Not long since I was asked by a thoughtful young lady, “Mrs.―, did you ever entertain any doubts on the subject of future punishment?” Unwilling to acknowledge that I had, the answer came slowly, “Yes.” Then came another question: “What dispelled those doubts?” And in reply I narrated the following: ―
It was during the chloera epidemic that, one morning, while in my room busily preparing to leave the city, and escape the danger of infection, I heard a voice from the portico beneath my window — a sweet voice, but new to me — asking for some little favor from my mother. On looking out I saw a young lady, some seventeen years of age, quite fresh and lovely. She was walking upon the grass while waiting for an answer, and noticing some young fruit trees not far distant, she passed on, picked up some of the unripe fruit which had fallen, and was eating it, when my mother made her appearance. How well I remember the startling tones of my mother’s voice as she begged her not to eat that fruit. With a gleeful laugh, the young lady said: “Why, Mrs.―, I was never sick a day in my life!” She then said that, although her little brother was ill, and her help was needed at home, she was very anxious to go to a party that night; and as she had heard of my mother’s great kindness to the sick, perhaps she would watch by the little brother during the night. My dear mother was shocked of course, but after trying to dissuade the young person from attending a party at such a mournful time, she consented to stay with the little fellow.
The young lady, Julia Pearse, was the daughter of a universalist preacher, who; with his family, occupied a house not very far from ours. Before leaving for the party, Julia came to our door for something which was needed for the little boy; and as I handed it to her I noticed that her beautiful hair was arranged in thick Grecian braids.
The little brother died that night, and sometime in the morning of the next day a messenger came hurriedly asking for someone to go at once, for Miss Julia was seriously ill. Mrs. Pearse, the mother, was alone; no nurse could be procured. My mother rose immediately (for she was on the bed resting), went over and found the young lady in the extremity of intense pain. While the most active measures were taken for her relief, suddenly all pain was gone; but it was that cessation which sometimes precedes death, and yet not comprehended by mother or daughter. Freed thus from pain, Julia sobbed out to my mother: “O Mrs.―, my kind friend, you have saved my life. I was not ready to die. How I shall always love you as long as I live!”
Mrs. Pearse was then gently led from the room that she might know the worst. Her horror was inexpressible. She exclaimed, “You must not tell my child. I wish that she could know that she is dying, but her father would never forgive me. I must not allow it!” Then my mother kneeled beside the dying girl and prayed for the Saviour’s presence at that dread hour, and that she might have strength to direct the parting spirit to its God.
Just then the father came in, and his daughter cried out: “O papa! papa! I’m dying, and there is a hell! I know it. Oh! how could you tell me there was none! And I’m going to it! I cannot be saved! It’s too late! O Mrs.― pray for me every moment. Dear papa! Why did you teach me there was no hell?”
As she ceased speaking for a moment, my mother said: “My dear child, cannot you cast yourself upon the Saviour, your loving Saviour, who has died for you, and is here ready to receive you to Himself?” “Oh, no,” she moaned in the most pitiful accents, “I cannot now. I have driven the Holy Spirit away again and again.”
Her universalist father assured her that he knew that it would be well with her; that Christ had died for her, and that she must be saved. In faint, but shrieking tones, she said: “O papa, there is a hell! And for me! Too late! Too late!” And her voice was silent Forever. Silent forever? No! For that voice still utters its cry, and speaks in warning accents to all who hold the fearful doctrine of Universalists and Unitarians, that there is no hell. If we may believe that those who die in the Lord sometimes behold, even before “their latest breath has rent the veil in twain,” something of the glory of that high world which lies beyond our own, what glimpses of the land of deep despair may riot come to those who have closed their hearts against a Saviour’s love, or have rested upon delusive hopes which yield them no support in the hour of death!