl 
 
LETTEE8 FROM HELL. 285 
 
 behaviour ; indeed, one of them went so far as 
 to give vent to big words. But there it ended. 
 One after the other gave it to be understood 
 that it did not feel itself bound to insist on 
 the observance of the treaty any more than the 
 others, and thus gradually they quietly slunk 
 away ; and when it came to the point, they all 
 in a mass drew in their horns, and let the treaty 
 go to the winds. 
 
 Thus, then, was the little state handed over to 
 the tender mercies of the stronger. The world 
 cried *'Ah !" over the disgraceful conduct; but 
 no one moved so much as a little finger in 
 the cause of righteousness and of compassion ; 
 not even a word was spoken ! An earnest 
 word, spoken at the proper time, would have 
 been sufficient to avert the wrong. But 
 Europe, under the circumstances, knew no 
 better policy than to remain silent, and per- 
 fectly passive. So the strong fell upon the 
 little one ; three against one ; sounded its 
 ass's trumpet over its easily won victories, 
 and knew not on which leg to stand, so elated 
 were they with the pride of conquest. And 
 then, when they had the little one between 
 their knees, they slaughtered it at their lei- 
 sure ; laying the fattest and best pieces on 
 one side, in order to agree about the distribu- 
 tion afterwards, as best they might. 
 
286 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 This is an instance of an exalted policy, and 
 of the state of public morality in the Nineteenth 
 Century ! But the tale is not finished yet. 
 
 Torn asunder and bleeding, too little and too 
 weak hereafter to subsist alone, the unhappy 
 victim looked around for a refuge, for a place 
 of resort. Towards the north there dwelt 
 kindred peoples. Naturally its first thoughts 
 were directed to them. But thereon, one of 
 the other powers, that had been a party to the 
 treaty, thundered out, 
 
 " You must not venture on such a step ; we 
 will not allow it !" 
 
 In its despair, it next turned to the south. 
 Betrayed and deserted by all who had called 
 themselves its friends — mark well, that it was 
 in its despair — it asked itself the question, 
 whether it were not better to give itself up 
 entirely into the enemy's hands, than to allow 
 itself to be dismembered. One knows at least 
 what an enemy is. But before the thought 
 could well be realized, a voice just as mighty 
 as the former, thundered from another side, 
 
 *' You must not venture upon it ; we will 
 not permit it." 
 
 Truly, it was a hard case ! Abandoned by 
 its friends, crushed and torn asunder by its 
 enemies, it dared not with its bleeding residue 
 seek for refuge where best it might. It seemed 
 
 ,> 
 
LBTTEES FROM HELL. 287 
 
 just as if it might not exist, neither one way 
 nor the other. It was like cutting ofif a man's 
 arms and legs, and then forbidding him to 
 seek the doctor with the bleeding stumps, or 
 to look about him for a corner where to lie 
 down and die. 
 
 This is one example out of many of an ex- 
 alted policy ! But there is more still. 
 
 The treaty, of course, went direct to Hell, 
 with all its subscriptions, not in the name of 
 the triune God, but of the Devil. And as 
 Abel's blood cried aloud from earth to Heaven, 
 so do these subscriptions cry aloud from Hell 
 to earth. Each name will claim its own. 
 And these subscriptions pull with a secret, but 
 powerful, aye, an irresistible force. They are 
 Hke a waterspout at sea ; they will be satiated. 
 You, then, who have placed your names in 
 pawn in Hell, tremble for yourselves ! Come to 
 your senses ! It is but a short road between 
 earth and Hell. Unless you meet the merciful 
 God upon it you will surely come here. 
 
 There have only been two persons in the 
 world who were able to teach me patience ; 
 my mother and Lili. But Lili's power over 
 me, though her nature was so retiring and 
 gentle, was, beyond compare, the stronger of 
 the two. On my mother's side it was a cold 
 
■^ 
 
 288 LETTERS PROM HELL. 
 
 sense of duty that influenced me ; but on Lili'B 
 it was an indescribable heart-warming good- 
 ness and tenderness. Conscious of my great 
 physical strength I was passionate and impe- 
 rious. I had a decided inclination to breai 
 through all opposition, and to overcome all 
 impediments. Even at what was literally im- 
 possible I chafed and involuntarily clenched 
 my hand. During our journey abroad this un- 
 ruly temper made itself apparent ; but it was, 
 moreover, on this very journey that Lili gra- 
 dually gained such complete control over me. 
 I went to school with her without knowing it ; 
 strange enough, I must add, she knew it just as 
 little herself — and among the good, precious 
 things I learnt, or began to learn, was patience. 
 
 How vividly it all appears before me ! 
 
 We had come to Lucerne, and were to cross 
 into Italy over St. Gothard. I had determined 
 that Lili should thoroughly enjoy this passage 
 across the Alps. In my opinion there is 
 nothing more lovely in the world than this 
 sudden transition from the severe north to the 
 mild Hesperian south. By crossing the St. 
 Gothard, Spliigen, or Simplon, the fulness of 
 Italy's loveliness is gathered into one journey 
 from morning till night. 
 
 A foolish reminiscence! Why can I not 
 help renewing it with the aid of all my senses ? 
 
LETTEKS PROM HELL. 289 
 
 The greater the enjoyment then, the greater 
 the torment now. 
 
 We were, then, in Lucerne ! The weather 
 was as unfavourable as it could be, and we 
 had to linger there a whole week. It was a 
 severe trial to me. Every morning Lili and 
 I used to go out on the long bridge, called the 
 Hof briicke, over the river Reuss, to look at 
 the state of the weather. We could scarcely 
 see fifty paces before us across the lake. 
 Everything was enveloped in mist and fog ; 
 not a single mountain top peeped out, except 
 for an instant, and then vanished. There 
 seemed no signs of any improvement in the 
 weather. 
 
 Never shall I forget those morning walks, 
 so vexing, and yet so pleasant. We used 
 to walk and linger there for the chance of 
 its clearing up. Lili would lead me up and 
 down the fourteen hundred feet long bridge 
 like a wild animal in chains. In her presence 
 I did not like to break out. But I could not 
 help biting my lips, and now and then stamp- 
 ing my feet on the wooden planks of the 
 bridge. I used to do it involuntarily. Yet 
 this girl of sixteen coerced the wild nature 
 within me so easily. But one gentle pressure 
 of her soft arm, and I curbed every expression 
 of impatience. The fact was I could have 
 
 VOL. I. XT 
 
290 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 thrown myself down on the wet, dirty planks 
 and worshipped her. 
 
 How inventive, how full of spirit she was in 
 diverting and amusing me, while we paced 
 backwards and forwards on that strange old 
 bridge. It was roofed over, and between the 
 rafters was a long row of quaint old paintings 
 of the most genial composition and execution. 
 She would stop before one, now before another, 
 and by her conversation would put such ani- 
 mation into the pictures, that I could not help 
 being engrossed and even smiling. Often, in- 
 deed, I was obliged to burst out into a loud laugh. 
 
 "When we had thus waited, and waited in 
 vain, and she had succeeded in putting me in 
 a good humour again, we would return to the 
 hotel, where my mother was waiting breakfast 
 for us. 
 
 At last early one morning it did clear up. 
 It was a regular holiday. We had come out 
 earlier than usual, and were standing on the 
 bridge, when the curtain of clouds began to 
 lift. The lake gradually unfolded itself to our 
 view, and its lovely shores became quickly 
 visible. Presently a mountain peak peeped 
 out. We could not tear ourselves away from 
 it ; we stood as if we had been enchanted 
 to the spot, until the whole transformation had 
 taken place. 
 
LETTERS PROM HELL. 291 
 
 At length the brilliant panorama revealed 
 itself in all its magnificence. The shores of 
 the lake lay in one extended bow before us ; 
 while above, mountain upon mountain reared 
 its head aloft, and in the background, and 
 highest of all, the Central Alps with their eter- 
 nal snow, arranged Hke a frame formed of the 
 Righi, Pilate, Dodi, Uri-Rothstock, &c., &c. ; 
 but who can remember all their names ? One 
 mountain after the other emerged into view in 
 the dazzling brightness of its majesty. 
 
