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.