_MAKE AN UNEXPECTED DISCOVERY IN HELL, AND MEET WITH AN OLD
ACQUAINTANCE._
"The servants said unto Him, Wilt Thou then that we go and gather
them up? But He said, Nay; lest while ye gather up the tares, ye
root up also the wheat with them. _Let both grow together until the
harvest._"--Matt. xiii. 28, 29, 30.
I come now to what I think is the strangest part of my story. "When
any one dies," I had been told in childhood, "he goes to one or the
other of two places--either to hell or to heaven--according to whether
he has been a good or bad man," and I recollect being not a little
troubled in my childish mind as to what became of the people whose
virtues were about equally matched with their vices (as I had even then
discovered was not seldom the case), and whose chances between hell and
heaven were what we used to call in my schoolboy days (I do not say it
irreverently) a "toss-up."
"Even God must be puzzled sometimes," I used to think to myself, "to
know what to do with the folk who are not wicked enough for hell, but
a little too bad for heaven." Once after I had been taken to hear a
long evangelical sermon, I thought I saw a way out of the difficulty by
assuming that when God "weighed" a man (I use the phraseology of the
sermon referred to, and I remember that not being clear as to how much
of the language was figurative or otherwise I had an idea that souls
really were weighed in some sort of celestial balance) and found him
"wanting," He turned the scale in the sinner's favour by pouring in
some of the blood of Christ. I can recall, too, that for a day or two
I went about fancying myself quite a juvenile theologian, until the
conviction that even God must draw the line somewhere, set me thinking
that a good many folk would thus be consigned to the bad place for
doing that which was only a very little more wicked than was done by
those who were admitted to the good one.
My ideas about hell and heaven, even at the time of my death, were
not very clear and not very many, although I do not think they were
more cloudy and less practical than are the ideas entertained upon the
subject by other folk. I had been brought up in all the old-fashioned
orthodox and scriptural notions, and "going to heaven" was as
inseparable in my mind from upward motion of some sort as "going to
hell" was with downward motion. Each of the places was a separate
and distinct one--the former being situated, according to my belief,
somewhere in the direction of the zenith, while the latter I localized
in the bowels of the earth, and connected in my thoughts with fire and
darkness. Now let me give the results of my experiences, premising
only that in regard to what I have to say about the after life, it
must be understood that I am speaking only of that ante-chamber of the
spirit-world--that in some sense purgatory, as I am half inclined to
hold it--into which I have had admittance.
My experiences, then, are briefly these. _The good and the bad are not
parted, but exist together as they exist here, and heaven and hell as
separate places have no existence._
I will tell you how I first came to discover this. I have said that
after my change (in the spirit-world that which we call "death" is
spoken of as the "change") I awoke to find myself in "hell," and I
ought perhaps to add that I used the word as indicating a state of
mental or physical suffering--in my case the former--and not with any
local significance.
Even in hell, however, there are moments when the intensity of the
suffering is, for a narrow space of time at least, relaxed, and when
the anguish-stricken spirit is mercifully allowed a temporary reprieve.
Such a moment occurred after the first awful paroxysm of self-loathing
and torture which I experienced when my past life was made known to
me in its true colours, and it was in this saner, and comparatively
painless interval, that I met in the spirit realm one whom I had known
and honoured on earth as a woman of the purest life and character.
Being still under the impression that I was in "hell" in the sense in
which I had been accustomed to think of that place, I started back upon
seeing her, and hardly noticing her words of greeting, cried out in
astonishment, "You here! _You!_ and in Hades!"
"Where else should I be except where _he_ is?" she answered quietly,
adding, as she observed my look of evident perplexity, "It is Arthur,
of course, of whom I speak."
I remembered then that when I had known her first, her only living
relative was a worthless brother of that name, to whom she was
passionately attached, but who had been dead so long that I had hardly
any recollection of him. Before I could question her further, I suppose
she saw something in my face which told her all that was necessary
to be known of my own story, for she suddenly burst into tears, and
taking both my hands in her own with a gesture of compassionate grief,
exclaimed, "Forgive me my foolish and selfish forgetfulness! Oh, I am
so, so sorry!"