 I nearly embraced Lili in my ecstasy, but lost 
 nothing by not doing so. For she was as 
 much overwhelmed as I was. Involuntarily 
 she laid her arm on my shoulder. I thought 
 I could hear her heart beating, but perhaps it 
 was my own. 
 
 So the next day we were early astir, and 
 after crossing the lake made the ascent of Si. 
 Grothard with joyous hearts. The sailors were 
 of opinion that the weather was not to be re- 
 lied on ; but we trusted to our usual good luck, 
 and gave ourselves up to the enjoyment of the 
 day. We walked and drove by turns. Lili 
 could not rest ; no sooner had she taken a 
 little repose than she was again in motion. 
 The mountain nature continued to develop 
 itself more majestically. The first alpine rose 
 had well nigh cost me my life. It was tor 
 
292 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 Lili, of course. What a day ! A day like 
 that is a whole existence. 
 
 As the sun setwe passed through the wild 
 dark valley of Urserndal, and put up for the 
 night in the little village of Andermatt. 
 
 But the next day, what a sorrowful change ! 
 A change of weather had taken place during 
 the night ; snow had fallen on the mountain 
 tops, and a storm was still raging. 
 
 Great was my impatience at this new stop- 
 page. The day passed, and the next, but no 
 alteration in the weather. I made little ex- 
 cursions on all sides, which were not devoid of 
 danger. But it worried Lili, and she begged 
 me to remain at home. Of course I obeyed, 
 and my reward was great. What no other 
 person in the world could have done, she suc- 
 ceeded in doing. She made the time pass 
 pleasantly away, and what is more, gave me, 
 unknown to myself, a further and more com- 
 plete lesson in patience. I could with reason 
 say I became as patient as a lamb, but that I 
 dislike the comparison. 
 
 She took me with her from one house to the 
 other in the little village. She entered them 
 all, as if she had known the inmates long, 
 and the good folks, indeed, received her as 
 an old acquaintance. Those quaint moun- 
 taineers so thoroughly appreciated her unre- 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 293 
 
 served, confiding manner. Everywhere they 
 opened their doors to her, and told her all 
 about their domestic afikirs and mode of life. 
 The simple economy of these mountaineers — 
 so different to anything we had seen before — 
 was undoubtedly very attractive ; but to speak 
 the truth, I saw little else besides Lili. And 
 who could have turned their eyes away from 
 her ? She was like a sunbeam in those dark 
 huts, so ineffably graceful, and yet, in a far 
 higher degree, so benevolent. It was quite 
 plain to me, and I am convinced that the 
 people entertained the same opinion, that she 
 hallowed everything she came in contact with. 
 Oh, Lili ! I see you before me, A purer, 
 more fragrant being could not have been 
 found in the world. 
 
 But I am wandering ! 
 
 She took me with her to the small work- 
 shops and bazaars, where we found all manner 
 of pretty things carved in wood, botanical and 
 mineralogical collections. Boldly she knocked 
 at every door, and everywhere she appeared 
 welcome. It was like enchantment. A com- 
 mon observer might have said, " Yes, youth 
 and beauty possess such a power !" But in 
 reality far higher means were at Lili's dis- 
 posal in this enchantment. God alone knew 
 them fully. 
 
'W 
 
 294 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 Our stay turned out to be far more profita- 
 ble than I could have supposed. When we 
 left this unfruitful, though lovely, spot, which 
 is perched up several thousand feet above the 
 ordinary level of the earth, we took with us a 
 charming Alpine Idyl. 
 
 At times, however, a feeling of despondency 
 would come over me. One evening I asked 
 Lili— 
 
 " How ever can you be so patient and so 
 pleased in a poor, desert place like this, 
 stopped just in the very middle of a pleasant 
 journey to lovely, blessed regions ?" 
 
 " Oh, Otto ! I have no difficulty," she 
 answered, quietly. " Certainly, it is barren 
 and poor here, and many things are wanting ; 
 but I know that behind yonder mountain lies 
 a Paradise awaiting for me. But a few days 
 and hours, and I shall be there. This is a 
 true picture of life, is it not. Otto ? This 
 world must so often appear to us a poor, 
 desert place, full of wants. But for all that 
 we can be comforted and happy. For we 
 know that on the other side the mountain 
 before us lies an Elysium that awaits us as our 
 own Fatherland ; where a place has been pre- 
 pared for us in a Father's house, with a 
 brother's heart, and where they earnestly long 
 after us. There is only a mountain between 
 
 ■■^ 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL." 295 
 
 US and these blessed regions : it is the Moun- 
 tain of the Crucifixion. The road passes over 
 it ; then we shall be at home, then we shall be 
 happy!" 
 
 A few days later we rested ourselves in an 
 enchanting villa, built on a promontory that 
 jutted out far into the Lago di Maggiore. 
 Lili was sitting by me in the pilastered hall, 
 against whose basement the waves gently 
 rippled^ and whence we had a view of sur- 
 passing loveliness across the lake to some 
 islands which seemed as if they were floating 
 on its surface. The clearly defined shores on 
 the other side, above which the mountain-tops 
 reared their heads aloft, pile upon pile, appeared 
 as if they were gradually melting away ; while 
 the loftiest and most distant tops and ridges 
 appeared like glittering white clouds, that were 
 on the point of floating away, or of dissolving 
 themselves in the azure blue of Heaven. 
 
 We had only recently been in mid-winter, 
 now we were enjoying the most delightful 
 summer weather. Lili was sitting with her 
 lap full of some roses and myrtles she had 
 been gathering. She was buried in deep 
 thought, as she played with the flowers ; now 
 gathering them up and letting them fall, or 
 twining them in and out among one another, 
 and again separating them. She literally 
 
296 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 bathed her pretty hands in the fresh flowers. 
 My heart burned. The flowers she was play- 
 ing with so thoughtlessly were the very ones 
 suited for a bridal wreath. It was all I could 
 do to prevent myself from seizing her little 
 hands, and smothering them with kisses, and 
 yet there was no danger. There was an 
 angel always between her and me. 
 
 " What are you thinking of, Lili ?" I asked, 
 in an excited tone. 
 
 " I was thinking of poor, dark Urserndal on 
 the other side the mountain," she answered, com- 
 posedly, and my heart began to beat violently ; 
 " and as I think of it, everything around me 
 here seems more lovely — yes, ravishingly 
 beautiful. When I feel the magnificence of 
 the present moment, I bless the hours I 
 spent yonder side the mountain. Do you not 
 think, dear Otto, that when once we are up 
 there with God, a like happy feeling will 
 come over us as we think of the dark, regret- 
 ful days we have spent on earth ? I am sure of 
 it. We shall bless them then, in so far as we 
 were patient, and have preserved our hope. 
 For bliss will then only be fulJy revealed to 
 us when we recall them to mind." 
 
 What hallowed, but painful feelings quivered 
 through me at these words of Lili's ! It was 
 not remorse alone, but a sincere repentance. 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 297 
 
 Should I ever come to look back with joy from 
 a higher place on the life I had led on earth ? 
 Oh what a life ! It must, it must be different. 
 Need I explain my feelings at these remi- 
 niscences, when I look back on my earthly 
 life? But I never came over the mountain 
 Lili spoke of, the Mountain of the Crucifixion. 
 The mountain rather came on me, and beneath 
 its weight I lie crushed, destroyed in Hell. 
 
 A tour in Italy, especially to a chivalrous 
 gentleman like myself, is a sore trial of 
 patience. Custom-house officers, porters, 
 hotel keepers, beggars, all the pack that 
 swarm along the highroads and fall upon the 
 traveller like swarms of gad-flies ; the cheat- 
 ing ; and the swindling that pervades every- 
 thing ; all this was naturally more than I, 
 with the best possible will, could endure. I 
 was very much inclined to thrash my way 
 through Italy, and I felt that I was the man 
 to do so. But that is not a very delightful 
 way of travelling through a beautiful coun- 
 try, to say nothing of breaking a lance for the 
 fair lady of one's heart. 
 
