"WHERE'S 'T YOUNG PRAACHER?"
An amusing incident came under my notice during the time I was minister at Wellhouse in the Huddersfield Circuit. I was in the front garden one windy morning, attending to a few plants, and endeavouring to protect them against the gusty wind, when I thought I heard someone calling my name, but on looking up and seeing no one I resumed my task. In a moment or two I heard someone say, "Bless th' Lord! I've managed it at last, hurrah!" and on looking up, I saw Little Abe struggling along the steep pathway in a field just in front of my house, his head bare, his hat in his hand, his white locks tossed in wild confusion by the gale, yet holding on by their roots, refusing to part from their place of nativity.
"Well, I declare, here's Little Abe tipping about in the wind like a shuttlecock." Out I ran, and getting hold of his arm towed him into dock.
"Whatever has brought you here in such a gale of wind, Abe?"
"Hurrah! I'st see him naa," was his only response.
"See who?"
"Why, th' young praacher to be sure; ha'nt ye gotten a young praacher in your haase? I've come to see him." So laughing heartily at Abe's way of installing new members into the ministry, I opened the door and pushed him into the house. My wife was as much astonished at his arrival as I was, yet very glad to see him, especially when he inquired "Where's t' young praacher? Let's see him. Come, hold him up; there, naa, put him on my lap and let me have a bit of talk to him." And down he sat, and the "young praacher," at that time having advanced to the age of eight or ten weeks, was placed in the old man's lap, where he lay complacently winking his eye at Abe while he told him how he had left home after breakfast and walked over the hills about five miles in a storm of wind on purpose to make the acquaintance of this "young praacher" whose name was already on the Circuit plan. And there he stayed for the day, talking, singing, and communing with his young friend till evening, when we sent him home by the train.
Well, the time came when dear old Abe visited his friends nor stood in the familiar pulpits any more; then everyone, young and old, felt they had sustained a loss. Yet this is the natural course of things all the world over; the scenes of life are continually changing, so are the most familiar and most beloved faces in those scenes; they come, and come, and come again, until we unconsciously acquire the habit of expecting them, but when at length they do not reappear as formerly, we realize an unexpected loss.
How many grand and familiar faces have disappeared from our pulpits and sanctuaries since we first began to remember things! In running the mind's eye back into byegone years, what a number we can call into recollection who are gone, never to return; while the truth is forced upon us, we are daily hurrying after them, and ere long some others will miss our faces from among the familiar scenes, and let us hope, will regret our absence.
CHAPTER XXIII.
"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.