The man with the mask :: :: University of Virginia Library

Follow the road that leads into the open
country, and do not pause, until you stand beside
a black and barren field which slopes from
the turnpike to a distant wood.

The sky is obscured by driving clouds.
A misty rain is falling, and the wind howls
in gusts.

Gaze over the bleak expanse of this field,
and tell me, what is it that intervenes between
your gaze, and the dull leaden sky?

A white tent, rising distinctly from the brown
field, and with gleams of light escaping from
its parted curtains.

From that tent, a low murmuring sound
escapes. Approach its curtains; do not heed
the leaden sky and driving blast; cross the
field, and stand within the gleam of those
wandering rays. Listen!

That sound, lately so low and murmuring,
now becomes distinct and intelligible.

It is the voice of praise and prayer. The
voices of men, women, and children, melting
together, in one incessant hymn and supplication.

This white tent, echoing with praise and
prayer, the storm beating on its roof, and the
bleak waste and the dark night, all around it,
strikes you with an impression of curiosity
modified by awe.

You pause on the drenched sod; you place
your hand upon the curtain; while the gust
howls over the field, you part the curtains and
look within:

Dim lights are burning there. Rude tallow
candles, inserted into rough boards, shed their
uncertain light over a thousand faces. The
faces of aged men — of fair and delicate
women — of children, who had scarcely passed
the dawn of life — all uplifted, and all imbued
with the same look of rapture and fear.

They are singing now — listen to their
hymn!

Its burden steals into your soul, you know
not why. 'Tis but an unpretending hymn, deficient
in rhyme and rugged in its words, and
yet the voices of these kneeling worshippers,
mingling in one sound, as if their hearts were
inspired by one soul, impart to it a music and
a passion that may well be deemed supernatural.

“The Lord is coming” — this is the burden
of the hymn — “ere the midnight hour has
struck, Jesus will come in the clouds of
Heaven, and call his wandering children home.
The unbelievers will expire in the agonies of
an expiring world. The children of the Lord,
those who have loved his name and watched
for him long, will pass into Eternity without
the change of death. Gathered from a burning
world, by the Divine Redeemer, they will
arise at once — without a sigh or pang to the
Mansions of their God.”

In a word, reader, we are in the Camp of
the Millerites. These men and women, these
rich and poor, these people gathered from all
classes of the social world, have pitched their
tent in the barren field, away from the sin and
life of the Great City, and here they have determined
to await the coming of the Lord.

Do not call them fanatics. Grave Divines,
for hundreds of years, have been writing great
books, concerning the Prophecies of Daniel and
the Book of Revelations. These people of
the tent, these despised Milllerites have merely
carried the speculations of the learned Divines
into practice. They have summed up the
opinions of the sagacious theologians, concerning
the Millenium, and the amount of their researches,
is comprised in this line —

“On the Twenty-third of April, 1843, the
world will come to an end, and the Millenium
begin.”

Do not treat with idle scorn this fanaticism
of the Millerites. It is true, that the only
Millenium preached by the Bible of Revelation,
and the Bible of Nature, is embraced in
a single brief sentence:

“When every man in the world looks to
the welfare of his brother, then the Lord
Christ will appear on the earth, not in bodily
shape, but in the happiness of the whole family
of man.”

The truth contained in this sentence, has
been too simple for your Theologians. They
prefer to amuse themselves with speculations
on the moods and tenses of dead languages, or
the Prophecies of Daniel, or the Mysteries
of Revelations — and blunder deeper into
learned darkness, until they have left the plain
facts of the Gospel of Nazareth, altogether out
of sight. Do you blame the poor that they
have at last believed the theologians, and
turned their theological riddle into an every-day
fact?

A solitary man stands up in the centre of
the kneeling throng. It is William Marvin,
whose plain features are now imbued with a
calm — almost — god-like rapture. Clasping
his knees, a little child with hazel eyes and
nut-brown hair looks lovingly into his face.

And behind Marvin, in the shadows of the
rude pillar which supports the roof of the tent,
behold a young man who stands alone, with
folded arms and head bent upon his breast.
His eyes are well-nigh buried under his compressed
brows: there are the traces of a violent
mental struggle — a struggle of doubt and hope
— visible in every line of his countenance.

It is Charles Lester, listening in silence to
the words of the Millerite Preacher.

“Brothers! Sisters! The time approaches.
The end of all things is at hand.” The voice
of Marvin scarcely rising above a whisper, is
heard distinctly in every part of the tent; heard
in every heart, and answered by sobs of prayer.
“The hour of twelve is near. When the clock
strikes twelve, the Lord will come.”

