EVEN if a traveller spends but a day or two in Edinburgh, he may see many things that will call forth surprise and admiration. The Castle, the High street, with all its closes and wynds, the ancient palace of Holyrood—indeed the whole of the Old Town—all are full of historic interest. If he has been fortunate enough to enlist the services of one of the authorized city guides, his interest will be greatly intensified, for the old man will reel off, in a dignified but somewhat monotonous voice, a farrago of historical information that will simply appal his auditor; and, should the said auditor attempt, in the evening, to enter in his notebook an account of all he has seen and heard, he will find himself in a state of chaos and will give up the effort in despair.

It is no exaggeration to say that our Scottish capital is one of the most historic cities in the world. It is no wonder that Scotsmen are proud of it. Its natural position is wondrously picturesque; the romantic and legendary lore that hangs, like a Scotch mist, around its ancient courts and archways, is of the most thrilling character; the relics of past grandeur that meet one everywhere are such as to compel investigation and inquiry; in fact, there are so many items of interest crowding in on the visitor’s brain that he feels that he would like to spend a year, instead of a day or two, in the contemplation of them.

“Edina, Scotia’s darling seat,” as Scotia’s peasant-bard affectionately terms it, indeed deserves all that has been said in its praise; but there is another and sadder aspect under which it may be viewed, one that is only realized by those who have spent years of residence there. One might truly go further and say that the seamy side of the Maiden Town is only fully understood by comparatively few of its inhabitants.

Around the base of the great rock on which stands the old fortress of the Scottish kings, and within a very short distance of their ancient palace, there are vast tenements in which thousands of the poor, and miserable, and sinful, are huddled together, seemingly regardless of decency and cleanliness and comfort.

To one of these districts I, Alan Gray, came to work as a lay reader, previous to my ordination. The clergyman of the church to which I was attached was in many respects a man worthy of esteem and regard. A scion of a well-known English family, he maintained all the traditions of his race with dignity and self-respect; he had a beautiful voice and read the services in a manner which could not fail to attract people of culture and refinement; and he was ever ready to give of his wealth to relieve the needy and distressed. The congregation were almost entirely of the moneyed classes; the poor were not encouraged to attend the mother church, but were relegated to the care of a lay assistant, who held evening services in the schoolroom. Occasionally, however, some of the latter might be seen in the gallery of the church, where there were a number of free seats. As a matter of principle, I sat in the gallery when I was not asked to read the Lessons; and almost invariably I chose the same pew, where I had for my neighbor a quiet, douce, middle-aged man, whose horny hands told that he had done many a hard day’s work in his life. On the first occasion of my noticing him, he was listening with great intentness to the sermon. When the preacher was about to descend from the pulpit, I could hear my companion mutter:

“Imphm, a strong smell o’ brimstone; that’ll be ane o’ his grandfaither’s auld sermons.”

I was amused, but of course showed no sign.

Some weeks afterwards I was again in my accustomed place, and my neighbor was in the same pew. The sermon came to a close and this time I heard the remark:

“High and dry, an’ no a bit o’ noorishment in the whole affair; that’ll be ane oot o’ his daddy’s auld kist.”

Again I was amused; but I was yet to be more startled. This time he spoke even more audibly, and with a good deal of contempt:

“A perfect plash o’ gruel—naething in’t ava—fushionless stuff. That’s ane o’ his ain.”

Naturally I was anxious to know this strange character, and you may be sure I took the first opportunity of making his acquaintance. On my commenting on his strange remarks, he said:

“Weel, ye see, it’s weel kent that the minister has three sets o’ sermons—a boxful o’ his grandfaither’s—ane o’ his faither’s—an’ a wheen o’ his ain that he wrote when he was a curate doon in England. Folk that hae sat lang in the kirk ken what batch the sermon comes frae—it’s easy kennin’ them. He’s ower sair taen up wi’ playin’ gowff nooadays that he has nae time for preparin’ good speeritual meat; it’s cauld hash a’ the time.”

I asked my quaint neighbor to spend an evening with me at my rooms, and there I got from him an account of his own strange and eventful life. He was the illegitimate son of a rakish Scottish peer, who had not given him his name, but had paid for his upbringing and education. Being of a restless disposition, he ran off to sea at the age of eighteen. For years he had led a roving life, draining the cup of worldly pleasure to his very dregs. One day, in a drunken spree, he got his leg broken and was removed to a hospital, where he made the acquaintance of a converted Jew who was trying to do good work among the sailors in that port. During the period of his convalescence he commenced the study of Hebrew to while away the time that hung heavy on his hands, and, under the careful instruction of his Jewish friend, he was soon able to read portions of the Holy Scriptures in the original. After a time he gave up the life of a sailor and settled in Edinburgh, where he attended Hebrew and Syriac lectures at the University. At the present time he was taking the regular arts course, with a view to graduation, and was gaining a somewhat precarious livelihood by giving private lessons in Hebrew to young men who were studying for the ministry.