It was from her that I first gathered that even for me there was yet
hope, and it was from her lips that I learned much of that which I have
to tell of the spirit-world.
"Do you think," said she to me, when I had again expressed my wonder
at finding that heaven and hell were not as I had supposed, separate
places, "Do you think that I could be happy anywhere separated from my
brother? Why, even Dives in the parable was unable to forget the five
brethren he had left behind him, and cried out amid the flames, asking
that Lazarus might be sent to warn them, lest they too should come to
that place of torment. Is it likely, then, that any wife, mother, or
sister, worthy the name, would be content to settle down idle-handed in
heaven knowing that a loved one was in hell and in agony? I know there
are folk on earth who try to smooth out the creases that crop up in the
creed-roll of their convictions, by asserting that the truly regenerate
soul will unconditionally surrender everything to the will of God,
and that they, for their part, are quite prepared to leave the fate
of their erring fellow-creatures in the hands of the Creator. I don't
say that they are not right in so speaking, although, as far as I am
concerned, I have more sympathy with old Dives and his wish to warn his
sinning brethren. But how are we to know what is the final will of God
in regard to one's fellows? When we are satisfied that a man who has
fallen into the water is dead, we may not unnaturally conclude that
the will of God, as far as this world is concerned, is that he should
come to an end by drowning, and we must bow to that will; but as long
as we can see a 'kick' left in him, we feel that we must do all we can
to bring him round again. Isn't that natural?"
I suppose I must have manifested some surprise at the plainness of her
speaking, for after glancing at me for a moment with an amused smile,
and with a twinkle of her old humour (I mean that kindly eye-twinkling
of humour which is not far removed from the trickle of a tear-drop,
and which, for all her piety, had been a noticeable element in her
personality), she said, as if in reply to what was in my mind, "No, I
don't speak like a sanctified spirit, do I?"
I was a little taken aback by her question, but answered that I was
somewhat surprised at the homeliness of her speech, but was glad to
find that death had left her old personality unaltered.
"Of course it has," she answered, "my personality is just the old
personality of my earth-life, and I should not wish it to be otherwise.
To awaken after the change, which you call death, only to find that
one's personality had been transformed into that of another person--no
matter how excellent that other person might be--would not be
immortality but transmutation. But you were about to ask me a question
concerning my brother before we got upon the subject of personality,"
she continued; "you didn't put your question into words, but your looks
expressed it, and thoughts cannot be concealed in the spirit-world."
"Yes," I said, "I had a question to ask you, and it is this: You
know how surprised I was to find that heaven and hell are not, as I
supposed, separate places. Now what is God's reason for allowing the
good and the bad to exist together here, as they do on earth? Is it
because He shrinks from breaking up the old family-life (as it must be
broken, if right-doers and wrong-doers be set apart), and because He
would still use the influence of the good to reclaim the evil?"
"Even that," she said, "I cannot tell you, for I am a mere child in His
kingdom. I do know that many of heaven's noblest are engaged, as I am,
in striving to stir up souls to repentance; but whether our efforts to
save the sinner from his sin after death are of any avail, I cannot
say positively, for it has not been given me to know. We are told that
after His death our crucified Lord preached to the spirits in prison;
and although the theologians will explain it all away for you if you
will let them, I believe that He came here to hell in search of the
so-called lost, and I don't think I can be doing anything opposed to
His will, in trying all I can to save my brother."
"When you and I were on earth together," she continued, after a pause,
"you once sent me a copy of the _Contemporary Review_, containing
an article written by Dr. Knighton. The name of the article was
'Conversations with Carlyle,' and the writer related one conversation
in which I was very much interested, and which I have often thought of
since. I read it so many times, that I think I can remember it word for
word.
"'I was going to tell you about an Indian poem which some one sent me
translated,' said Carlyle. 'I think it was called the "Mahabarat." It
describes seven sons as going off to seek their fortunes. They all go
different ways, and six of them land in hell after many adventures.