These words doubtless seem altogether plain
and unmeaning. But there was the power of
a singular magnetism in the Preacher's eye,
and every heart within the shelter of that
tabernacle, beat with that divine magnetism
which men call FAITH.

Charles Lester drew forth his watch: it was
within five minutes of the hour of twelve.
Impressed by the long conversation of the
Millerite, and yet unable to believe in his
doctrine, Charles had come to this tent as a
mere spectator. He had watched there all
day long. And now against his will he
felt the magnetic tide which flowed from heart
to heart — pervading the crowd as with the
pulsation of a supernatural power — glide into
his own soul, and storm the last entrenchment
of his unbelief.

His eyes caught the fire which shone from
a thousand eyes. He clasped his hands, and
raised his voice in prayer.

Beside the form of the Millerite, rose the
figure of a woman clad in white, who lifted
her hands above the crowd, and spoke to their
hearts a rhapsody such as might have fallen
from a Prophetess of the far gone olden time.

A young woman, whose plain features,
shaded by light brown hair, warmed suddenly
into a hallowed beauty — whose eyes of dark
grey, suddenly shone with the clear deep
lustre of enthusiasm or prophecy — whose
voice, at first faint and tremulous, rose gradually
into accents of melody, which swept into
every heart like music from a Better World.

It was Hannah Marvin, the Millerite's
Daughter.

Alone she stood, lifted above the crowd, her
whole dress standing out palpably from the
background of deep shadow.

It was now within three minutes of the
hour of twelve.

“He comes! The Lord who walked the
sands of Palestine, and watered the earth with
tears. He comes! The Lord who made his
resting place with the Poor, and went day
after day, among their homes, raising their
sick, feeding their suffering and telling every
one — even the basest child of want — `in
my Father's house are many mansions —' ”

At this moment, Charles who stood near
the pillar, entranced as much by the tone as by
the words of the Woman, felt an unknown
hand pressed within his own. He turned and
beheld the rugged visage of our friend Peter

“Read!” he whispered foreing a letter into
the hand of Lester.

Charles broke the seal, and by the dim light
read the letter, and without pausing for a moment
after he had devoured its contents, he descended
from the platform and hurried through
the kneeling crowd, with Peter following at
his heels.

“Whither go you!” cried Marvin, his eye
vacant and absent, with the light of enthusiam.

Charles did not pause to answer, but hurried
on.

“He goes to mingle once more with the
cares and sins of earth,” the voice of the
Millerite Prophetess reached the ears of the
fugitive — “Woe! woe! to the disciple who
turns his back upon the Lord!”

And the words were echoed by a thousand
voices, but Charles hurried on. The contents
of the letter, eagerly traced by the dim light,
had once more aroused the fires of Revenge
within his breast. His teeth set together, his
face corrugated with the dark lines of hatred,
he rushed from the tent into the dark night,
exclaiming as he pointed to the distant city:

“There lies our way! We will track this
fiend in human shape to the end of the earth!
Before morning light, we must be on our way
to the wes: — aye — on our way to Prairie
Home.”

And they went forth together, the hardy
back woodsman and the Brother of Ellen.

Meanwhile within the tent of the Millerites,
a thousand hearts were beating in expectation
of the Coming Lord. While the Prophetess
spoke, her every word answered by bursts of
praise and prayer, the last three minutes passed
away.

The hour of twelve came at last.

And a thousand hearts were hushed in awe
while the voice of the Woman were in the
accents of triumph that was almost divine —

“Arise! Arise! I hear the footsteps of the
Lord — I feel the rustling of the angels' wings
— I feel the presence of our God! Arise!
Arise! And greet the first day of the new-born
world!”

And for three days and nights they waited
there in rain and storm, in hunger and cold,
looking to Heaven with a faith that grew
stronger with every hour.

And returning at last, sad and dispirited to
their deserted homes — mocked at every step
by scoffs and jeers — derided by the very
Theologians whose speculations they had so
blindly followed — these believers in the
Millenium, sat once more amid the cares and
and pains of life.

Many of them who had looked for the Lord
in the clouds of Heaven, found him in the quiet
of their Homes and in the peace of their
Hearts.

Shall we read the letter, which postmarked
“Prairie Home,” aroused once more the love
of life and the passion of vengeance within the
breast of Charles Lester? A single paragraph
may throw some light upon the progress of
this history:

Prairie Home, Ill.,
April 4, 1843.

Jervis has been preaching in this county. He is accompanied
by a man who calls himself Dr. Arthur
Baldwin, and who has two young persons with him,
whom he calls his children. Do you know anything
of this “Popular Preacher?” May he not be the same
person who, under an assumed name * * * *
* * * * * * * *

And thus it appeared that Fanny and Ralph
had discovered their Father at last.