 But Lili did not give me any liberty to do 
 so. After having on one occasion terrified her 
 by a violent scene which I bitterly repented 
 afterwards, I submitted myself to her entirely, 
 
298 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 and allowed her to control me. I became as 
 tractable as the lion under the fairy's white 
 hand in the fable. Thenceforth it was only- 
 necessary for her to lay a hand on my arm, to 
 give me one look, or just speak to me by my 
 name, to quell the most rebellious spirit in my 
 nature. 
 
 On the other hand, how admirably she under- 
 stood to treat these wretched people. Where 
 I only gained curses wherever I came, she 
 reaped blessings. 
 
 Her road through the world was, on the 
 whole, wonderfully smooth for her. But she 
 smoothed mine also. I felt that each day I 
 Hved with her I was becoming a better man. 
 Yet, perhaps, this too was only an illusion ; 
 for an altered person I never became really ! 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 299 
 
 CHAPTER XYI. 
 
 " Their worm dietli not, and their fire is not 
 quenched." 
 
 Do you see, I remember even yet something 
 of the religious teaching of my childhood ? 
 Terrible words ! But it is in Hell only that 
 one realizes their full meaning. 
 
 The worm — that is, of course, remorse, 
 which ever finds nourishment in evil recollec- 
 tions ; the fire, are the fleshly lusts, for which 
 no longer any fuel can be found. 
 
 I have frequently alluded to the gnawing 
 worm in these pages, but have spoken but 
 little of the unquenchable fire. Do you ask, 
 why? Then you must rest contented with 
 the following explanation. 
 
 Of the lusts of the flesh it is not well to 
 speak in Hell; they are too repulsive, too 
 unnatural. The least that can be said is that 
 one inwardly loathes oneself. One feels anni- 
 hilated in these lusts and passions, which are 
 so utterly powerless, so utterly bare ; stripped, 
 as it were, not to the skin, not even to the 
 
300 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 bones, but to the very heart's core. You will, 
 doubtless, understand me when I simply tell 
 you, — fleshly lusts without flesh must naturally 
 be a torture of Hell. 
 
 Yes, it is a fire ; an unquenchable fire. Un- 
 quenchable just because there is no matter to 
 feed it. If it depended at all upon matter it 
 would not be unquenchable ; for no matter is 
 eternal. 
 
 What more can I say without approaching 
 the subject too closely ? Here in Hell we are 
 without a body ; but it is exactly as if we had 
 one. That is the terrible part of it. This 
 body that does not exist, demands an inces- 
 sant attention on our parts, a constant stimulus 
 of some kind or another. It will wallow in 
 its wonted enjoyments and debaucheries. It 
 is as craving as ever ; it abates not one tittle 
 of its claims ; and the claim is made upon the 
 poor lost soul, which it can never satisfy. But 
 no refusal is accepted. In the world, it was 
 the body that burned in the flames of lust. 
 Here, it is the body no longer, it is legally 
 excused. It is the soul that burns ! 
 
 Old folks say — Yes, it is self-evident that 
 we have very old folks in Hell. A thousand, 
 two thousand, three thousand years, is no ex- 
 cessively great age, according to the reckoning 
 of the world. There are people who have 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 301 
 
 lived tinder Sardanapalus, Cyrus, Alexander ; 
 there are those who have been cotemporaries 
 of Socrates, Cicero, Horace, Seneca, &c., &c. 
 Yes, possibly some of these persons are them- 
 selves present. But I have made it a rule not 
 to particularize any one. There are those who 
 could speak of the fall of Nineveh, the taking of 
 Troy, the destruction of Jerusalem, who have 
 studied the stars with the Chaldseans, watched 
 their flocks with Abraham, assisted at the 
 building of the Pyramids. Yes, there are 
 those who are even of older date than the 
 Deluge. So you see we can study history 
 from its very fountain head. But, unfor- 
 tunately, everything here is devoid of interest 
 and of usefulness. So we do not make it our 
 study. As far as regards myself there is only 
 one thing that engrosses and occupies my 
 thoughts. I feel an inward longing to meet 
 with some one who has lived with Grod's Son, 
 the Saviour. But it is altogether fruitless. 
 Certainly, there are those who have much to 
 tell, but they tell of everything except of Him. 
 Either it is a false Messiah, a promoter of re- 
 bellions, or a malefactor. In all these volumi- 
 nous tales there is not a particle of any higher 
 truth, and it is that after which my soul longs. 
 Is it not desperate ? 
 
 But I have wandered off from what I was 
 going to say. 
 
302 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 Old folks say that it is a remarkable fact, 
 that the atmosphere, especially of late, has 
 become much denser in Hell. We have no 
 " asphyxi-ometer," but I certainly am not 
 overstating the mark, when I say that in the 
 course of about a century nauseousness has 
 increased fifty per cent. It will be a sad look- 
 out if it continue to rise in this proportion ! 
 This feeling of nausea, which never ceases, is 
 an indescribable torture. It is exactly as if 
 we must vomit. Naturally it is only a feel- 
 ing, for otherwise we should vomit up our- 
 selves, and that, of course, is nonsense. 
 
 That twaddle was ever on the increase I 
 had already observed when in the world. 
 Clever persons, whom I spoke with about it, 
 said it was owing to people being more and 
 more enlightened. Truly, a very remarkable 
 explanation ! But that twaddle increased to 
 such a degree I really had no idea. 
 
 Constantly on the increase — what a sorry 
 prospect for the world ! Certainly the world 
 cannot exist without it, and, therefore, up to a 
 certain indefinite degree it finds pleasure in it. 
 Many persons' lives are sheer twaddle alto- 
 gether. But it must get too much at last. It 
 forebodes another deluge ; the world seems as if 
 it must sink under twaddle. It is only necessary 
 to go back to the days of our grandfathers! 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 303 
 
 How simple, comparatively, their mamier of life 
 was ! People then spoke out their opinions, 
 and were understood. But from one decade 
 to another, they have been getting more and 
 more artificial and abstruse. Stays and sta- 
 tistics have pushed themselves in everywhere 
 to give twaddle a form and a little variety. 
 
 Time is ever more and more fruitful in all 
 manner of inventions, but more fruitful still 
 in the most inconceivable circumlocution. 
 Languages are ever being infinitely enriched 
 with new words and modes of speech — the 
 flowers of eloquence — in the interests of 
 twaddle. Phrases and forms have become 
 two of the ruling forces of life. The intellect 
 shrinks up more and more, becomes stunted, 
 cowed ; for it becomes of less and less import- 
 ance ; it is twaddle, not genius, that has the 
 upper hand. Truly, twaddle has ofiered to 
 take genius into its service. But that would 
 be too bad, contrary to all the laws of com- 
 mon sense. Therefore genius says, 
 
 " No, rather die first !" 
 
 Another observation, too, has recently been 
 made, and not less striking. The number of 
 women that come into the tortures of Hell is 
 wonderfully increased, and like twaddle is 
 ever increasing. This phenomenon has no 
 connection with twaddle. In former days. 
 
304 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 and it is only necessary to go back half a cen- 
 tury, the number of men in Hell was not so 
 little above that of the women. JSTow the 
 sexes are pretty nearly equally represented ; 
 but, it is as well to remark that the women have 
 already begun to exceed the men in numbers. 
 