The seventh is of nobler seed; he perseveres, fights his way manfully
through great trials. His faithful dog, an ugly little monster, but
very faithful, dies at last. He, himself, fainting, and well-nigh
despairing, meets an old man, Indra disguised, who offers to open for
him the gates of heaven. "But where are my brothers?" he asks; "are
they there?" "No, they are all in hell." "Then I will go to hell too,
and stop with them, unless you get them out." So saying, he turns
off and trudges away. Indra pities him, and gets his brothers out of
hell. The six enter heaven first, the seventh stops. "My poor faithful
dog," says he; "I will not leave him." Indra remonstrates, but it is
useless. The faithful dog, ugly as he was, is too well remembered,
and he will not have paradise without it. He succeeds finally, Indra
relents, and lets even the dog in. But, sir,' added Carlyle, 'there is
more pathos about that dog than in a thousand of our modern novels,
pathos enough to make a man sit down and cry almost.'"
"Yes," I said, "I remember the story well. I wonder what old Carlyle
would say about it now? Have you ever seen him here? or Emerson? or
Richter? or Robertson of Brighton?"
"Robertson!" she answered; "as yet I know only one of the many circles
into which the spirit-world seems naturally to resolve it; but I
suspect that if you and I could see where Robertson is, we should find
him infinitely nearer to the Father-heart of the universe than I at
least can for countless ages ever hope to attain!"
"What do you mean by 'circles'?" I said. "Am I to understand that there
is a kind of sifting and sorting process going on, by which each human
soul is, on its arrival here, assigned a fitting place and level among
his or her spiritual fellows?"
"I don't know that I should express it quite in those words," she
answered, "although I cannot think just now of a less clumsy way of
putting it, but there is some such gathering of like to like as that of
which you speak. The majority begin, as we did, in this lower circle,
and remain here until they are fitted to move onward to a higher
sphere. Others take a place in that higher sphere immediately, and some
few are led into the Holy Presence straightway. To die is not to close
the eyes on earth merely to open them the next minute in heaven; it
is not a sudden transition from darkness to light, or from light to
darkness. No, it is a slow and gradual awakening, for no human soul
could bear so sudden a shock. Your own transition was, comparatively
speaking, an exceptionally rapid one, but I know of some who have
been 'changed' for a quarter of a century, and are only now becoming
conscious of the fact. Of one thing you may be certain, and that is
that God is never in a hurry in the education of a human soul. He works
in this world as in the natural one, not by fits and starts and sudden
convulsions, but by slow and imperceptible developments, and none but
Himself knows what He is going to make of us before He has done--if
indeed He ever will have done, which I question. Whatever sphere of
work He may assign to us here is the one for which He has all along
been preparing us. Our Saviour told the disciples that in His Father's
house were many mansions, not one big one where they were all to dwell
together, but 'many mansions,' and that He went to prepare a place for
them; and you may be positive that He would not so have spoken were not
some individual preparation necessary.
"I do not know in which of these 'mansions of the blest' Frederick
Robertson, of whom you ask, is now dwelling, but you must not
think because his spiritual circle is far removed from mine that
all communication and companionship are cut off between us. On the
contrary, he is often, very often, here, and I have not seldom held
soul-communion with him and felt his spirit near to me. This circle,
however, is but the outer edge of the spirit-world--only one step,
indeed, removed from the life of the earth and of the body--and I don't
think we are capable yet of understanding the finer distinctions of
spiritual companionship." And then her voice seemed to sound to me like
the voice of one in the far distance, I felt the darkness closing in
upon me on every side, and knew that my hour of punishment was again at
hand.
Upon the details of that punishment it would serve no good purpose
again to dwell, and if in the next two or three chapters I make only
a passing allusion to my subsequent sufferings in Hades, the reader
must understand that it is not because those sufferings had in any way
ceased to be, but because I wish to put more prominently forward the
singular facts in regard to the condition of others, which came to my
knowledge during the time of my sojourning in the spirit-world. That
these facts were not without their own influence in bringing about
the change in myself, hereafter to be described, will, I think, be
apparent to all, but that change I shall not attempt to trace out, step
by step, to its ultimate development. It is of what I saw and heard,
rather than of what I endured, that I now come to speak, and although
my recollections are all too disconnected and fragmentary I give those
recollections just as they still linger in my memory, and without
attempting to follow too closely the narrative of my own personal
doings in Hades.
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