Part 4

"I am so glad to see you," said she, extending her hand. "It is a long while since a minister of the gospel has entered our door; and yet I regret you have been put to so much trouble and exposure in coming. God will reward you! But I wish to speak with you about this marriage."

I learned from herself and husband that they were from New England, and in this and subsequent conversations gathered quite a connected account of their peculiar domestic and religious life.

Mr. Dearborn, like many other good men, at the period when, by prophetic interpretation, the time of the end of the world was proclaimed to be ascertained by Mr. Miller and others, became a convert to that theory. Not that he had ever examined for himself, or was competent to examine, the premises from which such a conclusion was drawn, for he knew nothing of chronology, history, sacred or profane, nor of the principles of Bible exegesis. Indeed, his stock of information was never very extensive, but the lectures "sounded" well, the mathematical calculations seemed to be figured up right, and the fervor and confidence with which all were challenged, on pain of the most fearful consequences, to accept the whole as truth, completely captivated his feelings. His sincerity and conscientiousness none doubted. All his worldly prospects and possessions were sacrificed on the altar of his new belief; the little church with which he had walked in fellowship, he left, "shaking off the dust of his feet against it," because the light he sought to shed on the benighted minds of pastor and flock was not received; his children were taken from school, all business matters settled; and he waited, without a doubt to cloud his mind, for the fulfillment of his expectations at the time appointed.

"Forty-three" glided by, however, as if no such man as William Miller had calculated the symbols of Daniel and John. But then the "Jewish forty"-three, it was announced, would justify the theory. That passed. The "tenth day of the seventh month" was soon discovered to be the true time. When that, too, slipped by, the poor man was in a chaos of prophetic and doctrinal speculation. Not that he thought any more highly of the cooler judgment of the brethren, whom he had denounced for their dullness and hardness of heart for not believing in the period set by his fallible guides, or that he had any less complacent idea of his own superior piety and biblical wisdom—not he. But then, in order to adjust the theory to the passing of the time, new opinions were constantly started; gourds, which came up in a night to perish in a night, and all the old doctrines in which his faith had been nurtured, in the wild excitements of the hour were being overturned, till he had little in common with his previous theological faith. However, his ingenuity did not forsake him, and he settled down upon this device, that Mr. Miller's calculations were true; the end had come, but in a different way; the mistake had been in the "manner" of the event, and not in the time; the six thousand years, supposed to be allotted to our globe in its present state, had passed, and the great Sabbath of rest had come. In accordance with this belief, he now strictly rested from all labor, deeming it wrong to do any thing for the support of his family, or for the spiritual good of others, albeit he still had to eat, and his wife do the cooking, and wherever he went he was ready to argue for the truth's sake. In this state of idle, morbid, talkative "waiting," he embraced a thousand vagaries—among the least harmful of which was, perhaps, when he became a non-resistant.

With such a life, his little farm in Vermont soon melted away, and without money or business his family were in suffering circumstances. One day, while in this plight, as he was wandering aimlessly about, he chanced to stop before a recruiting office. While listening to the shrill notes of the fife and the roll of the drum, he "had an impression," to use his own language, that it was his duty to enlist. Now, impressions had been, during the recent excitements, like a divine law to him; for, supposing himself to be of a class specially favored of God with knowledge of the scriptures, and of the indwelling of the Holy Spirit, as was his custom, he did not stop to confer with flesh and blood, but put his name down on the roll. Quickly, however, he awoke to the incongruity of the step,—he, a peace man, a Second Adventist, one who believed that the kingdoms of this world were wholly of Satan, that it was contamination to have any thing to do with human government, and sinful even for a member of the "Fifth Monarchy" to cast a vote under the "Fourth,"—he, a soldier by his own voluntary action, and that too in a war against Mexico,—a war too which Mr. Miller was teaching to be the commencement of the great battle of Armageddon! But there was no retreat; and the first his anxious family knew of his whereabouts he was on his way to the field of strife. Without seeming to realize his inconsistency, while yet drawing pay as a soldier, he prayed that God would keep him from actual blood-shedding, and believed that his prayer would be answered. His expectations were realized. At the battle of Buena Vista, when his regiment was ordered to charge, the spirit of fight overcame all other considerations, and he rushed with the rest, shouting to the conflict. But suddenly, remembering his principles and prayers, he paused, astounded at his own conduct. Just then an officer rode up from the front, holding in his hand a disabled gun. Seeing the hesitating private, he said,—

"Here, Dearborn, take this," handing him the injured weapon, "and let me have yours, and you may go back and help at the camp."

