I OFTEN look back with longing to the simple rural life we spent in the dear old parsonage at Drumscondie. We rose early, both summer and winter; at eight o’clock breakfast was on the table, at one we had dinner, and at six in the evening we assembled for that delightfully cosy meal yclept High Tea. Then, in the winter, there was a hurry-scurry for a little, while the table was being cleared, the dishes washed and put away, and other domestic duties attended to; after everything was prepared for the morning, the whole of our little household, including Janet Spence, our faithful domestic and friend, gathered around the big open fireplace in the nursery. Mother, daughter and maid took their sewing, knitting or darning, and all listened while I read aloud from one of the old favorite works of fiction, or an ancient ballad from the days of chivalry. George Macdonald’s Alec Forbes and Robert Falconer, Malcolm Marquis of Lossie and Dooble Sanny with his Stradivarius, Miss Mulock’s John Halifax and Phineas Fletcher, Sir James the Rose and Sir Patrick Spens—were very real personages, in whose doings we took the keenest interest.

Many a happy evening did we spend in such delightful company, and much food for thought did we gather for the busy future.

I was reading one evening the Siege of Torquilstone from Scott’s “Ivanhoe,” when an interruption came in the shape of loud knocking at the kitchen door. I ceased reading while Janet went to see what was the matter. Presently the trampling of heavy boots was heard on the stairs, my study door was opened, and then shut, and Janet returned to tell me that three young men wished to see me. On my entering the study, one of the visitors whom I had met once or twice before, came forward, and introduced his companions.

“We’re a deppytation from the Mutual Improvement Society, Maister Gray,” he said, “an’ we’ve come to ask you if you would be so good as gie us a lecture some evenin’ soon.”

“A lecture?” I said, “why, I never gave a lecture in my life. I would gladly be of any service to your Society, but really I fear I am of no use in the way you mention. I don’t know what I could talk to you about.”

There was silence for a moment, and then an idea struck me. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I have for some years been trying, in my leisure time, to find out the origin and history of some of the old Jacobite songs. I could tell you how these songs came into being—what events in the romance of the white cockade called them forth—and, if you like, I would sing some of the songs.”

I could easily see from their faces that this was more than they expected.

“That would be splendid. We’ve never had onything o’ that kind before. We’ll lat a’ body ken aboot it, an’ the hall will be crooded.”

“Don’t say too much about it, boys,” I interposed, “because it is only an experiment.”

We arranged the day and hour, and the deputation departed, much pleased with the result of their visit.

I collected my notes, made a sketch of the Jacobite story from the Revolution of 1689 down to the sad defeat at Culloden, and introduced the most notable of the songs in their proper historical order.

The evening of the lecture arrived, and I proceeded to the place of meeting. The building known as “The Hall,” had at one time been a Free Kirk day school, and was still to a great extent in the hands of that body. My chairman was an old man, very much esteemed in the neighborhood. In politics he was an ultra-Radical; in religion he was a Congregationalist of a very narrow type. In introducing me he said very little, and that of a vague and general character. It was something new for these folks to hear a parson singing old Scotch songs; some seemed to look upon it with considerable suspicion; others showed their enjoyment and appreciation by attending closely to my remarks, and vociferously applauding my simple rendering of the old ballads. In his closing remarks the chairman expressed the thanks of the audience to me for the trouble I had taken, but said he was quite sure “if the young Pretender were to land on these shores now, the great mass of the people would rise and drive him back again to the ship which had brought him hither.”

I saw I had got into a hornet’s nest, but I made no reply. This, however, was not the end of the matter. Various chats with the young people of the village led to my opening a night school for them, in the Hall, on two evenings weekly, and, in the conducting of this, I took good care that the study of Scottish history had its due share of attention. For two winters this went on. Beyond opening our meetings with prayer, nothing of a religious character was introduced. My class soon included all the young men of the village; and, more out of gratitude to me than from any other cause, the members of my class took to attending our Sunday evening services. What our congregation gained in numbers my Free Kirk neighbor lost, and great was his indignation.

