36. CHAPTER THIRTY-SIXTH.
“THE END OF THE WORLD DRAWS NIGH.”
Charles Lester, recovering from his fever,
began to walk abroad again.
The spring was upon the earth once more,
and despite the gloom which overshadowed
him, he began to feel the blood bounding freely
in his veins again. Peter pursued his search
after the Preacher; and of course his search
was vain.
Charles was much in company with the
Millerite Preacher. His mind, depressed by
an ever present sorrow, was prepared for the
reception of the Millerite's doctrine. They
talked long and earnestly together —together
they read the Bible, and attempted to follow
the finger of God, in the book of Daniel and
the book of Revelations.
“Is Charley a-goin' to jine these Millerites?”
Peter soliloquized one day; “Should like to
know. Wish I could get him out of this town,
into the prairies once more. Bad, very bad,
the atmosphere of the Quaker City.”
A month passed in this manner. Still no
intelligence reached the ears of Charles Lester
concerning the Preacher or the daughter of
Alice Bayne. Wandering through the city,
day after day, in company with Marvin the
Millerite, Charles sought incessantly for the
Preacher and for Fanny, and his search was
fruitless.
And the Millerite many times concluded his
long and earnest conversations, with these singular
words:
“Never mind, Charles. These matters will
soon cease to trouble you. The twenty-third
of April draws nigh.”
Charles' eyes, vacant at other times with the
abstraction of a settled melancholy, would light
up at these words, and impart a look of sudden
rapture to his haggard face.
For at the moment when the birds were
singing, and the leaves were budding — when
the world recovering from the death of winter
was springing into life again — Charles had
given up all the prospects and hopes of existence.
He was the last of his race. The graves of
all his people were in the churchyard of the
western land.
Fanny, the daughter of Alice, whom he had
hoped to save, was now lost to him, and lost
to purity forever. The last victim of the
Popular Preacher, she was following the path
which led to an untimely death and an unblest
grave.
“The twenty-third of April!” these words
often passed the lips of Charles after a long-continued
reverie.
On the Twenty-third of April the world was
to come to an End.
The Saviour would appear in the clouds of
heaven; the earth and all the elements would
melt with fervent heat. The awful images of
the Revelations would start into actual life.
From the chaos of an expiring universe, a new
heaven and a new earth would struggle into
being.
How many thousand, and tens of thousands
in the year 1843, throughout the extent of the
Union, held this belief, and daily watched for
the coming of the Lord?
How many hearts throbbed with unutterable
awe, at the mention of the day, when all these
things should come to pass — the twenty-third
of April, 1843?
The Twenty Third of April came at last.
In the morning, Peter who had wandered
into the — Hotel in Chesnut Street, (where
seated in the reading room he awaited the appearance
of Charles,) was much interested in
the following paragraph which met his eye in
the columns of the Daily Copper:
“The Rev. Edmund Jervis.—This cloquent gentleman
was in Adamston, State of Illinois, in the latter
part of March. We are pleased to learn that an extensive
and interesting revival of religion, was in progress
in Adamstown during the presence of this pious
and eminent Minister. Thousands were affected to tears
by his preaching, and hundreds, impelled to a better
life by his irresistible appeals, have become members
of his Church. Indeed wherever this gentleman goes,
the blessings of Providence attends his efforts, in a
manner too remarkable not to be mentioned.”
This paragraph, its grammar, piety and
praise, was evidently from the pen of Slinkum
Scissleby, Sub-Editor of the Daily Copper.
“Adamston is not five miles from Prairie
Home,” ejaculated Peter, “Charley must
know this afore I'm a-second older. The vil
lian! Holdin' one of his revivals not five
miles from Ellen's grave!”
Peter hurried without delay to the room of
Charles, but Charles was not to be found.
“He is in Bonus Court with that Millerite!”
exclaimed Peter, and without delay he hurried
to Bonus Court.
The place, drear and gloomy at all times,
now looked the very abode of desolation.
The house where Ann Clarke had died, was
tenantless. The doors and windows were
open, and the dust had accumulated on the
floors. At least one-half of the houses of Bonus
Court were in a similar condition.
Peter hurried to the residence of the Rev.
William Marvin. Doors and shutters closed,
it presented a blank and deserted appearance.
“This is queer,” soliloquized Peter —
“Everybody out o' town and Charley not to
be found.”
As he spoke, his attention was attracted by
a paper pasted upon the shutter, and bearing
the following inscription, traced in a round
and legible hand:
The owner of this house
has gone to wait the coming of the Lord.
Wm. Marvin.
April 23, 1843.
“Well he might a-told me whar he's gone
to, and whar he expects to find the Lord!”
Thus soliloquizing, Peter once more departed
on his search. All day long he sought
for Charles — sought in every haunt of business
or pleasure — in the Hotels, the Stores,
and along the crowded streets — and toward
night, was forced to give up the search in very
despair.
As night fell, he went to the Post Office, as
was his custom and enquired for a letter for
“Charles Lester.”
To his surprise, the clerk placed a letter in
his hand, directed to “Charles Lester,
Philadelphia,” and bearing the following
post-mark “Prairie-Home, Ill., April 5.”
This letter completed the wonder and deepened
the anxiety of our good friend Peter.
“Prairie Home! Did'nt know that anybody
thar know'd anything about Charley's comin'
to 'Fildelfy. What's this letter about? That
Preacher and the gal! I'll stake my head upon
it.”
Much perplexed, Peter returned to the —
Hotel, and took his seat in the reading room,
inspecting the face of every new-comer, in his
anxiety to behold the countenance of Charles
Lester once more. Attired still in the scarlet
coat, he placed his huge boots upon a neighboring
chair, drew a cigar from his pocket, and
soon encircled himself in a cloud of tobacco
smoke. His eyes fixed upon the letter he resigned
himself to his meditations, and murmured
every now and then, between the puffs
of smoke, some broken sentence like this —
“Know'd her when she was a baby. Know'd
her when she was a gal. Know'd her when
she was a corpse.”
The honest backwoodsman, thus quietly
meditating, little knew the contents of the
letter, which he held in his brawny hand.