As his new sphere was congenial, he made himself eminently useful in dealing out their rations to the soldiers, and guarding them from surprise by the enemy. He had a quick eye and active temperament, and was constantly on the alert. The tent from which the food was dispensed was on a slight eminence, surmounted by a flag. Santa Anna's artillery, drawn by oxen, would move round the hill, getting the range, but just as the firing was to be done, the vigilant Yankee would give the word to the men, and they would vanish from harm's way. By this course he saved many valuable lives. From this service he was transferred to the hospital, and was so tender and efficient as a nurse, that he was continued in this vocation. His pay now was quite respectable; and when discharged at the end of the war, he went home with a nice little sum, conscious too of having been useful in the army. His non-combative sentiments had also been untouched, for he had not fired a gun at his country's foes during his absence.

He returned to tarry but a short time among the scenes of the past. Although still clinging to certain features of his prophetic dogmas, he was disposed so to plan for the future as to seek to invest his money in some permanently remunerative way. For this purpose he turned his thoughts towards the "great West." Besides, the changes, disappointments, and poverty-pinchings of the family, had seriously affected the health of the wife. Isolation from cherished religious privileges, the violent sundering of dear and sacred ties binding her to the people of God, while this was only in keeping with the husband's rougher, more controversial nature, her loving, sensitive spirit was well nigh crushed in the process. Mr. Dearborn was filled with concern when he folded the shadowy form of his wife to his heart. He deeply loved her, and, hoping that new scenes and a Western climate might save her from the destroyer, he emigrated at once, making one or two temporary locations, then selling out and going further into the unsettled woods.

It was while on their way out that the young man, to whom their daughter was now engaged, made their acquaintance, and joined his fortunes with theirs. It happened under circumstances of great trial to them, and his presence and aid were peculiarly acceptable, indeed, indispensable. With untiring zeal he devoted himself to their comfort, and whether on the long journey in the emigrant wagon, or in the toils incident to making a new home, he was like a son and brother.

What the father's feelings were as he saw the affection that was springing up between those two young hearts, it is easy to imagine. And when, one day, as they were putting up rail fence, the young man, after a deal of hemming and throat-clearing, asked for the willing hand of the girl, the father for a moment was dumb with astonishment, then exclaimed, "What! talk of marrying, when I have often shown you that time can last at most only a few weeks or months longer!"

"I don't see why father must make every body go by his notions," said the daughter that evening, weeping the while.

"Annie!" replied the mother, "if there ever was a good man in the world, your father is one."

"Yes, I know that, mother," returned the child, "but I'd like to know what there is wrong in getting married. George read to me this very day where the apostle says, 'Marriage is honorable in all.'"

"Yes, but, dear, your father says that that was not meant for these last days."

"Then why didn't Paul say so, mother?"

"Well, dear, I don't see this matter just as your father does. But let us be patient, and not cross him, and if he is in the wrong, he is such a good man I have no doubt he will be set right by and by."

It must be confessed, however, that the prospect looked rather gloomy at times to the lover and his chosen. But, like Jacob, he would serve seven, or twice seven, if he might succeed at last. To this end labor, money, every thing was devoted, till at length the old man leaned on him, and could not do without him. Meanwhile, Time—that silent exploder of shallow theories—had set aside many favorite ones of this warrior-adventist, while the mother, true to the intuitive kindness and good sense of her sex, lost no opportunities of advancing, in her own gentle, admirable way, the claims of the persevering suitor, till finally consent was granted, and the wedding-day set, as we have seen.

"We came here," said the mother, "because of my health, hoping that the climate might do for me what medicine could not. I now see it was too late. But for my husband and George's sake, who have sacrificed so much on my account, I hope this last settlement may prove productive some day. They have secured a good tract of land, that must be valuable by and by; but we are 'land-poor' now all our money is gone. Another season, however, we hope our crops will bring us something more than the necessaries of life. George is like a child to me; and what is more, he is a Christian. Annie and he are tenderly attached, and despite our present poverty, I shall rejoice in knowing that they are united before I am called away."

But the few friends that had been invited had come in; the simple words that make two inseparably one, were uttered; and then, as the table was being laid, bride and bridegroom poured forth their joy in Christian song. Strangely touching was it here on the lone prairie to listen to wedded love thus expressed. Very happy were they, and comely too, in the freshness and vigor of their youth. And, as we gathered around the well-spread board, the sick mother, taking once more her place at the head of the table, her face beaming the peace she felt, there was a glow at my heart, such as I never experienced before as guest at a marriage feast.