Something must be done to stop the deplorable leakage. Ministers and elders used their influence individually with the young men, sermon after sermon was preached to show the delinquents the imminent danger they were in spiritually from coquetting with Black Prelacy; but, the results were meagre. The religion of the “Gentle Persuasion,”—that took a real and living interest in their everyday lives, that aimed at making their lives brighter and happier, that laid no ban on innocent and rational pleasures, that took even their recreations under its fostering care—appealed strongly to their common sense; and, not a few who had been fed on the dry husks of an effete Calvinism owed their emancipation from its thraldom, directly or indirectly, to our village night school.

But the Free Kirk Session was not to yield its hold without a further effort. By fair means or foul, my evening school must be stopped.

At the beginning of my third winter, I went to the “Provost” to arrange for the use of the Hall, and was told that the trustees had resolved, contrary to all precedent, to charge me the same fee as they charged any travelling concert company for every night I used it. At first, I was dumbfounded. The charge was prohibitive. I went home in despair, to take counsel with my women-folks. Advice and comfort came, and from a source whence I never expected it.

Janet, who bore no particular good-will to the Frees, came to the rescue.

“Ye needna tribble yersel’ about that poor ablich o’ a minister bodie an’ his elders. There’s plenty o’ room for a’ the laddies in my kitchen. We’ll get some o’ them to gie’s a haund, and we’ll cairry oot the things that wad be in the wye, an’ aifter the class is ower, we can easy pit them a’ back again.”

“But, Janet,” I said, “that’ll mean a lot of work twice every week.”

“Never ye min’ that, we’re nae gaun to hae the good wark stoppit for a wee bit extra wark.”

And so it was arranged. The class was summoned to a meeting in the parsonage kitchen, the new scheme was broached, and every one promised to help. One or two came half an hour earlier on class nights to get things in order; several of them always stayed behind to restore things to their wonted order; and the work went on, with more success than ever. Persecution in a good cause is always productive of good. Even some of the old folks, who at first were suspicious of anything of the nature of innovation, expressed their sympathy in no uncertain language.

Davie Paterson, the postman, on his journey round the Brae side, gave a most amusing account of the whole affair to the Brae dominie, who in turn retailed it to me.

“That free kirk futtrit thocht he was gaun to pit an end to Maister Gray’s nicht schule, but, Lord, man, he got sair begowkit. The parsonage kitchie on a schule nicht is a sicht for sair e’en. I gaed roon ae evenin’ to hae a word wi’ the minister, an’ got a luik in. Muckle Jamie Todd, that used to be either blebbin’ an’ drinkin’ at the inn in the forenichts, or fechtin, was in the neuk, wi’ the meal barrel for a dask, an’ wis learnin’ gigonometry, or lan’ measurin’, or something o’ that kind, an’ he wis that eident that he never saw me. The minister himsel’ had a muckle blackboard set up on the dresser, an’ wis giein’ the lave a lesson in gography. They were a’ as busy as bonnet makkers. Thae Frees may say what they like, the toon folk are maistly a’ wi’ Maister Gray. You would think it was Sunday on the schule nichts—the hale place is as quaiet as pussy. If he’s nae daein’ ony gude, he’s keepin’ a lot o’ them oot o’ mischief.”

But the boycotting brought even better results than these I have indicated. A neighboring laird who had for years been an ardent follower of Kingsley, and a strong Christian Socialist, came to the front with counsel and material help which ended in our being able to convert our disused church into a hall for classes and social gatherings. We opened it on three nights a week as a reading and recreation room; by and by it was duly enrolled as a school under the South Kensington Science and Art Department; classes in chemistry, physiography and agriculture were commenced and carried on with great success; popular lectures were given on all kinds of useful subjects, and today there are of our young men not a few in various parts of the world whose ability to perform the important work committed to them was largely due, in the first instance, to the narrow-minded policy which caused the Frees to boycott the “Gentle Persuasion.”