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Memoirs of William Miller - Sylvester Bliss

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anxiously and hopefully. Gray anchorites in the<br />

desert, worn pilgrims to the holy places <strong>of</strong> Jewish<br />

and Christian tradition, prayed for its coming. It<br />

inspired the gorgeous vision <strong>of</strong> Augustine’s ‘City<br />

<strong>of</strong> God.’ In every age since the Christian era, from<br />

the caves, and forests, and secluded ‘upper<br />

chambers’ <strong>of</strong> the times <strong>of</strong> the first missionaries <strong>of</strong><br />

the Cross, -- from the Gothic temples <strong>of</strong> the Middle<br />

Ages, -- from the bleak mountain gorges <strong>of</strong> the<br />

Alps, when the hunted heretics put up their<br />

expostulations, ‘How long, O Lord, how long!’ --<br />

down to the present time, and from this Derry<br />

camp-ground, has been uttered the prophecy and<br />

the prayer for its fulfillment.<br />

“How this great idea manifests itself in the<br />

lives <strong>of</strong> the enthusiasts <strong>of</strong> the days <strong>of</strong> Cromwell!<br />

Think <strong>of</strong> Sir Henry Vane, cool, sagacious<br />

statesman as he was, waiting with eagerness for the<br />

foreshadowings <strong>of</strong> the millennium, and listening,<br />

even in the council-hall, for the blast <strong>of</strong> the last<br />

trumpet! Think <strong>of</strong> the Fifth Monarchy men,[1]<br />

weary with waiting for the long-desired<br />

consummation, rushing out, with drawn swords<br />

613

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