“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.”