Their happiness was peculiarly artless and childlike; and the hymns they sang, what strange interpreters of that happiness! There was only one hymn-book in the house, and that belonged to the father, and was devoted to the idea that molded his thoughts. But what cared they, if the sentiment was of unearthly things,—if it only helped them warble their bird-like joyfulness? With loving looks, and smiling faces, absorbed in thoughts of each other, they struck up,—

"The chariot! the chariot! its wheels roll in fire, As the Lord cometh down in the pomp of his ire; So, self-moving he rides on his pathway of cloud, And the heavens with the burden of Godhead are bowed.

"The judgment! the judgment! the thrones are all set, Where the white arrayed throngs, and the elders are met; From the east, from the west, from the south, from the north, All the vast generations of men are come forth!"

Then, more plaintively, they sang,—

"Son of God, thy people's shield; Must we still thine absence mourn? Let thy promise be fulfilled; Thou hast said, I will return.

"As a woman counts the days Till her absent lord she see,— Mourns and watches, weeps and prays, So thy church will weep for thee!"

As the father led my horse out for me to mount, he said, "We thank you for coming." Then, as I was gathering up the reins, "I suppose you have never noticed what the Bible says about the railroad cars being a sign of the times? Our ministers are dreadfully in the dark about the day we live in!"

"Ah! is it possible that the cars are predicted; what prophecy is that?"

"In Nahum, second chapter, third and fourth verses," he answered, taking out his well-thumbed pocket Bible, and proceeding to expound, with much inward comfort, as he read,—

"'The chariots,' that's the cars, 'shall be with flaming torches,'—that describes them as they appear at night; 'the chariots shall rage in the streets,'—the tracks are laid right in the street; 'they shall jostle one against another in the broad ways,'—how they strike together when they are about to stop, or to start again, being hitched one to the other; 'they shall seem like torches,'—in the night; 'they shall run like the lightnings,'—going at the rate of twenty or more miles an hour; 'he shall recount his worthies,'—that means the conductor taking the tickets, and making sure that all have paid their fare; 'they shall stumble in their walk,'—none who have rode in the cars have failed to see and experience how difficult it is to go about when the train is in motion. And this," he added, triumphantly, "is to be fulfilled,—when? 'In the day of his preparation,'—that is, when God is preparing to judge the world."

"But are you sure," said I, "that the prophet meant to paint the steam-cars of our day?"

"Certainly; doesn't he say—"

"How, then, does it happen that he announces that this prophecy relates to the city of Nineveh, which has been destroyed thousands of years? as in the first verse, he calls it 'The burden of Nineveh.' And how is it that these 'chariots,' or cars, as you term them, he describes as having wheels, and being drawn by horses, driven by the whip, as in the third chapter, second verse? 'The noise of a whip, and the noise of the rattling of wheels, and of the prancing horses, and of the jumping chariots.'"

He stood in silence a moment, then said, "I don't know. I haven't had any light on that yet."

"Well," said I, "when you get the light, don't hide it under a bushel, but be sure and let the clergy have the benefit of it!" And consenting, at his request, to preach at his house in a fortnight, I rode on.

"Well, elder," said my Methodist friend, as I alighted at his door on my return, "not a limb broken, eh? But you had to swim the river! Guess you didn't get much of a fee though, did you?"

"Never better paid in my life,—what's my bill for Black Hawk?"

"Well, seeing you feel so 'rich,' I think I shan't charge you any thing this time. All is, I'm glad you've got back safe and sound."

THE LITTLE MOUND IN THE WEST.

AFAR out West, a thousand miles, I own a spot of ground, On which, last year, with trembling hands, I raised a little mound.

A robin, with her fledgeling brood, Was singing then hard by: That robin, with her fledgeling brood, Was happier far than I.

The leaves have fallen on that mound, The snows have bound it fast, And, howling through the trees o'erhead, Have gusts of winter passed.

But now the Winter's icy bands Are severed by the Spring, And round that lonely mound again The robins come to sing.

How has the little tenant passed The autumn there alone?— The long, cold, dismal winter nights That since have come and gone.

He could not bear to leave me once, Not even for a day; He grieved and pined in loneliness Whene'er I was away.

But now he lies untended there, Nor murmurs from his bed; And down in mold and darkness keeps The watches of the dead.

We draped him for his final rest, 'Mid sobs, and tears, and sighs; We combed his hair, and tenderly We closed his precious eyes.

Do rose and violet keep their place Through all these wasting hours? And does his little moldering hand Still clasp its withered flowers?