 There is a reason for everything, and the 
 reason of this phenomenon cannot be enveloped 
 in doubt to any one who has wandered along 
 through the world with his eyes open. It lies 
 in the modern way of bringing them up. 
 Education is the wat6hword of the age. But 
 in what does this education for the most part 
 consist, which they so eagerly impart to 
 women ? Is it the education of the heart or 
 of the spirit that is implied? Are they 
 made acquainted with nature and with history 
 in order that eternity may dawn upon them 
 like the sun, and refract a thousand beams 
 through their hearts ? Are they taught what 
 is great, noble, and beautiful in life, in order 
 that they may become conscious of humanity, 
 and of womanhood ? Are they taught before all 
 things truthfulness and love ; and to feel that 
 they are in God, their Creator, Saviour, and 
 Lord? 
 
 No ! no such thought is ever entertained. 
 By education is understood the making them 
 spell or blunder through two or three 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 305 
 
 foreign languages, which they seldom learn to 
 any profit. It is a part of their education that 
 they may be able to strum upon some musical 
 instrument or other, and execute some brilliant 
 piece. Further it is a part of their education 
 that they may be able to talk volubly about 
 any topic, though they really know nothing at 
 all about it, in order to show that they are more 
 or less "emancipated," as the expression is. 
 And further it is a part of their education that 
 they dress and conduct themselves according 
 to the fashion. Every fold in their dress is a 
 matter of the last importance, while upon 
 the folds in their hearts but little thought is 
 bestowed. 
 
 In short, outside show, and to be able to chat- 
 ter, are considered to be all in all ; a show, by 
 the way, which is not even able to befool any- 
 body. They treat girls like dolls, "and not like 
 human beings : their bringing up, their educa- 
 tion is from first to last but dollism ! Poor, poor 
 women ! It is almost a worse treatment than 
 you received even in the most barbarous times. 
 Then people started from the supposition that 
 you had no souls. And for a long while they 
 might say so ; but you had a soul for all that. 
 But now they have taken your soul away from 
 you, and that is far, far worse. In truth it is 
 little wonder that women thus rendered vain 
 
 VOL. I. X 
 
306 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 from very childhood, should come crowding 
 into Hell in ever-increasing numbers. 
 
 In our forefathers' days it was very different. 
 Women then were plainly brought up to fulfil 
 their home duties ; the rest of their education 
 was principally confined to teaching them their 
 Catechism. Even that was something, and 
 not so very little either. Women then had 
 a conscience, and a destined part to fulfil. 
 With pious and single hearts they felt them- 
 selves to be in God, and found their greatest 
 joy in performing the duties of their sphere 
 of life, circumscribed though it might be. 
 But now, what is duty ? 
 
 One of the clearest interpretations modem 
 days have given of it is, that it is something 
 very wearisome. 
 
 And what is to live ? It is to be able 
 to chatter, to trifle away time, to strum 
 upon the piano, to dress, to get a hus^ 
 band^ some sweet little children, which in 
 time will grow up, and to have an establish- 
 ment, to be feted, to be incomparable, if pos- 
 sible, to the very last hour, and then — one 
 thing is lacking yet, but to that how little 
 heed is paid ! — and then to awaken and find 
 themselves in the torments of Hell. 
 
 In truth, dear people, your ladies' institutions 
 are a kind of school for Satan. It is bad enough 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 307 
 
 with men, but with women it is a hundred times 
 worse. 
 
 The other day I was sauntering about near 
 the gates of Hell. Do not be misled by the 
 appellation ! They are not the real gates of 
 Hell, of course, which bid God and His mercy 
 defiance. These are far deeper down, and 
 belong to a far more terrible kingdom than 
 the kingdom of death. I am alluding, of 
 course, only to the guarded entrance to the 
 place of torment. 
 
 I call it the guarded entrance, for though 
 the gates stand wide open, and no sentry is 
 stationed there, yet no one has ever yet suc- 
 ceeded to slip out through them of his own free 
 will ; on compulsion, perhaps ; but, that is 
 another matter, and then it is not for the 
 best. I do not know, for certain, whether I 
 actually made the attempt, but quite sure is 
 it, that every time I approached a certain, but 
 invisible, boundary, I felt within me an au- 
 thoritative voice, saying : 
 
 " Thus far, but no farther !" None ever go 
 out thence, that is to say, not without ghostly 
 privileges, which means the same thing as a 
 "ticket of leave." Anyone, however, can 
 enter in. 
 
 I do not recollect any longer how we used to 
 reckon in the world. Was it every minute — 
 no, surely, it was every second — that a soul 
 
308 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 was passing away ? Well, the greater number 
 enter in at these gates of despair. If one 
 would see Hell in all its naked misery, 
 one must first appear here. On yonder side 
 the gates is a thick, impenetrable, misty 
 darkness, from which fresh shapes are ever 
 emerging. Nay, they Hterally swarm, now 
 in crowds, now singly ad mjiriitwn. All of 
 them are naked. There is none other distinc- 
 tion between them but what is peculiar to 
 sex and age. The beggar and the high-bom 
 cannot be distinguished from each other, they 
 are alike bare, equally abject-looking. 
 
 Aye ! here misery is the common Adam- 
 brand, and it would be useless to try and 
 make its intensity conceivable. It is stamped 
 alike on the countenances, the bearing of the 
 poor wretches, and on the way in which they 
 come. The road to Hell is easy and pleasant 
 at firsts but it becomes very arduous at last. 
 Most of them creep along it, in a state of semi- 
 consciousness, in a nervous dread, and know 
 not how they are situated. 
 
 It is, indeed, a sight which the world would 
 term unique. You who cannot get enough of 
 a sensational or piquant nature in the world, 
 might get your fill here. I, for my part, could 
 not endure it long. 
 
 Everything here is matchless, so much the 
 Worse, and piquant in the very truest mean. 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 309 
 
 ing of the word. Every thing goes to the 
 heart with a sting ; but not two, out of all 
 our numberless pains, are alike. On the 
 present occasion, it seemed just as if every- 
 thing within me was turned upside down. 
 Perhaps you will say it was only the anguish 
 and smart of self-love. Still, my friend, per- 
 haps not entirely. There was something in 
 that anguish, that smart, which was of a bet- 
 ter nature. I could have wept over myself 
 and others. 
 
 However strange as it may seem, I had 
 great difficulty in getting away from the place. 
 It was only by cutting the matter very short 
 with myself, that I was able to tear myself 
 away, and then seek in solitude to digest the 
 bitter thoughts which my experience had 
 evoked within. 
 
 But solitude was not vouchsafed me, for I 
 soon noticed that I was not alone in this 
 lonely spot. Deep sighs, and a low, wailing 
 moaning, sounded close by me. 
 
 Such occurrences are so common in Hell, that 
 one is apt to pay no attention to them. But 
 here I was away from the throng, and it was a 
 single, whining voice I heard. I went a few 
 steps in the direction of the sound, and present- 
 ly found a wretched, crouching form, the very 
 image of despair and of abject misery. He 
 was an old man, but so abject did he seem, that 
 
310 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 there were no signs of reverence about Lira. 
 His nakedness showed me that he had only 
 recently made his entry into Hell ; while the 
 crown that he wore upon his head, cocked as 
 it were on one side, convinced me that I had 
 a king before me. Had I been in the humour, 
 I must have laughed at the sight of his crown, 
 which was dangling all on one side, and 
 seemed in such comical apposition to its 
 original destination, for it was now merely a 
 symbol of the derangement which had seized 
 the poor wretch. 
 
 As soon as he saw me, he crawled towards 
 me, embraced my knees, and clung to me, as 
 he exclaimed, in a tremulous voice : 
 
 " Are you a human being ? Are you a 
 good, compassionate, human being ? Oh, then, 
 pity me ! Do not leave me ! . . . Where am 
 I ? . . . Oh ! I am perishing from fright and 
 from torment !" 
 
 So abject was his condition, that I really 
 felt compassion for him. I could not, there- 
 fore, find in my heart to tell him where he 
 was, but expressed the word Hell in as round- 
 about a way as I could. 
 
 For a few moments he remained in deep 
 thought, and then broke out again in a pite- 
 ous wail : 
 
 "Oh, miserable being that I am ! Trample 
 me under foot ; spit on my beard if you please. 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 311 1 
 
 I deserve it ! . . . Listen to me. I will con- 
 fess all my folly and pitifulness to you. . . . 
 
