“Oh, Pete, mah lad,” he would say, “bud religion is sweet. Thoo’s crossed yah sea, an’ ah’s just aboot te cross anuther, bud it’s a varry narro’ un’, an’ there isn’t as mitch ov a ripple as wad toss a chip, an’ as seean as ivver ah tutch it, it’ll splet, an’ ah sall gan through dryshod. An’ t’ other side, Pete! Ah gets a leeak at it noo an’ then, an’ ah feels as though ah can hear t’ music, an’ see t’ saints o’ God i’ their glory, an’ hear t’ waff o’ their wings. Prayse the Lord, deein’s nobbut like gannin’ oot o’ t’ kitchen inte t’ parlour, an’ ‘ah sall dwell i’ t’ hoose o’ the Lord for ivver.’”
The old squire of Waverdale came to see him, during those last failing months, nearly every day. He was a capital listener. Seated by Adam’s side, he would hold the old man’s hand in his, and listen, with an occasional smile, exclamation or nod, by the hour, while the veteran talked of his religious history, gave his opinion on Scripture passages, or bore witness of the love and grace of God.
“Oh, Maister Fuller,” said he one day, “I hev a peeace ’at’s aboot parfect. Ah’ve been thinkin’ o’ that text wheere the Lord says if His people wad nobbut hae hearkened tiv His commandments, their peeace sud hae floa’d like a river. Why, when fost ah gav’ me ’art te God, me peeace floa’d wiv a rush for a while, an’ then gat inte t’ shallo’s. Then it met fost a temptation, an’ then a trubble, an’ then a bit o’ neglect o’ prayer, an’ t’ streeam was owt bud eeather smooth or full; it went like a shallo’ beck, wiv a lot o’ steeanes, an’ twists, an’ bendin’s in it, cheeafin’, an’ splutterin’, an’ bickerin’; frothin’ up ageean this corner, an’ bubblin’ ower that, bud noo that it gets nigh te t’ sea, it gans deeper an’ stiddier, an’ floas sae smooth ’at ah can scaycely tell it’s movin’ at all. That’s just hoo ah feel te-day. Ah’s near t’ sea; t’ aushun ov infanite luv an’ glory oppens oot afoore ma’, and ah’s slitherin’ on an’ slippin’ away, still, an’ quiet, an’ ’appy; an’ ah sall seean gan inte t’ sea.” Here the old man waved his arms as “one who spreadeth forth his hands to swim.” “Oh, what a sea! t’ luv o’ Jesus, all on it. Prayse the Lord, ah’ve knoan summut aboot it; ah’ve drunken it, an’ ah’ve dipped in it, an’ it’s shed abroad i’ me ’art. Bud ah’s gannin te swim iv it, an’ te knoa Him as ah is knoan. T’ Revalation talks aboot a sea o’ glass mingled wi’ fire. What it meeans ah deean’t knoa, bud ah think it meeans parfect peeace glowin’ wi’ t’ glory o’ parfect luv. Halleluia! ah sall—
‘Plunge inte t’ Godheead’s deepest sea,
Lost i’ luv’s immensaty.’”
Is there anything on earth more beautiful than a scene like this? The hoary head is indeed a crown of glory if it be found in the way of righteousness. Age invests many things with a certain attractiveness. An aged oak for instance, gnarled, widespread, stalwart and stately; an ancient castle, weather-worn, storm-swept and furrowed with the tooth of Time; an old church, moss-clad and ivy-covered; but of all attractive pictures that Old Time can draw, nothing is more beautiful than the silver locks and radiant features of a godly and joyous old age. See this grand old saint, seated in “the old arm-chair,” looking placidly back upon the line of trodden years, looking hopefully forward across the borders of the Beulah land, while the light of heaven gilds his hoary hair. “The beauty,” says Solomon, “of old men is the grey head.” That is a glorious picture which John Bunyan paints, of the last stage of the Christian pilgrimage—the land of Beulah, a land of glorious beauty, a place of broad rivers and streams, spanned with heaven’s undimmed blue, swept by breezes from the hills of God, which bear on their fragrant wing the echoes of the heavenly chimes, the foretaste of immortal joys. The Methodist societies have ever been rich in a wealth of such experiences. A careful perusal of the obituaries in the Methodist and Arminian Magazines is quite sufficient evidence of the power of godliness over pain, weakness and death to thrill the heart of the despiser, and strike the sceptic dumb.
At length, it became evident that Old Adam Quiver’s hours were numbered. As he felt his end approaching, he sent for friend and neighbour, and bade them, one by one, a loving good-bye, mingling ever a blessing with his parting words. His sons and daughters and his grandchildren gathered round his bed, and, like Jacob, he blessed them all by name.
When Nathan Blyth came to take a last farewell, the old man said, with a smile, as he noted Nathan’s tears,—
“Nay, nay, and friend! That’ll nivver deea. You owt to be Blithe Natty noo, if ivver yo’ wer’ i’ yer life. Ah’s Blithe Adam, hooiver. It’s all sunshine, Natty,—