With such endearing cares we sought The cruel grave to cheat Of half its horrors; even his toys Were buried at his feet.

How vain the thought to placate Death With cheerful funeral rite! I have a funeral in my heart; I bury him each night.

The grief each idle passer-by Prejudged would soon depart, Is gnawing deep and deeper still Into my withered heart.

And in my agony, I turn To that far spot of ground, Where all my earthly hopes lie dead, Within the little mound.

A WALK WITH A STRANGER.

A WESTERN REMINISCENCE.

I WAS waiting at — Landing, on the Mississippi, for friends from the East. The spring floods were subsiding. The low, level land on the other side, with its rich vegetation exposed to the hot sun, sent up sickly vapors, and each day brought some new cases of ague and fever. Lofty bluffs, between which the town extended, shut away every breath of air. At times the heat seemed like a furnace. Nevertheless, the chills often drove me out to the sunny side of the hotel, where I would stand shivering in my overcoat.

One morning I stood warming myself as usual. The street had few signs of life, save that scores of hogs ran about grunting their love of liberty, intent on plunder, which consisted mainly in running their sharp noses into bags of flour that stood in tempting array at the doors of the stores. The traders kept a long whip ready for the porkers, but "practice makes perfect," and the hogs would often outwit them.

An instance amused me. A shopkeeper, seeing the hogs coming, waited tills they were within reach, then, springing out, he applied the lash, and they ran squealing away. He saw them approach his neighbor's flour. Assured that his own in the mean while was safe, he returned to his counter. Scarcely was he there, however, when a long-legged boar rushed back with the fleetness of a hound, and, by a dextrous blow of his tusk, tore a bag from bottom to top, emptying the contents on the ground. At once his companions rushed to the spot. The flour quickly disappeared, and, as I was laughing at the scene, a deep voice at my side said, "Wouldn't you like to take a walk, stranger?"

The speaker was a tall, powerfully built man, of about thirty. His sallow, sunken cheeks and wasted limbs, marked him a recent victim of fever. Nature had given him a manly, open countenance; but over it there rested a reckless, fierce expression. His abrupt address was not unpleasant to me; it was in keeping with Western frankness; but there was a something, illy defined in his looks, that made me suspect an evil design.

"I came down from St. Paul in the boat this morning," he continued, "and it's dull enough here. Up the river a mile or so there is a scythe-snath factory; I want to see it myself. You seem to be alone. What say you to going, too?"

It was a wild, lonely path, but I was in the mood for a change from the present monotony, and felt also a desire, after a moment's thought, to study my new acquaintance, and assented. My companion proved to be a person of varied information. He had evidently seen much of the world, and I became interested in him; yet could not help watching him suspiciously. Why did he leave the bar-room and select me as the companion of his walk? Why did he wish to walk at all,—he so feeble and weary-looking? And then there was an occasional glare of the eye, and it seemed to me a look of desperation. This mingling of the winning and the repulsive in the man kept my faculties observingly alert. Instinctively, however, I assumed a careless demeanor. He was not artful enough to be a villain by profession, and that was clear, yet, before the walk was half completed, I could not divest myself of a sense of personal danger.

"Come," said he, after inspecting the manufactory, "the bluffs shade the way, let's keep on up the river a piece?"

He was disappointed at my declining. On our return, he spoke often of the pleasures of foot journeys, and at length stated that he was to leave next morning for D—, a town some twenty miles distant; said he intended walking there, and pressed me to join him, as my course homeward lay in that direction. This, also, I declined.

That evening, as I was going out to a religious meeting, a second stranger accosted me,—"Are you a clergyman, sir?"

On receiving an affirmative answer, he said, "I hope you will pardon the liberty I take. I am Mr. N., of New York. I am here looking up land; have made some good investments, and wish to look around a little more. I have some money with me, and am really afraid of being robbed. You are the only guest at this house that has a room to himself. Would you not, as a great favor, permit me to share your room with you to-night? Last night I lodged with eight of the roughest customers I ever saw. I slept but little; but once I was startled from a doze, and looking up, saw a big whiskered fellow fumbling about my clothes. He protested it was by mistake, but I don't believe it; and," said he, his voice sinking to a whisper, "there's the very chap, as I live!" pointing to my morning acquaintance, who was just entering the bar-room. "A desperado, no doubt," he continued, much agitated.

On inquiring, I found Mr. N. was a wealthy merchant from New York—a speculator in land. The host at length reluctantly consented that Mr. N. should room with me.