Part 35 (1/2)

CHAPTER XLII.

AUD ADAM OLLIVER'S ”NUNC DIMITTIS.”

”The wise man, said the Bible, walks with G.o.d; Surveys, far on, the endless line of life; Values his soul; thinks of eternity; Both worlds considers, and provides for both; With reason's eye his pa.s.sions guards; abstains From evil; lives on hope--on hope, the fruit Of faith; looks upward; purifies his soul; Expands his wings, and mounts into the sky; Pa.s.ses the sun, and gains his Father's house; And drinks with angels from the fount of bliss.”

_Pollok._

For several years after the stirring events previously narrated, Nestleton Magna had largely reverted to the even tenor of its way. Not that it could ever again be as it was in the olden time. The erection of the chapel proved a very permanent and abiding source of good. The society continued to increase in numbers; Kasper Grove was always the very antipodes of Midden Harbour; the Sunday-school had grown in numbers and in efficiency, until it occupied a position of the highest value and importance, and all the younger generation of Nestletonians were happily subjected to the G.o.dly influences there at work.

Waverdale Hall was a centre of blessing, a fountain whose continuous outflow refreshed and purified the region through which it coursed in wise beneficence and Christly love. Still, there was an absence of startling or exciting events, and the quiet peacefulness which generally characterises rural districts brooded over the village undisturbed. At the Hall there was a growing family of attractive little squirelings and more attractive little ladies. Master Ainsley Olliver Fuller, the eldest son and heir of my favourite friends, Philip and Lucy, had two brothers, to wit, Philip Blyth and Theophilus, one little sister, who could be called nothing else than Lucy, and another sister, who was called Beatrice, after the old squire's first and only love, long since gone to heaven.

Old Adam Olliver was even more rich in grandchildren, for around the tables alike of Jake and Pete and Hannah, the olive-branches increased at a surprising rate. Very happily and peacefully did the old man's last years ebb away. Judith was the first to receive the call from that solemn messenger who brings his summons to every door. As she lived, so she died; her departure was more a translation than a death.

She had not been well for some days, and one evening, while loving Hannah was in the act of stroking her silver hair and speaking words of cheer, she said, ”Call your father.” When the old man appeared, she said, with a radiant smile, ”Adam, I'm going home. Jesus calls. I'm going on before, a little while, and the way is very light. A little while, dear, true, good husband, and we shall meet again.” And so she slid quietly out of her clay tabernacle, and ”took the nearest way to her Father's house.”

Old Adam did not long survive her. He had grown very feeble; age and a life of hard labour had bent his frame, and for the last few months of his life he had to be guided across the floor. Mary was a gentle, loving, and unwearying nurse, and fifty times a day did he ask G.o.d's blessing on her for her kindly care. A bed had been set up for him on the ground floor, as he was incapable of mounting the stairs, and because he liked to have her near him, while she attended to her household duties. But though the outward man was peris.h.i.+ng, was becoming a small, thin, filmy prison-house indeed, the inward man was being renewed, beautified, and ripened day by day.

”Mary,” he would say, when he had sat still and silent for a long time, and she had asked him how he felt, ”Mary, ah've been i' good c.u.mpany. Judy's been wi' ma' i' spirit, an' ah've seen aingels wi'

breet an' wavin' wings, an' Jesus is allus wi' ma'. He says, 'Ah'll c.u.m ageean an' receeave tha' te myself,' an' ah says, 'Eaven seea, Lord Jesus, c.u.m quickly.' Ah sall be gannin' sum neet, an' when t'

sun's settin' wi' you, it'll be risin' wi' me, an' it'll be mornin'

an' nivver a neet nae mair.”

”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' G.o.d i' their glory, an' hear t' waff o' their wings. Prayse the Lord, deein's n.o.bbut 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 pa.s.sages, or bore witness of the love and grace of G.o.d.

”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 n.o.bbut hae hearkened tiv His commandments, their peeace sud hae floa'd like a river. Why, when fost ah gav' me 'art te G.o.d, 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' gla.s.s 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' G.o.dheead's deepest sea, Lost i' luv's immensaty.'”

Is there anything on earth more beautiful than a scene like this? The h.o.a.ry 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 G.o.dly 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 h.o.a.ry 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 G.o.d, 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 G.o.dliness 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 suns.h.i.+ne, Natty,--

'Nut a clood doth arise, Te darken mi' skies, Or te hide for a moment my Lord fre' mi' eyes.'

'Roond aboot an' underneeath ma' are the ivverlastin' airms,' an' iv 'em ah sail swing inte heaven, as Mary tosses 'er bairn till it fair screeams wi' joy. G.o.d bless yo', dear and friend. Ah sail seean sing as weel as you, an' when you've waited a lahtle bit langer, we'll sing tegither the prayses o' wer Greeat Redeemer. Deean't yo' remember yer aun sang,--

An' when ah'm landed on Canaan's breet sh.o.r.e, Befoore aingels an' saints will ah shoot it!