"Better is the End of a Thing that the Beginning."
It was known by Little Abe that his infirmities were premonitory of the
end which was not far off. He knew that though he might be permitted
to linger for a while in the border land, he must soon receive command
to march over the boundary, and enter the eternal world. Just as a
shock of corn remains in the field to dry and ripen after the shearing,
so our old friend remained in his place here for a short time, ripening
for the heavenly garner.
He had just sufficient strength to go quietly about among his old
friends in the village, and talk over the good things of his Father's
kingdom; or he could get as far as the chapel, which was ever dear to
him, and the more so now that he felt the time was fast approaching
when he should enter it no more. He knew that before long his happy
spirit would be called up to worship in a grander temple, among a
multitude of those "who had washed their robes, and made them white in
the blood of the Lamb;" and as he sat in old Salem, and listened to the
sweet notes of the organ, his thoughts were oft carried away to the
great temple above, where day and night the harpers are striking their
joyous strings to the Redeemer's praise. Often when the choir chanted
the solemn words:--
"What shall I be, my Lord, when I behold Thee,
In awful majesty at God's right hand;
And 'mid th' eternal glories that enfold me,
In strange bewilderment, O Lord, I stand?
What shall I be? these tears,--they dim my sight,
I cannot catch the blisful vision right,"
he was like one enraptured, as with tearful eyes, quivering lips, and
clasped hands he listened to the soul-stirring hymn. Little Abe was
ripening for the end.
"ARISE! LET US GO UP TO BETHEL."
A touching little incident is told of him about this time. He always
retained an affectionate regard for the old tree on Almondbury Common,
where many years before he had made his peace with God, and now a
strong desire was felt by him to visit the consecrated spot once more
before he died. It was his Bethel pillar; against that old tree he had
rested his weary head on the dark night of his desolation; there the
Lord God had appeared to him, and filled his soul with the joys of his
salvation; there the morning of a new life first broke upon his
troubled spirit; there he had made a covenant with the God of Jacob.
That old pillar was anointed with the first tears of sanctified joy
which ever fell from his eyes; it was the altar on which he offered his
broken and renewed heart to God, and he felt as if the Lord had given
it to him as an inheritance and a monument of His pardoning mercy.
He must see it once more and renew his vows to God; so one day they
wrapped him up in his great coat, and gave him his stick, and sent him
forth alone to his first sanctuary. Feebly and slowly the old man made
his way to the spot, and standing on the very ground, and with his hand
upon the same old tree, he saw how the locality was altered. Men had
been busy during these years, population had increased in the
neighbourhood, houses were built in different places, and many changes
had taken place. But there still remained the little running stream
close by,--figure to him of the stream of Divine grace, that had never
been cut off, never dried up in the drought of summer, never stopped by
the chill of winter, never lost in the wild growth of the wilderness
world; but on and on it flowed, down the incline of the moral world,
winding and turning from side to side, as if to gladden all in its
course, away down the hill among the gaps of the rocks, and over the
gravelly ground of human life, until it finds its way again into the
river of God's eternal love. And there too, stood the tree, the
monument; but both man and tree bore unmistakable marks of age. The
unwearying fingers of time had planted innumerable mosses against its
bark; some of its old branches had withered, its foliage was scantier
than of old; it was ripe, too; man and tree were both ripe and ready to
fall.
What a sympathy there was between them, what a friendship, what a
secret! How many storms had both those old trees encountered since God
first threw them together! The old elm had shaken, bent, and groaned
under the violent grasp of the tempest, which hundreds of times had
swept across that common. But it still stood, patiently and bravely
waiting, amid the rolling years, for the end. Brave old elm! There is
no sympathy in a tree, or this final meeting would have awakened it;
but what matter? There is enough in man for the tree and himself too,
enough to kindle regard in his heart for every square inch of timber in
that old trunk; enough to make him see eyes in every joint--loving
eyes, looking at him in mute affection; enough to transform every limb
into strong arms stretched out to protect the old man in his
feebleness, and enable him to see a smile in every wrinkling crack and
fissure in thy hard, weather-beaten bark. Dear old elm, there needs no
apology if a man love thee.
Who could wonder if Old Abe felt something like this for that tree? we
should wonder if he did not. There, Old Abe, dear trembling old man,
rest thy white, honoured head against the breast of that elm, and weep
if thou wilt, and never mind whether man understand thee or not, God
does. Weep, old man, but not in fear; thou hast nothing to fear, God
is with thee, and "the place whereon thou standest is holy ground." It
is the natural vent for those feelings which come crowding in upon
thee, some from the long past, and some from the approaching future,
now rapidly drawing on, with all its revelations of wonder and delight.
And thus old Abe stood with his head resting against the tree, his eyes
closed, his tears running, and his lips silently moving in prayer to
God; so he paid his vows once more, and gathered strength for the few
remaining days of his pilgrimage; then he retraced his steps towards
home, and by the time he arrived there he was entirely himself again,
and no one would guess the emotion he had felt at Bethel.
