Little Abe | Page 8

tasting the wormwood of a
guilty conscience, than which nothing is more dreadful, and nothing is
more hopeful, because it is the bitter that oft worketh itself sweet; it
was so with Abe. While he was in this state of mind, the Rev. David
Stoner came to preach in the Wesleyan Chapel at Almondbury. His
fame drew many to hear him, and among the rest Abraham Lockwood.
He went partly out of curiosity, and partly in the hope of getting relief
to his mind; however, he only came away worse than before; he was
miserable, and it now began to show itself to his companions. "Pain
will out," like murder. "What's the matter, Abe?" they would say to him.
"Oh, nothing particular," he would reply. And then among themselves
they said, "Abe looks very queer, he's ill;" then they tried to enliven
him. "Come, cheer up, old boy, we'll have a yarn." One would tell some
droll tale, and another would say something comical in order to make
him laugh; and laugh he did, he must laugh; it would never do to let
those fellows know what was passing in his mind; so he laughed loud
as any of them, but what a laugh!--how empty and hollow, how joyless
and unreal, how unlike his former bursts of feeling!--a got-up laugh,

which shewed plainer than ever something was wrong. Abe knew it,
and he felt it was of no use trying any longer to keep up a sham
happiness, and all the time be in torments from a guilty conscience; he
therefore resolved to give up sin and lead a new life. He probably was
hastened to that decision by a remark which fell from his father's lips;
the old man had noticed for some time that Abe was not in his usual
spirits. He would come home of an evening and sit looking into the fire
for an hour without speaking or moving; he had given over singing in
the house, and he seemed as if he hadn't spirit enough left to whistle to
the little bird in the cage; his meals lay almost untasted, and his tea
would go cold before he had taken any.
"Come, my lad, thaa mun get thee tea thaa knows," said the old father
one evening.
"Yes," said Abe, as he pretended to push something into his mouth.
"What's matter with th'?" the father inquired; "thaa's not like theesen,
nor hasn't been for mony a week."
Abe's eyes grew moist, and his chin trembled, but he called himself to
order, no babyism now.
The old man, still looking at him, and keen enough to notice the
struggle he had to master his feelings, went on to say, "Thaa's poorly,
my lad, thaa mun goa to th' doctor, and see if he canna gie thee
some'at."
"No earthly doctor can do onything for me," answered Abe; "it's th'
Physician of souls that I want. Oh, father, I am unhappy; my sins are
troubling me noight and day; I don't know what will become of me: I
feel like lost."
"My poor lad, the Lord have mercy on thee," replied the old man, as
Abe put on his cap and walked hurriedly out of the house. He went out
scarcely knowing why; perhaps to hide his trouble from his dear old
father; perhaps to smother his emotions, which were rapidly gaining the
mastery over him, or maybe he knew not why,--an impulse was upon

him, and it carried him forth into the cool evening air; away he went at
a brisk walk from the village in the direction of Almondbury common.
Faster and faster he went, faster and faster as if to keep up with the
rapid current of his thoughts; the distance was uncounted, the direction
unheeded, the time forgotten; one thought only occupied his
tempest-torn mind, what must he do to be saved! There are some who
would think him very foolish to give himself so much concern on a
matter of that sort; but the fact is, Abe was just beginning to act the part
of a wise man in renouncing his old habits and declaring for Christ. No
human eye followed him on that lonely walk to the common, and no
human friend accompanied him; he was alone, the thought pleased him;
he looked around all over the face of the common, but no person was
visible. Abe was alone with God, and he determined to speak to Him,
and tell Him all his burden of sorrow. Near to where he stood, there
was a large tree growing, whose lofty branches were uplifted to heaven;
it stood just at the bottom of a little grassy slope of four or five yards
deep, and close to the side of a small clear stream of water,