 " You perceive, then, that I am a king ? 
 I came to the throne at an advanced age, and 
 succeeded to a powerful and flourishing king- 
 dom. But that was not enough ! A worm 
 gnawed within me. I could not rest content 
 with simply insuring the happiness of my 
 subjects, I longed to attain a warlike reputa- 
 tion, like the most renowned of my forefathers. 
 In a moment of vanity, I had assumed the 
 title of Emperor. This high-sounding word 
 involved great demands. I must put my foot 
 on the neck of some petty king or other. 
 
 " Already I was an old man ; there was no 
 time to lose. Till then my conscience was 
 unburdened. I might have closed my eyes in 
 peace and with a sure confidence. But I was 
 fool enough to look away from the thousand 
 blessings I enjoyed. A war, then, I must wage. 
 But I did not dare to wage one with my great 
 and powerful neighbours. 
 
 Far down among the mountains dwelt a 
 small, impoverished people. They were a 
 pastoral race. Their king scarce reached up 
 to my knee. Him I selected for my enemy. 
 I was firmly resolved not to grant him peace 
 on any condition. I heaped wrong upon 
 wrong, treachery upon treachery, and vio- 
 lence upon violence; thus at last I got him 
 
•p™ 
 
 312 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 to fight a battle in desperation. The blood 
 of thousands was shed ; but of course I won 
 an easy victory. Listen further, and hear 
 to what a pitch I carried my vanity. From 
 first to last it was a monstrous lie, an im- 
 pudent fabrication ; and, at any rate, in such 
 a contest there could be no honour to gain. 
 But for all that I deceived myself with the 
 idea that I was only acting in accordance 
 with my rights, and was fulfilling my duty 
 towards my fatherland ; that it was a mag- 
 nanimous, noble exploit I had achieved, an 
 heroic deed from which I could not but reap a 
 lasting reputation. 
 
 " But my laurels cost me dear, though I 
 had thought to win them cheaply. I was 
 able to delude mvself to a certain extent, but 
 I could not befool the world. The whole 
 world despised me in their hearts, though they 
 brayed out their praises of me. So that in 
 reality I had but little enjoyment from my 
 acquired notoriety. 
 
 " But worse was yet in store ! 
 
 " Even still all might have been well. I 
 knew God to be a merciful Lord. Had I only 
 awakened to a penitent acknowledgment of 
 my folly and crime, I might have found 
 pardon even for this sin. But I hardened 
 myself against the truth, and to the end 
 of my life continued to hold fast by the de- 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 313 
 
 lusion that I was a hero in the cause of honour 
 and of right, whose name would be handed 
 down to remotest generations with glory. 
 
 " In the midst of this delusion I departed 
 from life ; not for the kingdom of Heaven, 
 where a place was already prepared for the 
 pious old man — alas, me ! No, not to the 
 kingdom of Heaven ! To the very last Satan 
 tempted me, and I went to Hell ! 
 
 " Yes, only tell me at once, dear stranger ! 
 We are in the torments of Hell ? Oh, how 
 I detest and despise myself! Fool, wretch 
 that I was ! Oh, woe, woe is me ! " 
 
 And he continued to commiserate himself. 
 I could not do otherwise than allow that he 
 was right. He really had conducted himself 
 not only as a great fool, but, to speak plainly, 
 as a great villain. But here we are villains 
 altogether, in an endless variety. I did not 
 leave him, therefore, till I had helped him to 
 set matters a little straight. 
 
 Naturally you inquire, "What king it was? 
 What was his name, his country ?" 
 
 Yes, indeed, inquisitiveness plays a great 
 part in the world. But when to this I only 
 reply, " he was a king of Abyssinia," you are 
 perhaps as wise as you were before. For you 
 are, doubtless, not up in the succession of the 
 Abyssinian monarchs, and perhaps have 
 
314 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 scarcely ever heard the name of the last king 
 of that country. Perhaps you do not even 
 know that the king of Abyssinia is a Christian. 
 
 But with this information you must rest 
 content. I met this king of Abyssinia quite 
 recently. He was dressed then like other 
 decent people in Hell. The crown rested on 
 his head, and he had already begun to form a 
 little court around him. He was evidently in 
 a good way to make himself at home ; but I 
 cannot say that his condition was improved. 
 For a crowd of persons, consisting of his own 
 subjects and strangers, whom death had over- 
 taken in the midst of their sins through his 
 crimes, followed him wherever he went with 
 wild and bitter curses. He was like a hunted 
 wild beast, and could not escape out of the 
 way ; for he trembled with fear, and his crown 
 weighed him down to the ground. 
 
 So speedily and so entirely are the con- 
 ditions of existence altered, when a person 
 does not care to see where he is walking, or 
 what he is doing. 
 
 He sinks into the grave, and the grave is a 
 bottomless pit to all whom God's mercy does 
 not hold up ; its bottom is only first to be 
 found in Hell. 
 
 This king had been taken in the very midst 
 of the intoxication of victory ; now his intoxi- 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 315 
 
 cation is passed, and is succeeded by that utter 
 prostration of mind and body — the usual 
 accompaniments of intemperance — which pre- 
 vails in an extreme degree in Hell. 
 
 He, too, had aspired to the title of the 
 Great. Oh, how piteously small he is now ; 
 how small he tries to make himself in order 
 to avoid his persecutors ! At chance times he 
 may succeed in doing so ; but he will never 
 be able to escape from himself. And, oh ! the 
 contempt he feels for himself is alone a 
 greater torture than they underwent whom 
 he so thoughtlessly sent headlong to death. 
 
 How rich in enjoyment is that earthly life 
 when properly viewed. From Hell we can 
 see it to be so with terrible clearness. And, I 
 must confess, my life has been one of those 
 that have been most richly endowed. How 
 many happy, I am almost tempted to say 
 blessed, moments, have I not experienced. 
 
 Not unfrequently a bell sounds in my ears. 
 It rings and rings ; its vibrating clang pierces 
 my heart. It is the vesper bell, which I 
 listened to so often in the world with feelings 
 of delight. 
 
 At the first sound, straightway a rustic 
 landscape unfolds itself to my gaze, with all 
 the enchantment which memory alone can 
 impart. Either it is at home among the rich 
 
316 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 corn-fields, by wood or by lake ; or amid the 
 lofty mountains, whose glittering summits are 
 bathed in the evening glow. The sun has 
 just set, but it has left a glow behind it, which 
 is ever shifting overhead in a blaze of purple 
 or of gold. Gradually all has become hushed. 
 Nature sinks deeper and deeper into a hal- 
 lowed repose. And that it is a hallowed 
 repose, the vesper bell from the village church 
 proclaims. 
 
 The day's work is over ; everything is 
 making ready to rest. Those who are united 
 in love will soon be assembled together. In 
 the cottage, the mother is gathering her chil- 
 dren around her, awaiting the arrival of her 
 husband ; and then, when he does come, the 
 door is closed, and all the moil, vexations, and 
 troubles of life are left outside. Perhaps a 
 little grief lurks within, but it is forfeited to 
 love. It serves but to nourish affection, and 
 affection must subsist. 
 
 Oh that I was but the poor labourer return- 
 ing homewards from the fields with the 
 wearied team ; or the ragged urchin that 
 saunters along behind the cattle. 
 
 But the vesper bell says, " It is too late." — 
 Yes, yes, it is too late ! 
 
 What are my longings but the noose in 
 which the despairing one hangs himself? 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 317 
 
 CHAPTER XYII. 
 
 I REVERT once more to my childhood. 
 
 It was the evening before my aunt's birthday. 
 My present had long been in readiness ; and, 
 with a restless feeling, I brooded over it, di- 
 vided, childlike^ between two opposite desires. 
 Of course the nature of my present was to be 
 kept a profound secret from her ; but, on the 
 other hand, I was very anxious that she should 
 have some suspicion of the surprise that was 
 in store for her. A prey to these irreconcile- 
 able emotions, I stole down to her room. 
 
