"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.