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.