 She was not there. It was very vexatious ; 
 I must wait for her. To pass away the time 
 I let my eyes wander round the room. Every- 
 thing was in its customary place, and there 
 was literally nothing to attract my attention. 
 I could not help indulging in a hearty yawn. 
 But what wF.s that ? A lovely butterfly on 
 the window pane ! In a moment I was all 
 life. Forgetting the good advice I had re- 
 ceived about always letting small animals be 
 at peace, I commenced an exciting chase. 
 
318 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 Before long I had the butterfly between my 
 fingers. It fluttered wildly with its wings, 
 but that was of no avail. I held it fast, and 
 examined it in the most scrutinizing way. 
 Presently I heard footsteps ; it was my aunt ! 
 So, in great confusion, I closed my hand upon 
 it, and turned very hot and red in the face. 
 
 My aunt entered the room with her accus- 
 tomed sprightliness, and at once gave up her- 
 self to me. But I was ill at ease, and stood 
 like a blockhead before her, without being 
 able to get a word out. So at last she had re- 
 course, as usual, when she wanted to enliven 
 me, to a story. I was so fond of stories, and 
 Aunt Betty told them so capitally. Perhaps a 
 severer criticism than mine might have pro- 
 nounced them to be of little import. She 
 used to invent most of them as she went on. 
 And in this her great peculiarity consisted ; 
 she was inexhaustible. However trifling or 
 simple her tale might be, it was never without 
 a suitable ending, and a moral that seldom 
 failed to make an impression on me. 
 
 The moral of this evening's story was — 
 Grod sees all things. 
 
 It had a great effect on me ; involuntarily 
 I hid my closed hand behind my back. My 
 heart began to beat high. I felt uncomfortable. 
 
 " Do you see, my dear boy," she continued, 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 319 
 
 " God sits upon his lofty throne, with an angel 
 on either side, and they each of them have a 
 tablet in their hands. God sees everything, 
 and will forget nothing. The angel on His 
 right marks down all the good that man is 
 able to do here on earth, and he smiles ; oh, 
 so very sweetly ! But the angel on the left 
 marks down all the evil, and the tears run 
 down his cheeks, so that the writing on the 
 .tablet is ever being rubbed out, and has inces- 
 santly to be renewed. So when the last day 
 comes, and men shall render an account of 
 their doings in the presence of God, then will 
 God call out in a voice of thunder, ' Bring 
 forth the tablets.' And then it will depend on 
 how the account stands. Have we done more 
 evil than good, without having repented and 
 obtained forgiveness for our sins, then may 
 God have mercy upon us ! — We shall be for 
 ever miserable !" 
 
 This ending to the story made a terrible im- 
 pression upon me. I clenched my hand so 
 firmly, so firmly together ! It was just as if 
 there were hot ashes within it ; but it was my 
 naughty conscience that burned. The butter- 
 fly must long have been dead, but I fancied I 
 could still feel it fluttering, and that it would 
 force my hands open. God sees all things, and 
 one day we should have to give an account of 
 
.-.^ 
 
 320 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 everything. I could endure it no longer. I 
 burst out into a violent flood of tears ; and, 
 without being able to utter a single word, held 
 out my hand with the dead butterfly in it. 
 
 Aunt understood it all in a moment. She 
 drew me towards her, and addressed me first 
 with some gently reproachful words. There- 
 upon she pointed out to me that Grod would 
 forgive me my sin, according as I repented 
 and was sorry for it. But it was long before 
 she could stop my sobs, I was so frightened, 
 and so very grieved with myself. Never have 
 I known anything so comfortiug as the tender- 
 ness displayed in my aunt's character. Then 
 she made me fold my hands, that I might pray 
 God to forgive me. I was deeply moved ; 
 truer worship was never offered. 
 
 But my aunt had not finished yet. It was 
 a new story, and it must have a suitable end- 
 ing, and a moral. She pressed me to her 
 bosom, and gently urged me that, 
 
 " I should act thus my whole life through. 
 As soon as ever I felt within myself that I had 
 done anything wrong, I should at once go 
 with a penitent heart and beseech God to 
 forgive me, and promise Him never to do so 
 more. Then the dear God would let mercy 
 go before judgment, and I should have no 
 need to dread the black tablet." 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 321 
 
 " At last, in silent sorrow, we buried the dead 
 butterfly in a flower-pot. We covered up its 
 grave with rose leaves, as well as its tiny 
 body, to prevent the dark black mould from 
 touching it. 
 
 "With a lightened heart I left my aunt. 
 But I passed a very uneasy night, and was 
 haunted by the wildest dreams. Again and 
 again the terrible words rang in my ears. 
 " Bring forth the tablets !" When I awoke it 
 was quite dark. Hitherto I had never known 
 what it was to be afraid of the dark ; but I 
 knew it now. 
 
 Early next morning I went to my aunt's 
 room with my present. Contrary to custom, 
 the door was closed ; but it was immediately 
 opened to me when I told her who it was. 1 
 was disagreeably surprised, when standing in 
 the doorway, to see that my dear Aunt Betty 
 was weeping in silence. Spread out before 
 her was a row of all manner of small articles 
 of the most varied and wonderful description. 
 She beckoned me to approach, and embraced 
 and kissed me in silence. I was so startled 
 and grieved, that I quite forgot the precious 
 present I held in my hand. The thought 
 occurred to me, whether she, too, had crushed 
 a butterfly to death. But it was soon diverted 
 into another channel. 
 
 VOL. T. Y 
 
322 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 " Aunt !" I exclaimed, " did you not say 
 yesterday evening that God sees everything ? 
 Does he then not see that you are crying ?" 
 
 Aunt Betty looked up with a puzzled air. 
 Suddenly it seemed as if a sunbeam was 
 playing over her gentle features. 
 
 " Yes ! surely He does ! my sweet child," 
 she answered, as she passionately but tenderly 
 pressed me to her bosom ; " and I am a great 
 stupid ever to forget it, and to be grieved. 
 He not only sees, but counts my tears !" 
 
 And she quickly dried her eyes, and looked 
 up with a smiling face. " Can you see, my 
 boy, how God has dried them all up in a 
 trice ? He only has to breathe upon the eye, 
 and they are gone !" 
 
 " But why were you crying, dear aunt ?" 
 
 " You would not understand, my child ! 
 To-day I am an old maid of forty years. But 
 it is so silly to cry. Let me only be an old 
 miss of sixty, eiglity, or a hundred years, I 
 shall not trouble over it a bit, if it be God's 
 will. But come now, and sit by me. I have 
 a little story to tell you." 
 
 I seated myself close by her side, and she 
 threw her arm around me, and began as 
 follows : 
 
 " It is long since, dear Otto, but there was 
 once a young and pretty girl, who was just as 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 323 
 
 silly as she was pretty, for she thought the 
 world was so delightfully beautiful, and that all 
 its joys and happiness were in store for her. 
 There was nothing really wicked in this, my 
 boy ; but it was a dangerous, false delusion. 
 But she thought the world was so lovely. 
 That she was very pretty is quite certain ; but 
 when any one told her so, she would bow her 
 head, and cast her eyes down, as if she would 
 sink into the earth, 
 
 "And there was one who was constantly 
 telling her so. Oh, how handsome he was! 
 How strong and brave ! It was war time. 
 He was the captain of a privateer, a regular 
 desperado, they said. 
 
 " And he became dearer and dearer to her. 
 Do you know what a ball is, my dear ; I mean 
 a regular, brilliant ball ? It is a wonderful 
 thing, half angelic, half devilish. One is 
 carried away as in a whirlwind, and held up 
 suspended between Heaven and Hell. Enough, 
 that when it was over, he besought her ear- 
 nestly to give him one of her gloves. I think, 
 indeed, at this moment she would not have 
 denied him anything. He got it; and here 
 you see the fellow to it. It is the plain truth 
 I am telling you." 
 
