A BUNCH OF EVERLASTINGS

Northern Advocate, 11 December 1937, Page 2 (Supplement)

A BUNCH OF EVERLASTINGS

By jF. W. Bore ham, D.D.

1 CONFESS to not being very fond of reading sermons. I like to hear them delivered; I like the atmo-

subject

sphere and the concomitants which are the natural accompaniment of the church service; and when I read theology, it takes a different form to the sermon. All this is apologetic of the fact that this little book with which we are dealing lay for quite a time upon rny shelves unread. It was a gift, and as such reproached me With its unread pages whenever ray eyes chanced to light upon it. Fortunately this was not too often, for it had the good taste to be modest both in binding and in size, and so was easily lost sight of.

Then one day I did pick it up, a little idly, I fear, and was soon interested. The fact is, were you not told so, you might become attracted to such extent as to be unaware that these were sermons you were reading. Of all these three and twenty articles, perhaps my favourite is “Sir Walter Scott's Text.” It may not be the best among them all. indeed I think it quite likely it is not, but it most appeals to me. For one thing I like Sir Walter greatly, as who does not? I like him as man, I like him as,writer/ and I like him vastly as worker. You remember, for who does not. the anecdote related by Lockhart of the hand that, seen ceaselessly travelling across the sheets that were to be “Waverley,” so disturbed the member of a merry drinking party that he could no longer feel pleasure in his idleness. Yes. Scott was a worker; but we want to read as much as may be of this, little article dealing with him, and not merely preliminary chat. 4

Here then is how wo approach our subject: Happy Bride and Bridegroom. It was a very happy bridegroom and a very happy bride that came to Lasswade Cottage early in 1798. They had been married on Christmas Eve; and, after a few days in Edinburgh, had come on to this pretty little home on the banks of the Esk. Walter Scott was twenty-six; not one of his books had been written; no thought of fame had visited him; lie dreamed only of the happiness that must be his in the

“The Bookman's” Review

new life that he bad so recently entered; while she tells him that she is sure that he will rise in his profession, become a judge, and die immensely wealthy. Scott vows that he will make his riverside home the sweetest spot beneath the stars. He takes infinite pains in laying out the gardens and the lawns. In the years that followed he never looked upon any of his novels or biographies with greater pride than that with which he surveyed the mystic arch that he built with his own hands over the gate that opened on the Edinburgh Hoad. In this romantic home he spent some of the sunniest years of his life; and, as Lockhart points out, it was amongst these delicious solitudes that he produced the works that laid the imperishable foundations of all his fame. As you stroll about this pretty garden, and mark the diligence with which

this young husband of ours has train

ed all his dowers and creepers, 1 wculd have you step out nn to the lawn. And here, in the centre nf the lawn, is a sundial. Our happy young bridegroom ordered it before his marriage, and it has been made to Ids design. See how carefully he lias planted the creepers around it! And. according to custom, he has had a motto engraved upon the dial, a motto of Iris own selection. It consists of three Greek words: "The Night Cometh!” Scott was not morbid; he was a great, human.

Sunshine, and Shadow

But in the sunshine of life’s morning he solemnJy reminded himself that, high jioon is not a fixture. I. tie brightest day wears away to evening at last. He - horrified his bride-elect by arranging, before his marriage, for a place of burial. "What an idea of yours,” she says in a letter written a few days before the wedding, “what an idea of yours was that to mention where you wish to have your bones laid! If you were married I should think you were tired of me. A very pretty compliment before marriage! .1 sincerely hope that I shall not live to see that day. If you always have those cheerful thoughts, how pleasant and gay you must be!” Poor, distressed little bride! But she soon found that her apprehensions were unfounded. Her lover was not as gloomy as she feared. He was reminding himself that the sunshine does not last for ever, it is true; but, just because the sunshine does not last for ever, he was vowing that he would make the most of it. “The Night Cometh.” he wrote upon the sundial on the lawn. “The Night Cometh,”. therefore revel in the daylight while it lasts! “I must work the works of Him that sent me whilst it is day; the night cometh when no man can work.”

Is not he a happy man who realises, before too much of life is spent, that there is but so much of it in which the chosen or the needful labours may be carried out. It is good to be well up with one’s work, if that may be, better still if one can be ahead of it. And so we turn a page or two and come to t,he latter portion.

“The Night Cometh.”

“The Night Cometh!” It came to Sir Walter Scott, the night of which the sundial had spoken so effectively and so long. We have all dwelt with lingering fondness on that closing scene. Here he is, at Abbotsford, surrounded by his grandchildren and his dogs. He is too feeble to rise, but. at his desire, [hey wheel him round the lawns in a bath-chair. He strokes the hair of the children; pals the dogs on the heads; and pauses to admire his chosen roses. “I have seen much in my time,”' he whispers softly, "but nothing like my ain house —give me one turn more!”

Exhausted by his ride, and by the tumult of emotions that it had awakened, the dying man is put to bed. Next morning he asks to be wheeled into the library. They place his chair against the centre window that he may look down on the shining waters of the Tweed. He glances round upon the shelves containing his thousands of beloved books. “Read to me!” he says to Lockhart.

“From what book shall I read?”

“Need you ask? There is but one!”

Lockhart takes down the Bible, and opens it at the fourteenth chapter of the Gospel of John.

“Let not your heart, be troubled; ye believe in God, believe aiso in Me. In My Father’s house are many mansions; if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you. . . And so on. The matchless cadences that have soothed and softened and sweetened a million deathbeds •fall like a foretaste of the eternal harmonies upon the sicx man’s ears.

“That is a great comfort—a great comfort,” he murmurs.

He lingers for a while; but the atmosphere of that conversation by the library window enfolds him at the last. The Night comes; and with the Night come weariness and rostfulness and tired hands gently folded. There is only one way of preparing for the night. We must work! That is what Jesus said. “We must work while it is called Today; the Night cometh when no man can work!” A good day’s work means a good night’s rest. Johnson and Scott and Carlyle had learned that secret, but it was from HIM that they learned it. And they became the men that they were because they took His words and engraved them on their watches and on their sundials. Yes, on their watches and on their sundials —and on their hearts. Surely it must be good when at last the night docs fall to feel that, be it what it may, we leave behind us a filled day, a day whereof the tasks have been well and completely done, and done In such way that, wo need feel no shame at their finished appearance.