James Macnicol was certainly a singular character, but I found him true as steel to the Christian life he had adopted, and was anxious to do all he could for the careless and godless around him. He was an expert swimmer, and during the summer, one would find him occupying his evenings in teaching a class of young lads that most useful art. He had the impression that any occupation that would keep the young fellows from going astray was worth trying.

“It’s the only kind of decent amusement that I am acquainted with,” he would say, “and if I do what I can it will always help on the good work a wee bit.”

Surely a most excellent principle, and one that might well be taken as the basis of every Christian’s practice. The Master Himself gave it His warm commendation when He said: “She hath done what she could.”

I was not long in enlisting the kind sympathy of my eccentric friend, and I not only got his sympathy but his warm co-operation. When I commenced holding services in the school on Sunday evenings, I was somewhat discouraged to find that my congregation, which generally did not exceed twenty in number, consisted mostly of old women and children; not one of the many young men residing in the district put in an appearance. I spoke to Macnicol about this and asked him what he thought should be done to get in touch with the class referred to.

“Do many of the young men belong to the Episcopal church?” I asked him.

“The feck o’ them dinna belang to ony kirk, Mr. Gray,” he replied. “Maist o’ them have been baptized, I suppose, for it’s wonderfu’ how the careless an’ degraded among the parents have unconsciously retained a belief in the efficacy of Holy Baptism. Wi’ some o’ them, nae doot, it’s degenerated into a kind o’ superstition—still, the belief’s there and what’s wanted is to get baith parents and children to understand a’ that baptism involves. My advice to you wad be to let them see, in some way or ither, that ye take an interest in their lives—in their amusements even. Say naething aboot releegion at first, but just mak’ yersel’ their friend and get in touch with them. Higher things will come later on.”

As the outcome of this chat I set about organizing social evenings, under the then popular title of “Penny Readings.” The rector’s wife gave us an old piano, much the worse for wear, but still capable of being used. Until we were able to purchase a set of teacups, etc., we hired a few dozen from a friendly hardware man. I enlisted the services of some of my fellow collegians who could sing or play a little; simple popular programmes were drawn up; refreshments of very plain character were brought in—and we were ready for the fray. Macnicol invited his swimming class and told them to bring their chums. When the opening night came the performers were there in force—but the audience, where were they? A few of the Sunday evening congregation occupied the front benches; the young men congregated at the door but hesitated to come in. They were evidently afraid of being preached at. I took the chair, said a few words by way of introduction, and then announced the first item on our little programme. It was only a well-worn college chorus, but we sang it lustily. Songs, readings, recitations, piano selections of popular music, and more choruses followed in order. The old women listened with attention; the children looked as if they were enduring these for the sake of the tea and cakes which were to follow. By and by a toosy head appeared at the door, then another, and another, and before the first half-hour had gone the audience was more than doubled.

“Come in, lads,” I called out, “and take a seat. There’s lots of room.”

In they came, most of them with a sheepish or suspicious air. When anything of an amusing nature was being read or sung their interest quickened; they even applauded in a quiet way.

When our programme was ended I asked Macnicol to say a few words.

“Ye ken me, lads,” he began; “we’ve had lots o’ fun in the water afore noo. But we canna be soomin’ a’ the time, and so oor frien’ Maister Gray has arranged to hae an evenin’s fun in the school ilka week, an’ he wants you a’ to come. We’re goin’ to hae some refreshments noo, so ye can juist hae a crack wi’ ane anither till the young ladies hand roon’ the tea.”

At first they were too shy to take advantage of the opportunity to chat, but ere long the hum of conversation mingled with the clatter of cups and plates.

The ice was broken, and we never again permitted it to freeze up. It took a good many weeks to get in touch with the young men, but quiet, persistent effort won the day.

Before the long winter had come to an end we had introduced popular lectures in simple colloquial phraseology; occasional magic-lantern exhibitions were given; and now and then we spent the evenings in parlor games of various kinds.

Some of the young fellows braved the scorn of their neighbors and came to our Sunday evening services; these brought others, and so the work progressed. We had many who fell away and went back to their old loafing ways—their drinking and gambling and worse—but, in spite of many difficulties, our pioneer work began to tell. Before long I had about a dozen in training for confirmation, and very soon after I had been admitted to the diaconate I presented my class to the rector, who approved of the candidates and presented them to the bishop for the “laying on of hands.”

The nucleus of a mission congregation, thus formed, developed under my successors in the curacy into a large and flourishing church. In the meantime I obtained the desire of my heart, that of being sent to the pastorate of one of the old congregations that had lived on and flourished through the persecutions that followed the Jacobite Rising of 1745.