 And she showed me number one of her won- 
 derful collection. It was an old kid glove. 
 
 " But the young girl's family said that he 
 
324 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 was an adventurer and a rake, whom no 
 honourable girl could have anything to do 
 with. It was sad news for her ! But he had, 
 as it were, taken her soul from her ; she loved 
 him so dearly ! And so at last they were be- 
 trothed. Here you have the ring. He wore 
 it once on his right hand. 
 
 " She was happy now. There was only 
 one voice in the world that had entrance to 
 her heart, and that was his. Likely enough 
 he had many and great faults ; but that was 
 of little import to her ; she loved him just as 
 he was. Had he been an outcast among men, 
 I think she would all the same have held fast 
 to him. When one has once given away 
 one's heart — but of course you understand 
 nothing about that. 
 
 "Well, he went out and returned home 
 again. It was a noble ship he commanded. 
 It was called the Viking. Here it is ! 
 
 "He brought home one prize after another, 
 and they yielded large sums of money. But 
 it was said that he made away with it all, and 
 that he was a dissipated man, who played 
 ducks and drakes with everything." 
 
 And aunt showed me an exquisite little pic- 
 ture, representing a schooner at sea in full 
 sail. 
 
 " Often he was away for a very long time. 
 But they wrote to one another as well as they 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 325 
 
 could. Oh, what letters ! She put her whole 
 soul in them. And he — 
 
 " Here you see the letters he wrote to the 
 young girl." 
 
 And she showed me a little packet of faded 
 letters, carefully bound round with a faded 
 ribbon. 
 
 *' At length she heard no more from him. 
 Oh, what she suffered during this sorrowful 
 time ! A letter did come at last. He lay ill, 
 very ill, in a seaport town of some foreign 
 land. Winter was coming on ; but she did 
 not shrink back for that. Taking a girl with 
 her, she journeyed a long distance over land, 
 and found him in a piteous state. He had 
 fought a duel, and had been wounded. You 
 do not know what that means, and it is not 
 necessary that you should ; but it really 
 occurred. 
 
 " This is the bullet ! 
 
 " She nursed him, and he recovered. She 
 set him at liberty, and paid his debts. It was 
 nothing, nothing at all ! Full of penitence, he 
 returned home with her an altered man. The 
 explanation he gave satisfied even her family. 
 He would not go privateering any more. It 
 was arranged that he should command a large 
 merchant vessel belonging to her brother, and 
 that she should accompany him as his wife. 
 
 " Only once more were they to be separated, 
 
326 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 never to he parted again. He had to visit his 
 family, and arrange his affairs. 
 
 " Time passed on ; the wedding-day was ap- 
 proaching. Happy day that was to crown all 
 her hopes, and repay her for all her pains. 
 The bridal dress was laid out in readiness. 
 Here you see the bridal wreath ! Do you 
 know the myrtle? It only bears touching 
 once a-year, and each year two leaves drop off. 
 But it will last as long as there are eyes to 
 look at it. 
 
 " Then a letter came. At the very last sta- 
 tion he had turned back, never to return 
 again. Here is the sorrowful letter, blotched 
 all over with her tears ! Oh, what it cost her 
 to answer it ! 
 
 " Was he, then, wicked ? No ; only fickle ! 
 He had got entangled in a web of thoughtless 
 engagements, from which he could not extri- 
 cate himself. His uncle, whose heir he was, 
 had a daughter. God bless her ! He had 
 plighted his faith on two sides. Men do such 
 things, and not so unfrequently. But, of 
 coui'se, he could only keep it on one side. 
 He fulfilled his duty towards her who perhaps 
 had suffered the most through him, and who 
 — but it is not worth dwelling upon. Enough 
 to say that he became a steady and honest 
 man, and has, I hope, obtained pardon for the 
 sins of his youth. 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 327 
 
 " But she who had cheerfully given up 
 everything for him could never settle to any- 
 thing ; and with heauty, happiness^ future pro- 
 spects, it was all over. By degrees she became 
 old and ugly, and lived only for the little good 
 she was able to show to others. For though 
 it be an evil world, all people are not evil, 
 but many of them are unfortunate, and re- 
 quire a little aid, poor things ! In a word, 
 my love, God was her comfort !" 
 
 Thus aunt ended her story, and thereupon 
 began to pack up her treasures very carefully. 
 
 When she had done she said, " So, now it 
 is all over. It is time to be thinking about 
 dinner." 
 
 Of course I did not understand a word of it, 
 neither was it necessary that I should. The 
 old maid had longed to relieve her heart to a 
 human being ; but she would not let out her 
 secret. 
 
 Now I remember every single word, and 
 understand it perfectly ; both the story itself, 
 and what she felt at that hour^ and how heavy 
 her heart must have felt on her fortieth birth- 
 day since she lightened it to me^ a little igno- 
 rant child. 
 
 At the dinner- table Aunt Betty was exceed- 
 ingly merry. She made speeches at which 
 everybody laughed ; and she was brimming 
 over with witty remarks for the rest of the day. 
 
328 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 But those words — " God sees everything" 
 — often returned to my recollection, even at a 
 riper age. It was, however, more the dread 
 than the comfort contained in them that 
 made the impression upon me. So different 
 was I to my good, pious aunt. But the 
 time soon came when it was in my power 
 to throw these terribly ominous words to 
 the winds. And soon the time came when 
 I crushed one butterfly after the other to 
 death without feeling any great prickings of 
 conscience. 
 
 It must certainly have been the case that 
 some time or other you gave up a whole or half 
 a day to looking through, sorting, or destroy- 
 ing old letters and papers. Then you shut to 
 the door in order not to be disturbed ; you 
 made yourself comfortable, lighted your cigar, 
 and set to work. 
 
 It was not any hard work ; but still you 
 must allow that you became rather red in the 
 face, and that at the expiration of a few hours 
 you felt yourself wonderfully exhausted and 
 spent. What was it that thus excited you, 
 made you so uneasy in spirit, and taxed your 
 strength ? It was not the labour, for that was 
 nothing. No ; it was the recollections, which 
 came streaming in upon you one after the 
 other. And yet, perhaps, the greater number 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 329 
 
 of them were pleasant ones ; aye, more than 
 pleasant, rich in joy, precious. 
 
 After tbis you will be able to form a faint 
 idea of what in one respect we have to suffer 
 here. Recollections come crowding in, and 
 most of them sorrowful, because they are evil. 
 They come without any cause, spontaneously, 
 and without any limitation. It is not a few 
 reminiscences here and there, that by chance 
 get furbished up ; but all the recollections of a 
 whole life, which perforce press themselves in. 
 We may leave the good ones out of the reckon- 
 ing, though these, too, can inflict sorrow, 
 regret, and pain. But the evil ones ! Their 
 name is Legion ! And each of them presses 
 forward with its claim. There is no sin so 
 little, or so mean, during the whole career of 
 our lives, that does not step forward and raise 
 its accusing voice. For justice is the very 
 groundwork of existence ; though here it first 
 becomes manifest. 
 
 And you must not think only of evil or of 
 heedless actions ; every evil or thoughtless 
 word we have spoken, yes, every thought, has 
 the same fearful claim upon us. Like the 
 Parthian horsemen they swarm round us in 
 triple columns, each striking a blow in turn, 
 or discharging a poisoned shaft, and again 
 withdrawing to make room for others. Ah ! 
 the comparison fails ; so much the worse ! 
 
330 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 Some of these evil recollections never cease 
 after the first gash, but become incorporated, 
 as it were, into the bleeding heart. 
 
 Can you realize the nature and the extent 
 of this sufiering ? Do jou realize to what a 
 degree we must feel ourselves exhausted by 
 the numbers, and by the strength of these re- 
 collections ? And there is no cessation, no 
 alleviation ! For though the suffering be not 
 always equally intense, yet there can be no 
 mention made of alleviation in Hell. 
 