"Well, Sally," he exclaimed, as he re-entered his cottage, "I've been
to th' owd spot! They have hewn all abaat it, but th' owd tree stands
yet God 'll keep that tree while I live, and then they may do what they
like wi' it."
So Abe went on, quietly severing himself from one tie after another
which bound him to this world, and getting ready for his departure to
another and a better. His mind was now steadfastly turned towards the
future, and he was continually looking for his promised rest. The
nearer he got, to the end of his life, the clearer his prospects of
heaven became; he enjoyed a most unclouded hope of glory. Often he
would say, when talking with his friends, "You'll be hearing some
mornin' before lang that Abe is gone, and yo' needn't ask where. Tak'
my word for it, I'll be in glory. If you should hear I'm dead, you may
set it daan that I'm in heaven."
A brother local preacher had lain ill for some time, expecting every
day to be his last. Abe thought he would like to see him once more
before he passed away, and accordingly he went, and the two old
veterans spent a happy time together, conversing about the joys which
were before them. "We're both aat of harness naa, thaa sees," said
Abe, "and we'll sooin be at haam. I want the' to tell them I'm coming,
and shall n't be long after the'."
Everyone thought that Abe would live the longer of the two, but he
gained his prize first, passing away a little before his brother, and
now they both "rest from their labours, and their works do follow them."
Abe's remaining strength rapidly failed him at the last, so that he was
unable to leave his room; yet he was always happy in prospect of the
immortal life before him. "No aching bones or tottering limbs there,"
he would say; "Glory to God! I shall sooin be young agean." The Bible
and hymn-book were his constant companions now, and in peaceful
expectation he waited for the signal that would open to him the portals
of the skies.
The annual lovefeast was held during the time when he was a prisoner in
his room, and it was a privation to him not to be able to get there
once more, but it was not to be. They would hear his voice no more in
Salem, but before long he would have to relate his enrapturing story
among listening angels and saints before the throne. Several of the
friends came down from the chapel to see him. He said, "Aye, lads, I
could loike to ha' been amang yo' once maar, but th' next toime I cross
Salem doorstep I shall be carried over; but ne'er moind, I have seen a
door opened in heaven, and I shall sooin go through--hallelujah!"
At last he took to his bed never to rise again; the time of his
departure was at hand. As, however, his body lost strength, his spirit
seemed to gain it; the words of the psalmist were ever on his lips,
"Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear
no evil, for Thou art with me, Thy rod and Thy staff, they comfort me."
"Listen," he said one day, "when I can't spaike to tell yo' haa I feel,
I'll lift my hand, and yo'll knaw all's weal." This was for their
sakes. He wanted to leave a token with his dear wife and children that
should antidote their sorrow when he was gone.
A friend came one day from a distant town to see him; he felt very sad
at finding him so near his end, and could not refrain from tears, but
when the old man saw him weep, he began to repeat as well as his feeble
voice would allow--
"Break off your tears, ye saints, and tell
How high your great Deliverer reigns;
See how He spoiled the hosts of hell,
And led the monster Death in chains."
And then he took the part of comforter: "Aye, my lad, what art ta
looking so sad abaat? Thaa mun't be cast daan, thaa mun come up aat o'
th' valley; bless th' Lord!" he ran on, "I'm on Pisgah, and my soul is
full of glory. I'm in soight o' th' promised land, hallelujah! I'll
sooin be at haam."
In this happy frame he continued to the last. As long as he could
speak at all, words of exultation and praise rose to his lips, and when
he could no longer articulate, he fell back upon the signal, and lifted
his hand, in token that all was well. Dear old Abe, he was come to the
end of his course, the shades of death were upon him, he was crossing
the narrow strip of neutral ground that divides the two worlds; friends
stood in the margin of the shadow-land, watching him feebly lift his
hand as he went over, till he could lift it no more, and when the
signal dropt mourners knew that Old Abe was safe through.
He died in the Lord in November 1871, and left a memory behind that
grows more fragrant as years go on. His dust lies buried in the
graveyard in front of Salem Chapel, where, five years later, the
remains of his devoted wife, Sally, were laid beside him. There let
their dust sleep until that day "when they that are in their graves
shall hear His voice, and come forth."
"Oh," said a good woman one day when talking over the subject of these
pages, "I should just like to have an odd look into heaven, to see what
Little Abe is about." What is he about? He is praising God in the
glorious temple above: "And one of the elders answered, saying unto me,
What are these arrayed in white robes? and whence came they? And I
said unto him, Sir, thou knowest. And he said to me, These are they
which came out of great tribulation, and have washed their robes, and
made them white in the blood of the Lamb. Therefore are they before
the throne of God, and serve Him day and night in the temple. They
rest not day and night saying, Holy, Holy, Holy, Lord God Almighty,
which was, and is, and is to come."
THE END.