 Oh, these recollections ! this remorse ! I 
 am daily tempted to say that they are unen- 
 durable ; but still we endure them. And 
 most terrible of all is it when they break out 
 suddenly upon us from an ambush and pierce 
 a dagger into the heart. What has been for- 
 gotten for twenty, thirty, or even for a greater 
 number of years, suddenly stands out as plain 
 as life before one, as if it had risen up from 
 the dead. Yes, it is exactly as if the grave 
 opened itself. Every wrong thing that we 
 have done in our lifetime, from the greatest 
 to the least, comes forth. 
 
 Oh, my friend ! impress this upon yourself, 
 and upon all you love, that " it is useless, use- 
 less to forget !" 
 
 But I must not quite discard the orderly 
 and decorous social life we seek to live here. 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 331 
 
 Even the most experienced may at times break 
 out, and I should be constantly breaking out 
 if I did not lay a strong check on my restless 
 spirit. 
 
 One of the great ruling tendencies in the 
 world is to pass the time away, and for that 
 ten thousand and the most incredible means 
 have been invented. Whether ungodliness or 
 foolishness is the most prominent in this, it is 
 not easy to decide. 
 
 There are few words that so exactly describe 
 the world's perversion as this — Pastime. 
 
 Time is synonymous with life ; one must 
 live, and thus one beguiles the time ; yes, 
 that is just why one does it. It is time 
 that through joy and sorrow gradually de- 
 velops the fullness of existence both within 
 and without ; and however full of ambition 
 one may be, it must be beguiled. Yes, it must 
 be beguiled, and that is called to live ; and after 
 time comes death, which only waits for it to 
 come to an end. Pastime thus becomes an 
 endless and ridiculous attempt at suicide. One 
 beguiles the time as if it were some frightful 
 monster, an enemy to life and happiness ; but 
 the monster first appears when time is no more. 
 
 All the treasures of Grolconda cannot weigh 
 against the contents of a single day, aye, nor 
 of a single hour. Each hour, as it were, 
 brims over with blessings. Of what value 
 
332 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 then must time be in its full and free extent ? 
 Its measure is only to be found in Heaven, 
 where the Love which created it sits enthroned. 
 
 Here in Hell we have emerged from all 
 such misty clouds, and also from that which 
 the world calls pastime. The naked truth 
 and reality surround us on all sides. In time 
 all the fullness of life, and all the blessings 
 love could devise, were offered to us with a 
 Father's hand. But we behaved as you do ; 
 we trod understanding under foot ; we passed 
 away the time, and knew not what we did, 
 Now it is past — quite past — and all hope has 
 gone with it. But we, too, are past — quite 
 past — doomed to Hell, out of the pale of ex- 
 istence, never more to return. 
 
 In the world the theatre was one of our 
 principal sources of amusement wherewith to 
 beguile the time. We, too^ have our theatre 
 here, though there is no longer any time to 
 beguile. It is only an old custom that makes 
 it necessary to us. Here, too, women must 
 have something to rave about, and men some- 
 thing to go mad with admiration for ; women 
 and men together, something to talk and con- 
 verse about. Weather with us is no object ; 
 the more necessary, therefore, is a theatre. 
 
 Our theatre is after a peculiar style, and 
 on a grand scale, to which the world, even 
 that world in the world — I mean Paris — cannot 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 333 
 
 produce an equal. The repertoire, so far as it 
 depends upon poetical composition^ is certainly 
 rather poor. It is but seldom that a piece in 
 the world is vulgar enough to come down 
 here ; frivoHty, insipidity, and emptiness are 
 the prevailing fashion, and that naturally can- 
 not yield a large return. But we have a way 
 of our own of providing the stage with pieces, 
 and it will, doubtless, be acknowledged that 
 theatrical effect in the world is like water when 
 compared with what it is here. 
 
 With the exception of a few pieces handed 
 down to us from the world our repertoire con- 
 sists of actual occurrences. And not only that, 
 but our actors, too, are the very persons con- 
 nected with those occurrences. They merely 
 repeat on the stage what they have enacted 
 in the world. There is no illusion here, there- 
 fore ; ideally, a complete reality is offered. 
 What is represented has actually taken place, 
 and been enacted by these very actors. 
 
 We have theatre directors in abundance. 
 In the world it was a very troublesome post, 
 an endless source of annoyance. How often 
 has it not been termed a regular Hell ? But 
 it is here that directors first begin to realize the 
 Hell. They have to vie with each other, and 
 strain every nerve in order to bring something 
 on the stage that is interesting, exciting, dread- 
 ful, or touching. Yes, strange enough, we, 
 
334 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 too, must be moved, but, unfortunately, can- 
 not be. First, a hunt must be made after 
 something that has occurred (ahas a drama). 
 Next, the persons connected with this drama 
 must be ferreted out, and they are often dis- 
 persed over all parts of Hell. But when found 
 they must obey orders at once, and act their 
 proper parts. Yet it is difficult to find them 
 out and collect them together. 
 
 Perhaps an example will best illustrate my 
 meaning. 
 
 A play was lately performed, entitled " The 
 Jewels." It is a tale of seduction, accom- 
 panied by murder and robbery, and is com- 
 posed with diabolical ingenuity. A pretty, 
 good, but simple-hearted woman, was seduced ; 
 but her seduction was merely the means to 
 the object, not the object itself. That was 
 neither more nor less than a robbery of jewels, 
 in the perpetration of which two cruel murders 
 were requisite. It is really a powerful piece ; 
 though, in a sense, quite different to that in 
 which the word is used in the world ; because 
 here there is no invention in it ; in all its 
 parts, down to the very minutest details, it is 
 real fact. I can even still remember reading 
 the horrible case in the papers ; the sensation 
 it created was enormous. They are the very 
 same persons who perform the parts here ; 
 villains, of course, all of them. The virtuous 
 
LETTERS FROM HELL. 335 
 
 characters naturally, in a great measure, are 
 not under the director's command. 
 
 The immense advantage of this is readily 
 perceptible. We have real murderers, real 
 cheats, rascals and villains, real seducers, &c., 
 &c., and everything has really been enacted 
 as represented on the stage. 
 
 The real characters perform their parts 
 under compulsion, and under inconceivable 
 suffering, but with a literal truthfulness. To 
 fill up the parts of the virtuous characters, in 
 default of better, they use accomplished hypo- 
 crites, of which there is never any lack, and 
 which have very great pleasure in availing 
 themselves of the opportunity of displaying 
 their talents. These parts, too, are represented 
 in the most perfect manner. 
 
 It is a natural consequence, that in all these 
 pieces no worldly code of morals is followed ; 
 we are far beyond that sort of thing. The 
 good is far from always triumphing ; and, on 
 the other hand, it is not always the evil. It 
 takes what course it can, or rather the very 
 course it once followed. 
 
 Meanwhile, again I must say strauge enough, 
 those pieces in which right and justice triumph 
 produce an infinitely greater effect than those 
 where evil predominates. These are made a 
 subject of scorn and contempt. 
 
 The scenery — of course there can be no talk 
 
336 LETTERS FROM HELL. 
 
 about decorations — is not to be surpassed. I 
 am, of course, only speaking of an illusion, but 
 the illusion is perfect. We are able to repro- 
 duce any spot or locality, only of course as a 
 shadow ; but still the resemblance is perfect. 
 It appears to the very life ; true and real. 
 Sometimes the pictures produce an indescrib- 
 able effect. Many a soul is well nigh driven 
 mad at the sight of the well-known spot, and 
 conducts himself like one beside himself with 
 pain, longing, and regret. 
 
 On the whole, it is evident that these repre- 
 sentations produce a very striking impression. 
 But there is nothing satisfying in them ; on 
 the contrary, the pain is intense, equally so to 
 actors as to spectators. But in this respect 
 as in all others, there is an implacable law. It 
 is no longer the law of Liberty, as in the world ; 
 it is the law of Necessity. 
 
 We must! It is one word too much, and 
 there all discussion ends. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
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